The Glory Days of Bare-breasted, Bare-knuckle Boxing
Vintage image of two bare-breasted women who are boxing as a mixed-gender crowd watches.
Women (of all kinds) have been slugging it out with each other in the boxing ring for a long, long, long time—all the way back to the 17th century, in fact. One of the most fascinating aspects of female boxing history concerns boxers who, during Georgian and Victorian times, stripped to the waist before duking it out with their equally bare-breasted opponent. Onlookers probably found the boob display titillating, but presumably, this strategy would help prevent unnecessary damage to the boxers’ clothing (which was often a dress). Most of these boxers were probably poor or working class, so it’s not like they had tons of spare clothes.
Female boxers also weren’t as bound by the prizefighting rules male bare-knuckle boxers had to follow. Women pugilists could scratch, kick, and pull hair if they so desired, which had the potential to make their bouts more brutal than those of male boxers. Female boxers didn’t always fight for prize money, either. Boxing was how some of them resolved disagreements or sought revenge for being wronged in some way.
Vintage illustration labeled “Music-Hall-Courtesies; Lady Artistes-Disagree. Two women in fancy dresses duke it out while their large breasts threaten to escape their confines.
Female boxers are fascinating and glorious, especially those who bared their breasts during dangerous fights. We can only imagine what kind of physical damage happened to the chests of some of them. Bare-breasted, bare-knuckle boxing is a phenomenon that’s sensationalist, feminist, objectifying, and mesmerizing all at the same time. And, I gotta say, pretty darn hot.
To celebrate these badass folks, I’ve assembled some links and images about female bare-knuckle boxing—bare-breasted and otherwise—for your pugilist pleasure.
Vintage image of two women in Victorian dresses boxing near a river. The woman on the left has just punched her opponent, knocking her to the ground.
First, for a historical recap, read The Unexpected and Brutal History Behind Women’s Boxing:
The evolution of gender equality in boxing went way backward before its slow climb forward. The early 1700s had raw British female fighters like Elizabeth Wilkinson boxing other women (and even men) in bare-chested, bare-knuckle style brawls. There were no “rounds," weight classes, or low blows. There were essentially no rules at all. Women engaged in bloody prize fights, mixed pair boxing, and even matches involving cudgels or small swords.
It wasn’t until the early 1800s that boxing — though illegal through most of the 19th century — gained respectability and popularity in Europe. Unfortunately, this coincided with the British Evangelical Christian movement, which labeled women’s involvement in the sport an abomination. Relegated to sideshow “performances” and nightclub acts, the female athletes now existed to entertain men on a sensationalist level.
Vintage illustration of a no-holds-barred, bare-knuckle boxing match from 1868. The woman on the right is grabbing the hair of her opponent in her right hand while punching her with her left hand. That’s gotta hurt!
1868: Prize Fighting Women of Shrewsbury provides a play-by-play of an 1868 bare-breasted, bare-knuckle bout between two female ballers who didn’t give a shit about prizefighting rules:
Well-seasoned scrappers Mary Callaghan and Alice Davies were pitted against each after boasts from their fans in local pub, so called respectful admirers, over who was the best and it was decided they should “fight it out” for the prize of 5 shillings.
Arrangements were made overnight and early in the morning a ring was set up in a field overlooking Shrewsbury on the other side of the river, outside the loop.
Both ‘champions’ arrived on time, accompanied by a bottle holder whose job it was to sponge their faces, give them water and provide a knee for them to sit on between each round. Often women prize fighters would strip down, losing unnecessary clothing, sometimes down to the waist. With the crowd gathering round, bets placed and rules made clear the fight got underway.
Many female pugilists stripped to the waist while boxing, but others took the more modest route: Petticoats and Punches: Vintage images reveal the bizarre history of female boxing where women fought their opponents in full Victorian dress.
Vintage illustration titled “The Battle of Algin Court.” It depicts a bare-knuckle fight between the Boxing Baroness and another woman. Fists raised, the Boxing Baroness stands over her opponent, who is on the ground, blood streaming from her nose. Ouch!
