What an Unstoppable Duke (The Marriage Managing Society #4)

Chapter 1

The Season

A rather fine and exclusive boxing gymnasium

Pierce Felix Bellfield, Duke of Windbourne, could not abide clutter.

He had spent most of his life running from life’s clutter.

Oh, he didn’t mind a stack of books here or there.

Those were to be admired! A hodgepodge of beloved items was a delight.

But when Pierce said clutter, he meant precisely that: a real, genuine, overwhelming muddle of things.

After the death of his mother, chaos had surrounded him in the various homes that belonged to his father. It had been in every room, and he had always tried to escape the ever-growing collection of his father’s fascinations.

Oh, what a great man his father had been and how he had loved him.

Even now that the man had shuffled off his mortal form, Pierce loved his father.

Like so many young men, Pierce felt like he stood in the shadow of a man so great, so tall, that he would never really escape it, no matter how far he went.

But there was one invariable truth: his father had been one gigantic, all-encompassing muddle.

Wherever the man had gone, he had spilled out onto everything and everyone.

He had been larger than life. He had been grander than history.

He had known how to live. But after Pierce’s mother’s death, there had been an eccentricity that had gone a bridge beyond the reasonable in his own abodes.

The man had not been capable of simply owning one bit and bob from the Herculaneum.

No. He had to own hundreds. He could not own one porcelain object from China. He had to own one thousand.

There was something about the man that had always needed more.

And frankly, it had caused such a reaction in Pierce that he had gone from running from room to room as a child to running from continent to continent as an adult.

Well, at first, it had been county to county, and then city to city, and then country to country, and then he had crossed oceans.

One needed to outrun the sort of intensity his father possessed and the chaos he created wherever he went.

Eventually, the man had died, as all men must.

Pierce had returned to England, and now he had taken up the mantle of a duke.

There was just one thing.

Pierce’s house was utter and absolute chaos. Not just his London house, but all his father’s houses. He could not face the estates. Not yet. He had to be in London. Parliament was in session, and the Season was in full swing.

He needed to be in the city, especially with the other dukes, the other lords, the other friends that he had quickly made.

For years, he had corresponded with the Duke of Rivers.

And when he returned to London, Rivers had all but collected him into the fold of a few men that were not encompassed by chaos, who had not run from city to city, country to country, and continent to continent.

No, they had stood fast and firm in their resolve to improve their country.

Windbourne wanted to be a part of that.

And so, Pierce was quite happy to join them, just as he was at this moment, circling a boxing ring with the Duke of Rivers, wondering if he should go easy on the fellow.

Rivers, dark-haired, clear-eyed, and incredibly strong, always looked as if he was about to be overborne by the complexity of humanity. Though he was a good fellow who did his very best.

“Hold still,” Rivers demanded with a lilt to his voice. “I think it’s about time I actually hit you.”

Pierce let out a laugh as sweat dripped down his muscular back. “Oh, no. We don’t allow you to prevail so easily, and I know you’d loathe such a thing.”

“I disagree. I’m a duke. Many things come easily,” Rivers drawled with an arch of his dark brow. “Stand still. I’ll pop you one, and then I’ll tell you how I feel about it.”

A deep laugh shook out of him. Again! How could he not laugh? He thought Rivers was the best of men, as was the Duke of Westfort, Viscount Skyburn, and the Earl of Seaborough.

They had spent the last few weeks doing everything from fighting in a boxing ring to eating oysters down by the river together. They’d attended the opera, the theater, races, and Pierce had helped to arrange the most recent marriage of Viscount Skyburn to his wife.

He knew that the Duke of Rivers had had a little bit of a hand in it as well. He wasn’t entirely certain why Rivers was so motivated to make sure that Pierce became friends with Viscount Skyburn, but Rivers had, and Pierce was glad for it.

And now, as they circled the boxing ring, sweat flying from their brows, their friends watching, leaning against the ropes, he wondered about how Rivers might be able to assist him in his present problem.

Rivers was always resourceful.

And just as he was about to ask, Rivers had the audacity to give him a strong right hook abruptly to the jaw.

“That was low,” Pierce growled, adjusting said affronted jaw. “You knew I wasn’t concentrating.”

Rivers cocked his head to the side, which gave him an oh, so sorry, my dear fellow look. Rivers tsked. “You weren’t paying attention? That is hardly my fault.”

