Chapter 10
“Keep your guard up, Your Grace!” The warning came a second too late.
Alexander barely turned before a fist slammed into his ribs in the same bruised spot he had been nursing for days.
“Oof!” Pain shot through him, sharp and familiar, and he staggered back with a grunt.
“I warned you!” Briggs, his sparring partner, grinned satisfactorily.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man who always surprised his opponents with his unnatural speed.
Alexander struggled to catch his breath. “You know that your warnings are completely useless when you don’t give me time to prepare.”
“Sorry, Your Grace. Thought you saw that one coming.” Briggs shrugged, unable to get rid of his triumphant grin.
“I did,” Alexander muttered, straightening up and trying to ignore the searing pain. “I simply chose not to move.”
Briggs laughed. “Why the devil would you choose that?”
Before Alexander could answer, the door to the underground training room swung open, and a deep, gravelly Scottish accent filled the space.
“Because he’s an idiot, that’s why.”
Alexander turned, breathless but smiling despite himself. “Good morning to you too, Rowan. It is good to have you back!”
Rowan Hale, his trainer, mentor, and one of the few men Alexander respected without reservation, strode in with the confidence of someone who had spent thirty years teaching aristocrats how to fight properly.
His arms still bulged from years of training, and his expression remained perpetually unimpressed.
“Mornin’?” Rowan scoffed. “It’s barely dawn. Only madmen and milkmen are awake at this hour.”
Alexander wiped sweat from his brow. “And Briggs, and Dukes.”
“Speakin’ of Dukes,” Rowan said, “they are the worst of the lot!”
Briggs stepped back respectfully as Rowan jerked his chin at him. “Off with you, lad. I need a word with His Grace.”
Briggs nodded, grabbed his coat, and approached Alexander. “Good fight, Your Grace.”
Alexander clasped his hand firmly. “You nearly cracked my ribs, again. Well done.”
Briggs grinned and left. Rowan waited until the door shut before crossing his arms and pinning Alexander with a death stare.
“Now then. What in God’s name are you doing here catchin’ a beatin’ so early in the mornin’?”
Alexander rolled his shoulders, wincing at the ache. “I needed to blow off some steam.”
“Blow off some steam?” Rowan repeated, unimpressed. “You could at least try to fight back, you know.”
Alexander chuckled. “Where is the fun in that, Rowan?”
Rowan snorted. “Ye’re a strange man, Yer Grace. Anyway, I have a fight for you, this weekend.”
Alexander leaned against the ring ropes and grinned at the elderly man. “How many times have I told you to call me Alex? And count me in, I believe I am ready.”
“Ye’re a duke, and I am an ex-soldier with a dyin’ respect for titles. I will put your name down. Your opponent is Gareth Doyle.”
“A worthy opponent?”
“Hm.” Rowan grunted as he walked to the side of the ring; his ginger hair was striking against the stark training room.
He grabbed Alexander’s towel and threw it at him.
Alexander caught it with ease and moved to the corner of the ring, pressing the rough material to his burning ribs.
The pain was sharp, but it was a welcome distraction.
It was far easier to manage than the thoughts he had been trying to outrun.
Alexander sighed, he was so used to fighting thoughts of his past but today he fought thoughts of…
her. When Miss Theodora Dowell left Hawthorne House, he felt unsettled, so much so that it covered up the battle of guilt he had been struggling with for years.
No woman had ever occupied his mind as much as she did.
Rowan cleared his throat, bringing Alexander back to reality. He turned towards his trainer and saw that the old man was watching him with narrowed eyes.
“What’s botherin’ you lad?”
Alexander froze.
Rowan raised a quizzical brow. “Do not look so surprised. I have seen that haunted look in many men before.”
Alexander exhaled slowly and shook his head. “I am merely having some… lady issues.”
There was a beat of silence. Both men exchanged knowing looks before they burst out laughing. Rowan slapped his knee.
“Lady issues? Ha! How can the Scarlet Duke, the scourge of London ballrooms and a brave warrior of The Iron Pit, be sufferin’ in that department?”
Alexander laughed, throwing his towel over his shoulder. “You have no idea. This is my most difficult fight ever.”
“Then do what you usually do.” Rowan grinned.
