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and
urged his bays forward, back toward the more populated area of the
park. “Miranda,” he began after a moment.
    “ Don’t say another word to
me.” Her voice quivered slightly, and Harry’s heart ached. She
sounded as though she’d been just as affected as he was, but now
she hated him.
    He chanced a glance in her direction,
but she refused to meet his eyes, instead she sat bolt upright, her
arms folded across her middle like the strictest of governesses,
staring out in front of them as though daring anyone to defy her.
Yes, it was rather obvious that she hated him. Damn it all to hell.
That hadn’t been his intent at all.

 

    Harry threw a left then a right when
the punch bag swung back toward him. There was nothing quite so
satisfying as the release of pressure as he pounded the target once
more, the weight of the bag against his knuckles, the dull thudding
sound that reverberated off the walls.
    Left, left, right.
    A primitive growl escaped
him.
    He wiped the sweat from his brow with
his left arm, then jabbed with his right. Woodsworth was fortunate
he never stepped foot inside Gentleman Jackson’s, or Harry might be
tempted to practice his punches on the marquess instead of the
punch bag. Until today, he’d have never considered pummeling the
ne’er-do-well, but at the moment, the thought did have a certain
appeal.
    Left, left, left.
    His conversation with Miranda still
rang in his ears, and one thing had become amazingly clear after he
returned her to Marston House. Miranda Bartlett had gone to Gioco’s
to meet Woodsworth. It all made complete sense now that he thought
about it. She’d entered the hell only a few moments behind the
wayward marquess, and her hazel eyes had lit with interest when the
man’s name was mentioned today.
    But why?
    Right, right, left.
    Why Woodsworth? Why should she care a
thing for him? No one ever wanted an introduction to Woodsworth. He
was inconsequential on his best days and downright destructive on
his worst. No decent girl would pay him any attention. No decent
girl would beg an introduction to such a man. No decent girl would
dress like a dandy and enter a gaming hell just to stumble across
the likes of Woodsworth.
    Right, right, right.
    Harry should wash his hands of her and
be done. But that kiss still lingered on the fringes of his mind.
Bloody hell. He’d kissed her. He’d kissed her right in the middle
of Hyde Park, for God’s sake. No matter how he tried or how many
punches he threw, he’d never forget that kiss. He’d never forget
her sweet lilac scent, the tentative way her tongue had met his,
the way she fit in his arms.
    “ You trying to break that
thing?” came the irritatingly familiar drawl of his
brother-in-law.
    Woodsworth wasn’t around to pummel,
but Harry wouldn’t mind taking a few swings at St. Austell instead.
He turned his head to glare at his sister’s disreputable husband.
“I’d much rather break you, since you’re around.”
    St. Austell grinned as he shook his
head. The man was either quite brave or quite stupid. Harry was
inclined to believe it was the latter, as thinking of St. Austell
as brave went against his very nature. “And what would that get
you?” his brother-in-law asked.
    Tossed in Newgate while he awaited
trial for murdering the libertine? Harry shrugged. “Pippa would
forgive me in time.”
    St. Austell laughed. “Eventually we’ll
have to get along, you know.”
    “ Is that decreed
somewhere?”
    It was the earl’s turn to shrug.
“You’ll be an uncle to my babes. Someday you’ll have little
pugilists of your own. We really should set good examples for the
children.”
    The yet-to-exist children? Was that
the best the blackguard could do? St. Austell was clearly after
something. “What do you want?” Harry growled, turning his attention
back to the punch bag.
    Right, right, left.
    “ To see you happily settled
with some chit.”
    “ Indeed?” Harry scoffed.
“You’d wish that on me, would