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“ Y ou’re attacking like a man possessed, Henry,” Everett observed, parrying a particularly vicious thrust with practiced ease. “Has someone insulted your honor, or are you simply trying to murder me?”

Henry pressed forward with another aggressive strike, his blade singing through the air with deadly precision. The fencing salle at Southall Manor echoed with the sharp clash of steel against steel, a metallic symphony that matched the chaotic rhythm of his thoughts.

“I am merely ensuring you remain sharp,” Henry replied curtly as he executed a complex series of attacks that forced his friend to retreat across the polished floor. “Your form has grown sloppy.”

“My form?” The Marquess laughed breathlessly while deflecting another assault. “Good God, man, you’re fighting as though Napoleon himself were advancing through the room.” He managed a riposte that Henry batted aside with irritated efficiency. “What has you so thoroughly wound up?”

The question struck closer to the mark than Henry cared to admit.

For the past hour, he had been attempting to exhaust himself sufficiently to banish the lingering memory of Miss Lytton’s proximity in the stable yard.

The way her lips had parted when he’d leaned closer, the intoxicating scent of lavender that had clung to her skin, and the dangerous moment when every instinct had urged him to close the remaining distance between them…

“Nothing beyond the usual concerns,” Henry said, launching into an attack sequence that drove Everett back against the wall. “Estate matters, parliamentary business?—”

“Bollocks,” Everett interrupted. His blade work became increasingly defensive under Henry’s relentless assault. “You haven’t fought with this intensity since Cambridge when you discovered that Pembroke had been spreading rumors about your mother.”

Henry’s thrust faltered momentarily at the unwelcome comparison, allowing the Marquess to regain some ground. The reminder of his university days—when passion had ruled his decisions more than prudence—was precisely the sort of observation he had no desire to examine.

“This has nothing to do with the past,” he said, pressing his attack with renewed vigor.

Everett chuckled. The annoying bastard found some measure of amusement even in his absolute thrashing. “Oh, I do suspect the same, in fact. I believe this has to do with the present, if I surmise correctly.”

Henry hissed through clenched teeth. He certainly did not quite like how confident the Marquess sounded, even though he was right on the mark.

“Again.” He commanded, lunging forward.

This time his blade found its mark with perhaps more force than sporting etiquette demanded. Everett staggered backward, barely managing to counter the attack and keep his arm from falling off.

“Yield,” Henry said tersely.

“I yield, you mad wolf!” Everett’s weapon clattered to the floor when Henry stepped back, and he lifted his hand to rub his shoulder. “Christ, Henry, are we fencing or dueling to the death?”

“Your guard was inadequate,” Henry said without apology, though something in his friend’s expression made him lower his blade. “You left yourself completely exposed.”

Everett scoffed. “Exposed to what? A damned berserker?” He bent to retrieve his épée with exaggerated caution. “What’s gotten into you today? You’re wound tighter than a watch spring.”

Henry’s jaw ticked. What had gotten into him today?

It was more accurate to ask what had gotten into him all week.

Although he already knew what it was that had gotten into him: persistent nightly dreams of a pair of luscious lips that trailed themselves down his torso to his hips, edging slowly between?—

Stop it! Henry turned away, ostensibly to examine the arrangement of weapons on the far wall, but truly it was simply to hide his stirring loins.

“You have yet to answer my question, dear friend,” Everett said, and Henry remembered that the Marquess was just as much of a busybody as those dowagers who lined the walls at most dances.

“I am not wound up. I simply require exercise. Nothing more.”

“Ah, yes, exercise ,” Everett mused as they moved towards the refreshment table, where he poured two glasses of brandy. “Is that what this is?”

“Drop it, Everett,” Henry drawled as he accepted the offered glass, though his grip tightened around the crystal with enough force to suggest that his facade was nothing but just that. “I merely find that physical activity clears the mind.”

“Indeed, it does,” Everett agreed with suspicious mildness. “Though, one might argue there are… other forms of physical activity that prove far more effective for clearing particular sorts of mental fog.”

Henry’s shoulders stiffened. “If you have something to say, old friend, then say it plainly.”

“Very well.” The Marquess settled into one of the leather chairs that flanked the fireplace, and his eyes gleamed brightly.

“You’ve been acting like a caged animal this past week.

