Chapter 22
Charles
I study Henhaven, watching his stance, seeing how he breathes, how he moves. As a test, I send out a punch straight to his chest. He parries it, blocking efficiently with his left arm. Pressing forward still, I swing with the left, aiming for his jaw.
When he steps backward, completely evading my fist, I smile. Not nearly as inept as I thought. This might be an enjoyable match after all. Again, I press, throwing out a jab here and a hook there.
My shoulders burn with the effort and lack of practice. Being a duke has made me softer than I’d like. Henhaven, however, blocks and dodges each one, making me work for it as I continue to drive forward.
Through it all, Henhaven says nothing. Each breath comes out in a forceful gust from his nose as he blocks me. It’s a slight exhale from the mouth as he dodges. Clean, elegant. Nothing at all like the bloodbath I long for.
Again, I aim for his face, desperate to leave some mark of my wrath on him. Jackson, however, sees this and calls out from the sidelines. “Guard your decorum, Your Grace. This is a Salon and not a prize match.”
Enough. This isn’t working. I need to change up tactics. I desperately need to see how Henhaven reacts when pressed upon in a way that he cannot recover from.
Each blow comes harder. I swing with my hips, driving directly to his arms, making him block and expend energy. Sweat drips down my back, making my shirt mold to my muscles and tug with each twist. Henhaven, by contrast, still looks far too calm and refined for my liking.
Again, I bring my blows to his arms, making him comfortable with my current rhythm. Right hand to chest. Blocked. Left hand to stomach. Blocked.
I aim for his face again, this time bringing all my force toward his jaw. In a scramble to block, he makes a sweeping arc, bringing his hand high so that his guard is finally open.
Pulling back, I twist my hips, pistoning my fist right into his breadbasket, smiling as his stomach sucks in from the force. Without pause, I pivot on my left foot, taking that arm in an arc, and jab him in the side, delivering a perfect rib roaster.
Henhaven gasps at the force of the blows, hard, even through the mufflers. It’s the first time I’ve seen the man lose composure. Perfect. I might get to see the real Henhaven after all.
The moment he staggers back, Jackson steps forward. “Time. Hold your hands. Your Grace, please step from the square.” The man stands between us, holding his arms out to keep us separated.
I might be wanting to push Henhaven to his limits, but I wouldn’t dare break a rule as blatantly as all that.
As I walk to my corner, friends at my back, I watch as Henhaven stumbles forward, pale and dripping with sweat.
His shirt clings to his ribs where the sweat gathers, making it stick.
No doubt he’ll have a good bruise there come this evening.
He lowers himself onto a chair in a shaky manner, but still doesn’t say a word. Each breath looks as if it takes effort. I study his figure, the way he holds his ribs. He won’t be able to fight much longer.
It’s then I skim the area around us. He has no one there to cheer him on. No one sits by his side, giving him advice. Does he truly have no one? It’s an odd man indeed who has no friends. This alone is enough to formulate my position.
Though not all of mine wish to see me succeed in this, I know each and every one has my back where it counts. Where are Henhaven’s men? Where are those who would stand by him until death?
Shaking my head, I look over at Jackson as he studies Henhaven, waiting for him to simply call the fight and declare me the winner. But he doesn’t. He stands at the center and looks at his watch. “Half a minute is turning. Prepare your man.”
I walk back over to the scratch, smashing my fists together so the sound of leather fills the space. By now, no one else trains. No one prepares. All eyes stay on us and this fight, either by walking over and joining my friends or using the mirrors to their advantage.
Henhaven grips his side for a brief moment before taking a fortifying breath and standing. He walks over to the scratch under his own strength and stands there, looking me square in the eye.
I can’t help the glimmer of admiration I have for him as he stands there, clearly injured, obviously out of his depth. But still, he faces me. Still, he continues on when he could just concede the match.
“Time’s up, gentlemen. Set two.”
The moment Jackson backs away, Henhaven slides his feet forward, going on the offensive now.
Each blow he delivers carries a bit of power, but it clearly takes him effort.
Behind me, I hear the soft groan of a man prepared to lose out on fifty guineas.
As much as I dislike Henhaven, there is a spot of gratitude that my brother is now on the possible losing end.
Should I allow him to get one in? Perish the thought.
Pressing forward, I parry each blow, watching his movements. Still, he says nothing. Not one move he makes is untoward. The bastard still fights like a proper gentleman. Surely by now he’d try some dirty, underhanded trick.
But no.
The Viscount of Henhaven seems to actually be a good man.
Damn it.
Each breath that passes through his lips is pained. Each bunch of his muscles looks as if they’re trembling. I should end this now, for his sake. There’s no point carrying on when I’ve gathered the information I want.
Again, I arc my left arm, making a grand show of aiming for his face. True to form, he tracks it, shifting to block on instinct. The moment his chest is open, I drive my right fist into it, slamming the muffler directly into his sternum.
