He bit out a laugh through clenched teeth. “When I’m satisfied, I shall give it to you.”
“You won’t be satisfied untilyoureturn toherside,” Drake countered. “I did you a favor, cousin.”
“Don’t speak nonsense.”
“Admit it—you made a mistake.”
No. It couldn’t have been a mistake. Distancing himself was for the best. Leonora would marry the perfect man. A man like Calstone. A man worthy of her. A man the exact opposite of him. He... it didn’t matter what he did, so long as he didn’t hurt anyone like his father hurt his mother. He’d die before he’d do that.
But he also didn’t want to let go.
I must.
Another blow from Drake cracked against his jaw. He cursed, ducking to the side before straightening and rolling his neck left and right. He didn’t like pain. All his life, everything he haddone was in service of avoiding it. And yet, the only thing more tolerable than the throb in his heart that had started to bloom in that secret library and had sprouted roots the moment he took that deed, was taking blows from Drake.
It will pass with time.He had to believe that. Anything else...
He dared not contemplate.
In the meantime, while he waited, he would torture his cousin for keeping the truth from him this entire time. That he’d known Leonora was the Duchess of Crane’s child with Heart. That he had mocked him from the shadows. That he had tried to blackmail the woman into handing over the deed and failed.
The thought still made him want to reduce all Drake’s properties to ashes.
Drake struck again, but this time, he was ready. He countered with a sharp jab to his cousin’s gut, sending him staggering back. He didn’t stop. The crowd roared with each hit and spat curses whenever one of them missed. It wasn’t an official match. There would be no victor at the end of this.
And Drake had the nerve to say Dare had made a mistake? The only mistake he’d made was not beating Drake to a damn pulp.
Admit it.
Dare bent over, clutching at his leg with one hand and lifting his hand with the other. He dragged in several breaths. “Time.”
A mocking smile answered him.
Arse.
Drake wiped the sweat from his brow. “Not going to admit it?”
This again. He straightened, clenching and unclenching his fists. “What the hell do you know anyway?”
“You’ve never been this out of sorts with a bird before.”
“That’s because she’s not a bird, so watch your bloody language.” What bird? She was a witch. A temptress. A miracle.
And he had left nothing but dust in his wake when he left.
Had she been worried? Had she been attending balls in the hope of catching him there? Had she been disappointed when he hadn’t shown up? How many times had he stood before the doors of a house, the sounds of a ball or party or musicale drawing him forward, light spilling from within, before turning on his heel and walking away?
Admit . . .
Every single time, every single step had been a mistake. However, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to step through those doors and into the light.
He hated this.
Hated himself for becoming like this. But what the hell was a man like him supposed to do? Hide his leopard spots beneath a coat of wool? Pretend his infamous reputation did not exist? Don a halo and hope no one noticed the horns?
“Do you know that my mother loved that man?” Drake asked, circling him, interrupting his spiral.
Was he talking about the late Duke of Crane?
