Chapter 43
Charles
Once more I stand in Jackson’s salon, staring across the square. Only this time, it’s my brother who sneers back. Such bollocks to ask me here to fight.
Rolling my eyes, I peel my coat off and toss it over the chair, followed by my waistcoat. We should be after the blackmailer. Not fighting like errant school lads. Granted, the idea of pounding into him for the trouble he’s caused does sound delightful.
I refuse to look at him as I pull the mufflers back on and yank the strings with my teeth. Oh, would that Henhaven were here again instead of my brother. That was at least fun in some regards. This fight feels more like a chore than anything else.
Our friends gather around and talk low to each other. Probably putting bets on who will win. I feel as if I have more than enough fury to make this game a sweep.
“Come to the scratch, gentlemen,” Jackson says as he taps the line with his toe. Neither of us moves. We simply stare at the other, waiting for someone to back down first. “Your Graces, please. To the scratch.”
We walk in unison, as if twins in our movements. At the same time, we get to the line and glare at each other. I drop into my defensive stance, just as before. Lewis stands there, posture neutral, as if he cares not that we are about to go to blows.
“If you’re not going to take this seriously,” I growl as I throw my fist forward, straight at his face.
The bastard doesn’t even put his guard up. He merely steps to the left, causing my fist to sail through the air, missing him by a good inch or so.
“Just because you think violence is the answer doesn’t mean I’m compelled to act as if I take leave of all my senses and come out wailing like a man with nothing to lose.”
I follow up with a swinging jab from the left side, but again, Lewis just isn’t there. He steps back, not even fighting. What was the point in him bringing me here if he’s just going to duck or move out of the way?
“Hit him, Norhaven,” Joseph calls out. “I have one hundred pounds on you.”
Just as I thought. But this isn’t about money or bets. This is about revenge and restitution.
Gritting my teeth, I do a flurry of movements. Right fist to the body. Left fist to the head. Right to the body again. The same moves that wore Henhaven down. Lewis, however, is not even panting for air.
“He’s standing right there,” Benedict cries out. “How have you not hit him?”
How indeed?
He stands there, moving like a ghost. Each punch finds a gentle redirection, a soft movement of his arm, as if he’s telling my body this is not the move you want to make. Fucking ghost. The man isn’t even here.
This isn’t the Lewis I grappled with when I was younger. This isn’t the man who was willing to get down and dirty just to win a fight with me. All in all, the bastard looks almost bored. Like I’m no challenge for him at all.
I barely touch my brother as I send another driving blow to his midsection. He merely twists his hips, causing it to graze him instead. Fury nearly blinds me as I move forward, pressing hard. By God, he will acknowledge me. He will pay for the crimes he’s committed to me and Cynthia.
Each punch forces him back until his feet finally meet the edge of the square. I smirk at him as I wipe sweat from my brow. “Will you now concede?” Still, he says nothing.
Again, I go in for a punch, ready to push him out of the square and declare my victory. Instead of stepping off or to the side, he pushes both his hands out, using my force against me as he shoves. Hard. His hands smack against my chest, molding the shirt to my muscles.
“Finally,” someone says. “Some action.” In the heat of it, I cannot tell who’s talking at this point.
My legs wobble slightly beneath me as I do my best to hold my ground and not be tossed on my arse by my brother.
With balance regained, I stand there, watching him, breathing labored as I suck in air.
The arse isn’t even showing a change in breath.
This is nothing to him. But then, he’s not even really trying.
Jackson circles us, watching our every move. No doubt he finds something wrong with my stance. He doesn’t seem to understand that I fight in the way of the military and not of science. I need to act like I know how to fight and forget the rules of decorum.
A low growl vibrates in my throat as I stalk forward, elbows pressed in. Lewis can’t dodge everything if I just go wild at him. A few jabs here, a few swings there. I feint with my left then swing hard with my right, a wild blow that can’t miss.
Only, Lewis ducks, of course, and brings his own fist in behind my guard, clipping my chin. My head snaps back as stars fill my vision. “Son of a bitch!” I yell out as I stagger backward.
