Chapter 10
R ufus was surrounded by Briarwoods.
It was a great deal to take in. They were all tall, all handsome, and of varying ages, from youths to seasoned adults. In truth, there were simply too many of them for his liking. He was not accustomed to being around so many people in such an intimate setting, and it was indeed intimate, though it was out-of-doors, and it was extremely difficult for him to find grounding out behind Heron House.
He’d brought his sister, Lady Margery. It was clearly part of the whole deal-making process of ensuring that Miss Miller was to become his future wife. Leander, the Duke of Westleigh, had made it clear that having his sister in the care of the dowager duchess would be important, so he had done it.
Now, he was wondering if he should just run off into the woods and silently scream.
Something like that, of course, was completely undignified, but his palms were sweating and his heart was palpating. And not because he was afraid of them as men, but simply because they all looked as if they wished to speak to him. And not about politics, not about bills in the Lords, and not about organization. It looked as if they actually wished to speak to him about themselves and about life, and he did not wish to do any of that. But if he was going to win them over, as he had been told to do, he had to. In this particular capacity, it was alarming.
And not only were there Briarwoods, there was a bull-set, russet-haired Irishman with silver at his temples. As a matter of fact, Rufus felt that he was in a sea of dark-haired people with a blonde person popping up here and there.
As for the gruff Irishman who looked as if he had seen war, hardship, and one too many irritating English lords, Hartigan Mulvaney was his name.
He was standing at the center of what appeared to be some sort of makeshift boxing arena, and was calling out, “Right, lads. It’s time. It’s time to make sure that if you get put down on the ground, you can get back up.”
The Irishman was all too cheerful.
Rufus was not accustomed to such cheerful people, and he certainly was not accustomed to working with people who were clearly not of his class. Especially after the lessons his father had taught him with stick and shame.
Rufus was an excellent fighter. He trained at Gentleman Jackson’s and he had an instructor, but he was accustomed to a certain way of doing things. This was not what he was accustomed to. This felt as if it could turn into a brawl at any moment.
The Duke of Westleigh strode forward, his long dust coat flapping out like angel’s wings. He did have a sort of mad-angel look about him, if he was honest. How could anyone have a man like that for their father and feel at ease? But it seemed that his sons, Huxton and Lord Calchas, adored him.
What would it have been like to have the Duke of Westleigh as his father? It was the strangest thought, and yet it slipped through his head.
Now, Westleigh was still a bit young to have been his father, but certainly the man was old enough to be his older brother. Westleigh was close to twenty years older than Rufus perhaps, and it felt strange seeing a man of such vigor, such magnitude, and such jollity in such a paternal role.
Westleigh yanked off his coat, dropped it to the ground, and strode to the center of the ring. He stretched his neck from side to side, casually showing off the sinews there.
“Right,” Mulvaney barked in his rich Irish accent, “come along then. Let’s go. Who’s first?”
The other Briarwoods weren’t reticent or fearful, but they did seem to be waiting for something. Or someone.
Mulvaney began to look around for what appeared to be an opponent for Westleigh. He folded his arms over his chest, waiting to see what would happen next.
Huxton crossed up behind Rufus. “It should be you,” he said brightly.
“Me?” he returned. “Why in God’s name would I wish to spar with the Duke of Westleigh?”
Huxton shrugged as if it was all very obvious. “Because that’s what we do. We spar with each other. We have a good time. We hit each other. We slap at each other. Occasionally, we bite each other. We rib each other with words. Now, we don’t really drink together, but we have a magnificent time. And then we all take a plunge in the river and head to the theater.”
He blinked. “To the theater,” he echoed.
“Yes,” Huxton affirmed, folding his strong arms over his broad chest. “You have to go and have a fun time in the evening, you know. It’s the only way to pass those long hours.”
Rufus had certainly not spent long hours at the theater. He couldn’t even imagine this idea of having fun for fun’s sake. But here he was.
