7. Well-Bred and Corn-Fed
Well-Bred and Corn-Fed
Blaze
“I beg your finest pardon?”
I snap my gaze to where Daddy Dearest stands. His face is redder now than mine was that time I fell asleep floating out on the lake. “How dare...the audacity! To speak so crudely!”
“Hold the phone, pops,” I say, bringing both of my hands up when I realize where his understanding went. “I didn’t mean her pond, I meant the wet one!” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jo face-palm, and damn if I don’t feel it from where I stand.
Right, put the shovel down, Blaze.
“Helena! Fetch my pistol! This scoundrel has chosen death.”
“Whoa, whoa! No, I didn’t! Jo, we can annul before I go home, it’s fine—totally fine—let’s just get hitched!
” My voice hasn’t hit this octave since I was fourteen, but I’m realizing this man is dead serious.
I’ve gone from alive to dead to alive enough times today, and I don’t really want to end the chaos with dead. I’ll marry Gerty if it saves my sack.
“If you think for a second,” he seethes, finger inches from my nose, “that the offer of marriage still stands—” I can hear his teeth grind as he clenches his jaw. “Outside. I shall best you in a duel for my daughter’s honor, but I’ll not besmirch my home with pig’s blood.”
I sigh as the family files out of the parlor, presumably into the backyard where they all plan to watch me fertilize the roses.
“Best get this over with. Any luck and he’ll take me out too, so I don’t have to endure ten years of tongue lashings,” Jo groans, moving behind my back and pushing me towards the hall.
“Will you hate me if I win?” I ask over my shoulder. “I’m a pacifist, normally, but I’m not just gonna stand there and take a beating.”
“Sir—”
“Blaze,” I interrupt.
“Hells above.” She rolls her eyes. “You do know that he intends to kill you, yes?”
I roll my eyes right back at her. “Answer the question, Jo.”
“Fine. I don’t exactly like you very much to begin with, so if you miraculously manage to best my father in this duel, no.
No, I won’t hate you. I shall dislike you every bit as much as I do already.
You and your stupid wet sock, ruining an already perfectly rotten day.
Now how am I supposed to ensure Jonathan Thomas finishes the deliveries in time? ”
“Hey, it’s me and that sock against the world,” I laugh as we both step through the back door and into the garden.
“Those are my lucky socks. I bet if I had that puppy with me right now, we wouldn’t be in this pickle—Gerty didn’t walk in until after I took it off!
Wait, did you just say Jonathan Thomas? Like, first name, last name?
” I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head in her direction.
Her answering guffaw attracts the attention of her family. “Please worry about the present and not my poor delivery boy,” she quips.
“As her father, I am within my rights to reclaim my daughter’s honor,” Daddy Dashwood proclaims, speaking more to his family than me as he draws a flintlock pistol.
“Father!” Jo exclaims behind me.
“Enough! This is fair,” the man literally spits.
“Now I wasn’t a four-point-oh student, and I mostly slept through history and civics—not to mention I know fuck-all about UK laws—but I’m pretty sure this is, at least, a little illegal,” I mutter.
“Will you, for once, shut up?” Jo seethes. She’s done that a lot today, and I’m not sure if she’s an impatient person by nature or if it’s just me. I kind of like it, honestly.
I let my head fall back for a second, eyes closed as I breathe in the dirty city air. Of course it’s not smog, but the streets are flooded with shit and piss from horses and chamber pots. I miss the crisp air of the farm. Hell, even the cold ass wind on the boat would be better than this.
Jo is arguing with her father and Gerty—who actually seems to be on Jo’s side.
Maybe the old bat was really hoping for a wedding.
I roll my neck and unbutton my jacket, carefully folding it over the fence before rolling up my sleeves.
I’m not about to ruin Jo’s inventory by blowing the stitches out of the nice coat or staining it by dumping it in the dirt.
“Can we get this over with?” I shout. All heads swivel toward me.
“So be it,” Jo’s father says, and advances on me, gun raised.
I rotate my shoulders and shake each arm out with my fists clenched. “I’m well-bred and corn-fed, so let’s fuck around and find out.” While I really don’t like to fight, it doesn’t mean I won’t, and I had my fair share of skirmishes back in the day.
One more step and the gap closes, the muzzleloader in line with my chest. Thank God for high school football and its four years of pass rush drills.
I deflect his arm, slip to his side, and send a quick left hook to his ribs.
His weapon flies from his hand as he recoils from the blow, but there’s no pulling this uppercut now, and my fist makes unblocked contact with his jaw.
Mr. Dashwood crashes to the ground with a thud, and then all hell breaks loose.