In lieu of such an action, he pointed it at his victorious friend. “I demand another bout.”
“Hardly sporting of you, chum.” Northwich, who had doffed his mask, raised a dark brow, looking as sullen as Sidney felt. “We decided on a lone bout because I have other engagements this afternoon, if you will recall.”
Engagements, yes. Northwich had failed to elaborate on what they were.
“You owe me one more,” he countered. “I did not score a point in that bout.”
“And whose fault is that? The man with his head up his arse or mine?”
Damned Northwich. Why the devil did Sidney like him so much? It was difficult indeed to recall at this particular juncture.
“It is not sporting of you to deny me another bout.” He paused, lowering his foil. “My head was decidedly not up my arse, you vicious-mouthed cur.”
“Thinking of your lady wife?” Northwich taunted.
Because the blighter was some sort of a soothsayer.
“Thinking of defeating you.”
The duke laughed. “Next time, Shelly.”
“Not next time. Now. Surely you can spare me another quarter hour.”
Northwich sighed. “Shelly, you and I both know that I will defeat you in another bout as well.”
Yes, but mayhap he would score a goddamn point. One point, that was all he wanted. Defeat was crushing enough on its own, but he already felt as if he were a drowning man.
“Throw a starving old dog a bone, won’t you?” he pressed.
The master, Beltrande, was busy with another bout on the opposite end of the club. Their battle would be informal. And hell, Sidney just wanted to talk. The last match had been stilted on account of their audience. With no one else about to overhear, mayhap he could unburden himself.
Northwich understood things in a way their friend Huntingdon didn’t. To say nothing of the fact Huntingdon was now happily married to Sidney’s sister. Seeking counsel from him would seem deuced wrong these days. Northwich was bedeviled by something—a woman, it was certain. He would understand better than anyone.
“Do you truly want to suffer another humiliating defeat?” Northwich asked.
Smug bastard. And yes, the duke had a right to be smug. The man excelled at everything he did.
“One more bout.”
He did not know why he was insisting at this point. Mayhap it was because he was delaying his return to Cagney House and Julianna. He had been avoiding her since breakfast, it was true. Because he had awoken that morning with her wrapped around him—her scent, copper curls, one pale arm, and even a hip slung over his. As if she had claimed him in her sleep. And because he had wanted to keep her there forever. In the absence of his rage, all that remained was the same suffocating emotion which had ruined him before.
“If I give you one more, do you promise to stop crying?” Northwich taunted.
He clenched his jaw. “I am hardly crying. Merely attempting a sporting bout. I was distracted on the last match. Gave you an easy victory. One more to provide us both with some distraction.”
The duke’s jaw clenched. “Who says I need distraction?”
“Your face.” He decided it was an excellent time to use his friend’s weapons against him. “You look like you are about to attend a funeral.”
Northwich shook his head. “Come now, Shelly. I thought you above that.”
“Above what?” He was reasonably sure he was capable of stooping to anything, however low.
He was a desperate man, it was true.
“Using my own words against me. Besides, I am not grim.Youare grim. And defeated.” He paused, cocking his head as if he were in deep thought. “Also, bloody terrible at fencing.”
That stung. “I am not always terrible.”
