Chapter 10
Oliver strode through the holly-decked halls hating himself. Again.
It was a feeling he had not experienced in years because he had shoved it down so deeply and so entirely inside himself. How could a group of people and a house free it to torment him?
But, of course, this was why he had avoided Christmases so entirely, why he had avoided coming to people’s houses, why he especially avoided people like the Briarwoods at Christmas.
He charged down the cheerful halls, looking for any sort of recourse, looking for a quiet room that would soothe him.
He knew where it had to be. A family full of men like the Briarwoods had a room to practice their swordsmanship.
He kept checking, eyeing through the doors, until he at last found a long hall with a polished wooden floor and swords decking the walls.
He let out a low hum of appreciation and strode in. He went immediately to a beautifully rendered rapier. He pulled it down from its cradle. It was clearly a weapon used recently.
“That one?” Laertes asked. “That’s the one you want to use?”
He turned slowly to spot his friend. “Yes,” he said. “And will you join me?”
Laertes gave him a crooked smile. “I can, of course, though I might not give you as good sport as my cousin Maximus or my cousin Octavian, who actually fought with swords in battle.”
“Or I,” Calchas added, striding through the room.
Calchas, a captain of the sea and a mighty warrior, eyed him. “You know, I used to need to have my sword at the ready for when boats collided and armies boarded.”
“Why are you seeking it out now?” Laertes asked. “This is Christmas, my friend. What could possibly make you warlike?”
He ground his teeth together. He eyed Laertes. “Shall we fight or not?”
“If you require it,” Laertes said. “Of course I shall.”
Calchas watched, arms folded over his chest. “Now, now,” he said. “No turning anyone into pincushions. You know Grandmama would hate it. My mother does hate a mess, so no blood on the floors, all right?”
And as if the men of the house could sense what was about to take place, gentlemen began funneling in. All of the men who had danced with Monsieur Georges: Maximus and Octavian and Nestor. But that wasn’t enough, it seemed.
Ajax came in, then his brothers Hector and Zephyr, followed by the Duke of Westleigh, an impressive figure in a gold-embroidered crimson long coat.
Oliver turned to his host. “Your Grace,” he said.
The duke inclined his dark head laced with silver. “Your Grace,” he returned. “You are to provide us entertainment we were not expecting. Swordsmanship is not the usual sort of entertainment we provide at Christmas, but we shall all happily watch.”
And then Hartigan Mulvaney strode in and gave a merry grin. “Apparently, this is what the lad is actually good at. He tried to rough me up just a week ago, and it did not go well for him.”
A laugh went up, but it was the sort of laugh that indicated that most of them had attempted to rough Mulvaney up and became closely acquainted with the floor.
“And I look forward to you teaching me how to do better, sir,” Oliver said with an incline of his head.
“Well said, lad, well said. Now let me see you go to work. I’ve heard rumors that few surpass your work with a blade.”
Laertes arched a brow. “Few indeed. I would not suggest wagering on family.”
“You’ll be fine, Laertes,” Maximus growled. “You’re just as good as any of us with a blade.”
It was true.
Oliver would never fight Laertes if he didn’t think so. He was not the sort of gentleman who got any sort of pleasure out of crushing someone who was not as skilled as he.
But Laertes preferred the power of music to the blade, and so he spent far more time at his pianoforte than on a dueling strip.
Oliver lifted his blade as Laertes contemplated the selections on the wall. He shrugged off his coat, tossed it to his cousin Maximus, then selected a beautifully made rapier of his own.
He tested the balance of it, and Oliver followed suit, noting the fine make of the blade he had chosen.
They walked away from each other, took their stances, and prepared for the duel.
He felt a wave of self-recrimination.
This was a Christmas celebration. He shouldn’t be doing this. Surely, he should be in some hall somewhere drinking spiced cider and singing carols, but to him, this felt just right.
