Page 48 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

Each blow comes harder. I swing with my hips, driving directly to his arms, making him block and expend energy. Sweat drips down my back, making my shirt mold to my muscles and tug with each twist. Henhaven, by contrast, still looks far too calm and refined for my liking.

Again, I bring my blows to his arms, making him comfortable with my current rhythm. Right hand to chest. Blocked. Left hand to stomach. Blocked.

I aim for his face again, this time bringing all my force toward his jaw. In a scramble to block, he makes a sweeping arc, bringing his hand high so that his guard is finally open.

Pulling back, I twist my hips, pistoning my fist right into his breadbasket, smiling as his stomach sucks in from the force. Without pause, I pivot on my left foot, taking that arm in an arc, and jab him in the side, delivering a perfect rib roaster.

Henhaven gasps at the force of the blows, hard, even through the mufflers. It’s the first time I’ve seen the man lose composure. Perfect. I might get to see the real Henhaven after all.

The moment he staggers back, Jackson steps forward. “Time. Hold your hands. Your Grace, please step from the square.” The man stands between us, holding his arms out to keep us separated.

I might be wanting to push Henhaven to his limits, but I wouldn’t dare break a rule as blatantly as all that. As I walk to my corner, friends at my back, I watch as Henhaven stumbles forward, pale and dripping with sweat. His shirt clings to his ribs where the sweat gathers, making it stick. No doubt he’ll have a good bruise there come this evening.

He lowers himself onto a chair in a shaky manner, but still doesn’t say a word. Each breath looks as if it takes effort. I study his figure, the way he holds his ribs. He won’t be able to fight much longer.

It’s then I skim the area around us. He has no one there to cheer him on. No one sits by his side, giving him advice. Does he truly have no one? It’s an odd man indeed who has no friends. This alone is enough to formulate my position.

Though not all of mine wish to see me succeed in this, I know each and every one has my back where it counts. Where are Henhaven’s men? Where are those who would stand by him until death?

Shaking my head, I look over at Jackson as he studies Henhaven, waiting for him to simply call the fight and declare me the winner. But he doesn’t. He stands at the center and looks at his watch. “Half a minute is turning. Prepare your man.”

I walk back over to the scratch, smashing my fists together so the sound of leather fills the space. By now, no one else trains. No one prepares. All eyes stay on us and this fight, either by walking over and joining my friends or using the mirrors to their advantage.

Henhaven grips his side for a brief moment before taking a fortifying breath and standing. He walks over to the scratch under his own strength and stands there, looking me square in the eye.

I can’t help the glimmer of admiration I have for him as he stands there, clearly injured, obviously out of his depth. But still, he faces me. Still, he continues on when he could just concede the match.

“Time’s up, gentlemen. Set two.”

The moment Jackson backs away, Henhaven slides his feet forward, going on the offensive now. Each blow he delivers carries a bit of power, but it clearly takes him effort. Behind me, I hear the soft groan of a man prepared to lose out on fifty guineas. As much as I dislike Henhaven, there is a spot of gratitude that my brother is now on the possible losing end. Should I allow him to get one in? Perish the thought.

Pressing forward, I parry each blow, watching his movements. Still, he says nothing. Not one move he makes is untoward. The bastard still fights like a proper gentleman. Surely by now he’d try some dirty, underhanded trick.

But no.

The Viscount of Henhaven seems to actually be a good man.

Damn it.

Each breath that passes through his lips is pained. Each bunch of his muscles looks as if they’re trembling. I should end this now, for his sake. There’s no point carrying on when I’ve gathered the information I want.

Again, I arc my left arm, making a grand show of aiming for his face. True to form, he tracks it, shifting to block on instinct. The moment his chest is open, I drive my right fist into it, slamming the muffler directly into his sternum.

The blow takes him off guard and pushes him back. He tries his best to stay upright, but his boots slip on the polished ground. Despite the way he flails his arms, he falls backward, slamming hard against the wood.

“Hold your hands,” Jackson cries out again as he stands between us, motioning for me to stay back.

I watch, waiting with bated breath as he lies there. Will he manage to get up in time? Will he continue to fight me though I am clearly his superior?

After another moment or two, Henhaven rolls to his side and pushes himself up to his feet. Jackson looks over, a soft smile teasing his lips as he gives Henhaven a curt nod of approval. He’s clearly appreciative of the man who fights using the more scientific method as opposed to pure strength and adrenaline.

Henhaven’s arms tremble as he brings the muffler to his mouth to tug at the laces. Each movement is shaky and erratic, taking visible effort, as he finally manages to pull them off and step closer to me. “Good match, You Grace,” he says with complete decorum as he bows low at the waist, maintaining both dignity and grace. “A most magnificent bout.”

With that, he turns and walks toward the washbasin on the other side of the room. Even with his injuries, he holds his head up and moves with a graceful, even stride. No anger. No glare. No tantrum. Nothing.

He gave me nothing.

My friends race over, cheering, but I hear none of it. As the others jab and jeer over won and lost bets, I can’t help but feel a prick of shame. I might have won, but the nod went to Henhaven.