“Careful,” he says in that cool, clipped tone of his. “That’s your mother too.”
“Time,” Jackson barks as he stands between us, hand outstretched toward Lewis. “Hold your hands.”
I watch my brother, studying him as I walk backward to my seat while the others whistle and carry on. Why isn’t he fighting me? Really fighting.
Still not one bit of sweat appears on his body. It’s as if he isn’t even here to work things out. Did he only bring me here to humiliate me further?
Joseph comes up behind me and squeezes my shoulders. “See, what you need to do is actually hit him. That’s the point of this place. You know. Science.”
I turn and glare at my so-called friend. “You’re not any help.”
“Well, now, I’ve been told my hands have magical qualities, thank you very much.”
I shrug him off of me and glare. “I’m not the weaker sex you can so easily impress.”
“No,” he smiles. “Apparently just weaker.”
“Half a minute is turning,” Jackson says as he watches me come back up to the scratch.
I snarl at Joseph before turning back to my brother. Fury fills my core as Lewis saunters over, his expression neutral. It’s made all the worse that our friends are here to watch this interaction. “Both dukes back to the scratch. Set two.”
At some point he’ll either have to engage, or I’ll land a blow on him. Again, I throw a left jab, and Lewis dodges to the right. I throw a right cross, and the bastard slips to the left. No matter what I do, I can’t get a clean hit on him.
I feint a right cross again, and the moment Lewis slides left, I take my opening and come in with my elbow to his chest. Hard. The impact vibrates up my arm and into my shoulder. Decorum and rules most certainly be damned.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Joseph shouts.
“Your Grace,” Jackson calls out. “Fists only. This is a Salon. Again, you are not at a prize fight. We demand decorum in here.”
“Hey, let them go at it,” William calls out. “They have enough stuff to work through.”
Before Jackson can answer him, Lewis grabs my elbow and twists, tossing me off and nearly onto the floor.
“Gentlemen?” he asks a bit quieter, as if the will to direct this fight slowly leaves him, but we don’t listen.
I sure as hell don’t. Storming at Lewis again, I grab him by the shirt. Niceties be damned. Science be damned. With a roar, I push him back, forcing him to stumble several feet.
Somehow, he manages to grab my wrist and twist again as he falls, keeping himself upright but flinging me over his hip. The polished floor meets my back, slamming the air out of my lungs. For several moments, spots dance before my eyes.
“Time!” Jackson shouts. “Hold your-”
Before he can get the words out, Lewis kneels beside me, his eyes blazing with the same fury I feel. His fists tangle in my shirt as I reach up to grab his. This time, I toss him to the side until we’re both rolling back and forth, each of us trying to get the upper hand.
Just like when we were children. Just like when things were so much easier and simpler. When we had nothing but each other.
As we tumble about, both muttering curses and ill will on the other, Jackson stands at the edge of the square. He clicks open his pocket watch with a sound that somehow reaches even past the friends who sit on the benches and cheer for their favorite.
Another click. Then another. “Fine,” he mutters. “Do as you like then.” From the corner of my eye, I watch as he sits with our friends. He crosses his arms and shakes his head in disappointment.
But I don’t care. Lewis is finally fighting me. Sweat beads at his face as his shirt sticks to his ribs. Each punch only makes it all the wetter as we battle it out on the once-pristine and polished floor.
Finally, I find a way to get my foot in so I can kick Lewis off of me. We both stand and circle each other. This time, it’s my brother who comes out punching. Right. Left. Right. Hard, precise blows that pound into me.
I absorb it, taking it in as the fury overrides my thinking. With a guttural roar, I charge forward and grab Lewis about the waist, driving him back until he hits the mirrors, making them rattle and crack under the force.
“Gentlemen,” Jackson tries again, groaning as we destroy each other. But to no avail. Neither of us is stopping until the other yields. “Decorum? This is not how Broughton-”
“Fuck Broughton and his rules,” I hiss as I continue to shove Lewis harder into the mirror behind him.