There was a round of applause that went up as he took a tentative step forward. Surely, fighting was not the way to win them over. What if it all went terribly wrong?
“Ah, marvelous,” Mulvaney crowed, clearly pleased, as if this was what he had been expecting all along. “Duke on duke. This will be a fight for the ages, gentlemen.”
“I would just like to say that I don’t really understand how this works,” Rufus pointed out.
“You don’t need to understand how it works,” Hartigan said. “I’ll make sure that no one dies. That’s the main rule.”
Rufus scowled. “Well, I suppose that’s somewhere to start,” he said.
“Come along, take off your coat,” Hartigan Mulvaney urged.
He shrugged it off, looked about, and really was amazed to see two sets of twins and several other young men looking on with a merry gleam, and also several gentlemen who had to be the Duke of Westleigh’s brothers and brothers-in-law.
They all appeared positively gleeful. None of them appeared afraid. None of them looked as if they were going to be censured if they did something wrong. And the duke? The duke looked as if he was ready to be the first one humiliated if necessary.
This was all positively surreal. Rufus’s father would never have agreed to such a potential public humiliation.
Rufus took off his cravat next and rolled up his sleeves.
“Oh,” Hartigan cheered, “this gentleman’s getting ready.”
Westleigh held out his arms, his gaze dancing with anticipation. “I’m ready too. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
Rufus was made of hard stuff, but he was not used to this sort of atmosphere. Still, determined, he went and stood before the duke and lifted his fists.
“No, no,” Hartigan said. “Not like that.”
“But this is Queensberry rules, isn’t it?” Rufus defended, suddenly feeling off foot and beginning to wonder if that was the point. “I know those.”
Hartigan let out a long laugh, and everyone around him laughed.
Rufus was also not accustomed to people laughing at him. It was extremely odd. And it hit him that the entire point of this exercise was to see if he had a temper, to see if he was petulant, to see what kind of man he was under pressure.
And if he was either of those, if he reacted poorly, he had a rather strong feeling that his marriage proposal to Portia would be met with a mob of protective Briarwood men.
Westleigh clapped him on the shoulder as if they were old comrades, or even brothers. “We don’t do rules. Not like that,” he said. “This is the real stuff, sort of. No one will die today.”
“The real stuff?” he echoed.
The duke sighed kindly. “We’re very confusing. I know. People do have a tendency to repeat what we say, and usually it’s because they’ve never been exposed to anything like the way we live. We don’t believe in silly prize fighting. There’s no point in us doing it. This? These lessons are for if something truly happens in a real situation. For instance, if something were to happen to us in the east of London.”
“Or on the battlefield in Spain,” one of the young men in a red uniform called out.
“Exactly,” Hartigan Mulvaney said. “Trained you well, my boy, didn’t I? You look good and strong.”
Lord Maximus applauded. “Indeed. I’m the only officer in my regiment who’s good in a fight without his rapier and his pistol.”
Hartigan gave him a wink. “Glad to have passed on my skills.”
Rufus frowned. “You are a soldier.”
“Indeed, I was,” Hartigan said.
“An officer?” Rufus checked.
Mulvaney’s lined face only increased in its wrinkles as he grinned at the mad idea. “Cannon fodder. But here I stand. Now just try to get him to the ground. All fights end up on the ground, Your Grace,” Hartigan Mulvaney said.
“That’s right,” the Duke of Westleigh agreed.
Suddenly, Rufus felt a wave of apprehension. “May I ask, what is the purpose of this?”
“We told you,” began Mulvaney.
He shook his head. “No. I mean me. Here. This is about Portia, isn’t it?”
The duke gave him a slow smile, leaned in, and rumbled, “You’re catching on. Good. Now, show me what sort of man you are and whether you have the heart to handle my niece the way she needs. And not like your father would have done.”
Those words cut through him, and he forced himself to blow out a slow breath, but his body remained tense.
