Page 15 of Wedded to the Ruthless Duke

“He kissed me.”

“How interesting.”

“No, it’s not interesting. It’s very muchun-interesting!” Grace countered to which Celia smiled with mischief. “Damn your dares. I wish I had never accepted the challenge.” She started to pace on the spot, turning around in mad circles. “That never, ever should have happened.”

“Well, it did, and you have my word that I won’t say anything to Eleanor.” Celia spoke slowly then raised her hand and tapped her chin in thought. “But how can you not find it interesting that he kissed you, Grace?”

“Please don’t do this, Celia; it meant nothing. We despise each other; everyone knows that! When he saw what I was trying to achieve with Lord Morton, he kissed me just to make sure I didn’t compromise my reputation with any other gentleman. He didn’t want me to be seen kissing another. It was all about… reputations,” she muttered the latter word icily, suddenly feeling a hatred washing over her.

I was honest when I told him I hated him. I do hate him.

Though she’d had no answer for him when he’d threaded that arm around her waist and pointed out that she said she hated him but could not pull back from him.

“Still, maybe there’s something more to this,” Celia whispered.

“No, there isn’t. Celia, you may not have seen him and I together as much as the others have, but even you must have heard of how he hates me. He despairs of my clumsy ways, of how I turn up in the scandal sheets when I have fallen out of the carriage instead of stepping down, or when I embarrass him in person by turning up at his house with my gown covered in mud.”

Grace sighed, wondering why the thought of him despising her so much now strangely bothered her. It irked, like an itch deep within her gut that could not be scratched. “He hates me; I am sure of it.”

Celia was no longer smiling. She looked quite resigned and nodded slightly.

“Oh, and he hates you and your dares as well by the way,” Grace added hurriedly. Celia’s smile returned in an instant. She smirked but said nothing more to their conversation. She simply linked arms with Grace and drew her away across the room.

For the rest of the evening, Grace avoided looking any other gentleman in the eye in case she came face to face with the Duke of Berkley again.

* * *

Philip tore the shirt off his body. He turned in the boxing room he kept at the back of his house, only known to his staff and a few friends.

With his torso exposed, and only wearing his trousers and low-cut leather boots, he faced a leather bag that swung from a hook in the ceiling. Curling his hands into fists, he took a wide stance and began to strike the bag.

The first few punches did nothing to relieve the tension that was bristling through him. It took about five more hits before he was thoroughly in his stride, striking out continuously, feeling the venom and fury pumping through him.

All night long, Philip had been unable to sleep. Each time he closed his eyes, he either saw himself and Grace together in his bed with him exploring beneath those ridiculous gowns of hers, or he saw the two of them together as they kissed.

“Stop… thinking… about… her…” he muttered the word between each one of his hits, doing his best to try and release the fury in him.

All his life, he had been calm and composed. He knew how to dignify himself, how to carry himself and be proper. The first time he had ever lost control was when he had learned about the debts his father had left him in. That fury had been all consuming.

After that, to release his anger, he’d got into a fight once in the streets. It ended badly, but the thrill of the fight had been enough to ignite a fire for the sport.

He occasionally crept out to the darker edges of London to watch games tucked away in wooden warehouses. He didn’t bet as others did — he was there to watch the fight.

This boxing room was his secret release. He came here when he was angry, and he came here when he was aroused, trying to fight off the demon in his back.

He tried to retreat from the bag, shaking his arms out to loosen the tautness of the muscles in his arms, but it swiftly returned. With it came the image of Grace and the way she had been leaning toward Lord Morton.

She should never have been that close to him.

As Philip saw himself crashing his lips against his sister’s most annoying friend, he struck out at the bag yet again. He pummeled it now, as if it was a thing that refused to submit in a fight. Again and again, he struck until he wound himself and had to back up, the sweat beading down his chest.

A whistle sounded from the far side of the room. Philip looked around, his eyes slipping to the doorway where he saw his friend standing, leaning on the doorframe.

Aaron Baxter, Duke of Rawley, had returned from his life as a soldier only recently. His scarred face, testament to the battles he had faced on the continent, was turned toward Philip.

“Good morning to you too,” Philip said as he noted the sound. “How did you get in?”

“Your butler let me in. Phil, if you need a parrying partner, you know you can ask me.”

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