Lewis grunts at the force as he cranes his head around me to yell at Jackson as well. “This match has nothing to do with science and everything to do with heart. It’s been a long time coming. I’m sure as hell not stopping now.”
“Like you have heart,” I growl.
“Like you have a brain,” he snarls back.
Lewis, trapped between the mirror and my bulk, roars as he reaches around to punch my back, anything to get me to move. Short, hard blows that rain down on me, probably leaving a fair number of bruises. When I don’t let go, he brings both arms down on my shoulders, forcing me to break away.
As soon as I step back, I go to punch again, but he’s quicker than me, somehow far lighter on his feet. He slips in and punches me twice in the side, making my breath come out in a hard pant.
When he comes to punch again, I manage to grab his wrist, holding him in place, nearly pulling his muffler off.
And that’s when I look at him. Really look at him.
Gone is the cool, polished duke who demanded excellence in a mate.
Now, the man in front of me is feral, bleeding from his lip, with not one ounce of decorum.
But then, I threw decorum out long before.
Something shifts in his gaze as we simply stare at each other, mufflers barely hanging on, shirts torn and askew. The next breath comes out in a half bark of laughter. It was not intended, but once it happens, I can’t help but laugh again.
Lewis’s gaze softens as he, too, lets out a soft chuckle. Turning, we take in the damage. The chalk from the square is nearly obliterated. A few of the mahogany benches are no longer in the proper spot.
In the middle of all that chaos, Jackson sits, watch open, arms crossed. His gaze takes in the damage as well before he turns back to look at us. “I would ask,” he says with a dignity he somehow musters. “That you do not tell anyone this occurred here.”
At that, Lewis and I both begin to laugh in earnest as we slump to the floor in a sweaty heap. I double over as each punctuated sound drives pain through my ribs. But it’s worth it. Honestly, it was worth it just to see the look on Jackson’s face.
Every time I look over at Lewis, we both just start laughing again until our friends come over, looking rather bored with it all.
“Who won?” Joseph asks.
“We both did,” Lewis says.
The others grumble before dispersing, no doubt a bit put off by the fact that no one won any coin off the other. I’m sure in the future, there will be more fights.
Jackson continues to circle about as we put ourselves back to rights. “The chalk square will need to be redrawn.” Lewis and I stifle a laugh. “And the mirror in the northeast corner.” We begin to fail. “Good day, Your Graces.”
At that, we have another bout of laughs as we leave the Salon. Though neither of us apologizes, we find that we didn’t need to. Anything that needed to be said was left there on the polished floors and cracked mirrors.
“I suppose it was good that you sent me that note,” I laugh as I shake my head.
Lewis stops short. “I didn’t send you a note. You sent me a note.”
The others stop as well, taking in our confusion with befuddled looks of their own.
“I did nothing of the kind,” I say as I cross my arms.
He looks at me, confusion furrowing his brow. “Neither did I.”
“The wives,” we say in unison as we reach into our pockets and exchange the notes.
They are in our own hand. “What in all of Christendom?” I murmur.
Joseph comes closer and looks over our shoulders. “You didn’t send these?”
“No,” I reply. “With the way I felt, it would be an eternity and I still wouldn’t have talked to him.”
“Anne has been very distraught at our row. No doubt she talked to your wife.”
“Of that, I’m sure. But Cynthia does not have the skill, at least to my knowledge, to imitate my writing.”
An odd look comes over Joseph’s face as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Teresa was rather quiet last night. I should have known she was up to some mischief.”
I shake my head, chuckling. “At least they are all friends. I would hate to see what would happen if they were enemies.”
“Hear, hear,” the others murmur.
With a smirk, I ball up my fist and playfully hit Joseph on the shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on her. It all turned out right in the end.”
“Oh, don’t worry. She’ll be just fine.”
“Come,” Lewis chuckles. “I have some theories I’d like to go over with you about the person sending the letters.”