Page 2 of The Duke’s Goddess (Duke Dare #2)

“Courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it.” —Joan of Arc

THE WIND WHIPPING THROUGH James's hair. The thundering hooves banging down on the open field. The strength of the horse underneath him.

This was what made James feel alive. The rush. The recklessness.

He was racing his friends. That is, if one could call the insurmountable lead he had on the three, a race. At this point, they had no chance. They knew it when he suggested a horse race. But as usual, they agreed to it anyway. James would be the clear winner, and Samuel and Wes would compete for second, which they considered first place since James always won and therefore didn’t count. Chris brought up the rear several strides behind.

Whenever James rode, which was frequent, he rode fast and hard. He couldn’t be caught dead on anything less than the fastest stallion.

James stole a quick glance over his shoulder. The race would be over in three…two…one. He slowed Indra with a gentle nudge and a slight gesture on the reins. He might ride hard and fast, but he was nothing if not subtle in how he led a horse.

“I won,” Wes shouted, while James had to hold back from jumping on that claim. It was futile to attempt to convince these two of his win.

“You did not,” Samuel protested. And he would have sounded petulant with that rejoiner if he hadn’t muttered it in a condescending tone. He raked his hair back with both hands, not even giving Wes a sideways glance.

“I was miles ahead of you, Sam.”

By this time, Chris had caught up to them with a nonchalant look on his face. The man was the least competitive of them all, but he still indulged in a good bet. And even some bad ones.

“Right. So that spit from your horse’s mouth didn’t land on my gloves then?” Sam taunted.

“Exactly. I was ahead of you. You just admitted it.” Wes did not look like he was giving up.

“Sure, Duke. You can take the win. Sounds like you need it.” Sam said, as he shuffled the reins, collecting them in one hand.

“I don’t need a win. I’m getting married tomorrow. That’s enough of a win to last a lifetime.”

Sam and James both belted out a laugh, Sam nudging James with his knuckles. “When did he become such a romantic nuisance?”

“All too soon,” James said. “He’s breaking up The Betting Buddies.”

“Marriage won’t affect us at all.”

“It already has, Wes,” Sam said.

Wes scoffed in a not so clearly scoffing way. It was more of a cough. And a laugh. With a bit of a humming sound.

“Might I direct your attention to the fencing tournament?” Sam lifted a brow.

“What of it?” Wes challenged, though all four knew he hadn’t a leg to stand on.

“When you let your wife oppose me?”

“She wasn’t my wife.”

“Semantics, Wes. Really. You let the gel infiltrate our sacred, manly tournament.” Sam was in full taunting mode now. James could see the flicker of amusement and mischief in his eyes.

“Don’t call her that,” Wes’ voice rumbled over the empty field.

“Now, now,” Sam said, knowing when to appease the beast. “We let her win the tournament—”

Wes’s growl caused Sam to reword his statement. “We let her keep the win. But really, I hope you don’t plan on inviting her to piquet tonight.”

James snorted a laugh and tried to cover it up when Wes glowered at him.

“He’s right though,” James said, pointing at Sam. “I’d rather not see any women tonight while we’re playing cards.”

“Women or ladies?” Chris, usually the quiet one, inserted.

“Either,” James laughed. “Or both.”

“Really?” All three turned to look at him, likely questioning his sanity. Or perhaps his decision-making abilities. “Feeling the uber-rake today?”

James ignored Sam’s comment, and turned to Wes. “We did the race, which was my pick obviously. We did the archery earlier, Sam’s choice. Isn’t it about time we head over to the club for Chris's pick?”

Sam was shaking his head. “I still think it’s a bit odd that Wes is letting us three bacon-brains choose the activities of his last day as a single man.”

“I don’t need to do anything more. I’m ready to be married,” Wes announced with an annoyingly bright, and immeasurably wide grin.

The other three groaned. At least, James thought the three were in sync. But really, he couldn’t be sure about Chris.

“Let’s go before this fool spouts any more nonsensical sentiments on love and marriage,” Sam said. He was already tugging on the reins to lead his horse to the club.

“Here, here,” James agreed.

“Right then,” Chis mumbled, following behind them.

Sam pointed up to a hedge in the distance, “James—”

Before he could finish suggesting the bet that James knew was coming, James took off toward it.

The hooves stampeded against the grass, beating out the rhythm of James's heart. The hedge looked just above five feet high. It was high, but really, not that high. Not too high that he wouldn’t risk the jump.

Blood pounded through his limbs. He blinked to focus and clear the glassy gloss coating his eyes. A bead of sweat dripped down the back of his neck. The moment was upon him. He could choose to direct Indra around the hedge, meet up with his three friends, and arrive at the club together.

Or.

Or he could risk it. He could jump the ruddy obstacle in his way, triumph over it, and beat his friends to the club by a minute or two. Worth it.

Not that beating them to the club was a factor in his decision. Really, the only factor was, could he do it? The answer was, probably. That was good enough.

He pressed into Indra, Hindu god of lightning and thunder, drawing nearer to his mane, and leapt.

***

JAMES SAT IN WHITE’S already nursing a whiskey neat by the time the other three strolled in. Chris was shaking his head the moment he caught James's eye. Sam had a goofy grin on his face, and Wes had a questioning eyebrow. Singular. Just the one, as if to say, Really, James. Did you need to put your life at risk the day before my wedding?

And if Wes had asked the question aloud, James would have answered in the affirmative. As it was, he just gave a smirk and a nod.

“Welcome. Took you all long enough,” James said, lifting his glass in greeting.

“Yes, well not all of us feel compelled to engage in life-threatening activities at every turn.” That was said by Wes in another condescending tone. Similar to what James would imagine an older brother might sound like.