There were many badass female bare-knuckle boxers, but this one’s my favorite: The truth about Lady Barrymore, the Boxing Baroness. She was also very stylish in her fancy bonnets!
Vintage illustration of the Boxing Baroness. She wears a large red bonnet with white trim and flowers, as well as a yellow dress. She stands in a fighting pose, fists raised. Watch out because she’ll kick your butt!
All Things Georgian takes a deep dive into a portrait of two 18th Century Female Bruisers.
Delve into The Bloody World of Georgian female boxing by author Anna Freeman (via HistoryExtra), which includes riveting primary source references to real bouts:
Female boxing fell into this category – a bloody novelty act, as opposed to a serious sport. Often, in the records I found, there was no mention of which woman won, although there would be a description of what they had been wearing – or not wearing, as they sometimes fought stripped to the waist. The winner was often irrelevant, except to those with money on the outcome.
Elizabeth Stokes fought alongside her husband against other couples, in much the way you might play tennis doubles today. Elsewhere, there are records of women fighting against men, and even several women fighting one man.
What particularly gripped me was the thought of the lives these women must have led to bring them to the boxing ring. These were fights in which you could be very seriously injured or die. But then, of course, Elizabeth Stokes fought Ann Field for a purse of 10 pounds, at a time when a maid might earn six pounds a year. It was a ladder out of poverty, and if you fell, well, wasn’t it worth the risk?
Hope you enjoyed reading about female bare-breasted, bare-knuckle boxers from long ago. Perhaps one day we’ll be treated to a movie or TV show about one of them.
Oh, wait—Joy Wilkinson’s The Sweet Science of Bruising was at the Southwark Playhouse in the UK from October 3-27, 2018. Here’s a snippet from Joy Wilkinson on her new play about Victorian female boxers and writing for Jodie Whittaker's Doctor Who (via Evening Standard):
How did you become interested in 19th century Victorian women's boxing?
I was researching the history of fairgrounds for another project when I came across the stories of female fighters in boxing booths. That was my way into a whole hidden world of women boxers stretching back to the 17th century. I was struck by the contrast between the female fights from the first half of the 19th century – bloodied Amazons fighting bare-knuckled and even bare-breasted – and the feminine ideals of the Victorian era, which decreed that women could barely play croquet without risking their bodies and souls! I’m fascinated by strong women, and what that really means, so this felt like fertile territory.
Who were some of the most well-known figures and how were they regarded by society?
Very little is known about the female boxers – like many women, their part in history went largely unrecorded. But there’s just enough to give us a tantalising glimpse into that world. Polly Burns was one who caught my eye, because she came from Lancashire like me. She was a circus strongwoman who fought against men and women and became the Female Champion of the World. There’s some admiration for her skills, but these women are really seen as a novelty act, billed as a ‘Lady Boxing Attraction’, very much a sideshow to the serious business of male boxing. It’s a situation that chimes with women in many industries today so it was a great way to explore how that happens and whether things can change.
Okay, so their play isn’t a movie or TV show, but I daresay Joy Wilkinson was ahead of the curve in delivering content many folks crave!
While we wait for a mainstream movie or TV show about female bare-knuckle boxing (with or without the bare breasts), you can read about female boxers in historical romances like Edie Cay’s A Lady’s Revenge. The author wrote a post about The Hidden History of Women’s Boxing and included many fascinating details.
Now for a fun bonus!
Book cover image for Heather Massey’s steampunk romance, A Tale of Two Thieves
The female MC of my steampunk romance, A Villainous Affair, becomes a bare-breasted boxer during the course of the story. Ruby Darling has a secret weapon that enables her to compete against male pugilists to win a lucrative pot of prize money. The action-packed scene offers much more than an exciting boxing bout—it also explores the challenges of being a (cis) woman in a (cis) man’s world.
If you don’t mind spoilers, enjoy this excerpt of Ruby’s boxing adventures from book one in the series, A Tale of Two Thieves:
Chapter Thirty-Two
On their way to Bethnal Green’s Paradise Row, Nathan turned to Ruby for the third time and asked, “Are you absolutely certain about this plan?”
