Page 12 of Defending the Duke (The St. Clairs 4)

Chapter Four

“Hit him again,Linfield!”

“Throw another right, Linfield!”

“Pummel the bastard, Linfield!”

Linfield...

Every time Anthony heard the name shouted at him, he smashed his fists into his sparring opponent. The man now wavered, swaying from side to side.

“Finish him off, Linfield!”

He threw once last punch, an uppercut to Martin’s jaw, lifting him off his feet. Then his opponent went down with a thud.

Cheers erupted throughout Gentleman Jack’s. The red field that had blurred Anthony’s vision subsided as his anger cooled. A calm flooded him. He turned to the crowd, his face its usual mask. Someone doused him with water and the liquid spilled down his bare chest. Another man handed him a tin cup and he drank the cold ale, relishing it. He wiped his forearm across his brow, mopping away the sweat, and stepped from the marked-off ring.

Gentlemen of thetonslapped his back as he walked through the crowd. He heard the name again, over and over. His bloody name.

Becausehewas the Duke of Linfield.

He reached the edge of the crowd and Gentleman Jack himself took Anthony’s elbow, guiding him through a door and down a corridor to an empty room. He collapsed onto a stool. The Gentleman tossed him a towel and he wiped the sweat from his face, arms, and chest before rubbing it through his thick hair and throwing it aside.

“One of these days you’re going to kill someone, Your Grace.”

He glared at the former boxer, who shrugged and added, “What drives you?”

Gentleman Jack had never asked him that question. No one had since his return to London.

And he would never answer it truthfully. Because the truth hurt too much.

“I no longer have any French bastards to direct my anger toward,” he said lightly.

The owner of the boxing club chuckled. “You’re probably the only gent in London who would’ve cared to see the war continue.” He shook his head. “I’ll leave you to clean up and dress.”

Anthony nodded. Once Gentleman Jack vacated the room, he stood and began pacing, trying to manage the heightened rush of energy. The excitement that boxing brought eventually resulted in complete exhaustion, as if he’d been thrown from a horse and had the wind knocked from him. His racing pulse slowed. The awareness and sensitivity to every detail began to blur. His strength waned as his pounding heart began to return to normal. His dry mouth longed for strong drink.

He wished he could crawl into a hole and let the earth swallow him whole.

The Gentleman was wrong. Anthony had never liked war. The things he’d seen and done over the last decade had scarred him emotionally, as much as the physical wounds he’d suffered from a bullet hole and slices from a sword. At least on the battlefield, though, he’d had a place to bring his seething rage. To direct it against an enemy who threatened not only England but all of Europe.

Bonaparte was in exile once more, however. His escape from Elba Island and the resounding defeat at the Battle of Waterloo last summer had once more seen the dictator locked away, this time on St. Helena. Anthony would have liked to remain as a guard to make sure the Gallic bastard never darkened the shores of Europe again. Fate, though, had led him home. He was no longer one of Wellington’s trusted staff members. He wasn’t even in the army. He’d been forced to sell out.

Because he was the Duke of Linfield.

He spat on the ground, disgusted with the moniker that now hung about his neck. Everywhere he went, people addressed him as Your Grace, fawning over him. Or if they imagined themselves friends to him, they called him Linfield. In truth, he was close to no one and pushed the world away.

Except for Aunt Constance, and even she was wearing on him. She’d come to town late last night. He’d learned of her and Hannah’s arrival once he came home from the latest gaming hell he frequented. He’d left early this morning, first to ride and then come to Bond Street so he could box all his emotions out. It was time to face the music, though. He would return to the Linfield London townhouse. He didn’t think of it as home because it never had been. He and Theodore had been left in the country as children any time the duke traveled to the city. And then Anthony had gone to his aunt’s country estate to live, one left to her by her father. She abhorred town life so he’d never had the opportunity to see London.

Things were different now. Aunt Constance had brought Hannah with her, according to his valet. He’d never laid eyes on his half-sister. It shocked him when his aunt wrote to him at school when he was ten, telling him of Linfield’s marriage and the subsequent arrival of a baby. Hannah held to family tradition and killed her mother in childbirth—just as he had. He had an inkling why they’d come to town. He was twenty-eight. That made Hannah eighteen—and the perfect age for her come-out.

Would his aunt expect him to escort them totonaffairs? Without a doubt. That was the last thing Anthony intended to do. War had been brutal—but real. The gaiety of empty society events held no meaning for him. Yet he was now at the top of that society, cream who had risen to the top, thanks to the deaths of his father and brother. Only a handful of dukes existed in England. Dread filled him, knowing every mama would push their daughters at him. He didn’t care to wed. He didn’t care to do anything other than ride. Box. Drink.

And forget.

A brief flush of guilt ran through him. As Linfield, he had numerous properties. He’d visited none since his return. Estate managers had sent letters to him without receiving any replies. The same had been true for solicitors. He cursed aloud. He didn’t want to be the bloody Duke of Linfield. He didn’t want the responsibility. The estates.

He sure as hell didn’t want to be known by a name that he’d loathed from the time he was young.

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