Page 45 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

“On the contrary,” Portswell cries. “He is a learned man of much intellect. He has seen into your letters and drawn out the truth of the matter. We should all hail the astounding skill he possesses.”

“Hear, hear,” they all murmur, including Henhaven.

“You all are too kind,” I say with a flourished bow before turning back to the man standing between me and true happiness. “But they say you never really know a man until you’ve seen what he’s made of with his hands.”

Henhaven stares me down, his lips twisting in a ghost of a smile as he raises one eyebrow a fraction. “I can assure you. I am not lacking in any department.”

“Well, seeing as there are no ladybirds to vouch, I fear there is no true way of determining any sort of prowess.” At this point, all the men look between us, watching our interaction with rapt attention.

“And is that the only way to test one’s skill? A courtesan who could lie just as well as she can tell the truth?”

“Jackson’s then? Say tomorrow at ten?”

He smiles again, showing far more teeth than usual. “I didn’t take you to be one of the Fancy.”

“I’m not.” The words hang heavy in the air as I refuse to elaborate. It’s no secret I’ve spent time in the military. Tomorrow, Henhaven will know just how formidable an opponent I can be.

Chapter 21

Charles

Thursday

The sun shines brightly outside my study window. Too brightly. Desperation claws at my insides, and I find it rather rude that the weather has chosen not to mirror my dour disposition.

I flip through the correspondence from this morning to reveal nothing spectacular. A ball here. A meeting there. Nothing of import. Nothing to reveal any nefarious nature of the man I’m about to spar with today.

Leaning back in my chair, I sip on my coffee, staring at the dying fire. No missive from the blackmailer today either. Whatever shall I do with myself. Perhaps they’ve grown bored with taunting me and decided to pursue someone else to torment.

Thursday. Just a handful of days before the final banns. It eats at me, slicing through me until I try yet fail to capture a full breath. I should have uncovered something by now. I should have been able to stand up last Sunday and declare before Cynthia and the Ton that Henhaven was not a worthy match.

But I couldn’t. I sat there, impotent, as the man asked if anyone saw cause for them not to be married. And then the bastard purred for her. Stood behind her and gave her the comfort I couldn’t.

Even now, the rage simmers below the surface, begging to come out. I wanted to throttle him there. I wanted to grab him by the front of his shirt and drag him down the aisle before the congregation and demand he confess whatever sins lie at his feet that would allow Cynthia and me to marry.

Hell, even a string of dead wives would have been at least something that could have caused concern, but so far, even that’s turned up with nothing. Not that dead wives really stopped anyone. Just ask Lewis’s wife.

Rubbing a hand over my face, I glance at the clock. Two hours before I have to be at Jackson’s. Whatever shall I do in the meantime?

Though it’s never truly too early to go to the Rose and Thorne, I refuse to be inebriated before the match. That, and no woman there holds any sway over me.

Before I can figure out an occupation, a loud rap sounds at my door. The footman enters, his face a touch ragged. That can only mean one of two things. Either my sisters have descended upon him, or my friends have.

Based on the masculine laughs coming down the hall, I no longer have to guess which. One by one, the footman announces the dukes, following up with Lewis at the end. They slide in, identical smiles on their smug faces.

“What the devil do you lot want?” I grumble under my breath as I make a grand show of organizing my papers.

“What does any Alpha really want?” Benedict asks, his grin growing even wider. “A lady to bed in the most diabolical way ever.”

They laugh, but it rings hollow from Lewis and Robert. Those two always were the most rigid of us. Makes sense they would not wish to make ribald jokes at their mates’ expenses.

“And yet,” I murmur to Benedict, “you’re here in my study. Has your eyesight grown so dim as to think I’m such a lady that can bed you? Try it. I can assure you that you will not like the outcome.”

William slides closer to the desk. “I’m sure if he’s given enough alcohol, you can look like a bonny lass.” Then he looks me up and down again. “A keg or two, maybe four, should do it?”

“I see. I am only pretty to Benedict when he is passed out?”

Lewis stifles a chuckle. “Are you disappointed that he does not find you attractive?”