Page 50 of The Sainted Duchess
“Dangerous habit,” Peter said, and hooked to the body. Stephen ate it, pivoted, and worked the jab.
“Break,” the boy said, unnecessarily. They separated. Stephen blinked sweat.
“You good there?” Oliver thumped the ropes with his glove.
“Shut up,” Stephen said through the guard.
“Footwork,” Peter said. “You’re crowding me to crowd yourself.”
“Round,” the boy called.
Stephen stepped in harder than he meant to. Peter took it, adjusted, returned a neat one-two that rattled Stephen’s vision, and the bell clacked. They touched gloves and Stephen paced to his corner, rolling his neck.
“Water,” Oliver said, offering the dipper. “Or something stronger. I can fetch Nicholas’s brandy if you like.”
Stephen took the water. It was cold enough to remind him he had a mouth. “Next.”
Oliver grinned, tightened his headgear, and stepped in. He was taller than Peter and less careful. He liked combinations and surprises. He also liked to talk.
“Marriage,” Oliver said, bouncing. “You sure about this?”
“Focus,” Peter said from the ropes.
“I am focused,” Oliver said. “On preventing his face from becoming less handsome before his wedding. Which, by the by, is what we are not discussing.”
“We are not.” Stephen ducked a looping right and countered to the ribs.
“Rude,” Oliver said. “Give us an evening, at least.”
“Hands,” Peter warned.
Oliver threw. Stephen blocked, slipped, and returned a cross that landed a fraction early. Oliver grunted, grinned, and used the moment to step inside. They bumped shoulders, and the boy’s watch clacked again.
Break.
“Say it,” Oliver said, hands on his hips, mouthguard clenched in his teeth. “Get it out.”
“It’s simple.” Stephen spat into the bucket and bought himself a second with the towel.
“Nothing about your face is simple,” Oliver said.
“You dislike being forced,” Peter leaned on the top rope.
Stephen glared. “I dislike forcing her.”
“Better. Keep going.” Oliver’s grin faded.
“It’s a marriage,” Peter said calmly. “Not an execution.”
“Depends on whom you ask,” Oliver muttered.
Peter ignored him.
“A contract. You are compatible enough not to make each other miserable. You can be kind. She is not foolish. What is the problem?”
Stephen rolled the wrap at his wrist.
“You assume marriage is weight,” Peter’s brows lifted. He had assumed correctly, of course. That was the trouble with old friends. There was simply no lying when it came to them.
