The Greenwich Hospital Charity Bazar proved to be too delightful a distraction for the house party to ignore. All the young people chose to skip church with the duchess in favor of attending. It took three carriages and nearly two hours to ferry them all across London. By midmorning, Burke found himself on the packed grounds of All Saints Church, Blanche Oswald on one arm, Mariah Swindon on the other.
The young ladies twittered at every little thing they saw, and there was quite a feast for the eyes. Rows and rows of tables were set up in the shaded space between the church and the vicarage. Locals were selling everything from homemade breads and jams, cheeses, and honey meads, to painted fans, jewelry, and hair pins and baubles.
“Oh, look at that pretty blue,” Blanche cried, squeezing tight to his arm.
“Mr. Burke, can we go explore?” Mariah asked with a bat of her long, red lashes. “We promise not to go far.”
“By all means.” He had no interest in chaperoning them.
“We shall all meet back here at four o’clock,” Elizabeth directed. “Mariah, spend all your pocket money, and mama is sure to be cross.”
But the younger Swindon wasn’t listening. She dropped Burke’s arm in favor of Blanche’s, and the girls darted away in a flurry of giggles.
“Mariah!” Elizabeth shrieked, following after them.
“They seem happy to be here.”
Burke turned to see Rosalie at his shoulder. She was a vision this morning in a pelisse of deepest sapphire blue. Black velvet framed her collar and wrists. Her bonnet was a fashionable thing of blue satin with yellow-gold ribbons.
“Burke! James!”
They all turned to see Tom striding towards them, weaving between the tables. He wore his white sailor’s breeches with double buttons up the front. A red sash was tied at his waist. While he was still shirted, it was unbuttoned.
“There you are,” he called. “I’ve been keeping a look out. The matches start at noon. I was worried you might be late.”
“Are you to exhibit then?” Burke asked.
“Aye, well they wanted the matches sorted, and the only one without a pairing was Hart,” he replied, his smile tipping into a frown. “Given your last interaction, I thought it better you not be put in a ring with free rein to pummel him.”
“Your last interaction?” James muttered. “What is he talking about?”
“Nothing,” the men replied together.
“Oh Burke…what did you do?” Rosalie asked from his other side.
“Why am I the one suspected to have done something?” he said with a huff of indignation. “Why does no one question the conduct of the dashing sea captain? Perhaps he earned what he got.”
“And did he?” James asked.
Burke glanced at Tom, letting his own frown tip into a smile. “He did. And Tom’s right, if Hartington is my competition, there will be no competition. I’d flatten the lout in a single round. That would hardly provide the crowd with a good show.”
“Well, I’m third up,” Tom replied. “I was hoping you’d stand ringside,” he added with a hopeful look.
Burke’s smile widened. “A front row seat to watch the captain eat your fists? I’d be delighted.”
Not a stone’s throw from All Saint’s Church, the bazar organizers had commandeered the use of an old warehouse. A makeshift boxing ring had been set up in the middle of the floor, with risers on three sides providing seating. The crowd was growing with each fight. They may not be professional boxers, but Hartington was right, some of these wiry sailors really knew how to swing their fists.
Tom danced on the balls of his feet, shaking out his arms. He’d shed his shirt, his tattoos now on full display. Burke couldn’t deny he found them sensual. It didn’t escape his notice how Rosalie would trace them with her fingers, her tongue. Burke secretly ached to do the same.
Tearing his hungry eyes from Tom’s chest, he looked at the ring just as the wiry sailor with a black mustache landed a facer on an opponent twice his size. Mustache danced away as the big man dropped to his knees, then flopped forward on his face, out cold. The crowd erupted in cheers as the bell rang, ending the match.
“I’m up next,” Tom called over the roar.
Across the room, Hartington appeared to more cheers. Burke hated that scar on his face. Damn, but the man did look dashing. If Rosalie or Tom glanced at him just one more time with even the politest bit of interest in their eyes, he was going to tie them both to his bed and ravage them until they begged for mercy.
This isn’t jealousy…it’s territoriality.
“Have you seen him fight before?” he asked Tom as they pushed their way towards the ring.
“Aye, he’s strong as an ox,” Tom replied. “But he’s slow. I’ll use it.” He slipped between the ropes, giving a nod to the referee; a burly man stripped down to his waistcoat with a thick yellow mustache and beady dark eyes. Then he turned back to face Burke, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Where are they?”
Burke glanced over his shoulder, letting his well-honed sense for finding James draw his eye to the end of the third row. “There.” He pointed to where James sat on the crowded bench, wedged between Rosalie and Elizabeth. Olivia sat on Rosalie’s other side.
“Christ, she looks gorgeous today,” Tom muttered. “Blue is her color. I thought it was pink, but I am a man reformed—”
Burke snapped his fingers in his face. “Focus, For the next fifteen minutes, she doesn’t exist.”
Tom huffed. “You think Hart will last five rounds against me?”
“Never. You’re going to flatten him in three.”
Across the ring, Hartington slipped through the ropes. Like Tom, he wore only a pair of white sailor’s breeches. His waist was wrapped in a gold sash. And now he was shirtless, his broad chest glistening with oil as he swung his fists.
Burke’s heart stopped as his eye landed on the anchor tattoo emblazoned on the captain’s chest. It was a mirror to the one on Tom…carved over their hearts.
Mine.
The word flooded through him, drowning out all other thoughts. Fuck territoriality. This was jealously. This was rage. Burke ached with it. He burned with the need to claim Tom in front of the captain. Hell, in front of this entire crowd.
“Easy Burke,” Tom muttered with a grin. Of course, he knew what had him upset.
Burke glared at him, eyes aflame. “Make him bleed…or I will.”