And the men watching him? They were humming with anticipation. There was no judgment or dislike or frustration. They were all martial in some way, and they seemed eager for a good bout.
Laertes gave him a wink. “Never fear. I’ll give you a run for your money and help you sort out whatever the devil’s wrong with you.”
He sucked in a sharp breath at that. “Obvious, is it?”
“Yes,” Laertes said. And then he lifted his arm behind him, taking his stance.
“On guard,” Laertes called.
They approached each other carefully, slowly weighing each other, and then there was the first clang of the blades.
Each measuring the other.
The vibration of it went up Oliver’s arm, but he was long accustomed to hard blows.
Instead of going back and forth as they must do on a dueling strip, they chose to duel more freely and use the entire center of the room.
They circled each other, going up and down the long hall, advancing, parrying, countering each other’s strikes with a riposte.
Oliver turned quickly to block a swift blow.
Laertes was quite good, but Oliver had trained longer and harder for hours every day to fulfill the demands of his father, and Oliver advanced quickly in a series of lightning-flash strikes.
Laertes dashed back, and then the two of them crossed their blades again and again, whipping about, forcing each other into positions of submission, yet neither giving in.
But as their swords crossed, Laertes drawled, “She’s done it to you, hasn’t she?”
He looked down ever so slightly at Laertes. “What the devil are you talking about?” he said.
Laertes snorted and they pushed off each other, reassessing their positions. “She is convincing you to become one of us.”
“Leave her out of this,” Oliver replied.
“I always planned on leaving her out of this. But you changed that, didn’t you?”
“She made it very clear that you don’t think I’m the one for her,” he growled. “I thought you liked me.”
Laertes sighed. “I do like you, but that doesn’t mean that you’re the one for her,” he said.
“Why? Am I not good enough for her?” He looked for an opening, but as he thrust forward, Laertes danced to the right. “I’m a bloody duke,” reminded Oliver. “Surely, you should want a duke for your sister.”
But with those words, he went off foot for just a moment.
Laertes grabbed his wrist, spun him around hard, and nearly drove his blade to within an inch of his throat. “I know you’re a duke. You’re my friend, and that’s why I invited you, because even dukes need help, Oliver.”
Oliver let out a low hiss, jerked back, and then drove forward harder.
They went at each other again and again, until at last, there was nothing to be done except for them both to give in, to admit that they were equally matched. Or at least they were today because Oliver was not in control of his feelings regarding Phoebe and Christmas.
“Oh, dear,” Mulvaney called. “Our duke has let emotion get the best of him.”
“That’s all right,” called Ajax. “A lady does that to a gentleman.”
“Don’t worry about it, puppy,” called the Duke of Westleigh. “We’re eager to have you audition for the part.”
Wiping sweat from his brow, he turned to Westleigh and demanded, “What part? I’m already the bloody Pirate King.”
“You’re auditioning to be family, of course,” said Ajax, delighted. “It’s clear that’s what you’re up to.”
“That’s not what I’m up to.”
The Duke of Westleigh arched a dark brow. “Is it not?”
Laertes let out a low groan. “I didn’t bring him here for her. That was not the plan. It’s still not the plan. He is not a gift for her.”
Laertes scowled. “I never should have done it.”
“Why did you do it?” Oliver bit out, turning to his friend, hating the growing confusion inside him. “If you don’t want me for her? Your entire family thinks I’ll do.”
“They think you’ll do because she wants you,” retorted Laertes.
“She saw you, and she wanted you. And that’s how it works with Briarwoods; we see the one we want, and we go after them without stopping, without questioning, without any sort of reason.
I’m here to be her reason, because you…” Laertes voice died off.
He looked down at Laertes ever so slightly. “I what?”
“There’s something inside you, my friend, and it needs to be addressed,” Laertes said quietly. “Certainly before I allow you to marry my sister.”
“Oh,” Ajax groaned, “did I just hear the word allow? Must we go over this again?”
