Page 140 of Immortal Rose

“I don’t,” Reddy said. “But if you fall, you’ll need someone to avenge you, or at least weep over your body until the time comes to deliver it to your widow.”

His emphasis on that last word, widow, cooled some of the heat trapped in Hugh’s chest. No, he wouldn’t fail. Whether he died or not, his title would still offer her protection.

Hugh reached for a small sword with a sharpened point. That caught the rest of the school’s attention, as he’d hoped. By the time Glenmoor deigned to finish his session, saluting the panting instructor, all the men had gathered to watch the drama play out.

Glenmoor did not glance at the board as he removed his protective mask, tossing it to the side. The crowd parted with a murmur, allowing the duke through. He strode toward Hugh, exchanging his foil for one of the short swords, sharp as a fang.

“Lord Hugh, what a surprise,” Glenmoor said, loud enough for the others to hear. “Have you decided to skip the honeymoon, then? Shame. You likely won’t have another chance, unless, of course, you find yourself titillated by the prospect of a Fairgate cell.”

Hugh’s hand strangled the hilt of his small sword. Steady, steady.

He couldn’t unleash himself until they were on the mat. Glenmoor adored using his lesser title, refusing to acknowledge the greater one Hugh had inherited. Another man might have cared, and he knew it vexed Glenmoor that he did not.

“Indeed,” Hugh said. “I’ve the perfect bridal tour in mind for her, beginning with a visit to your cell in the bowels of the prison.”

One of the nearby lords gasped; another tutted in disapproval.

“Have some respect, Foxcourt,” Baron Fleeker snarled. “You speak to your better.”

“As I am a gentleman, I’ll allow my blade to answer,” Glenmoor said, with all his usual false amiability as he took his place on the mat. “I fear Lord Hugh is on the verge of discovering that wounded pride isn’t enough to overcome a deficit of patience and skill.”

“Patience?” Hugh echoed. “I admit, I am not nearly as fashionable as you, Your Grace. Is that what gentlemen call stalling now?”

That sent another murmur through the onlookers.

Glenmoor brandished his weapon. His lips curled in a smirk that had once sent a spike of terror through Hugh. But Hugh was no longer a boy, and as he stared at his half brother, it was only white-hot fury he felt.

The inevitability had its own gravity, gripping his very soul, bringing him to this moment. He shouldn’t have resisted. After what Glenmoor had done to his mother, to his uncle, he should have dispatched this monster before he ever claimed more power.

Hugh settled back, drawing his blade up with a steadying breath. Viola’s face, rigid with agony, slashed through his mind.

“Are you certain you don’t want to use blunted foils?” Lord Alcorn asked weakly from the sidelines. “Or perhaps masks?”

Hugh and the duke squared off, sliding into the en garde stance. There was nothing alike in their features; they each favored their respective mothers, one fair, the other raven-haired. The sole indication they shared a father was the insurmountable pride they’d both inherited.

“Alcorn, you’ve nominated yourself as director of the match,” Hugh said.

The young lord sighed. “En garde.”

Glenmoor mirrored Hugh’s stance, his eyes tipping up with his tight smile, almost feline. Hugh drew in another deep breath, shifting his weight in preparation for the first strike. His body trembled with suppressed impatience.

“Prêt?”

The school fell silent. Glenmoor’s grip on the hilt shifted ever so slightly, knowing Hugh would strike first—but now, he wouldn’t.

“Allez!”

Glenmoor slid back preemptively, raising his blade to fend off a thrust. Scattered laughter erupted around them when Hugh remained precisely where he was, brows raised.

The duke’s smile slipped only for a moment, then he launched himself forward, delivering a baiting prise de fer before thrusting for Hugh’s face. He parried with ease, then made a thrust of his own. His blade caught the flamboyant silk paneling at Glenmoor’s shoulder, slicing through it, his shirt, and the skin below.

Blood bloomed through the canvas, and like a dog who’d had his first taste, Hugh wanted more. Glenmoor’s smile sharpened.

“Gentlemen, please,” one of the nearby lords said, laughing nervously. “Let’s not stain Almici’s reputation.”

Hugh’s attack was sure-footed and swift, and he took a great deal of satisfaction in the duke’s gritted jaw as his injured shoulder absorbed blow after blow. The duke’s brows drew together sharply as Hugh threw the other man back several steps with a hard shove.

The crowd booed and jeered. It was a cold slap of recognition of just how deeply these weak men favored the ever-polite, ever-generous, ever-noble duke.