To Sin With A Stranger Read Free Page A

stripped of their shirts. The seconds stepped away as Gentleman Jackson ensured that both men were fairly in position at the lines.
    Sterling stared into the Irishman’s eyes, then grinned and waggled his ebony eyebrows, earning a confused scowl. But this, of course, was exactly what he wanted, to break his opponent’s concentration.
    The Irishman bellowed a feral growl and then lunged for him. Sterling simply stepped aside. The Irishman was huge, a sweating, two-toothed boar of a man whose heft made him slow on his feet.
    Sterling sighed.
Too bad
. This was hardly sport at all. He could sidestep the giant brute all night.
    But he wouldn’t.
    Soon enough, at the moment of his choosing, he’d let one or two punches land. It wouldn’t do to make his own victory appear too easy.
    The Irishman spun, the leather of his shoe sole smudging the chalk line. His face, already as scarlet as beet-root soup, contorted in a mask of concentration as he drew back his fist.
    Sterling raised his fists, then bent his knees and braced for the blow. It was time. He didn’t care for what he must do, but it was part of the betting game. He would take a punch, falter, and side wagers would mount.
    The Irishman’s massive fist hurled toward him. Sterling girded himself, turning his head at the last moment. He meant only to allow a graze this time, but the Irishman’s solid fist met his jaw with a jarring thud.
    Dizziness assailed Sterling’s senses as copper-tasting warmth surged into his mouth. He shook his head, sending a fan of red droplets toward the crowd, then spat a mouthful of blood on the floor.
    He raised his head and glared at the Irishman.
Bugger it. That’s all
. One blow was more than enough this night. The Season had just begun, after all, and they’d not yet received invitation to any esteemed events, but he knew that a bruised and battered face would not draw the ladies.
    It was Sterling’s turn now, one he would choose carefully. He listed a bit, for effect, and the crowd groaned as if worried its entertainment was already at an end.
    But it wasn’t.
    It was just about to begin.
    The Irishman was grinning at Sterling, gloating over the ease of thrashing the fine lord.
    Now was the time.
    He staggered forward like a drunken sot, then dropped his head to his chest. Even with his pale gray eyes cast toward the floor, he could see the Irishman lower his fists momentarily, already chewing on the fat of victory.
    Somehow he thought he heard Grant calling out, “Leave the stage. Leave!” But that didn’t make sense at all.
    Now was the time.
    Now
.
    Sterling snapped his head up and drew back his fist. Suddenly a trim-waisted miss was standing between him and his barrel-chested opponent.
    Bluidy hell!
He jerked his fist back, somehow his stitched knuckles missing her delicate nose. The draw of air from the swift recoil of his punch sucked a few fine tendrils of her golden hair across her face for a moment.
    He hadn’t seen her approach. She just suddenly appeared, madly waving a fanned bundle of print pamphlets above her head.
    The woman’s startled cinnamon-hued eyes blinked rapidly and she gasped, slapping the handful of pamphlets to her chest.
    A trickle of blood dripped from the corner of Sterling’s swollen lip and splashed upon his chest as he stared down at the insane beauty. What could be so damned important that she would throw herself in harm’s way by lunging between two modern gladiators in the midst of a prizefight?
    “Your wife, my lord?” His Irish sparring mate grinned and snorted. The crowd cinching around them roared.
    Sterling stepped closer, unfolded his fist, and swept the tips of his fingers gently across the young beauty’s soft cheek. “Nay.” He lifted the corner of his busted lip, breaking the skin anew. “Well, not
yet
anyway.” The gathering of gentlemen laughed even louder.
    “How dare you, sirrah!” The miss gave his hand a stinging slap, then jerked around and faced the raucous