Page 85 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

“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.