Page 44 of How to Capture a Duke

Another server walked by carrying a tray of liquor. This time, she reached for one of the tumblers.

“Olivia? Are you all right?” Jeffries asked. “You seem suddenly pale.”

She slipped off the stool and forced a smile. “I’m fine. Please, pardon me. I see a lady I’d like to speak with.”

Chapter Fifteen

Tristan found his wife in the Raven Club’s boxing room, where a fight was taking place. He knew the room connected to the main casino floor and that the fights drew patrons of all ages and both sexes. Putting the boxing room here was the ingenious idea of the Earl of Castleton. Men who won placing wagers on the pugilists would turn around and lose their winnings at the casino.

Two bare-chested men circled each other in the ring. They punched and jabbed at each other in a brutal athletic dance that energized the crowd. The room was packed with spectators cheering for their favored pugilists. Croupiers wove their way through the crowd and collected wagers. Humid warmth enveloped the air, and the smell of sweat and cigar smoke wafted to him.

Like a beacon, he spotted Olivia’s fair hair in the midst of the crowd. At least she had the good sense to wear a half mask. But still, he couldn’t believe she was here, in the boisterous boxing room. He searched the crowd around her for Spencer, but he didn’t see his cousin near her.

Thank God for that much.

Pushing his way through the throng, he touched her arm. She swung around to face him, her eyes flashing with alarm behind her mask.

He had frightened her. Good. She shouldn’t be here. It was a rowdy crowd, and anything could happen to her. Was her brother, the earl, even aware of his sister’s presence here?

“I told you not to come to the Raven Club,” he said, his voice gruff.

Her eyes glinted, and her chin jutted forward. “You did. And I told you that you have no right to dictate my whereabouts.”

His goal was to get her out of this room, and he knew he had gone about it badly. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. “I am your husband, remember?”

She hiccupped and wavered on her feet. “A kiss does not make a husband.”

He stared at her, really stared, taking in the slightly glassy eyes behind the mask, her pink cheeks, the unsteadiness of her stance. “My God, you’re foxed.”

“I am not.”

“Where is Lord Jeffries?”

Her brow furrowed. “Jeffries? I don’t know. Most likely on the casino floor.”

“You were to meet him.”

“I did.” Another hiccup. “We had a very enjoyable time playing together.”

Jealousy seared the center of his chest like a hot brand. “How enjoyable?”

“We played a heated game of vingt-et-un.”

A burst of noise drew his attention to the ring as one of the pugilist’s uppercuts connected with his opponent’s chin. The injured fighter stumbled, attempted to grasp the ring’s ropes, then crashed to the floor. Blood smeared his nose and lip, and the spectators’ cheering reached a fevered pitch. He needed to get her out of this room. Now.

“Come.” He took her hand and pushed his way through the crowd toward the wooden doors that led back to the main casino floor. Once they passed through the doors and the din of the crowed ebbed, he turned to her.

She tugged on his hand. “Another match is scheduled for tonight. I want to stay.”

“No. You drank too much.”

“You’re wrong.” She removed her mask and looked up at him. “I’m fine. See?”

Her observed her green eyes, a bit glassy, her flushed complexion, and her full lips. He had an insane urge to kiss her. To suck her plump lower lip into his mouth like a ripe strawberry. To stake his claim and tell her just how badly he wanted to get her home.

But he couldn’t do or say any of those things, could he?

His frustration—sexual and possessive—arose, and along with those emotions, his dreaded stammer returned.