Page 13 of Wedded to the Deviant Duke (Duke Wars #2)
CHAPTER 13
O ne of the major benefits to owning a gentlemen’s club was the allowance of certain… practices, not entirely acceptable by the standards of polite society. Orion’s Hunt was one such example, as its peculiar nature would likely have never found root without the Ton’s Orions.
It certainly wasn’t anything so crass that it warranted public outcry, but Gabriel could see the more delicate of constitutions not fully understanding why the Hunt drew such interest in the first place.
The same could be said for the club’s boxing outpost, located in a long-since abandoned fishing warehouse and owned jointly by both Orions and Devils. It was an unusual purchase upon the surface, but members of both sides soon realized the benefit of having a well-maintained space to legally—and safely—express their club rivalries.
As such, when Gabriel stepped away from his own sparring match to grab a drink, he wasn’t surprised at all to spot a number of Orions in the ring with Devil opponents. Sweat-soaked and red-faced, each side seemed to have their own style of fighting, perhaps inspired by the way their leaders handled themselves during a fight.
The Devils, of course, had Tristan Lovell to observe; a brute of a man who preferred to overwhelm his opponent with an all-out offense. This reflected the very nature of the Duke of Tolford and perfectly summarized the nature of the Devils themselves as fiery-spirited individuals unwilling to back down from a challenge.
And it was that hot-blooded nature that Gabriel observed from this Devil club member, his fists a blur as he forced the Orion’s member toward the rope.
The Devil grinned, having already won the bout in his mind, and threw one more slug towards his opponent’s face. Or, where his opponent’s face should have been; the Orion seemingly pulled from an unseen reserve of stamina, darting around the jab as he rounded to his opponent’s side.
As the Devil staggered forward from the weight of his own momentum, the Orion struck fast and hard, delivering a series of punches that quickly winded and dropped his opponent against the very ropes he seemed destined to become entangled in. Their makeshift referee called the match with a sharp whistle, and Gabriel inwardly beamed with pride as his Orion offered a hand to his defeated opponent.
Raw power was one thing, of course, but not what ultimately made a predator so dangerous. To plan, to conserve, to wait until the right moment to strike; this is what the Ton’s Orions represented, what Gabriel instilled in every member. And as he finished his drink and tossed the cup into the trash, he cracked his knuckles and returned to his own corner of the warehouse, where Christian eagerly awaited for their second round.
“You certainly took your time,” Christian quipped.
Gabriel rolled his eyes, settling back into his sparring stance. He waited patiently, knowing full well his friend typically broke under the pressure and would strike first. Sure enough, Christian darted forward after a few moments passed, and their bout began once more.
It felt good to get lost in the act, feel his heart race and count the steps it took to dodge his friend. A two-step to the left, a sweeping duck followed by a shuffle—he was struck now and again, but that was more due to Christian’s talent than his inability to dodge.
Suddenly Christian pulled away from their sparring circle, hands held up to pause their bout. Gabriel managed to pull his arm back before it struck against his friend’s face, and as he followed Christian’s gaze, it became obvious why he wanted to stop. Entering through the front warehouse was the devil himself, Lord Tristan Lovell, immediately pulling the attention of other club members with his presence.
But more important to Gabriel was the dandy of a man who followed behind him, whose outfit was hardly proper for such an active place. His hair looked too light to be real, and his eyes, regrettably, gave the duke a surprising shiver at the ice they held.
“Seems the little marquess has finally made his entrance,” Christian mused, wiping the back of his neck with his towel.
Gabriel watched the pair begin to tour around the warehouse, the duke too far away to fully pick up on his conversation with the newest Devil recruit. But observation alone was all he needed to know what kind of man Giles Tilbury was.
The pronounced swagger in his step, the dramatic puff of his chest, how obviously unfitted his suit was in particular areas; all signs of a man whose wallet wasn’t close to matching his ego. Every fiber of Gabriel’s being wanted to approach the man, here and now, and show him what happened to those who tried to hunt his prey. But he kept himself grounded, reminded himself how important the first move was even outside of a sparring match.
His patience eventually paid off, as soon, Tristan’s eyes met with Gabriel’s, a glimmer of interest immediately crossing his face. “Your Graces—what excellent timing on your parts!”
The Duke of Tolford quickly crossed the warehouse, Giles stepping quickly to keep pace. “Have you met the newest Devil’s recruit? Seems our ranks continue to grow by the day—not that I can blame the young men of London for having such good taste.” He sighed lightly, as if truly overburdened by his good fortune.
“I believe industry has a phrase for just this occasion,” Christian chuckled lightly, throwing his towel to the side as he approached the group for greetings. “‘Quality before quantity’, wasn’t it, Gabriel?”
“Indeed.” Gabriel’s reply was curt, cutting; the less he had to say on the matter, the better it was for Giles’ long-term health.
The little marquess looked red in the face, though Tristan simply laughed at the response. “There’s that spirit rivalry I’ve come to love between our clubs. It’s all in good fun, Mr. Tilbury—you’ll have to gain quite the thick skin if you decide to stay with us.”
Immediately, Giles’ expression shifted, a holier-than-thou smirk crossing his face. “Oh, yes, of course. A little ribbing from the competition will hardly chase me away, Your Grace.”
“Good to hear, Lord Oslay!”
