Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

“ O ne more round, and I could have had you on the ropes,” Philip Ellington, the Duke of Oakdale, boomed, laughing and lowering his equally perspiring body into a chair.

Oliver’s muscles ached deliciously. The sweat dripping down his skin, making his shirt cling to his chest, somehow made him feel better. Reinvigorated.

He eyed his friend with a grin. “You and I both know that is not true. I had you from the start,” he retorted, reaching for a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow.

He did not bother to hide his smirk. The two of them had been friends for most of their lives. While Philip was also close with Thomas Riverton, the Duke of Newden—Oliver’s brother-in-law—the two of them were more dedicated to boxing than the others.

Even though he and his wife Aurelia already had a child, Philip still found some time for boxing.

“You need to get on a real ring one day, Westgrave. Show them how well a duke can box.” He shook his head in delighted disbelief. “Show them that we dukes are not weaklings.”

“You know I do compete, old friend,” Oliver reminded his friend, alluding to his activities at Devil’s Draw.

Philip groaned. “Devil’s Draw is not an establishment you should frequent in the first place. Especially now that you’re debt-free.”

“Let us not be so melancholy. We box to rid ourselves of terrible spirits. If it earns me some extra coin, it is even better,” Oliver replied.

Philip did not understand what it was like to be afraid of losing everything. Oliver knew it well. It was why he handled his income more delicately.

“I do it for the exercise, my friend. If you are doing it to rid yourself of some other kind of pain, perhaps you might want to tell me about it.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I am happy that you’re here. It would be ideal if we could do it more often,” Oliver said sincerely as he, too, took a seat.

“You have been doing it often enough. Do not exert yourself too much—you must save your energy for pleasing your wife,” Philip teased.

At that, the hairs on the back of Oliver’s neck stood on end. He had to stop the visceral reaction he had to any mention of his wife, who was preoccupied with other things. Music. Embroidery. Buying bread.

He almost chuckled bitterly at that. At least Alexandra had agreed to accompany him on calls to friends and relatives. He did not like how resigned she’d looked recently.

“You don’t know me at all,” he said half-heartedly. His meaning was different from whatever Philip had in mind.

“I am merely teasing. I know you used to have the energy for all the harlots on Hawthorne Street.” Philip rose to get himself some gin while his friend eyed him warily. “And do not forget that you did the same to me when I tied the knot.”

“That’s a big exaggeration. I did not have that many harlots in my bed.” Oliver might have been a rake, but he was careful about his health, like some of the more informed members of the ton . “As for teasing you about dear Aurelia, you deserved it.”

“I know. As for the harlots, I also know you only dallied with lonely widows and ruined young women.”

“You’re making me sound like a reprobate.” Oliver laughed. “I probably was—still is. I am not quite sure.”

“What does your wife think about that?”

“Why are you interested in my wife, Oakdale?”

“Easy there, friend. I am very happily married. However, from what I hear, the ton is quite interested in your wife. You hid her for a year. Then, she comes out, charming everyone. It seems things have improved in your marriage?”

Oliver did not think things had improved. If they had, why would he be feeling more anxious? He had been living a life without any concerns when Alexandra was living far from London. Far away from him.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Boxing with Philip had eased some of his burdens, but once the distraction was over, his thoughts drifted to Alexandra. He again felt the weight of his suspicions pressing down on him.

“Things are… complicated between Alexandra and me,” he admitted as he leaned back in his chair. “Her interests and mine do not align, as do our plans and beliefs.”

“Do you perhaps miss the days when the ton had not laid their eyes on her?” Philip asked, leaning against the mantelpiece. With a glass of gin in hand, he studied his friend.

“I do. I can feel the weight of their scrutiny.”

“You never cared about what the ton says.” Philip drank the rest of his gin. “Until now.”

“You are right. I never cared about the ton’s scrutiny. However, they are now following Alexandra’s every move. Many know about her father, and they look at her with that in mind.”

Oliver was surprised by his own words. He had not voiced these thoughts even when he was alone, but Philip managed to pry them from him with boxing and good conversation.

“The two of you now live under the same roof. Take it as an opportunity to build something good. Raise a family together, perhaps.”

Oliver’s chest tightened at the thought of the little pit he’d put himself in. He had not told Philip about how he and Alexandra were forced into the marriage. His friend did not know that they did not marry for love and that he constantly worried that his wife loved something or someone else enough to risk her reputation.

“It is not as easy as that.”

“Is it because you find yourself pretending to like her pursuits of embroidery and music?” Philip teased.

Oliver decided that his friend did not need to know what was going on in his marriage. He could just string out the theme at hand—make him believe things were simple.

“I went to buy bread with her the other day,” he confessed with a boyish grin, the one that made people believe that he never cared—that he only sought entertainment and vice. “The gossip rags will be writing about how the Duke of Westgrave accompanied his wife to the market.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Philip chuckled and looked at his friend with what seemed like admiration—one that Oliver could not, in good conscience, accept.

Oliver went to the market with his wife not because he wanted to share in her interests. He went because he suspected she was about to meet with someone else again.

“It’s time to reclaim your wife, Westgrave,” Philip continued, shaking his head with a smile.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m your friend, Oliver. Of course, I’ve noticed that you two had no contact for a year, and you did not care much about it. Until now.”

“Until now,” Oliver echoed, suddenly feeling queasy.

“Yes. Your eyes sparkle when you talk about her. And, indeed, she is a beautiful woman with charm, grace, and wit. People have been talking about her, but fondly.”

“Enough of this,” Oliver said a little roughly. “Let us box again.”

Philip’s eyes softened. It seemed that he could tell his friend wanted an escape. Alexandra was still a difficult topic for him.

Oliver took off his shirt, showing that he meant business. He needed to exorcise his wife from his thoughts, even if it meant more physical pain.

Philip nodded in understanding and readily faced him.

It was a friendly spar, but it was no less intense. The Duke of Westgrave enjoyed using his body instead of his head.

The body could handle the pain, but the mind could only take so much.

After Philip had left, Oliver thought of getting some refreshments from the kitchen. He had narrowly avoided drinking gin with his friend, who had managed to make one buried thought blossom—making his forced marriage a real one. However, Oliver might need lemonade or simply a glass of water, instead.

Deep in thought, he walked out of the training room and into the hallway, and he felt something—or rather, someone—collide with him.

“Oh. My apologies, Your Grace.”

It was Alexandra, holding a book open.

The book was Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure .

Oliver could not stop a smirk from forming on his lips.