Page 86 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

But I don’t care. Lewis is finally fighting me. Sweat beads at his face as his shirt sticks to his ribs. Each punch only makes it all the wetter as we battle it out on the once-pristine and polished floor.

Finally, I find a way to get my foot in so I can kick Lewis off of me. We both stand and circle each other. This time, it’s my brother who comes out punching. Right. Left. Right. Hard, precise blows that pound into me.

I absorb it, taking it in as the fury overrides my thinking. With a guttural roar, I charge forward and grab Lewis about the waist, driving him back until he hits the mirrors, making them rattle and crack under the force.

“Gentlemen,” Jackson tries again, groaning as we destroy each other. But to no avail. Neither of us is stopping until the other yields. “Decorum? This is not how Broughton-”

“Fuck Broughton and his rules,” I hiss as I continue to shove Lewis harder into the mirror behind him.

Lewis grunts at the force as he cranes his head around me to yell at Jackson as well. “This match has nothing to do with science and everything to do with heart. It’s been a long time coming. I’m sure as hell not stopping now.”

“Like you have heart,” I growl.

“Like you have a brain,” he snarls back.

Lewis, trapped between the mirror and my bulk, roars as he reaches around to punch my back, anything to get me to move. Short, hard blows that rain down on me, probably leaving a fair number of bruises. When I don’t let go, he brings both arms down on my shoulders, forcing me to break away.

As soon as I step back, I go to punch again, but he’s quicker than me, somehow far lighter on his feet. He slips in and punches me twice in the side, making my breath come out in a hard pant.

When he comes to punch again, I manage to grab his wrist, holding him in place, nearly pulling his muffler off. And that’s when I look at him. Really look at him. Gone is the cool, polished duke who demanded excellence in a mate. Now, the man in front of me is feral, bleeding from his lip, with not one ounce of decorum. But then, I threw decorum out long before.

Something shifts in his gaze as we simply stare at each other, mufflers barely hanging on, shirts torn and askew. The next breath comes out in a half bark of laughter. It was not intended, but once it happens, I can’t help but laugh again.

Lewis’s gaze softens as he, too, lets out a soft chuckle. Turning, we take in the damage. The chalk from the square is nearly obliterated. A few of the mahogany benches are no longer in the proper spot.

In the middle of all that chaos, Jackson sits, watch open, arms crossed. His gaze takes in the damage as well before he turns back to look at us. “I would ask,” he says with a dignity he somehow musters. “That you do not tell anyone this occurred here.”

At that, Lewis and I both begin to laugh in earnest as we slump to the floor in a sweaty heap. I double over as each punctuated sound drives pain through my ribs. But it’s worth it. Honestly, it was worth it just to see the look on Jackson’s face.

Every time I look over at Lewis, we both just start laughing again until our friends come over, looking rather bored with it all.

“Who won?” Joseph asks.

“We both did,” Lewis says.

The others grumble before dispersing, no doubt a bit put off by the fact that no one won any coin off the other. I’m sure in the future, there will be more fights.

Jackson continues to circle about as we put ourselves back to rights. “The chalk square will need to be redrawn.” Lewis and I stifle a laugh. “And the mirror in the northeast corner.” We begin to fail. “Good day, Your Graces.”

At that, we have another bout of laughs as we leave the Salon. Though neither of us apologizes, we find that we didn’t need to. Anything that needed to be said was left there on the polished floors and cracked mirrors.

“I suppose it was good that you sent me that note,” I laugh as I shake my head.

Lewis stops short. “I didn’t send you a note. You sent me a note.”

The others stop as well, taking in our confusion with befuddled looks of their own.

“I did nothing of the kind,” I say as I cross my arms.

He looks at me, confusion furrowing his brow. “Neither did I.”

“The wives,” we say in unison as we reach into our pockets and exchange the notes.

They are in our own hand. “What in all of Christendom?” I murmur.

Joseph comes closer and looks over our shoulders. “You didn’t send these?”

“No,” I reply. “With the way I felt, it would be an eternity and I still wouldn’t have talked to him.”