“Yes. Stop fretting.” She held up her gloved hands. “I’ve been in street fights. You haven’t. Don’t underestimate the advantages these will give me.” She was eager to test them against live opponents. Successfully defeating men who could fight back would be the true measure of the gloves’ worth.
He shifted the water bottle he’d been carrying to his other hand. “If you say so.”
“I know so.”
The time was a quarter to two in the afternoon. An overcast sky loomed above, but rain seemed unlikely. The weather had turned warmer, prompting Nathan to leave his greatcoat behind. This Saturday, three weeks after Ruby had first used the aether gloves and boots, she was ready to try her hand at prizefighting. An eastward walk from her tenement building would take them through Bethnal Green to the fisticuffs arena.
Boxing was a popular pastime here, as evidenced by the steady stream of champion fighters who originated from Paradise Row. Boxers could make more money prizefighting than working fulltime in the factories. That is, if life-threatening injuries didn’t befall them after one or two scratches in the ring.
Formal matches took place anywhere large enough to accommodate a crowd, including public houses, empty lots, and markets. In Bethnal Green, one could attend boxing events several times a week. They were scheduled at dawn or after the work day had ended.
This bout had been arranged by the Gladiator Society, an underground club ruled by the Boxing Baroness. She was the former mistress of the late Richard Barry, the seventh Earl of Barrymore. A notorious scoundrel whose reputation had earned him the nickname “Hellgate,” Barrymore had been banned from the Pugilistic Club after his fellow members discovered he was running an illegal betting operation on the side. Bare-knuckle boxing itself wasn’t illegal, but gambling on it was.
Reluctant to surrender his gambling habit, Lord Barrymore launched his own club. After his accidental death while on a mission for the Royal Berkshire Militia, his mistress, a big-limbed beauty who fancied fisticuffs herself, seized control of his club. It was either that or return to prostitution to support herself.
The Boxing Baroness had done well over the years, which meant the prizes she awarded were highly coveted. Today, the Gladiator Society was sponsoring a prize of twenty pounds to the winner. Ruby had practically salivated upon learning the amount. If she defeated the Society’s resident champion, the money was hers.
She had attended a few boxing matches now and then to pass the time but grew tired of the blood-splattered parade. No doubt Nathan would have preferred she stick to fisticuffs with non-male opponents, but what he didn’t realize was that those matches were equally brutal, if not more so. Women could scratch, kick, and throw each other all over the place whereas in men’s fights such tactics were forbidden.
Because many prizefights involved gambling, they were always at risk of being targeted by the authorities. In the event of League or police interference, all participants fled. The match was dissolved until it could be resumed at another place and time. Though the stakeholder always had a contingency plan in place, Ruby hoped there would be no invasions during her first fight.
Boxers had to follow a strict etiquette, so she and Nathan had attended several fights to refresh her knowledge. He had never seen a boxing match before. Despite the copious amounts of blood and gore on display, he’d watched the spectacle with a rapt expression.
She had closely studied the boxers’ moves since her mechanical advantage wouldn’t eliminate the need to dodge and block. One hit to her head could cost her a match—or more. To minimize the risk, she had spent long hours training. She’d been in plenty of street brawls, but boxing required more finesse. She’d also had to practice controlling the aether field. Nathan had built her a crude wooden dummy so she could learn how to apply the right amount of force.
The power supply in the aether gloves and boots lasted about nine hours. Before heading out to Paradise Row, she had lent Nathan her pocket watch so he could keep track of the time on her behalf. For the sake of caution, they had decided on a limit of seven hours.
Today’s preparations had included binding her breasts, wearing mannish clothes, and donning a form-fitting eye mask. She’d scoured multiple rag shops to find one with the perfect color—red for extra flair. If luck held, her clothing, mask, and short hair would help her infiltrate the men’s boxing circles for as long as necessary.
