Page 84 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

She straightens her shoulders and gives me a large smile. “I am well. Just a little at odds with being a mother and a lover. Now then… the samples?”

“I have some upstairs I can grab!” I say, doing my best to bring back the excitement that was there just moments ago.

Anne reaches into her pocket, face red as she hands over a letter. “I would rather you not reveal the contents if it’s all the same to you.”

Before it can reach Teresa, Augusta snatches it out and starts reading out loud for us all to hear. “My dearest obsession.”

“No!” Anne cries out, reaching over to pull it back, even as Augusta dances out of reach. “It’s personal!”

“And my husband likes to take me in the rear and tell me what a good little vexation I am. We all have our crosses to bear.”

She takes her voice down a little deeper to mimic Lewis’s and continues. “How I cannot wait to sacrifice your body at the altar of our mutual lusts.” With wide eyes, she looks over to the poor, miserable Anne as she sits there, head in her hands. “My, my, aren’t we a different type of deviant? I am intrigued.”

“Come now, Augusta,” I laugh. “You torment the poor girl. Let Teresa do her best so that we may bury this quarrel between our families once and for all.”

Chapter 43

Charles

Once more I stand in Jackson’s salon, staring across the square. Only this time, it’s my brother who sneers back. Such bollocks to ask me here to fight.

Rolling my eyes, I peel my coat off and toss it over the chair, followed by my waistcoat. We should be after the blackmailer. Not fighting like errant school lads. Granted, the idea of pounding into him for the trouble he’s caused does sound delightful.

I refuse to look at him as I pull the mufflers back on and yank the strings with my teeth. Oh, would that Henhaven were here again instead of my brother. That was at least fun in some regards. This fight feels more like a chore than anything else.

Our friends gather around and talk low to each other. Probably putting bets on who will win. I feel as if I have more than enough fury to make this game a sweep.

“Come to the scratch, gentlemen,” Jackson says as he taps the line with his toe. Neither of us moves. We simply stare at the other, waiting for someone to back down first. “Your Graces, please. To the scratch.”

We walk in unison, as if twins in our movements. At the same time, we get to the line and glare at each other. I drop into my defensive stance, just as before. Lewis stands there, posture neutral, as if he cares not that we are about to go to blows.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously,” I growl as I throw my fist forward, straight at his face.

The bastard doesn’t even put his guard up. He merely steps to the left, causing my fist to sail through the air, missing him by a good inch or so.

“Just because you think violence is the answer doesn’t mean I’m compelled to act as if I take leave of all my senses and come out wailing like a man with nothing to lose.”

I follow up with a swinging jab from the left side, but again, Lewis just isn’t there. He steps back, not even fighting. What was the point in him bringing me here if he’s just going to duck or move out of the way?

“Hit him, Norhaven,” Joseph calls out. “I have one hundred pounds on you.”

Just as I thought. But this isn’t about money or bets. This is about revenge and restitution.

Gritting my teeth, I do a flurry of movements. Right fist to the body. Left fist to the head. Right to the body again. The same moves that wore Henhaven down. Lewis, however, is not even panting for air.

“He’s standing right there,” Benedict cries out. “How have you not hit him?”

How indeed?

He stands there, moving like a ghost. Each punch finds a gentle redirection, a soft movement of his arm, as if he’s telling my body this is not the move you want to make. Fucking ghost. The man isn’t even here.

This isn’t the Lewis I grappled with when I was younger. This isn’t the man who was willing to get down and dirty just to win a fight with me. All in all, the bastard looks almost bored. Like I’m no challenge for him at all.

I barely touch my brother as I send another driving blow to his midsection. He merely twists his hips, causing it to graze him instead. Fury nearly blinds me as I move forward, pressing hard. By God, he will acknowledge me. He will pay for the crimes he’s committed to me and Cynthia.

Each punch forces him back until his feet finally meet the edge of the square. I smirk at him as I wipe sweat from my brow. “Will you now concede?” Still, he says nothing.

Again, I go in for a punch, ready to push him out of the square and declare my victory. Instead of stepping off or to the side, he pushes both his hands out, using my force against me as he shoves. Hard. His hands smack against my chest, molding the shirt to my muscles.