The footman standing in attendance averted his gaze.
Sidney had had quite enough of breakfast. He needed a foil in his hand and an opponent to face. Northwich was going to have his arse handed to him today. He rose, disgusted with himself. Nettled more than he cared to admit. Shaken, it was true.
A bitter bark of laughter tore from him as he made his way to his waiting carriage.
She wanted to marry him.
Outrageous.
Impossible.
He would not marry her if she were the last bloody woman in all England. And his complicated, festering feelings for her aside, he was already all but promised to wed Lady Hermione Carmichael thanks to his father’s machinations.
Never mind that Lady Hermione inspired as much passion in him as he would feel for a blade of grass. It hardly mattered. A tepid marriage was far better. A woman he did not give a damn about could never hurt him, and that was the way he wanted it.
Lady Julianna had shown him that. He ought to have thanked her.
It was still drizzling as he settled into his carriage, which suited his mood. By the time he arrived at the London Fencing Club, he was prepared to go to war. And he was sorry to say he had spent the entirety of his journey thinking about a red-haired temptress he would just as soon never see again.
Roland, Duke of Northwich, was tall, black-haired, and dark-eyed. Traits he had inherited from his American mother, who was rumored to be part Iroquois. Northwich neither confirmed nor denied his mother’s ancestry, and Sidney had never bothered to ask because he did not give a damn either way. It was undeniable that the duke was a fierce opponent. Also staunchly loyal, and he bore a cutting wit and a wicked sense of humor. He made Sidney laugh more than he made him grit his teeth, even when he trounced him.
“Shelly,” Northwich greeted him with a ready smile. “You look like death this morning, my friend. Are you certain you are ready?”
“I woke up ready,” he lied.
“If I were a wagering man, I would hazard a guess that you woke up ready to lose your breakfast.”
Bastard.
He had lost hisdinner.
Small difference.
“I did not see you at the Black Souls last night,” he said instead of either denying or corroborating his friend’s words.
“Observant of you, old friend.” Northwich raised a brow. “That is because I was not there.”
“You have been a fixture of late. I was surprised you were not present.”
“Eh.” Northwich shrugged. “I had matters to attend to.”
“Matters?” Sidney donned his mask and Northwich did the same, followed by gloves and foil.
The master, Jean Beltrande, was not present today, which allowed for a more informal match, not presided over by anyone else. Sidney did not particularly mind; he fenced to relieve himself of pent-up aggression and not for rules.
That principle was certainly no less true today.
Sidney and the duke entered their positions opposite each other for the bout,en garde.
“Yes,matters.” Northwich’s voice was unusually curt. “As I said.”
“Matters concerning a female?” Sidney guessed.
“Is that what made you drink yourself to oblivion last night?” Northwich responded in kind.
Hell.
“Ready?” he snarled at his friend, feeling once more like the beast he had told Grove he felt like that morning when he had refused a shave.
