Chapter 12

"What did you say?" Theodore demanded, his voice unrecognizable as he took a step toward the gentleman. His words hung heavy in the air, charged with anger and disbelief.

The gentleman before him only smirked in response, completely unperturbed by Theodore's outburst. His amusement was evident as he lightly chided, "Oh, come now, no need for such theatrics. The tales of Miss Young are hardly a secret. Surely, it's no surprise if she's allowed a man—or several—the same liberties she presumably afforded you. It's simply unfortunate that you were the one caught in the act, isn't it?"

Each word struck Theodore like a physical blow, igniting a fierce blaze of indignation and protective fury within him. With swift decisiveness, he advanced, his hands shooting out to grasp the man by his cravat. In one fluid motion, he had the man pinned against the wall, his feet dangling as he gasped for air. The once-smug smirk was wiped clean from his face.

Theodore held him there, his arm tensed and poised for a strike that would release the pent-up frustration boiling inside him. But just as he was about to deliver the blow, a firm hand clasped his raised arm. Theodore turned to find Preston standing beside him, firmly preventing any further action.

"Gillingham, what on earth do you think you're doing?" Preston's voice carried calm authority, piercing through Theodore's fog of anger.

Reluctantly, Theodore released his grip, allowing the man to slump against the wall, gasping and coughing as he desperately tried to regain his composure.

The gentleman looked up with a mix of fear and bruised pride. "Good heavens, Gillingham, have you lost your ability to distinguish between a gentleman and a dummy?" His voice was raspy but laced with a forced attempt at dignity.

Theodore's gaze narrowed, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. He moved as if to take hold of him again, but this time the gentleman retreated, fear evident in his eyes.

"Off with you!" Preston ordered, pointing toward the door. The man hurriedly left the room, his dignity shattered.

As the door closed behind him, Jackson stepped back into the room. His eyes widened as he sensed the changed atmosphere. Preston exchanged a brief, knowing look with Jackson before he spoke up.

"The Marquess and I will spar, thank you, Jackson," Preston said.

Theodore's frustration was still evident as he shed his outer garments with deliberate motions. He reached for some strips of linen, beginning to wrap his knuckles with practiced ease. Preston mirrored his actions.

"I had a feeling you'd be up to some foolishness in the wake of the... evening's events," Preston remarked, the look in his eyes and his tone carrying both rebuke and concern.

"That man deserved to be punched," Theodore replied. His anger was still smoldering. How could anyone think ill of Agnes? What had she done to deserve society's scorn?

Preston conceded with a nod, pausing untying his cravat to lock eyes with his friend. "I agree," he said solemnly. "But would punching him to a pulp rectify the past?" His question hung heavy in the air, challenging Theodore to consider the consequences of his actions.

Theodore grunted in dissatisfaction and waved a hand.

"I thought as much," Preston quipped, skillfully dodging an unexpected blow from Theodore, who had launched an attack sooner than expected. "Allow me to wear my gloves at least," Preston chuckled, managing to dodge yet another blow.

"That is for stopping my punches earlier," Theodore declared, his voice lacking the humor found in Preston's.

"I will take that as your gratitude then," Preston parried once again, now fully gloved and prepared for the bout. His remark, though light-hearted, acknowledged the graveness of Theodore's emotional state.

As they sparred within the confines of the room, time seemed to dissolve around them. Each punch and parry became a temporary escape from Theodore's swirling thoughts and the weight of his decisions. The physical exertion provided a momentary respite, allowing him to focus on the present rather than the uncertain future.

After their intense session concluded, they left the gymnasium behind, finding themselves enveloped in the cool night air. However, the clarity Theodore sought remained elusive. The physical exertion had done little to quell the storm within him. His heart was heavy and fear he had not felt in a very long while was tightening his chest.

He couldn't marry Agnes. The very thought sent a pang of sorrow through him. And beyond that, Theodore realized with a resigned sort of clarity, he couldn't risk marriage to anyone. Ever.

But what was he to do now, ensnared as he was in such a scandal? If he did not act with honor, she would surely be ruined.

"Is that mount yours?" Theodore inquired of Preston upon noticing the horse tethered outside Jackson's. Upon receiving his friend's affirmative, Theodore made a decision. "Lend it to me for a moment."

