Page 13 of Duke of the Sun (Regency Sky #1)
CHAPTER 12
M ichael could not remember the last time he had boxed. While most men and women across London favored the sport, Michael’s father refused to partake in it. He was quick to ridicule Michael’s involvement, claiming that the son of a Duke had no place in a ring where commoners and lords alike wagered on the likelihood of him winning. Michael, on the other hand, could care less about the public aspects of the sport. He rarely boxed in front of an audience, much less for petty betting.
No, there was a simple reason for why Michael enjoyed boxing.
Across the ring from him, Rhys Glowton ducked and weaved, holding the overly large gloves over his face. The reclusive Duke of Nightrow just returned from a long trip overseas, where he spent time in the Americas for things related to business. Neither Michael or Rhys cared for the financial aspects of their relationship and rarely spoke to the other about it. All Michael knew was that he received a letter from Rhys that demanded a match in the ring, prepared or not.
And with how Michael’s life had turned lately, he gladly took on the fight.
Michael threw a punch between them, the side of his glove barely grazing the scruff lining Rhys’s jaw.
“You’ll have to be quicker than that, old boy,” Rhys called out as he hopped between feet, weaving around Michael like a hare.
Michael rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t it you who recently got off a boat?”
“A mere few hours ago, as a matter of fact.”
“Shouldn’t you have more sea legs than that?”
Rhys laughed, the echoing sound filling the private training room. “Sounds to me like you regret taking me on,” he teased. “How funny. Wasn’t it you who demanded a match the moment I was back on English land?”
“Only you would take that as literally as you possibly could,” Michael muttered irritably.
Rhys dove forward, landing a practically unavoidable assault. He jabbed and parried, not once receiving a blow but almost managing to land one somewhere along Michael’s body. “I don’t remember you being this slow, Michael,” Rhys said with a raised brow. “What happened to you?”
“Perhaps you’re merely telling yourself the things you wish to hear,” Michael growled.
“Well, I doubt that,” Rhys said as he landed another hit to Michael’s side, receiving an annoyed grunt out of him. “I hope you aren’t letting me win, old boy!”
“I am only out of practice.”
“Out of practice?” Rhys repeated with an obnoxious scoff. “You could’ve abstained from boxing for weeks and I still never could have beaten you. Something’s on your mind, Michael.”
“Are you telling me you didn’t practice in the Americas?”
Rhys shook his head with a wry smile. “I wouldn’t have dared. Those Americans out west have got some other ideas about boxing than we do.”
“What do you mean?”
He waved a gloved hand through the air. “It’s nonsense.”
“You just don’t want to tell me you got soft overseas,” Michael teased. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
Rhys glowered. “Now you’re trying to make me mad.”
Before Michael could respond, Rhys dove forward, ducking and weaving around Michael’s persistent hits. Soon, without too much effort from his opponent, Michael was soundly out of breath, backing up till he hit the ropes surrounding the ring. Rhys steadily approached, a determined and confident look on his smug face.
“I received a letter about you,” Rhys suddenly said.
Michael raised a brow. “What letter?”
“You know,” he replied. “The sort from the Ton.”
Michael rolled his eyes again. “You can’t tell me you believe a word out of their mouths.”
“Well, not normally.” Rhys crossed his arms, barely breaking a sweat. “But when all it’s about is that darling wife of yours, I found myself rather unable to ignore it.”
The words darling wife echoed in the back of Michael’s mind like an alarm bell. He shoved himself off the ropes, pulling a fist back before soundly landing it across Rhys’s jaw. The Duke stumbled backwards in surprise, fumbling till he toppled over, one gloved hand covering the growing bruise at the corner of his face. Rhys let out a low laugh as he spit, a small ring of blood staining the boxing floor.
“There,” Rhys said through a few pants, “Is the Duke of Solshire I know.”
Michael shook his head, hiding the fact that he was seemingly proud and satisfied with himself. He slipped out from beneath the ropes and left the ring, pulling the outlandishly large boxing gloves off and throwing them across the floor.
The only person Michael found himself willing to tolerate was Rhys Glowton. Not only did he manage to tolerate the Duke of Nightrow, but he rather enjoyed his company. It took years to build the trust between them, but he realized quite early on how similar they both were. While Rhys was well known to be a recluse by the Ton, not usually seen in Seasonal affairs like balls or grand dinners, Michael had his own reasons for staying out of London’s high society. They managed to cross paths still in their early years, and hadn’t yet found a reason to part.
A year or two had passed since Rhys left for the Americas. He did not attend Michael’s wedding, never stepped foot in the same room as Cordelia. And yet, much to his surprise, Rhys managed to know more than he thought. Michael shook his head again. He supposed he actually wasn’t too surprised, knowing the Ton’s unavoidable reach.