Hector nodded. “It seems we must, Ajax, for you did hear it.”
“Young pup,” Ajax drawled. “So sad. You’ve clearly yet to be schooled on the ways of the Briarwood women and how they can lay one to waste.”
“I know how it is, Uncle,” Laertes countered, wiping his blade off on a linen from the stack in the corner of the room. “But if you think I’m going to let my sister have a miserable life…”
“Let. Allow. It seems to me,” Oliver said to Laertes, “that you are the one who is trying to control your sister. I have no desire to control her. I admire her. I like her.”
“You want her,” Laertes countered as he put his sword back in the cradle on the wall. “But is that enough? Will you love her? Will you make her happy? Can you fill her life the way her family has?”
“I don’t need to do that. She has her family,” he returned.
The Duke of Westleigh lifted his hands. “Truce, truce, or I’ll make Mulvaney beat the two of you into the ground and make you both see reason. You’re friends. This is Christmas. Cease.”
He and Laertes looked at each other.
Oliver felt a wave of pain. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Laertes stilled. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “that I am a disappointment to you.”
“No,” Laertes said, his eyes widening with horror, “you’re not a disappointment to me. I…” Laertes sucked in a breath. “I brought you here because…”
“What?” he said.
“I want you to be happy.”
“Happy?” Oliver laughed. “My God, are you really that deluded?”
The entire room seemed to take a collective gasp and wince.
Laertes tensed. “Yes, I am, and I pray to God that one day you will be too.”
Laertes turned from him and strode out of the room.
Ajax gave Oliver a pitying stare. “Oh, my dear boy, you’re making this far too hard. But that’s quite all right. It’s most entertaining to watch.”
“Is it?” Oliver drawled, determined not to let Ajax’s words affect him. “Is everything a show?”
The Duke of Westleigh cocked his head to the side and said with a sharp power, his dark eyes glistening, “Why, of course, my boy. Life is one great show. And the sooner you realize that, the better your life will be. Choose your part carefully, or else you will make a bitter end. The villains never have good endings.”
“Villain?” Oliver echoed before he huffed out an indignant breath. “I’m no villain.”
“Perhaps not yet,” Westleigh mused, “but you could be.”
And with that prognostication, the Briarwood men began to filter out one by one until only Lord Ajax was standing there.
Oliver stood, wondering what the devil had just happened. “What the devil did he mean?”
Ajax hesitated, looked at the floor for a long moment, then lifted his gaze and began, “I’m not the smartest of my brothers.
I never have been. I am the biggest, so I’m quite a lot like you in that regard, though I do think you are probably cleverer than me.
I was always the tool for vengeance. And I liked it because I love protecting my family, you understand?
But what Leander, the good duke, means, my boy, is that if you don’t get yourself sorted, whatever the hell is going on inside you?
It’s going to forge you into something hard, something unyielding.
And a duke that’s hard and unyielding is dangerous indeed.
If you have no softness inside you, if you have no heart that can be wounded, then you are choosing a path to becoming a villain.
Dukes like that? They believe that anything is justified because despite your hardness, you’ll think you’re a good man, and any means will justify your ends.
But to be clear, good men must feel courage.
And you cannot feel courage without fear, Your Grace. ”
Ajax bowed slightly and said, “So until you’re willing to admit that you are afraid, like every man alive, then—”
“What are you talking about?” Oliver scoffed.
Ajax tsked. “It’s plain as day, Your Grace. You’re very afraid of us, of Phoebe, of this house, of Monsieur Georges, of the play, of all of this. Until you can see that, then there’s nothing brave about you, my boy.”
“Are you calling me a coward?”
Ajax’s brows shot up. “A coward? A villain? No. But this life has many parts to play, and you, not anyone else, are the one who has to pick. That’s what my brother means.
That’s what any member of this family will tell you.
And I hope you choose the part of a lover, my boy, because it really is the very best one. ”