Chapter 21

James rolled over in his bed and with a frustrated growl, he punched his pillow for what felt like the tenth time that night, each thump a futile attempt to expel the building tension. The bedclothes were in disarray, the sheets twisted, and the coverlets crumpled at the foot of the bed.

"This is damn nonsense," he muttered into the plush, fragrant pillows that did nothing to soothe his restlessness.

His mind was a whirlwind, replaying every moment, every glance, and every word exchanged with Elizabeth. Exasperated, James threw back the covers and swung his legs off the bed. He raked his fingers through his tousled hair and stood up, his movements sharp and agitated. Padding over to the window, he drew back the heavy drapes with a swift tug. The cool night air brushed against his skin as he opened the window, leaning out slightly to gaze into the dark, starless sky.

It had been nine days since he had walked away from his lover with a firm resolve to end whatever had been budding between them to prevent future regrets. As he stood there, the chill of the night air seeping into his bones, James wrestled with how to handle the strong connection that refused to fade despite his best efforts. The coldness that he anticipated to shroud his heart never arrived. Knowing that he had lost Elizabeth and would no longer wake up with her nestled in his arms, nor witness her smile, hear her laughter, or experience her vibrant spirit was unbearable. These nights of longing for her left him with an ache so deep that it almost destroyed him.

A rough sound of annoyance left James, and he tugged on trousers and boots, dressing well enough without the aid of his valet. He bounded down the stairs and went outside, inhaling the crisp air into his lungs. It was his fortune that one of his friends lived only a few houses down from him. A few minutes later, Oliver's butler opened the door and informed James that his lordship was not at home.

"I will await the marquess in the room he reserved for boxing," James clipped, already shrugging from his jacket, and he walked down the hallway.

Thankfully, the sandbag that Oliver used to practice his boxing was still mounted. James did not bother to wrap his wrists with thin strips of linen. He merely removed his clothes and boots, standing bare feet and only in his trousers. He went to pounding on the bag, sharp jabs that ricocheted up to his elbows. Still, he did not stop his punishing pace, pushing his body until his muscles screamed for mercy. If this did not calm the demons riding him, James would find an underground fighting ring and pick one of their most ruthless bare-knuckle fighters to get in the pits with.

As James assaulted the sandbag with relentless force, each punch unleashed more of his pent-up frustration and regret. That sound of pain she'd made haunted him like a specter. Her eyes had been wounded, and the very memory of it plagued James's dreams.

I hurt you, Elizabeth, and I am so damn sorry.

He increased the strength and speed of his punches. The fabric of the bag thudded under the impact of his fists, a satisfying sound that momentarily drowned out the chaos of his thoughts. The sound of footsteps approached. James paused mid-swing, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his brow. He turned to see Oliver striding into the room, his expression a mix of concern and resolve.

"You look like hell, Basil," Oliver said, eyeing the unbound wrists.

James wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, a grim smile touching his mouth. "I need a partner," he said, his voice rough with exertion.

Oliver, without saying another word, began to strip off his jacket, waistcoat and shirt. He moved to a corner of the room where the linen wraps lay discarded and started to bind his wrists methodically.

Knowing that he needed a vigorous outlet, James said, "Are you certain?"

"I could use a good fight," Oliver said, finishing with his wraps and moving to stand opposite James.

They squared off, their bare feet shifting on the soft matting of the floor. They began to circle each other, each feint and jab a silent conversation. As the bout progressed, their movements grew faster, more forceful. Oliver was a skilled boxer, his punches precise and calculated, but James met each attack with equal ferocity, his own strikes a blend of raw power and honed skill. For James, each punch thrown was a release, and with Oliver, he could be as fierce or as calm as he needed to be without the need for words. They moved around each other with the grace of dancers, punching and feinting for almost an hour. Eventually, they both stepped back, chests heaving, skin slicked with perspiration.

Oliver clapped James on the shoulder, a gesture of solid, unquestioning support. "Better?"

"Better," he affirmed, feeling a measure of peace settle over him. "I have been a damn fool."

Ambrose lifted a brow. "It takes special awareness for a man to realize he is a damn fool."

James made no reply to this, merely watching his friend walk over to the mantle and pluck up a pressed newssheet.

Walking over to him, Oliver held it up. "Have you seen this? Is this the reason you seem so out of sorts?"

"Seen what?"

"A scandal sheet mention of that disgraceful wretch, Miss Armstrong."

Cold fury lit in James's veins. "What did you call her?"

A smile quirked the marquess's mouth. "Ah … you do not agree."

"Who dares call her so?"

Oliver handed him a newssheet, and James found the mention of her. As he read, certain phrases raked at his heart like poison-tipped talons.

Social climber

Disgraceful and scandalous

Shameless

Not welcomed in the ton

She should return to New York

James's heart pounded, and a hollow sensation settled in his belly. These derisive applications were undeserving, especially for a woman as kind, giving, and unpretentious as Elizabeth. He crushed the papers, the fury burning colder. "How do they fucking dare?"

