His Wild Duchess (Fate & Circumstance #2)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

L ew’s and Crake’s was the most well-known gentlemen’s club in London at the moment, according to a random man George had asked on the street outside the townhouse. He felt suffocated, as though his collar clung too tight to his neck. The halls of that townhouse never once made him feel as trapped as Penelope did, with her wide eyes and rich red hair. All of it became something he was not at all prepared for.

Six dogs.

George was a lover of animals like any other young man. They were excellent hunting partners, loyal companions, and full of soul. But in the hands of a young spinster woman? Preposterous. Half a dozen strays, all following the commands of a woman who walked through houses barefoot. Barefoot and dirty and sweaty. George should have left Egerton Manor that day and found another option to carry out his plans. Despite that thought, there was a voice in the back of his head that said, you damned fool, don’t pretend like you aren’t happy with it.

George rolled his shoulders, about to walk down the street, till he came across the club when he heard the soft sound of paws smacking against the pavement. Turning, he saw a large black shadow come trotting towards him. As it approached, the figure grew clearer and sharper in the early evening.

“Antony,” George called out, “Is that right?”

The mastiff took a set a few feet away from him, using his foot to scratch behind his ear before lazily looking around.

George stepped closer, patting his hand against the side of the mastiff’s large stomach. “Go on there, boy. Home’s thataway.”

Antony barely budged.

“Get on, Antony.” George took a step back, bewildered. Thrusting a hand forward, he pointed at the townhouse, raising his voice slightly. “Back to where you came!”

Silence responded. Antony merely watched him, blinking slowly. A few passersby watched him with odd looks, glancing between him and the dog. George sighed, rubbing a hand across his face as a headache pounded beneath his skull.

“Bloody might as well accept it,” he muttered under his breath as he started to walk away. “Better get the Ton used to the damned things sooner rather than later.” Only a couple of months, and he could pack the dogs and his wife off to a private country cottage, and the gossip about Penelope’s pack would fade away as soon as a new scandal arose.

Antony huffed as he trotted behind him as if he understood the words he spoke.

George stole a glance over his shoulder at the mastiff. A smile couldn’t help but spread across his lips. He truly did enjoy the presence of dogs. The last time he got to handle them was when he was out west in the New World, searching for wild horses. Mastiffs were beautiful creatures, but he fought the urge to dip down and give his attention to the dog. More important things were at stake, and he was trying to be mad at Penelope.

George was able to locate the club in no time. It wasn’t too far of a walk away from the townhomes, but enough that he felt comfortable going in. As he approached, a few parties of gentlemen entered, all of them chatting amongst each other. George swallowed down his apprehension.

The nostalgia tasted bittersweet as George entered Lew’s and Crake’s.

Round tables were all around the wide room, and a delicate and small bar was positioned in the middle of the room. Men held their glasses of brandy and discussed everything beneath the sun. George slowly walked down the steps till he entered the main room, trying to ignore the dog's pattering behind him.

Eyes slowly began to turn and face him. Soon enough, the crowds were only talking about the stranger entering their club and ordering a drink from their bar. George was used to people gossiping about him. His appearance alone made him stand out like a sore thumb in London. A decade's worth of hard labor in the New World left him rugged and strong, new muscles filling out his frame. Most men wore their hair long in the colonies, seeking to cover their skin from the sun.

Everything about him in England reeked of the colonies. A part of him wondered if even the title he inherited from his father would make him more acceptable in the Ton’s eyes. It didn’t change the fact that he’d willingly decided to leave the country ten years prior.

Leaving the bar, George scanned the room for a lone table. He moved quickly, wanting to avoid any small talk until he could have a few drinks. The only way he’d be able to come off personable enough for the Ton’s gentlemen was through as much whiskey as he could get his hands on.

“Evening, sir!”

Bollocks, George thought to himself. Looking over his shoulder, he watched an unsteady man approach him from behind. The gentleman obviously had too much to drink and searched for a new stranger to dump himself on.

George cleared his throat, eyeing the mastiff that sat close to his hip. “Good evening.”

The drunk fell into a seat beside him, earning a loud growl from Antony. The man barely flinched, his attention not wavering from George.

“Mighty fine suit you’ve got on, sir,” the man drawled. “Coulda sworn I’d seen it somewhere else recently, yes, sir.”

George let a smirk slip across his face in amusement. He eyed the man’s clothes: a neat suit with a black overcoat and white beneath. A little rose was pinned to his breast, now askew from all his staggering. White gloves poked out his front pocket. George’s smile widened.