Gabriel’s frown persisted, noting a curious tone in Tristan’s voice. It was barely perceptible, though it spoke volumes as the smaller tics of his face, the posture of his body, were observed and compared beside it.
As Christian continued to hold polite conversation, Gabriel began to get a sense of the Devil leader’s true feelings towards Giles, and much to his surprise, it wasn’t entirely different from his own opinion.
Giles seemed similarly interested in quiet observation, with Gabriel catching his eye every few moments or so. Of course, the little marquess would quickly find something else to occupy his sight, but it was obvious he knew exactly who Gabriel was—and what he was doing for his cousin.
Whether he would do anything about that, or simply stare at the Duke of Stonewell in hopes of intimidation, Gabriel couldn’t say. Just this time, for the sake of Thalia, he would break his rule and make first contact.
“And how do you find Oslay Halls, sir?” he asked during the conversation’s lull. “It must be quite the change for you, having suddenly acquired so much responsibility?”
It clearly stung the little marquess to not be addressed by his new title, though he hardly was going to fight about it in the presence of three dukes. Instead, Giles managed a strained smile and a slight bow to his head.
“It is… a sudden change, but I’m more than willing to step up to the occasion.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Christian commented lightly. “A shame you have no family to help you with the day-to-day. Whatever did happen to the old marquess’ daughter? I would think she’d be an invaluable asset to have.”
Once more, Gabriel was reminded why he was such good friends with Christian. If he had his way, Giles would already be on the ground, bloodied and unconscious. But there was an innate satisfaction to humiliating someone in such a dignified, and acceptable, manner. Christian might have had a terrible right hook, but his silver-tongued wit was unmatched.
“I—y-yes, well,” Giles visibly sweated, pulling at his cravat while glancing Tristan’s way. The leader of the Devils seemed obviously distracted, having slipped away and talked to another member about business clearly far more important than whatever the little marquess was going through. “It—w-we had differing opinions on management, unfortunately. She decided to leave in haste—a shame, really.”
Blood filled Gabriel’s mouth as he bit his tongue. Lying, deceitful snake.
“Oh, is that so?” Christian mused. “And she willingly brought herself to Whitechapel—that must have been quite the difference in opinion.” He turned to Gabriel, offering a good-natured grin. “You hear that, Gabriel? The young lady was entirely happy to stay where she was—your invitation to Stonewell may have been all for naught, I’m afraid.”
Gabriel immediately watched as Giles’ face blanched. “I-Invitation, you say?”
Christian metaphorically took a step back, nodding for his friend to continue. Gabriel happily jumped on the opportunity, drawing closer to Giles as he spoke. “She’s been a perfectly lovely guest; I hardly regret extending my invitation. And she’s become quite close to my dear sister—I fear they’ve become thicker than thieves in the last two days.”
“O-Oh?”
Gabriel inwardly sneered, taking entirely too much pleasure in how easily he leered over the now-trembling man. “Yes—I wonder what secrets they’ve discussed between themselves? You know how ladies are—or maybe not.” He stood directly over Giles now, his scowl smoldering in dark disgust. “I suppose you don’t, do you… sir?”
A spark of rage flew Giles’ fist forward, and Gabriel caught it with ease. He slowly lowered the man’s hand, now fully trembling as his gaze bore through the marquess’.
“You should take those nice clothes off first before stepping into the ring,” Gabriel whispered. “Wouldn’t want to ruin such a… nice fitting outfit.”
He threw Giles’ fist back to his side, Tristan miraculously returning to the conversation. He gave Gabriel a slight glance and a smile, maintaining the polite facade the pair of club members upheld in public.
“Apologies for vanishing on you, Giles! Devil business and all that—you know how it is.” He clapped a hand against Giles’ back, nearly knocking the man over. “We’ve still got quite a bit to show off to the newest member, so I wish you gentlemen a good afternoon.”
“Oh, of course,” Christian beamed. “But, before you go, may I ask, is the newest Devil going to be participating in any of the up-and-coming club events? I heard a rumor that the Duke of Arkley was looking to host our competitive cards tournament this year.”
Tristan laughed a little too forcefully, his arm tightening a touch too much around Giles’ shoulder. “Well, we’ll see if this one manages to play all his dues in time. Save me a spot at your table, though—I’ve been looking to win that brooch off of you for years, Your Grace, and I feel this is finally my moment!”
With that, the pair of Devils started back towards the front of the warehouse, leaving Gabriel to seethe in still-bubbling anger. He immediately turned to a dangling sandbag and gave it a proper one-two strike, popping the seam from impact as sand began trickling free to the ground.
“That’s the third one in need of replacement,” Christian said. “Though, I prefer it being broken over one of our club members.” He glanced Gabriel’s way, watching as his friend cracked his knuckles in clear frustration. “At least Tristan sees him as the obnoxious slug he is.”
“Not that it would save him otherwise,” Gabriel grumbled, reaching for his own towel as he wiped his face clean.
“I wonder if our newest little asset took advantage of the marquess’ absence…?” Christian shrugged, shaking his arms out as he settled into his own fighting stance. “Suppose you’ll find out later tonight; for now, let’s channel some of that rage, shall we? You hardly want to take it out on your lady friend back at the mansion, do you?”
Gabriel certainly didn’t. His anger was specially reserved for Giles, and Thalia deserved none of it. With that, he broke his rule once more and lunged after Christian, throwing himself into the breathless blur of boxing.