Page 47 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

R. Dowding W. Dowding

2nd June 1814

Lewis Barrington, Duke of Whiteport, wagers Edward Fitzwilliam, Duke of Redleigh, the sum of fifty guineas that the Duke of Norhaven will win in such a fashion that the Viscount of Henhaven will not even get one blow in.

L. Barrington E. Fitzwilliam

That one. That is what I plan to have happen. There is enough rage in me that I doubt he’ll even be able to take one swing. Turning back to the snickering lot, I merely roll my eyes and cross my arms.

They laugh, of course, not fully understanding the nature of this match. It’s not only so I can get out some of this aggression in a way that’s acceptable to the Ton. It’s more so I can find that chink in his armor, that part of him he doesn’t want anyone else to see.

When pressed, a man will reveal his true nature. Only very few can hide it. Lewis being one of them. Henhaven? I highly doubt it. He may put on a respectable face, but once I push him to the breaking point, he’ll reveal to everyone the monster he must be.

My thoughts continue to tumble about as we all sip coffee and look at the papers. I keep glancing over, studying my friends as they read their articles with care. At least Joseph, Robert, and Lewis have the foresight to know I’ll win.

Eventually, we cannot dawdle any longer. They follow me to Jackson’s in a manner that oddly resembles a funeral procession. Such silly notions. Unless Henhaven is hiding something that makes him deadly, I’m sure I’ll be more than fine.

The other dukes find their places on mahogany benches as Henhaven appears in the room. No entourage follows him, and for a brief moment, I actually feel pity for the man. Until he dared go after what was mine, I barely even registered his existence.

He always hung off to the side, watching instead of participating. Much like Lewis in that way. He’s very observant. Maybe there is something more to him than I’m considering? Hopefully, all will be revealed soon.

I divest myself of my tailcoat and waistcoat, leaving them off to the side before I work at my cravat. Now is not the time to recall Cynthia gagging on it as I touched her, teased her, and pleasured her. However, they fly into my brain unbidden.

As Henhaven watches while he undresses as well, I tug at the cravat, smiling boldly at the memory. I wrap the fabric around my fingers a few times and smirk before adding it to the pile.

Gentleman Jackson circles the area, watching both of us closely as we prepare. As I slip on the mufflers and pull the laces with my teeth, I can’t help but feel the flutter of adrenaline run through my veins. It’s been far too long since I’ve fought with another man.

Granted, while at war, we fought in a far different way. It was closer to prize fighting than this, but I’ll take what I can get. Becoming duke certainly has had its advantages, but this is most definitely a drawback I didn’t realize would happen as a result.

“Come to the scratch, gentlemen,” Jackson calls out. “To the scratch, if you please. Let us see a fair display of science.”

Internally, I snort. Science. The fact that he thinks he can distill all this animal ferocity and animosity into a calculation.

I watch as Henhaven takes his stance. Just as Jackson has instructed, he comes to the white chalk line and stands upright, bowed backward to keep his face as far from me as possible. His posture is almost rigid as he holds his left arm in front and keeps the right closely tucked to his chin. Exactly as Jackson teaches the men who come through for his education.

Though I, too, come to the line, I hunch down, taking on a far more ruthless stance that never failed me during any fight while in the military. It’s in complete opposition to the man in front of me. My weight shifts to the balls of my feet as I keep both hands near my face and elbows tucked in to protect my ribs.

“Don’t hurt him too badly, Charles,” Robert calls out in an odd display of showmanship.

“I’ve got fifteen guineas on you, Henhaven,” Benedict calls out too. “Don’t let me down.”

The man barely acknowledges the words. Good. That means his head is in the game.

Chapter 22

Charles

I study Henhaven, watching his stance, seeing how he breathes, how he moves. As a test, I send out a punch straight to his chest. He parries it, blocking efficiently with his left arm. Pressing forward still, I swing with the left, aiming for his jaw.

When he steps backward, completely evading my fist, I smile. Not nearly as inept as I thought. This might be an enjoyable match after all. Again, I press, throwing out a jab here and a hook there.

My shoulders burn with the effort and lack of practice. Being a duke has made me softer than I’d like. Henhaven, however, blocks and dodges each one, making me work for it as I continue to drive forward.

Through it all, Henhaven says nothing. Each breath comes out in a forceful gust from his nose as he blocks me. It’s a slight exhale from the mouth as he dodges. Clean, elegant. Nothing at all like the bloodbath I long for.

Again, I aim for his face, desperate to leave some mark of my wrath on him. Jackson, however, sees this and calls out from the sidelines. “Guard your decorum, Your Grace. This is a Salon and not a prize match.”

Enough. This isn’t working. I need to change up tactics. I desperately need to see how Henhaven reacts when pressed upon in a way that he cannot recover from.