This time, Alexander raised his brow. “And what is that?”
“Charm her senseless.”
Alexander barked a laugh. “I truly think that is impossible with this particular lady.”
Rowan feigned surprise. “Impossible was never in yer vocabulary especially when it came to ladies before. Never thought I’d hear that.”
Alexander leaned his back against the ring rope, stretching his spine until he heard a slight crack and letting his head fall back. “This lady is… different.”
“Different how?” Rowan sounded genuinely interested.
Alexander hesitated.
How much can I tell him?
And how could he explain Miss Theodora Dowell to anyone for that matter? There were no words to describe such an infuriating woman who challenged him intellectually and looked at him as though she could see straight through his charm and into the parts of him he kept hidden.
“She is an intelligent woman who does not easily fall for flattery,” he said finally. “She believes in science more than anything else, and the most surprising of all is that she does not swoon over me like most of the ladies.”
Rowan laughed a bit too loudly.
“Do continue? She sounds intriguin’!”
Alexander rolled his eyes. “Well… she does not blush easily—”
He stopped because that was not entirely true.
She had blushed and trembled.
His breath caught as the memory of her punched him harder than Briggs ever could. The way her lips had parted, and her fingers had curled into his coat, pulling him closer into the kiss. Alexander could still hear her breath catching and the little moan she let loose.
He swallowed hard.
Rowan watched him closely. “Ah. So that’s it, lad.”
Alexander blinked. “That’s what?”
“There’s somethin’ about the lass that’s gotten under yer skin.”
Alexander’s silence was answer enough.
Rowan let out a low whistle. “Well, that explains the ribs.”
Alexander frowned. “What do my ribs have to do with anything?”
“When a man’s mind or heart is troubled,” Rowan said, “he tends to bruise everythin’ else to match.”
Alexander huffed. “I never put my heart into this kind of business.”
Rowan cocked his head and brow, and Alexander looked away.
He didn’t want to think about the kiss. He did not want to think about the way she had looked at him after he accused her of failing to help his sister.
She was furious, wounded, and breathless.
And he did not want to think about the argument that followed, or the way she had walked out of his house without looking back.
Alexander’s mind drifted to the letter he had sent, the apology he had agonized over, and the silence that had followed. Dashing his pride to bits.
Five days.
Five days without any word from her. He was beginning to question whether he should have sent the letter at all or if he ought to have apologized in some other way.
Rowan slammed his palm down on the boxing ring stage. “Ye’re thinkin’ too hard. Fighters don’t just think they act.”
Alexander forced a laugh. “Oh, trust me, I am not thinking at all when it comes to her.”
“Liar.”
Alexander sighed. “Fine. I am thinking. But it is pointless.”
“Why?”
“Because she hates me.”
Rowan shrugged. “Most good women hate us at first.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Alexander rubbed his ribs again, wincing. “This one truly does not want me.”
Rowan barked a laugh. “Then she’s the first.”
Alexander opened his mouth to argue then closed it. Because Rowan was right.
Rowan entered the ring and clapped him on the shoulder. “So. What now?”
“I do not know.”
“Then figure it out,” Rowan said. “Before someone else does.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened. The thought of anyone else touching her and kissing her, made something dark and possessive coil in his chest. He closed his eyes and imagined what would have happened if they had not been interrupted.
If Rosalind had not knocked and he had kissed Theodora again.
If he had pressed her against the wall, felt her melt, heard her whisper—
He inhaled sharply.
Rowan raised a brow. “Ye’re thinkin’ again.”
Alexander opened his eyes.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I am.”
* * *
“Good morning,” Spencer drawled as Alexander entered the bright, sunlit breakfast room of Wutherton Manor. “You look… well.”
Alexander shot him a look. “You, my friend, are a terrible liar.”
Spencer grinned, folding his newspaper. “I try.”
The long table was already set with eggs, toast, ham, fruit, and enough tea to drown a regiment.
“After breakfast,” he said casually, “care for a game of hazard?”
Alexander shook his head. “Not today.”
Spencer’s brows rose. “Declining a game? Now I know something is wrong. Please sit.” He gestured to the empty chair opposite him.
Alexander did and immediately winced as his bruised ribs protested. Spencer noticed and his piercing blue eyes narrowed with quiet suspicion.