Today also marked the first occasion they had left the aether generator in her cellar. Carrying it around in a crowded area was too risky, especially since she would need Nathan’s help in the ring. To eliminate the risk of accidental discovery, they had created a hidey-hole in one of the walls. The rough nature of the surface made it impossible to locate the seams. For more security, Nathan had reinforced the lock on the outside of the trapdoor. Unless one flicked the five switches in the correct order, it would remain steadfastly shut. Still, it would behoove them to find a more defensible place to live as soon as possible.
They walked the rest of the way to Paradise Row in silence. She was too keyed up to talk, anxious that something would ruin their careful planning.
They arrived a few minutes later. The square ring had been erected in a vacant lot in the standard fashion, with eight wooden stakes spaced at regular intervals. Double ropes looped around the stakes marked the ring’s perimeter. The scratch had already been marked in the middle. Two others outlined each fighter’s corner, where their seconds would stand by to provide water and other support.
A crowd of all sorts of folks had already formed, most of them working class. She and Nathan passed a group of women gossiping and smoking cutties. If everyone here had one thing in common, it was a need for entertainment to escape their daily grind.
Her searching gaze landed on the stakeholder, the person in charge of the event. They organized the matches, collected the bets, and kept track of the boxers. The Gladiator Society employed a man called Mr. Giles, who occupied his usual place next to the ring.
“Follow me,” she said to Nathan. Then she stood on tip toe to whisper in his ear. “And quit gawking.”
“Pardon,” he whispered back. He stopped staring, but he couldn’t dampen the excitement in his eyes.
She approached Mr. Giles. Before he’d become a mainstay of the prizefighting scene, he had been a cunning spy during the Napoleonic Wars. England’s post-war slump had left him without a job. Being a Black person with dwarfism might have put him at a disadvantage as well. Therefore, he’d had no choice but to explore other, less legal options. Mr. Giles was yet another casualty of the aristocracy’s inability to empathize with those less fortunate.
He sat on a wooden stool with a ledger on his lap that he used to record names and betting information. As Ruby stood before him, he looked past her and up at Nathan, his eyebrows shooting skyward in the process. “My, you’re a tall one. This should prove interesting.” He readied his pen over the ledger. “Name?”
Nathan’s brows clashed. “My…my name?”
“Well, you’ve come to fight, haven’t you?”
She snickered as Nathan threw up his palms. “No, no, not me. Definitely not me.” Beaming, he thumbed Ruby. “That would be my associate here.”
Did he just…was that a look of pride on his face? She squashed her thrill before it could blossom. He was proud of his invention, that was all.
Mr. Giles pinned his scrutinizing gaze on Ruby. “A bit scrawny, ain’t ya, lad?”
She roughened her voice to go along with the role she was playing. “A bit judgmental, ain’t ya, Mr. Giles?”
He frowned. “Why the mask?”
She crossed her arms. “Why not?”
He rolled his eyes. “Name?”
“The Scarlet Menace.”
His eyes widened. “Are you shittin’ me?”
She narrowed her eyes and stood her ground.
“Whippersnapper’s more like it,” Mr. Giles muttered while writing her stage name. He gestured to the far corner of the lot. “There are two ahead of you. Go on over with the others and wait to be called.”
She proceeded, Nathan in tow.
“Good luck,” Mr. Giles called over his shoulder. “You’re certainly going to need it.”
She bristled at the remark, but let it roll off her back. He and everyone else here would soon discover her true ability.
They waited near the other fighters as instructed. All kinds came to box—black, Spanish, East Indian, white, and others whose race wasn’t so obvious. The prevailing champion chose the number of challengers. The more challengers, the bigger the winning pot. Today, the Scarlet Menace made four. Ruby sipped water as she sized up the other fighters. They chatted or performed warmup exercises. Those who had already stripped to the waist revealed beefy arms, ropey muscles, and toned abdomens.
Nathan had noticed the competition as well, for he leaned toward her and spoke quietly. “There is still time to back out. I would not blame you in the least. We can make money in other ways.”
She shook her head.