“Did you happen to attend a wedding earlier today, Mr…?”

“Lord Keton,” the man replied, standing up straight before swaying.”

The Duke nodded. “Were you at a wedding, Lord Keton?”

“Why, yes!” Lord Keton exclaimed, bumping into a few gentlemen that passed by. “It was for that Caney girl, the spinster. And the new Yeats - I mean, Duke of Yeats. Hounton something, or like that, sir.” The man raised a brow. “Well, how’d you know that?”

George breathed deeply, not letting himself get irritated just yet. The man was still amusing, in a pitiful way. “I am the Duke of Yeats, Lord Keton,” he replied. “And it’s George Hounton, but you can call me: your Grace .”

The drunken baron went a little green in the dim lighting of Lew’s and Crake’s. The grown carried on around them, a few still eyeing George and the mastiff suspiciously.

“Apologies, your Grace, sir,” Lord Keton said, once again back to his drunken and delirious state. “What’s a married man like you doing in a place like this?”

“It’s a gentlemen’s club,” George said. “For gentlemen.”

“You’re from the colonies, aren’t you?”

George sighed, not in the mood to defend himself to one more stuck-up Londoner. “Yes, what of it?”

“Don’t the gentlemen in there go to saloons?”

George rolled his eyes and sipped his drink, not feeling relaxed at all. Not only did the arguing with his wife still haunt him, but now there was a drunken fool who wouldn’t leave him alone.

Lord Keton reached behind him, grasping onto a random drink that passed by on a tray. He downed it in a single motion, dropping the glass loudly against the table. Another growl stirred up in Antony’s throat.

“Wait a minute,” the drunken man babbled, “it’s your wedding night!”

George bristled, gripping his glass.

“Funny, how you’re here and not at home, isn’t it, your Grace?” he laughed, leaning back in his seat as his voice raised unpleasantly, gathering the attention of nearby gentlemen. “If I’d just been given a wanton bride myself, I’d avoid going home too!”

The laugh barely gurgled its way out of Lord Keton’s throat when George’s hand clasped over him. Both of their chairs clattered to the floor, and Antony rose to bark repeatedly at the baron. The sound stirred the entire club, shouts and yells echoing against the walls.

George’s world went red.

With a hand firmly clasped around the drunken man’s neck, George held the man at his eye level, hearing the tips of his feet barely scrape across the floor. He didn’t bother to squeeze or inflict any pain upon the man. The mere magnitude of his stature and strength was a threat enough. There was no way Lord Keton would ever willingly step anywhere near George or Penelope ever again.

“Keep my wife’s name out of your filthy mouth,” George sneered, “or I’ll make sure you can’t speak a word.”

The man shook in his grasp, breath coming out like a rattle.

George felt pride swell in his chest. In the colonies, he explored a different side of himself, one that he never would have found if he stayed in England. He craved the physical contact that violence brought. Not in a cruel way or one that brought him to criminal activity, but rather, the sport of it. The dance it brought. The power that came from beating an opponent. All of it grew his confidence and strengthened his pride.

“Your Grace!”

George lowered the drunk man back into his seat, removing his hand around his throat but keeping a firm grasp on his quivering shoulder. Antony’s barks simmered into a low but menacing growl.

“Don’t worry, my good man,” George called out to the owner of Lew’s and Crake’s, who steadily approached. Not that he knew the owner directly, but he had been thrown out of enough saloons to know when the man approached. “I was just leaving,” he added before shooting a glare down towards the Lord. He lifted his hand off him, wiping it against the drunk’s sleeve as though he dirtied him.

The owner crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “I see that, your Grace.”

“Perhaps you might consider having a…stricter admissions system to your club?” George asked, flashing him a wide smile. “You wouldn’t want the likes of this drunk to be your regular customer, now would you?”

“We will take it into consideration, your Grace,” the owner said with a stiff nod. “The late Duke of Yeats visited us often. We would not want to… sully the relationship between us.”

George grew smug. “I see.”

Taking a few steps closer, the owner bowed his head and spoke in a lowered voice for only them to hear. “I don’t know how those men like to do it in the colonies, your Grace,” the owner said. “But here in London, we don’t tolerate violence. We handle things like cultured and civilized men.”

George scoffed and laughed bitterly as he pulled away from the man. “As I said, I was going to leave anyway. Wouldn’t want to keep my business in a place like this.”