“What is it?” Alexander asked dryly.
“Nothing,” Spencer muttered and shrugged casually.
Alexander’s jaw tightened. “Just say it.”
His friend sighed, leaning back as the maids. Only when they withdrew did he speak again.
“Alexander, I say this, not as your friend, but as your brother, you should stop the boxing.”
Alexander avoided looking at him and stabbed a piece of ham. “Absolutely not.”
“You are putting your life in danger,” Spencer said calmly. “And what will happen to Rosalind if something happens to you?”
Alexander’s hand stilled. That was the one argument he could never fully deflect.
But he tried anyway. “I need the boxing just like you need to lecture everyone with your great wisdom.”
Spencer scoffed and studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. “Very well. I will not press you on the matter.”
They dropped the topic, though the tension lingered like smoke in the room.
They ate in silence for a few minutes before Spencer cleared his throat. “Have you found any friends for Rosalind yet?”
Alexander’s fork paused mid-air. “No.”
Spencer frowned. “I thought you had someone in mind.”
“I did,” Alexander said quietly. “but I was wrong.”
Spencer’s frown deepened, but he did not pry any further.
Alexander sipped his tea and looked around. “How is Anna? Where is she this morning?”
Spencer’s expression softened. “She is preparing something for the ladies in her reading group.”
Alexander raised a brow. “Reading group?”
“Yes,” Spencer said, sipping his tea. “They call it the Corset Chronicles.”
Alexander let out a bark of laughter. “The what?”
Spencer chuckled. “Do not ask me. I do not understand half of what they do. They meet mostly at the Dowager Countess of Thornwall’s house, and the rest is a mystery.”
Alexander leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. “And who attends?”
Spencer ticked them off on his fingers. “Anna, naturally. The Duchess of Winterleigh. And Miss Dowell.”
Alexander’s breath caught.
Theodora.
Of course, she would be part of something with a name as absurd as the Corset Chronicles. He could practically hear her voice now in their little meetings: sharp, clever, and infuriating.
He cleared his throat. “Do you think Rosalind could be part of it?”
His friend’s hesitation was answer enough.
“Spencer,” Alexander pressed, “why not?”
Spencer looked slightly amused. “It is not that she would not be welcome. It is simply… the group is lively and spirited. I believe that they discuss things Rosalind may not be ready for.”
Alexander frowned and tried to imagine what scandalous things a group of high-class ladies would chat about.
“Discussions such as?”
Spencer coughed. “Books mostly.”
Alexander’s brows shot up. “You truly are a terrible liar.”
Spencer waved a hand. “I am sure that they are not improper. Just… bold. Miss Dowell is there, after all. An unmarried young woman she is, so I am sure that they keep the topics innocent enough.”
Alexander’s mind immediately conjured her, and he shifted in his seat.
Spencer watched him with mild curiosity. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you swallowed a lemon.”
Alexander scowled. “I do not.”
“You do,” Spencer said, amused.
Alexander ignored him. “So, the ladies of the Corset Chronicles do everything together?”
“Yes,” Spencer said with a sigh. “Everything. They are inseparable. If one attends an event, the others follow. Speaking of which, will you be attending the Winterleigh Ball?”
Alexander groaned. He had completely forgotten about that.
But if Theodora attended…
Alexander waved a hand dismissively to his thoughts and the ball. “I am not interested.”
“Neither am I,” Spencer admitted. “But Anna’s friend, the Duchess of Winterleigh, is hosting it. So…we must go.”
His friend let out a resigned sigh and Alexander both pitied and envied him. Anna had brought a lot of joy into Spencer’s life, and he admired the man he had become because of her.
Alexander’s thoughts halted.
“The Duchess of Winterleigh, you said?”
“Yes.” Spencer frowned.
The Corset Chronicles.
Which meant—
Theodora will be there.
Spencer sighed and muttered under his breath again, “The Corset Chronicles… Where one goes, the others follow.”
Alexander leaned back slowly, a spark of something dangerous and determined lighting in his chest.
He could see her again.
He could speak to her again.
He could—
He cut the thought off before it could form fully but the decision was already made.
“I shall attend the ball,” he said without a doubt.