He studied her for a few seconds—a frequent habit, come to think of it—and then turned his attention back to the ring with a sigh. She appreciated his concern for her safety, but it was sorely misplaced. No doubt he would change his mind after she won the prize money and could fund more of his inventions.
The crowd grew thicker by the minute. Several bloodthirsty toffs were in attendance, hungry for a rowdy spectacle. Ruby smirked. She was going to deliver a spectacle, all right.
Movement in the ring drew her attention. She edged forward to obtain a better view.
Nathan leaned down to murmur in her ear. “I say, now would be a good time to…you know….”
Right. She bent down to switch on her boots under the pretext of adjusting the clasps. The aether flowed, giving her a boost of confidence in addition to power. The boots would give her the advantage of speed during defensive maneuvers. She would wait until just before her match to turn on her gloves.
Mr. Giles strode to the middle of the ring. He stepped onto an overturned crate. The resident Gladiator Society champion stood next to him. “Gentlefolk,” he began with no small amount of dramatic irony, “are you ready for the battle of the year?”
The crowd cheered.
“Well, then, let’s welcome back our reigning champion, Perry “Sledgehammer” Johnson!”
The audience surged toward the ring with more cheers. Johnson’s bald head topped a craggy face. He raised his fists, walking a slow circuit of the ring and playing to the crowd. They ate it up with gusto.
“Now meet his first challenger, Chen Yew!”
A man with short, straight black hair and a slim, muscular build entered the ring. A snake tattoo wound around his right arm from wrist to shoulder. Probably a sailor trying to make some extra money.
The referee and two umpires appeared. They double checked the ring to ensure everything was in order. As the reigning champion, Johnson had first choice of corner. While the bets were collected, the seconds tied their respective fighters’ handkerchiefs to the center stakes, one white, one red. The umpires patted down the fighters to check for weapons and other forbidden items. The opponents shook hands and then settled into their corners. After the referee called for the match to begin, Johnson and Yew faced off.
Shouting, cheering, and booing erupted. The boxers exchanged a series of precise, methodical punches. As with most such fights, it eventually turned into a bloody mess. Johnson defeated Yew in the third scratch. As Yew stumbled away from the ring, the second challenger was called to fight. Thomas Stanbury’s pale face scrunched with determination as he entered the ring. The same routine as before repeated itself, and then the next bout began.
The two circled round each other. Stanbury threw his first punch, a right hook. Johnson shook it off and hammered his challenger with a vengeance. Every time Johnson hit Stanbury, a squelching sound arose as though he were pulverizing raw meat.
Ruby released a long, slow breath, wondering if she was in over her head even with the aether gloves. But the prize money was a siren’s song she couldn’t resist. If anything would be an effective test of Nathan’s aether technology, it was a boxing opponent twice her size.
About five minutes later, Stanbury, too, succumbed to the Sledgehammer’s powerful blows. Stanbury’s second dragged him out, leaving a trail of blood on the grass. Johnson retreated to his corner for a long drink of water. A half-dozen admirers stuck their hands toward him for handshakes, which he gladly gave. He also accepted several proffered kisses from his female devotees.
Another bout later, Mr. Giles appeared before her. “Your turn, lad.”
Ruby nodded, taking a deep breath to quell her fluttering stomach. Johnson appeared as energetic now as he had during the first match.
As she and Nathan entered the ring, the spectators’ eyes clung to her like tar. A few grunts of surprise and speculative whispers reached her ears.
“Who robbed the cradle?” said a nearby man. His remark was met with a round of laughter.
“Which one o’ them is fighting?” someone else asked.
“Dunno. But my coin ain’t on that walking broomstick, I can tell you that much.”
More laughter. She glanced at Nathan to gauge his reaction. He was stone-faced and his ears had gone red but otherwise maintained his composure. How often had people mocked him about his body over the years? She had half a mind to punch the owner of that last comment all the way to hell. But picking a fight with the crowd would ruin her chances of participating in the bout, so she let it go.
Standing on his crate, Mr. Giles announced the next bout. “Sledgehammer Johnson will now face off against…the Scarlet Menace.” His voice trailed off as he said her stage name, as if his heart wasn’t quite in it.