Perhaps he should just leave.
The duke shook his head slowly. “You are wondering if you’ve made the right decision. You are thinking that a passive young lady from the ton might actually be the better choice. Go ahead. You can still escape. It’s all right. None of us will think worse of you. We are a mad lot.”
A mad lot.
They didn’t know what madness was. This wasn’t madness. This was joy. This was laughing. This was people who clearly loved each other and protected their most vulnerable.
Madness was how he had grown up, with hard blows, cruel words, isolation, and someone trying to make him perfect. At any cost.
Well, none of these young men seemed to care if they were perfect or not. It crashed over him then as he looked around and held the gaze of the Duke of Westleigh. This was what he wanted for his children. This was what he wanted for his life. He might never be able to let go of his teachings. He might need his dukedom to be perfect, but this Briarwood world, well, perhaps this world was the one he really wanted for his future family… If he could allow himself to embrace it.
“All right then,” Rufus said, and a cheer went up all around him.
The duke’s hands went out, and they both began to circle each other. Quickly, Rufus realized that this was not about throwing blows but grappling.
The duke came in low and went for Rufus’s stomach. He was a little bit taller than Westleigh, and Rufus bent down and grabbed the man’s lower back. Pure sinew and muscle were there. Even so, he was younger, taller, and went to pick the duke up off the ground, but Westleigh, with experience on his side, twisted out of the way just in time.
Westleigh slipped out of Rufus’s grasp and bent down, grabbed him by the ankle, and started to pull upward.
“Use body weight. Use leverage,” bit out Mulvaney from the sidelines.
And then both of them grabbed at the same time, and they both went flying up into the air, feet up, and landed with a hard thud. Air whooshed out of Rufus’s lungs.
Westleigh rolled forward and tried to pounce on top of Rufus, but then he rolled too, grabbed the older duke from behind, and started to reach for his neck.
“You’re too good at this,” the duke laughed, and Rufus suddenly realized that he had years of coiled rage in him.
And just as he was about to wrap his arm around Westleigh’s neck, and Westleigh reached back to dig his thumb into Rufus’s eye, Mulvaney called, “Time, gentlemen. An equal measure of good show. Bloody hell. I do think that the Duke of Ferrars has quite a lot to offer, gentlemen, if he has never had a lesson like this before.”
Slowly, shocked by the anger that had coursed through him, Rufus stood, brushed off the dust from his clothes, and flinched. He’d never allowed himself to get dusty before. He’d never allowed his clothes to get out of place. And as the anger dimmed, he felt a terrible moment of shame. Shame at not looking like a duke should. Like a member of his family should.
It washed over him, and he hated it, but he couldn’t stop it. It was too ingrained. He immediately began trying to adjust his cravat, trying to put it back into order.
As the gentlemen cheered and talked among themselves, Mulvaney strode to him and looked him in the eye. “I see the battle in you, Your Grace. Don’t worry. You’ll win.”
He sucked in a sharp breath as he locked gazes with the Irishman. It was a shocking thing to say, and he wanted to ask for an explanation, but he didn’t dare. Not like this.
“Right. No official winner. Excellent show.” Hartigan grabbed Rufus’s hand, put it up in the air, and then did the same with the duke’s. “This is an excellent beginning. Who’s next?”
The crowd around him cheered.
Westleigh turned to Rufus then and whispered, “Whatever Mulvaney told you? Listen. I wasn’t certain about you, Ferrars. But you’ve done well.”
At those approving words, he felt strangely accepted.
And as the men kept applauding and cheering, he felt the acceptance of them all.
“Well done!”
“Bloody good show!”
“That’s the stuff!”
The Briarwood men shouted in turn, merrily, every single one.
As their encouragement poured over him, he didn’t feel completely isolated in his position for the first time that he could remember.
No. He felt as if maybe he’d be allowed to be a part of them. Part of their family. Part of a whole other way of life which he’d never been allowed to know.