The blow takes him off guard and pushes him back. He tries his best to stay upright, but his boots slip on the polished ground. Despite the way he flails his arms, he falls backward, slamming hard against the wood.
“Hold your hands,” Jackson cries out again as he stands between us, motioning for me to stay back.
I watch, waiting with bated breath as he lies there. Will he manage to get up in time? Will he continue to fight me though I am clearly his superior?
After another moment or two, Henhaven rolls to his side and pushes himself up to his feet.
Jackson looks over, a soft smile teasing his lips as he gives Henhaven a curt nod of approval.
He’s clearly appreciative of the man who fights using the more scientific method as opposed to pure strength and adrenaline.
Henhaven’s arms tremble as he brings the muffler to his mouth to tug at the laces.
Each movement is shaky and erratic, taking visible effort, as he finally manages to pull them off and step closer to me.
“Good match, You Grace,” he says with complete decorum as he bows low at the waist, maintaining both dignity and grace. “A most magnificent bout.”
With that, he turns and walks toward the washbasin on the other side of the room. Even with his injuries, he holds his head up and moves with a graceful, even stride. No anger. No glare. No tantrum. Nothing.
He gave me nothing.
My friends race over, cheering, but I hear none of it. As the others jab and jeer over won and lost bets, I can’t help but feel a prick of shame. I might have won, but the nod went to Henhaven.
In all of this, he never lost his cool once. What am I to make of this? As I make my way to the other washbasin, I clean up as best as I can before heading back for a glass of port.
Henhaven joins as well, wincing as he sits back down. My friends surround us, asking him questions, bringing him in as if he were one of us. They smile at him with as much warmth as they gave me.
Don’t they understand? Don’t they see what he’s done? Don’t they care at all that the love of my life continues to slip through my fingers?
With a stiff nod, Henhaven raises a glass to me. “I must thank you, Norhaven.”
“Thank me?” I murmur. “For handing you your arse?”
They all laugh, but Henhaven shakes his head. “I know my future wife will be quite safe in your family’s hands whenever she’s able to come visit. I feel content knowing she has such a capable brother figure to be there when I cannot.”
Everyone goes silent as they look at me. Now, they must realize. Now, they have to understand. Nodding, I down the rest of the port and set the glass on the table.
“If you will all excuse me. I have other matters to attend to.”
I leave them there, sitting with Henhaven, conversing with him as if he were one of us. Anger burns in my gut just as hot and heady as the port that sits there. There has to be something. I must find something.
As I walk up the steps to my town house, the footman opens the door just as the butler shuffles about some correspondence.
“Ahh. Your Grace. Impeccable timing. These have just arrived for you. I was told they were of great importance.”
My fingers nearly tremble as I grab the letters and take them to my study. They must be from the solicitors. Just in time, too.
The sound of my pulse pounds in my head as I close the door to my study and sit at my desk. There, on the front, are the names I recognize. They are indeed from them. Only, as I open each one and skim the contents, I find that it’s not at all the messages I long to receive.
My dearest Duke of Norhaven, his accounts are in order.
My dearest Duke of Norhaven, he is, in fact, as wealthy as his ledgers purport.
My dearest Duke of Norhaven, his staff are quite content. There has been very little turnover. Those who have left have done so because of marriage, death, or wanting to change vocation.
My dearest Duke of Norhaven.
My dearest Duke of Norhaven.
One after the other, my hopes sink low. Not only is he honorable in his fighting, but he is also honorable in his other aspects of life. There is nothing with which I can constrain him. There is nothing with which I can hold him accountable.
He is as good and true as he claims. And he’s going to marry my omega.
As I sift through the letters again, hoping and praying I may have missed one, a smaller envelope falls to my desk. I don’t even have to open it to know who it’s from.
My Dearest, Most Humiliated Duke,
Have you received your missives yet? But of course you have. What news have they brought you? Nothing, I’m sure, that can aid you in your quest to bring Henhaven low.
Do not fret, dear duke. I have not tampered with them.
To do so would be to sabotage the game. No, no, my most humbled duke.
The words they say are true. I have not read them, so I do not know the contents.
I only know that you have sent them to ferret out any secret you may find and use against Henhaven.
Do you hear the bells, dear duke? Do you hear them chime for the impending nuptials? Listen. If you close your eyes, you can hear them. No doubt the sounds ringing in your ears are that of time slipping by.
Tick Ttock, Norhaven.
The sound of your inevitability approaches.
With you in sickness and in health,
Your Rosy Thorn in Your Side
A roar rips from my lips as I toss the letters into the fire. How can this person know such intimate details about me? How can they follow my every move when I know not who they are?
As the anger drains out of me, I sink into a chair next to the fireplace and hang my head in my hands. Unfortunately, they’re right. Whoever they are, the clock is ticking, and my time is nearly run out.