George stormed out of the club as the onlooking crowd of aristocratic gentlemen parted around him like the Red Sea. Fresh air hit him like an Atlantic wave, the cool chill of the evening sending shivers down his back. Finally, he felt as though he could breathe again. Antony panted for a moment alongside him as though he felt the same way.

George knelt till he could sit on one of the stairs outside Lew’s and Crake’s. The mastiff quickly followed suit, his side leaning against George’s leg.

“You’re quite the fellow, aren’t you?” George mused, reaching to scratch underneath Antony’s chin. “Never failed to stand up for me.”

The mastiff made a noise that would’ve been a purr if he were a cat. It was a deep groan, with drooping eyes and a relaxed frame. Antony leaned, resting his heavy head against George’s lap and releasing a heavy exhale.

“Good dog,” George whispered, unable to stop the childish smile from spreading across his face. He petted the dog for what felt like hours. The feeling never got old, of the mastiff leaning into the pets and his leg twitching when the good spot was reached. It brought happiness to George and cleared his frustration right up.

“Who knew,” he muttered, “that all I needed was to pet a dog.”

Antony looked up at him, mouth falling open to reveal a long tongue. For a moment, it looked like he was smiling.

“C’mon, boy.” George gently lifted the dog’s head till he could stand. “We should get you home before it’s too late.”

As he began to walk down the street back to the townhouse, Antony clung close to his side, never once slowing his pace to walk behind him.

By the time George arrived home, most of the staff had gone to bed. Kicking the shoes off his aching feet, he carried them alongside him as he walked slowly, his body heavy with exhaustion. Every bit of him craved sleep and yearned to end the reality he lived in for just a few short moments before it all started again. George began to slowly go up the stairs when he was jerked backward, pulled by an unexpectedly enormous amount of strength.

“What the - !”

Whirling, George laid eyes on the culprit. Antony’s jaw was clamped tightly down on the tip of George’s shoes. There was a slight wag in the mastiff’s tail as he watched him expectantly.

“Antony!” George hissed, trying to keep his voice low. “No playing! Release! Release !” George tugged on the shoes repeatedly, careful not to damage them in the process. A low growl came from Antony’s throat, tail swishing faster. “No, boy! Antony, wait, no - !”

With a swift tug, Antony got hold of the shoes. He trotted down the rest of the stairs, looking up at George with alert ears.

“Abominable dog,” George muttered, despite the way he yearned to be able to play with him.

Antony took off across the foyer without another sound. George gulped, quickly running after him. He heard the dog’s claws scratch against the tile floor as he whipped around the corner, a few vases shaking on the shelves. George followed suit, almost gasping when he came around the same turn, nearly toppling over an end table.

“Antony!” George hissed, but the dog was nowhere near stopping.

The mastiff pelted down the hall, tail raised high in the air. George quickly followed, no longer able to soften the sound of his feet slamming against the ground. Whoever resided below him was in for a rude awakening.

Turning another corner, George narrowly missed slamming head-on into Mrs. Howard.

“Good gracious, your Grace!” the housekeeper exclaimed. “Why are you chasing that dog? Shall I fetch the -”

“No, no, Mrs. Howard,” George said between gulps of air. “Get back to bed now!”

He ran past her, catching Antony just as he turned another corner. Antony dropped the shoes, squirming out of George’s grasp and slipping through a slightly cracked door. George snatched onto his shoes before some other wild beast revealed itself and wanted to play next.

“Your Grace?”

George paused, facing the door.

Penelope stood on the threshold, dressed in a pale nightgown. “Did Antony give you trouble?” she asked, her long reddish hair flowing down her chest.

“No,” he replied, avoiding looking at her, “he was a fine companion.”

“Very well.” Giving him a nod, Penelope went to shut the door. “Goodnight, your Grace.”

“Don’t you find it odd,” George called out, stepping closer, “that we should call each other that?”

Penelope tiredly held the door open. “Call each other what?”

“Your Grace.”

“It’s standard.”

“It’s odd,” George said with a chuckle. “At least, in only each other’s company, it’s odd.”

Penelope leaned forward, peering out into the hallways skeptically. “Is this another one of your charms?”

“Only if you want it to be.”

She rolled her eyes. “Goodnight,” she said, moving to close the door. Before it shut, with only a sliver of light peering into the hallway, she whispered, “George.”

A lopsided grin spread across his lips. “Goodnight, Penelope.”

And somehow, an evening with a drunken man and a very large dog turned out to be relatively uneventful.

How extraordinary.