“So,” Rhys called out as he left the ring, “Are you going to talk about it, or shall I?”
Michael sighed as he grabbed onto a towel, throwing another over his shoulder for Rhys to use. A part of him was relieved to have Rhys back in the city. There wasn’t a soul outside of Hunters who knew his entire backstory, to know where he came from and how he ended up where he was. Obviously, someone else was beginning to pry past his walls, peer closer to the hidden secrets he kept buried inside. The last thing Michael had told Rhys about his wife was the night of their wedding, how he left the estate to live elsewhere.
Michael took a seat as Rhys steadily approached. “Cordelia and I attended a ball last night.”
An unexpected laugh blurted out of Rhys. “A ball?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
Rhys shook his head. “Don’t make me answer that, Michael. I don’t want to give you another reason to land another punch on me.”
“The Ton had been spreading some unsavory rumors ever since I stopped living at the estate,” Michael explained. “They went so far as to claim I killed my wife, or that she was housing a slew of affairs right on my doorstep.”
“Never took her to be a wild woman,” Rhys mocked.
“I am being quite serious.”
“Well, she wasn’t actually doing it, was she?”
“No,” Michael grumbled. “Only handled workers on her own, without a chaperone.”
“And whose fault would that be?”
“Rhys.”
He held his hands up defensively. “It is just a thought, Michael.”
“Are you going to let me explain, or will you keep on rudely interrupting whenever you have the chance?”
Rhys smirked and chuckled. “You might be surprised to know I missed your friendship on my travels.”
Michael frowned. “Don’t tease.”
“Wouldn’t dare to,” he quickly replied. “Go on, then. You were talking about the ball.”
Michael eyed him before letting out a sigh and continuing on. “We attended the ball in an effort to be rid of the pesky rumors,” he explained. “To clear my name and get on with our lives. Cordelia managed to solve it rather swimmingly. I barely had to do a thing. But then we danced, and I could not ignore her persistence any longer.”
“Her persistence?”
Michael shook his head. “That was rather wrong of me to say,” he murmured. “I could not ignore my own desire to tell her of my truth when she asked. There is something…something about her gaze that drives it right out of me. As if I never had any walls in the first place.” Michael rested his chin against his palm. “It is rather infuriating, to say the least.”
“Seems quite nice,” Rhys muttered.
“Nice?”
“To have someone you want to speak to,” he said. “Not many quick marriages wind up being so lucky.”
“In no way do I consider myself lucky.”
Rhys narrowed his eyes. “So what did you say that managed to get you all wound up?”
“I -” Michael hesitated, the evens from the ball falling back over him quickly. Instantly, in the back of his mind, a foggy image of Cordelia’s face appeared, her gaze looking up at him through her thick, long lashes. “I spoke of my father.”
Rhys’s eyes widened drastically. “What about the old Duke?”
“Everything,” he muttered. “She had seen my back.”
“You told her? Or are you just trying to have a go at me?”
Michael glared. “Of course I told her.”
“Good heavens, Michael,” Rhys breathed, reaching over to clap a hand loudly across his shoulder, “You did a mighty good thing.”
Michael smacked his hand away. “What on earth are you talking about? What good thing could I have possibly done?”
“You managed to talk about your past to someone other than me,” Rhys explained.
“So what?”
Rhys shook his head. “You just never understood it, did you?”
“Now,” Michael muttered, standing from his seat and pacing around the room, “You are beginning to make no sense.”
“Holding in everything that once burdened you is no way to live,” Rhys said. “Finally you have been presented with the ability to change that, to move forward and open yourself up to another person. Why is that inherently a bad thing?”
Michael thrusted a finger towards him. “You know just as well as I that there is no future in which I can provide Cordelia the marriage she seeks.”
“No, Michael, I do not know such a thing! Just because it is what you decided long ago, does not mean it needs to be the inevitable truth.”
“You know little of which you speak,” Michael snapped, waving a hand dismissively in the air around him. “I made a mistake in telling her all that I did. Now, I can only imagine how bound she might feel, how she might be obliged to remain closer to me.”
Rhys sighed. “Once again, can you explain how this is a bad thing?”
“Do not mock me, Rhys.”
“In no way, shape or form do I intend to mock you,” Rhys said with an exasperated laugh. “Why did you come back in the first place?”
“I already told you,” Michael muttered. “To correct the rumors.”
“Couldn’t you have done that on your own?”
“The Ton needed to see us as an united front.”
“You are truly telling me that you couldn’t have scared the Ton into submission?” Rhys asked with a look of disbelief. “That you could have gone to every writer of the scandal column and given them exactly what they needed to report? Truly?”
Michael pressed his lips together. “I doubt that sort of strategy would have worked.”