He scowled. “Of course it’s not your fault, but you didn’t need to succumb.”

“Oh, but I did,” Rivers said playfully. “You’re such a good fighter that I have to take any chance I can of achieving a blow.”

“Fine,” Pierce returned. “I’ll take the compliment.”

They circled around the ring. And Westfort let out a cry, “Good show, Rivers. You got one in.”

Rivers snorted. “You make it sound as if I am a meandering poet who’s never thrown a punch in his life.”

Westfort cocked his head to the side, considering this, but said nothing.

Viscount Skyburn, on the other hand, who was a devil of a fellow, crossed his arms over his chest and let out a bellow of a laugh. “If the shoe fits, Rivers,” he replied.

“Do I look like a delicate poet?” Rivers demanded, aghast.

After all, dukes did not poets make.

Pierce considered the description too.

“A delicate poet?” Pierce mused, looking for his chance to strike. “No. A poet, possibly, but one who considers war. Perhaps you have spent most of your life studying Sun Tzu’s L’Art de la guerre and how to maneuver nations.”

This caused a considerable look of consternation on Rivers’ face. “A palpable hit,” he said. “I don’t like that,” he said. “I never considered myself to be such a daydreamer. Warrior poet or no.”

Rivers was most definitely a daydreamer. An idealist. A man who longed to improve the world despite the nature of it.

All the friends were large men. All of them were quite equally matched in the boxing ring, but there was something about Rivers that made him seem as if he was above humanity, or at least apart from it.

The poet comment seemed to have an effect, and Rivers headed for the edge of the ring. “Have done. I must rest my poor, listless self.”

Pierce laughed. “Listless? You do more than most before breakfast.”

“Tell me,” Rivers began, pausing from departing the ring.

He had been pulling his linen shirt over his head, but he stopped and let it fall to the side, his muscles rippling.

No delicate poet in reality. Clearly, they weren’t done, and so he headed back to the center.

“What is troubling you? For you do seem troubled. I’ve never seen you distracted before. ”

Their friends watched, almost holding their breath as one.

Pierce ground his teeth, wondering if he should confess the truth, but his father’s eccentricities were not a secret. “The house,” he admitted. “I can’t bear it another day.”

“Come stay with me,” Westfort said.

“I would, if I could stomach the idea of being around you and your wife and all that love, but that won’t solve the problem of my house,” he said over his shoulder.

“And what is that?” Skyburn asked.

“Well, if you must know,” he began, flexing his hands and being careful with his footwork, lest Rivers strike unannounced again, “and I think you do know, it’s stuffed to the brim with things.”

“All of our houses are stuffed to the brim with things,” replied Westfort dryly. “It is the circumstance of wealthy people collecting things throughout the centuries and keeping them.”

Yes, it was true. That was the marvel of the English aristocracy and its landowners.

Everything was passed down and no one needed to buy anything if they didn’t want to, though they always did because people were always taking continental tours and going to new places that were recently “discovered.”

“Well, that’s all well and good,” Pierce said as he darted left, avoiding Rivers. “I would wager, though, that you can all move about your drawing rooms without having to go through some sort of maze of old news clippings and playbills.”

Rivers cringed. “That bad, is it?”

“Indeed, it is,” he stated without self-pity.

“I had heard something to the effect from my own butler,” Rivers said with surprising gentleness. “And I must confess, I did do a little investigation for you.”

“Did you?” Pierce asked, straightening right before Rivers popped him again in the jaw. In the same spot. “What the bloody hell, man? Do you enjoy kicking someone while they’re down?”

“Not at all. Just taking any opportunity that arises to actually get a blow in,” Rivers said, smiling.

“Well, I’m about to show you what clarity looks like.”

“Do,” Rivers said brightly, dancing on the balls of his feet.

And within a moment, he had managed to slam his fist into Rivers’ lower back.

Rivers let out a groan, dropped to his knees, and said, “Isn’t it rude to assault a poet?”

“You are clearly not a regular wilting poet,” he said. “Look at the muscles on you, sir.”

Rivers grinned. “I do spend a great deal of time attaining them, if you must know. If I don’t, I go stark raving mad. My brain needs as much exercise as my body, which means I sleep very little because both must be kept in fashion.”

A murmur of agreement went up from Westfort, Skyburn, and Seaborough, as if they all understood this sentiment better than any of them would have preferred.