Even worse, a chilly reception met his announcement. She pursed her lips. No matter. Bugger them all. She was here for the money, not their admiration.
“Chin up,” Nathan murmured as he walked past her.
She glanced at him in surprise. His words of encouragement were not unwelcome, but how had he sensed her emotion? Had her discouragement been that plain? She would have to be more careful.
He tied her black handkerchief to the center stake and joined her in their corner. Ruby tossed down her coat and cap while he placed her water bottle at the ready. She shook out her arms to loosen her muscles.
“For the record,” Nathan said, leaning casually against the corner stake and hooking his thumb into his sagging waistcoat pocket, “I would bet everything I had on you, if I could.”
“Easy to say when you haven’t any money.”
He looked down at her with a hooded gaze and rumbled, “You know what I mean.”
She did. A warm tingle raced down her spine. She glanced away lest he sense that, too.
From the opposite corner, Johnson ambushed her with a hostile stare. For that reason alone, Ruby couldn’t wait to take him down a peg or three.
An umpire called for the fighters to strip to the waist, with a pointed look in her direction. She’d been expecting the request but only removed her waistcoat.
Immediately, the frowning umpire strode to her corner. “Strip to your waist, young man. We have to make sure you’re not hiding a weapon.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not.” Ruby had come prepared for this scenario. She extended her hand, whereupon Nathan placed a small purse in it. A gentle shake made the coins within jingle enticingly. “My shirt,” she said, her tone heavy with innuendo, “stays on.” Then she covertly offered him the purse.
His eyes widened. “Are you bloody kidding me? Stripping’s one of the main rules. The shirt comes off or you leave the ring. We run a strict operation here.” He shook his head of shaggy blond hair. “That means no bribes, neither.”
Her insides turned to ice. Behind her, Nathan sucked in a breath. His apprehension echoed hers. Never would she have imagined they’d refuse a bribe. Who did that? The Gladiator Society was a club run by criminals. Yet the umpire’s expression brooked no argument. She had underestimated how seriously they took the rules of boxing.
Perspiration gathered on her brow. Had her carefully laid plan been for nothing?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ruby inhaled slowly to quell her rising panic. Was the prize money worth such a risky act?
She was no prude, but respectable women never revealed themselves in public. Often not even in private. Even non-respectable women policed their attire for personal safety—as if clothing offered any true protection from predators. Given the dangerous impulses of men, she had to carefully consider the implications of stripping before a huge crowd.
On the other hand, the problem wasn’t necessarily her gender. Women sometimes fought other women for prize money while stripped to the waist. However, she had come to this match under false pretenses. They might decide to kick her out for that reason alone no matter how much they enjoyed the sight of a half-naked woman.
If they allowed her to stay, fighting bare breasted might work to her advantage. She couldn’t think of any sight more distracting for many men than a pair of tits. Having watched harlots box each other or settle grudges with a round of fisticuffs, she knew how mesmerized some men became by the sight of jiggling flesh. Fighting bare breasted would also help divert suspicion from her secret weapons.
Before she’d come to a decision, Nathan interjected.
“Sir, I am sure an exception can be made this once.” He plucked the purse from her hand and practically shoved it against the man’s chest. “Please, take the money. We have more if—”
“Stay out of this,” she hissed.
Nathan turned sharply to face her. But—”
She raised her hand. “Let me handle it.”
With a grunt of frustration, he stepped back.
“Well, come on, then,” the umpire urged.
Think, think. What was the worst that could happen? A bunch of people would see her half-naked. They would shout lewd comments and make obscene gestures. She had been on the receiving end of such rudeness while fully dressed, so being half-naked alone wasn’t a reason to pull out. What else?
After discovering she was a woman, some could try to gang rape her after the match. A horrid thought. Then again, with her powerful gloves and boots, she had a strong chance of fighting off any attackers. Nathan would certainly try to help. In truth, she’d never heard about men raping female boxers after a match. The sport was popular enough that audiences didn’t care one whit about who fought so long as they were treated to an entertaining battle, preferably with lots of carnage.