“But wouldn’t you have done it?”
“Tell me your point, Rhys, before I grow tired of hearing you speak.”
Rhys sighed. “I believe you always wanted to go back to the estate, Michael.”
“I did not.”
“Have you told her why you left in the first place?”
Michael went tense, slowly turning to face his old friend. “No,” he snarled. “And I do not have any intention to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
Rhys rolled his eyes. “Look,” he began, rising from his seat to steadily approach Michael, “Did you ever stop to consider that you misunderstood the situation? What on earth would make a young, beautiful woman recently wed to a wealthy Duke jump out of a window on her wedding night?”
Michael could feel every tendon within him straighten with tension. Hearing the words aloud were practically cruel, something he never thought would have touched his ears. All those few years ago, the night of their rushed wedding, when Michael had returned to the estate, he looked up towards the windows to see a wispy figure peering over the edge. Her feet practically dangled over the threshold, the rushing evening breeze whipping her hair to and fro. A single misstep, a slight change in the wind, a moment of fright could have sent her crashing out the window, and straight towards her demise.
Suddenly, Michael felt as though he was brought back to that very moment. A plaguing sensation of unavoidable sickness rested in his stomach, the need to hurl or merely heave almost forcing itself through his throat. Memories strung together through circumstance pulled him into an unavoidable reverie, one that he almost fell into and feared he might never return from. Gathering his senses, Michael clenched his fists, bringing himself back to where he stood in the private boxing ring. Across from him, Rhys stood incredibly still, watching him with a patient stare.
“I cannot tell you what could have made her wish to jump,” Michael said in a quiet voice. “But I can tell you this: I know what it was that I saw, and I do not regret putting space between us. Perhaps it was that mere distance that saved her from total destruction.”
“You can’t be that naive.”
Michael glared. “In no way am I naive, Rhys. I did what I believed to be right . And now, to this very day, at this very second, I still do just that.”
“So, what, you’ll leave her alone once more? Let the rumors slowly sink back in while you take refuge in your private estate?”
“All I know,” Michael seethed, “Is that the moment I can, I will put the distance between us once more. There is no piece of me that can give Cordelia a happy marriage. The more time I spent at Solshire, the easier it is for her to believe that is her exact future.”
“Perhaps it can be her future,” Rhys said. “Perhaps it can even be yours, if you will it to be so.”
“I -” Michael paused, feeling as though a pair of crossroads stood before him.
On one side was Cordelia. She could be at his side for as long as he wished, attending balls and giving the Ton exactly what it was they wished to see. On the other hand, Michael saw himself leaving within the month. He would return to his private estate, leaving Cordelia to do whatever else she pleased on the estate he once considered to be his home. He never saw himself returning after that. They would be solitary creatures, all because of his own accord. Michael’s hands clenched into fists.
“I cannot give Cordelia the life she wants,” Michael finally finished, speaking through clenched teeth. “So I will give her the life she needs instead.”
“How can you be so sure of what it is she needs?”
Michael began to gather his belongings. “She is my wife, after all.”
Rhys laughed, much to his surprise. “Michael.”
“What?”
“Put the bag down and look at me.”
Michael sighed, placing his bag back down and facing his old friend. Rhys approached him with a pointed stare, reaching out to clasp a hand down on Michael’s shoulder. He seemed to try and hold him there, as if Rhys knew that the words he spoke next might drive Michael quickly away if he wasn’t careful.
“What?” Michael snapped, growing suspicious and even more ready to leave.
Rhys sighed. “Cordelia is not your mother.”
Michael barely needed a second to react, reaching up to snap Rhys’s firm grasp off his shoulder. “Do not dare to mention her,” he growled.
“Michael,” Rhys said again, “Your wife is not the same as -”
He launched around, snatching onto his friend’s collar and holding him close to his face. Though they were about the same height, Michael managed to hold more strength than him, keeping Rhys locked in place directly in front of him. Not an ounce of fear passed by the Duke’s face, not that Michael expected it to.
“Do not speak of her,” Michael hissed.
Rhys pressed his lips together and did not speak.
Releasing his hold on him, Michael slipped by, snatching onto the rest of his belongings and beginning to stalk towards the exit. Behind him, he heard the sound of Rhys moving about, gathering his own things and following close behind.
“Same time next week?” Rhys asked. He didn’t hesitate for one second.
Michael hid his pleased smile. “Whatever you say, Rhys.”
They parted ways out the door, both of them heading towards their respective carriages. Michael felt as though his pack weighed more than he could handle as he climbed into the small compartment, knocking his knuckles against the side to signal the driver. The carriage began to trudge down the cobble road, and Michael leaned his head against the back.
The foggy image of both his mother and Cordelia’s face lingered in the back of his mind the entire right back to Solshire.