In my experience, such behavior in men our age typically indicates one of two things: either you’re contemplating the murder of some unfortunate bloke who has angered you, or you’re in desperate need of feminine companionship. ”

“I am neither contemplating murder nor in need of—” Henry stopped abruptly, his denial dying on his lips as unwelcome memories flooded his consciousness.

The scent of lavender and determination. Blue eyes blazing with challenge. The way Miss Lytton had leaned toward him in the stable yard, her lips parted, her breathing quick and shallow?—

“Ah,” Everett said quietly, his tone carrying the satisfaction of a man who had just solved a particularly complex puzzle. “So, it is the latter, then.”

Henry drained his brandy in one harsh swallow, welcoming the burn that momentarily distracted him from more uncomfortable sensations.

“You presume too much.”

“Do I? When was the last time you visited your usual establishments? It’s been months, hasn’t it?

” Everett’s voice carried no judgment, merely the concern of a friend who had known him long enough to recognize the signs.

“I believe that opera singer you favored, Signora Castellano, has returned from her continental tour.”

“I am well aware. But I am not some schoolboy ruled by base impulses,” Henry snapped. He rose from his chair with sharp, controlled movements. “I cannot afford to be distracted now, of all times.”

His daughter was his number one priority. She has been for years, but more so now.

“Distraction? It takes but a few hours of time to satisfy those desires. Minutes, if you’re being frugal with your time.”

Henry’s lips curled down at the edges. Everett had a talent for making the truth sound like such irritating drivel whenever he said it.

Because Henry knew he spoke the truth. He knew how easily Signora Castellano could sate this sudden roar of desire within him.

But…ever since that afternoon at Oakley Hall, when he had found himself mere inches from claiming Miss Lytton’s mouth with his own, he found that he did not quite fancy the idea of another pair of lips servicing his?—

“Bloody hell.” He bit the curse out like it was gravel between his teeth. “I doubt a few minutes will suffice.”

Not with how long she’d plagued him in his dreams these past week. Oh, the things he did to her in his dreams, the things he made her do; mere minutes would not suffice at all.

Everett laughed heartily, genuinely amused by Henry’s statement.

But…

“I should avoid her,” he said suddenly. The words escaped before he could cage them within the realm of his thoughts where they belonged.

“ Her ?” Everett’s eyebrows rose with evident interest. “Are we speaking of someone specific now? Not merely theoretical feminine companionship?”

Henry cursed inwardly, realizing he had revealed far more than he intended.

And to Everett, for that matter. The man was perceptive at the worst of times, and Henry had a feeling that this was one of those times.

Henry was in no mood to let the conversation venture into territory far too dangerous for his peace of mind—if he could still say he had peace of mind at all.

He drained his second glass of brandy and rose to his feet. “I should return home. See what Celia is up to.”

“Ah.” Everett’s brows rose on his forehead, but he did not stand with the Duke. “I had hoped we would have more conversation. Maybe play a game or two after.”

Henry smiled wanly. “I’m afraid we must adjourn.” He turned. “No need to see me off. Enjoy your brandy.”

Henry had only made it halfway to the door when Everett’s voice reached him.

“Marchwood.” His tone was uncharacteristically serious. “Have you considered the possibility that this lady bothers you so, because you truly want her?”

He’d hoped to flee this conversation. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he said finally, his voice carrying the flat certainty of a man who’d made his decision. “Some desires are too dangerous to indulge.”

Especially his own. Especially the kind Miss Lytton was awakening within him.

“Are they?” Everett challenged, sipping his brandy with a cultured nonchalance. “Or are you simply afraid of losing control?”

And with that, Henry turned and walked out of the room, heading towards the doors.

There was no doubt that his friend did not know what kind of ravenous, chaotic beast lay beneath his armor of civility. Henry must do all within his power to keep himself from spiraling out of control.

Not only for his sake or that of his daughter…but for Miss Lytton’s sake, as well.

“Oh, my stars, Lady Egerton, you simply must cease this theatrical clutching of pearls whenever passion enters our discourse,” Lady Witherspoon declared with pointed exasperation as she adjusted her spectacles to regard the flustered woman across the elegantly appointed drawing room.

“We are examining the work of Jane Austen, not some salacious continental novel.”