The umpire groaned impatiently, prompting the other one to join them. “What’s the problem?” he demanded.
The first umpire thumbed her. “He doesn’t wanna strip.”
The second umpire frowned. “Come on, man. This ain’t a beauty show. No one gives a rat’s arse what you look like. The crowd’s waiting. Either strip or leave.”
Nathan cleared his throat loudly, his preference obvious. He would rather they leave and explore other options. Options that didn’t involve her exposed breasts.
His effort then revealed her true problem. She was hesitating because of him. Everyone else was a stranger to her, so their opinions didn’t matter. As far as she was concerned, baring herself was a means to an end, nothing else. If Nathan wasn’t in the picture, would she have bothered to bribe the umpire?
Probably not.
But why? Why did it matter if Nathan saw her breasts? Was she worried about embarrassing him?
Or something else?
So far, they had kept their partnership strictly professional in every way possible. She wasn’t worried about him ogling her, but regardless of intent, any revealing of private body parts could risk compromising their carefully cultivated boundary. She certainly didn’t want to give him the wrong impression.
The problem was she couldn’t determine if Nathan seeing her breasts meant anything or not, and that troubled her. It shouldn’t, and yet….
Her heart raced. With each passing second, the pressure doubled. Tripled. She had to decide—and fast.
“You may leave now,” said the first umpire as he pointed to the outside of the ring. “We haven’t got all bloody day.”
With that ultimatum, everything slid into sharp focus. Only her goal mattered. She would undoubtedly face many difficult decisions on the way to reaching it. To strip or not to strip was one of those decisions. She couldn’t afford to let her dream slip through her fingers over something as trivial as breasts. How could she look the next homeless child in the face after choosing modesty over the chance to end poverty?
“Fine. I’ll strip.” Now that she had made her decision, all her doubt vanished. She grasped the hem of her shirt in both hands.
Behind her, Nathan gasped. “No, you don’t have to do this!”
Oh, but she did. She hoped he would understand after she had a chance to explain her reasoning. Taking a steadying breath, she removed her shirt.
“Oh, dear God,” came his strangled response.
She tossed back her shirt with a glance over her shoulder, expecting to encounter Nathan’s disapproving look, but he was politely averting his gaze.
He retrieved her shirt from the ground. “Take care,” he said. Then he turned to face the crowd.
She gaped at his back. Didn’t he want to see his aether gloves in action against human opponents? “Aren’t you going to watch?” she asked in a low voice.
“No need. I’m thoroughly confident about your abilities, if you take my meaning.”
Apparently, he intended to keep their partnership professional even if it meant losing out on the chance to watch the aether gloves in action. His courteous choice both surprised and reassured her. Some of the tension left her chest. “Very well.”
She returned her attention to center ring. The umpires—and now the referee and the stakeholder and Johnson as well—stared in confusion at her bind. Ruby kept her chin defiantly up while unwinding it. Here goes nothing.
Both umpires took a step back as the top of her breasts emerged. She stripped off the remainder of the binding, balled up the material, and tossed it behind her. Hands on hips, she presented herself to the umpires and referee. All three pairs of eyes latched onto her chest. Her nipples pebbled as a breeze raced across her skin. No doubt the men before her mistook it for arousal.
Well, let them. She would presently turn their delusion to her advantage.
She spoke in her regular voice. “I am ready for your inspection now.”
At first, her scandalous reveal shocked the crowd into silence…and then a tidal wave of whoops, jeers, and lewd whistles crashed into her. Though their reaction didn’t surprise her, a shudder went through her. To mask her anxiety, she squared her shoulders and maintained her confident stance.
The umpires and referee tried to avoid looking at her breasts but failed spectacularly.
The second umpire recovered first. “Miss, it’s probably best for you to leave. For your own safety.”
The first umpire nodded, his face beet red.
She stood her ground. “No. I want to fight.”
The umpires exchanged worried glances. The crowd grew restless.
If she was going to box bare breasted, she might as well take complete ownership of her choice. Strutting forward, she spread out her hands. Addressed the crowd with the most charming smile she could muster. “Tell me, friends, do you wish me to fight?”