"You really were not aware," Oliver murmured.

"No. I would not have let it stand."

"Your scandal with Miss Armstrong is being talked about in several drawing rooms. When we did not see you at Aphrodite or White's, we presumed you were dealing with it."

"Only a few witnessed what happened," James said icily. "And they spread this nonsense to hurt her even more than …" Than me. He raked his fingers through sweat-dampened hair. "I need to go."

"What happened?" his friend asked. "The scandal about town seems to be worse than the ones that usually mentioned you. Did Miss Armstrong truly plot a trap to force you into marriage?"

James stood still for several beats, and then he said, "A trap was plotted, but she was not a part of it. I was a damn fool for not realizing it sooner. The woman I know—compassionate, clever and honest, a person determined to live a life that was happy and one that she decided upon would never do something so underhanded as to steal my choice from me. Her mother and aunt plotted the compromising trap. I hurt her with my words and lack of faith in her character."

"You like her," Oliver said, sounding a bit shocked.

"No," James said gruffly, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I love Elizabeth Armstrong with everything inside of me."

The realization hit James harder than expected, leaving him to grapple with feelings he hadn't acknowledged until now. The clarity of his own desires and feeling settled over him with unsettling certainty. "I must go to her."

Oliver winced. "You might have a problem there."

"What?"

"I saw Armstrong earlier. He … his sister left England yesterday for New York and has vowed to never return here."

A crushing weight descended on James's chest. "She is gone."

"Yes. However, her mother remains in England. I heard that Viscountess Barnaby and Mrs. Armstrong lost a few friends in their social circle. Brandon seemed crushed. Apparently, once his sister decides on a matter, she never changes her mind. Some of the words he snarled into his drink were ‘wilful,' ‘stubborn' and ‘hellion.'"

James let out a sharp exhalation. The reality of Elizabeth's situation struck him with painful clarity—she would likely never wish to return to England, a place now marred by betrayal, public disgrace, and the bitter memory of having been let down by those she should have been able to trust the most. Her family's scheming had done irreparable damage, and he himself had added to her hurt with his doubts and harsh words.

James quickly grabbed his clothes and began dressing with hurried movements. "I have urgent matters to attend to."

His friend, sensing the seriousness of the moment, simply nodded. He offered no words, but his expression was laden with curiosity and concern. James left the townhouse at a brisk pace, his strides lengthening into a run by the time he reached his own residence. Upon entering, he was met with the surprised look of his butler, Brooks, who noted his master's unusually disheveled appearance but wisely chose to remain silent.

"I have several letters that need to be sent out today," James said.

"Yes, Your Grace," Brooks responded promptly, preparing to handle whatever tasks were necessary.

Once in his study, James pulled out several sheets of crisp paper from the top drawer of his desk. His mind was set; he would do whatever it took to repair the damage done to Elizabeth's reputation, even if it meant leveraging or severing long-standing relationships within the ton. He was prepared to use his influence ruthlessly if required.

The first letter he wrote was to David Pettigrew, the Earl of Darlington, a man whose financial troubles James was uniquely positioned to exploit in exchange for a favor that would aid Elizabeth.

Darlington,

It has come to my attention that your estates are currently facing financial challenges, and you are in pursuit of investors for your forthcoming venture with Viscount Lynton. I am prepared to offer substantial investment, though it would require a particular concession on your part.

As you are aware, your wife, the Countess of Darlington, holds significant sway within the social circles of the ton. Her influence could prove invaluable under the current circumstances. A family of my acquaintance, the Armstrongs, has recently suffered undue social detriment. I am seeking to rectify this situation, and her intervention could facilitate their reestablishment in society.

I trust the countess will exercise her considerable capabilities with discretion and efficacy. Please convey to her the importance of this matter and the mutual benefits our cooperation would ensure.

I look forward to your prompt and favorable reply, ensuring our mutual interests align for the betterment of all parties involved.

Yours sincerely,

James, Duke of Basil

After sealing the letter, James leaned back in his chair, his mind already plotting the next moves. He would have to be careful and precise in his approach, using the influence he held as a duke not just to threaten or coerce but to negotiate and align interests. His next letter was to another influential member of the ton, the Marquess of Hadleigh, whose wife was held in high esteem. He wrote with a clear, forceful hand, making it evident that the marquess's cooperation would be mutually beneficial. James even promised the marquess one of his prize studs for this favor.

James wrote three more letters. Each word was measured and deliberately aimed at weaving a network of support that would be difficult for anyone to untangle. It was clear his displeasure would be earned if they refused. His last letter for the day was to the Daily Gossip. After dispatching his butler, Brooks, with the letters, James walked toward the window overlooking the gardens.

Elizabeth, I am so damn sorry for the hurt you must have endured.

Even if he were to never see her again, today marked the beginning of his fight not just for Elizabeth's honor but for her heart, proving that his love was not merely a fleeting passion but a committed force capable of righting the wrongs she had endured.