My Sunday snippet is taken from my Amazon Regency bestselling romance, The Reluctant Marquess. The moon cast a ghostly haze over the trees on Hampstead Heath. An owl flew low across the clearing in search of prey. Robert could still feel the sting of that slap as he waited. Something far more serious than physical pain lay behind it. The cool night air did little to dampen the rage burning in his breast. He did not believe Charity openly encouraged Southmore, for he knew what the man was. But be damned if he’d play second fiddle to Southmore in his wife’s affections. The sound of horses’ hooves on the road reached his ears. Moments later, two men emerged from the shadows lighting their way with a lantern. Sir Lionel Bartholomew walked towards them, Southmore behind him. Robert and his friend, Lord Percy Spencer, strolled across to greet them. “It’s damn cold, and it looks like rain. Are you sure you want to go through with this, Robert?” Spencer asked in an undertone. “Would it not be better to have a bout at the club?” “What, and have all of London agog as to the reason?” Robert shook his head. He divested himself of his coat and slipped his shirt over his head. Southmore had this coming. He would have preferred a pistol at forty paces, but he was a better shot than Southmore. And the temptation to run him through with his sword was too strong; if he killed him, he’d be ostracized for years. No, he intended to give the man the licking of his life. Not just for him, but for all the cuckolded husbands in London. He moved towards where Southmore stood waiting, stripped to the waist and licking his lips nervously, his hands clenched into fists. Robert bowed. “Southmore.” “St Malin.” The men circled each other. Robert sized up his opponent. He knew Southmore didn’t pursue the sport as keenly as he, but he was light on his feet. Robert had the advantage of being fuelled by anger. His anger might be directed at a friend who had betrayed him, but he was also angry at himself. Southmore executed a few fancy steps ducking and weaving, better on a dance floor and in a ladies boudoir, perhaps. The thought of him in Charity’s boudoir made Robert’s lips thin and his eyes narrow. Southmore took a wild jab at him and missed when Robert ducked. The action unbalanced Southmore, and he rocked backwards. Robert saw his chance. He struck the first blow on his jaw with a right uppercut and followed it with a left. Southmore’s head slammed back. He cursed and staggered, his body already slick with sweat. Another right hit its mark. Southmore fell to his knees but recovered quickly. Robert felt the sting to his knuckles and began to enjoy himself. Poor Southmore would take a beating for the sins of many others as well as his own this night. The silent woods filled with heavy breathing, the pounding of flesh on flesh, and the cries of the men’s friends urging them on. amazon/The-Reluctant-Marquess-ebook/dp/B007I8N2W0/ref=sr_1_2_title_1_kin?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1377996668&sr=1-2
Posted on: Sun, 01 Sep 2013 00:53:25 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015