Without waiting for a response, he mounted the horse and rode out into the night without direction. Moments later, he heard the echo of another set of hooves. Preston had procured another horse to follow him.

"Truly, Preston, have you nothing better to do than shadow me?" Theodore asked, hearing both annoyance and weary acceptance in his voice.

"I would scarcely miss an opportunity to best you in a race, Gillingham," Preston replied, his voice light and filled with an easy humor that Theodore found himself envying at that moment.

"If so, you now have your chance to avenge your previous defeat," Theodore declared, spurring his horse toward the outskirts of town. Perhaps the fresh air of the countryside might help clear the confusion clouding his thoughts.

Upon reaching a familiar clearing, Theodore slowed his horse, and looked around the fields, envying the peace that surrounded them—one he did not feel inside, and doubted he might ever feel.

"Indeed, it has been an age since our last competition here, has it not?" Preston sighed, his voice carrying a blend of nostalgia and a faint trace of relief.

"I seem to recall it's also been quite some time since you tasted victory in one of our races," Theodore retorted with a small, fleeting smile.

Their shared pastime of racing was a longstanding one, stretching back to their days at Eton. To this day, Preston had yet to outpace him.

At Theodore's reminder, Preston's expression turned playfully sour, though Theodore could hear the laughter hidden just beneath his friend's feigned indignation.

"Do you remember the time we absconded with Headmaster Lyndon's horses and made our way to the North?" Preston asked, the shimmer in his eye expressing his fondness of the memory.

"And you found yourself bested once more? Oh, yes, I remember well," Theodore replied, the recollection offering a brief respite for him.

"Shall we, then?" Preston asked, his grip tightening on his reins.

"By all means," Theodore responded. "We begin at the count of three. One. Two?—"

"Three!" Preston finished, urging his horse forward. This was exactly the way they always raced. Theodore would start the count and Preston would finish it.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as they raced through the field. Preston gained a slight advantage. With a grin, he called out, "You know, Theodore, I do believe I am going to win this one!"

"Do not delude yourself, Anthony!"

"Do not delude yourself, Anthony!" He leaned forward in the saddle, urging his horse on with all his might. The ground appeared to shake beneath the hooves as he aimed toward the distant woods. "Are you still confident?" he called.

"Always!" Preston made the mistake of glancing behind, and that slowed him, giving Theodore complete advantage. With a triumphant cry, Theodore sped past Preston, reaching the edge of the field where the woods began.

His heart was pounding, and his hair was in his eyes, but he was glad he won and appreciated Preston's company.

"I should accuse you of cheating," Preston said as he stopped beside him.

"How so?" Theodore threw him a smug smile.

"By distracting me."

"I do not recall ever asking you to glance behind."

Preston held out his hand. "You deserve this win as you deserved all the others."

"Thank you!" Theodore shook his hand.

A part of him yearned for the return of those lost days of youth. Days when life unfolded with the simplicity of a child's play, devoid of the burdens that now weighed heavily upon his shoulders. Back then, he could retreat into the cloistered confines of Eton and his friends' company, a safe haven from his father's stern disapproval, and indulge in the blissful pretense of being just another boy, rather than the heir to a cursed title.

But the naive boy of his past had been compelled to mature, spurred on by a duty far greater than himself—his devotion to his sisters. Despite the trials, he wouldn't trade his place as their protector for anything in the world.

As they lingered near the woods, Theodore eventually broke the silence. "It is late. You should return to your wife, Anthony."

"My wife will understand that tonight, someone else needs my company," Preston responded. It was his way of offering solace, ensuring Theodore was not left to brood alone in the shadows of his troubles. "We should have another race," he suggested. "A proper one with an audience and wagers."

"That sounds like a splendid idea," Theodore agreed.

As the night wore on and their time together neared its end, Preston ventured, "Miss Young would make an excellent Marchioness, you know." The words, though softly spoken, struck Theodore with the force of a gale, unsettling the precarious balance he had fought to maintain.

Theodore's jaw tensed as he grappled with the implications of his friend's suggestion. "Have a good night, man," he dismissed the topic with finality, unwilling to delve deeper into the complexities that lay beneath.

Yet, as he rode back home, the reality that he might have to extend an offer of marriage loomed over him. Another disconcerting possibility was that Agnes might not desire his proposal. And amidst this maelstrom of duty and desire, he was confronted by an even more unsettling truth—he would never be able to love her.