The crowd chanted “Let her fight! Let her fight!” to the tune of clapping and foot stomping.
Her smile broadened. The ability to influence them so easily could become addicting. Interesting how much more power a woman could have with her clothes off than on. Hardly fair, but with few other resources at her disposal, she would squeeze every drop of opportunity from this low hanging fruit.
She turned to the umpires. “The people have spoken. Let’s not keep them waiting, hmm?”
They both looked to Johnson, who nodded his approval. She smirked. As if he would back down from fighting a woman. And unbeknownst to them, this one was about to turn the whole match on its head.
As Mr. Giles collected the bets, the first umpire approached. “Gotta pat you down, miss.”
She extended her arms, tensing as he awkwardly patted down her trousers. For the most part, he kept his face averted from her torso.
The umpire rose back to his feet. “All good, nothing there, but hang on—what’re you wearing gloves for?”
She held them up. “I have a contagious rash. Check ‘em if you want. There’s nothing inside but my crusty hands.”
He gave her gloved hands a cursory rub. “She’s clean,” he announced. Mr. Giles headed to the center of the ring.
He motioned for her and Johnson to approach the scratch. “Shake,” he ordered.
Johnson’s intimidating stare never left her face as he stuck out his large hand. Ruby shook it firmly, matching the glint in his eye with one of her own.
After the handshake, she switched on her gloves under the guise of adjusting them. Flexed her hands as the aether power flared to life.
Mr. Giles raised his fist. “Let the fight begin!”
The crowd went wild, shouting and whistling as she and Johnson faced off.
Fists raised, she danced on the balls of her feet, keenly aware of the jiggling show she was providing. Fortunately, she wasn’t so large breasted as to make jumping around too uncomfortable.
“That’s a prize pair of coker-nuts!” a man shouted. Whistles and a few lewd proposals followed his remark.
Her bosom obviously met with the crowd’s approval, yet they undoubtedly saw her as nothing more than an object to fuel their fantasies. Despite having toughened herself up over the years, the exposure made her feel vulnerable.
Yet if she was to conquer England, she had to be able to defeat a boxing opponent even while bare breasted. Only by proving her mettle could she take command of the underworld and amass a loyal army. If she could win this match, she could do anything.
As though mirror images, she and Johnson circled each other.
He grinned behind the shield of his large, scarred fists. “Don’t fret, luv. I’ll go easy on you.”
“I would rather you didn’t.”
“Oh, I insist.” His gaze raked over her chest, a slow, vulgar trek that made her skin crawl. Then he winked. “You may thank me later, if you know what I mean.”
“You mean like this?” She jabbed him dead center in the face, easily slicing through the barrier of his fists.
His head snapped back. He swayed for a moment, dazed. Then he toppled over, hitting the ground with a thud. Blood gushed from his smashed nose.
The crowd uttered a collective gasp before a rock of silence dropped over the ring. No one moved, not even the referee or umpires. The spectators looked at her with stunned expressions and at Johnson with horrified ones.
Blood roared in her ears as she eyed her opponent’s unmoving body. Punching him had been like flicking away a feather. In fact, she hadn’t even broken a sweat. She kept her fists raised in case he jumped back up. Years of hardship made her hesitant to trust his unmoving form.
Nevertheless, she allowed herself a moment of glee. Nathan’s invention was amazing, as was her mastery of it. She had never felt so powerful or in such control of a situation. Her success boded well for her future.
The crowd’s reaction was more difficult to judge. They probably hadn’t seen a woman knock out a male boxer with one punch before. Hell, she never had. Her victory bordered on fantastical. Would they believe their own eyes or regard her as a freak?
The spectators remained eerily quiet until one woman started clapping. “Ooh, she won! I bet on the underdog and she won. I’m going to be rich!”
***
Want to know more? Here’s are two of the source materials I researched for the boxing scenes in A Villainous Affair: London Prize Ring Rules [of 1838] and General history on boxing in Victorian England.
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