“Good jump, James.” Sam slapped him on his back applauding his achievements.

“Was that really seven feet high?” Chris asked.

James chuckled. “I could say it was, but I’d be lying. It was closer to five.” He shrugged off the praise because he didn’t take those actions in order to receive adulation. “I’ve done it before.”

“Yes. Well,” Chris shook his head, “looked pretty high from where I was.”

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t take the leap then?” James asked. And of course the question was meant to refer to the hedge. And the horse. And the recklessness. But something in Chris's eyes conveyed that his interpretation of the question went much deeper than jumping horses.

“Yes. I suppose I am…” his voice trailed off.

Sam started slapping everyone on the back, telling them to sit and order drinks. He was attempting to harness whatever energy Chris was about to drain from them.

“Piquet, right?” Sam plowed forward.

“Before we eat?” Chris looked up from whatever rabbit hole his mind had fallen down, and all James could think was that someone could probably write a book about the journey his mind had just traversed.

“I’m famished. Food before cards,” Wes stated.

So the four ordered food and quickly shoveled it into their mouths as fast as only healthy, male adults who had just finished a competition of sorts could do.

After the last few bites were taken, they each relaxed back in their chairs while Chris shuffled a deck of cards. Even after the meal, as short as it had been, Chris’s mind hadn’t entirely pulled free from the rabbit hole.

“You shouldn’t have jumped, James.”

“Stuff!” James stated a bit more harshly, a bit more defensively than he ought.

But Chris wasn’t letting up. Ever the quiet one, he was choosing this battle to fight. “It’s Wes’s wedding tomorrow. Something could have happened.”

“Nothing happened.” James wanted to scoff. He wanted to shrug it off. It shouldn’t be an issue. He was fine. But Chris was deceptively tenacious.

“Something could have.”

“It’s not my wedding,” James argued.

“It could have been.”

“It’s not. And it’ll never be.” There. That ought to shut them up. Except, no. That was entirely the wrong thing to say. In hindsight, James should have had the wherewithal to not mock weddings, love, or marriage in front of the love sick fool of a duke in their quartet. At the very least, he should have known that this particular group of men, on this particular day, at this particular time would not relinquish the small rope he had tossed them. Especially a rope tethered in marriage.

“What do you mean?” Wes’s question seemed innocuous enough. It wasn’t.

“I mean what I said. I’m not planning to get married.”

Sam jumped in, “Well, no men really plan to get married, do they? Someone else plans it for them. A father or a mother sits them down one day and says, Listen son, you’re a duke. You need to marry and have a son. It’s all for the dukedom, you see? We’re all dukes. We’ve all had that talk, no?” He didn’t wait for any replies, just continued on, “And then when they do find the lucky betrothed—no offense Wes—the man doesn’t plan the wedding. The future mother-in-law—or some female variety related to the betrothed— plans the wedding. Isn’t that right?”

“Spoken as if you have firsthand experience,” Wes eyed Sam.

“None. All second and third hand.” Sam smirked while Chris nodded along. Whether the nodding was in agreement or to keep the peace, James wasn’t sure.

“All the same, I don’t think that’s what our dear friend James is referring to.” Wes sent him a shocking look as he sat up in his seat. “You won’t marry? You’re the Duke of Cornwell. It’s your duty.”

“I think we all know how I feel about duty.” He dismissed duty with a flick of his wrist. “It’ll fall to my cousin. He’ll do a good enough job.”

“Good enough?” Wes almost popped out of his seat as those two words echoed in the room.

“Why are you so concerned? It’s not your dukedom. It’s not your life, Wes. It’s my life. And I’ll choose to live it how I see fit.”

“Now, now. James doesn’t want to marry and have children. Probably because his parents treated him like dirt. He doesn’t want to perpetuate the cycle. Am I right?” Sam spoke the words cavalierly, as if they didn’t shoot daggers into James’s heart. Almost as if he were speaking about someone else. Not one of his best friends who was in the room, seated next to him, in fact.

It would be reckless for James to stand up and throw a fist in his face. But it would be impulsive. James was anything but impulsive. He took calculated risks, as uncalculated as it might look to any observers. So, although it would have been easy enough, and damn well satisfying to punch the sodding fool in the face, he sat in his chair with his hand around his glass instead.

“You’re right,” he said. And he almost left it at that, but then he had to add, “You sodding fatwit.”

“Right. Well, now that that’s settled. I have a question of my own. If you were to marry—yes, yes, yes, I know, you won’t—but if you were to marry, what would have to be so special about the lady to make you fall for her, assuming you’ll only marry for love?”

As if that were a given…it wasn’t. James wasn’t planning to marry. He didn’t want to marry. There was no bone in his body made to love. Or be loved. He had always known that. Always would.

“Not going to happen—”

“Indulge me, James.”

So James thought of the most ludicrous checklist of requirements he could think of off the top of his head. But of course, he tapped his chin lightly before he spouted off the list, as if to relay to his friends that he had given this any amount of thought prior to Sam’s question.

“Well, there are three things, if I had to put them into words and onto a list.” Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Which you do.”

“Thanks, Sam.” He tapped his chin a few more times. “First of all, she has to be willing to name her first daughter December.”

“James—” Wes started.

“Let the man speak,” Sam said with terse lips. Was he suppressing a smile?

“Secondly, she has to have a mole in the shape of a moon on her backside.”

And then, just because he was on a roll and he could see Sam struggling to keep himself in check, he added, “Thirdly, she must kiss my eyeball.”

“Oh my God, James, give it up.” Wes slapped the table. “Let’s play piquet before this chucklehead starts drinking.”

There. That was the response James was looking for. Get them off his back. For now.