Page 98 of Juliet's Touch

The ringmaster motioned for the fighters to come forward.

Eric sauntered to the center of the ring, where he and Ned tapped knuckles. The competitors bent their knees and raised their fists.

The bell rang.

“Round one,” the ringmaster yelled into his speaking trumpet.

A rumble akin to a clap of thunder rolled through the basement.

Juliet held her breath.

Looking dangerously predatory, the fighters circled one another. Then, Eric’s fist shot out three times. The third jab smashed his opponent’s jaw, and the crowd went wild.

Juliet suspected the men had been punishing each other for over an hour. According to Alexander, since no one had yet touched the ground, they were still in the first round. What had initially made her blood pump with vigor now exhausted her. She feltevery crack of knuckle against skin and every heavy thud of a fist in her teeth. Sympathy pain, perhaps?

Most of the fight, the men had been evenly matched, but the tables seemed to have turned. After the seventh or eighth consecutive pummel to Eric’s stomach, Juliet hunched forward, covering her belly. Another blow smashed Eric’s nose. His head flew back, and blood spattered. Yelping, Juliet covered her eyes.

She stayed like that for a very long time—bent at the waist, holding her breath, and her palms shielding her from having to watch Eric suffer the barrage of blows.

A deafening roar exploded.

Part of her wanted to know what had caused the increase in volume.Don’t look, her common sense warned.

“That’s it, Stone. You’ve got him,” Alexander hollered from beside her. “You tired him out.”

“That’s my boy,” Chesterhill yelled.

It sounded like Eric was fighting back.

“Juliet, look,” Emily screeched in her ear.

Juliet peeked through her fingers.

Eric had caged Ned in a corner and was pounding on his stomach over and over again. Meanwhile, looking like a defeated man, Ned’s shoulders caved forward. Moving with the grace of a panther, Eric stepped back, then shot his fist up and through Ned’s jaw. Ned teetered, then tumbled to the ground.

A few men, whom Alexander had referred to as umpires and referees, rushed into the ring. The crowd hushed, as if everyone in the basement was collectively holding their breath.

Juliet dropped her hand. “Did he win?”

Although no one answered, many people rudely shushed her. Emily grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“Eight. Nine. Ten,” one of the men in the ring counted.

“Huzzah!” Alexander yelled.

The announcer lifted Eric’s hand high. “Whitechapel’s very own, The Stone, remains undefeated.”

The noise rose to a fevered pitch with mostly cheers, although there were a few jeers.

“He won,” Emily told her.

Since a well-bred lady never showed too much enthusiasm or clapped too loudly, luckily, Mother and Father weren’t present to witness Juliet’s vociferous jubilation.

Eric crouched down, then helped his opponent onto his feet. It appeared as though he was steadying the heavier man as they waved to the crowd.

And then Eric locked eyes with Juliet and blew her a kiss.

She caught his kiss in her palm and pressed it to her lips. Forget envying the female fighters, surely every woman in that crowd—in London—in the world—envied Juliet since her husband-to-be was a courageous warrior with a pure heart.

“Come on,” Alexander yelled. “Let’s go congratulate the champ.”

As Juliet followed Alexander and Emily toward the stage, she told at least a half dozen men, “The Stone is my fiancé.”