Geek Girls Don't Date Dukes

Pursing her lips, Lady Chesterfield paced in front of the wide hearth. Muriel looked on, fingers twisting her apron. The only sound for several long moments was the soft crackle and pop of the fire. Leah linked her fingers in front of her, willing her lungs to draw in oxygen deeply and evenly. Hopefully Lady Chesterfield could help her figure this out.

“May I be plain, Miss Ramsey?”

Leah nodded. “Please.”

Lady Chesterfield continued, “In your position as a temporary servant in the household, it is only natural that you would develop a tendre for another servant, as a presumed equal. But”—she crossed over to Leah and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder—“I cannot think that your Mrs. Knightsbridge wished for you to marry a mere valet. With my patronage, you will be welcomed into society. You need not settle for a commoner.”

Leah sank back into the chair as Lady Chesterfield continued.

“Is it not possible that your feelings were magnified by your difficult position? Should you not pursue what you had desired in order to discover its worth?” The woman grasped Leah’s hands. “I only wish to assist you, dear. And I would be very remiss indeed if I allowed you to set your cap for a valet when you could have snared a duke.”

Doubt began to creep into the edges of Leah’s consciousness. She’d really enjoyed Avery’s kiss, she knew that. But was it because she was so desperate for this to work? Was it because she was scared and lonely, and she’d mistaken his kindness to her for something else? Or was it because she was afraid to put herself out there and be rejected again?

Her grandfather would never let her relax if she settled for less than the absolute best. Only one way to know.

Her mind made up, Leah gave a tight nod.

“Let’s do this.”

Sixteen

The carriage rolled into the outskirts of Holborn, bearing Avery nearer to the mill. Avery rode up top with the driver, with His Grace comfortable on the inside of the conveyance. Breathing deeply, Avery looked down as the ground rolled along beneath the horses’ feet. He must clear his mind, make himself ready to face his opponent. He must win this match. There was no choice for him.

A playful breeze tossed his hair, at odds with the churning in his guts. Prachett would be at the tourney today. He’d be expecting Avery to spin the match to his specifications. Though Prachett had never paid Avery for his participation in the underhanded dealings, he had forgiven a portion of Avery’s debt.

But now that Avery owed Prachett nothing? He’d fight honestly. And, if all went well, he’d win.

The apothecary had sent a messenger around just before they’d left for Holborn. The medicine for his aunt’s ailment would cost more the next time around, as the ingredients were becoming scarce. It was more critical than ever that he win today’s purse.

They arrived by the ring much before Avery was ready. He disembarked from the carriage with thinly disguised trepidation. Prachett would be here soon. Avery’s needs didn’t matter to Prachett. He wasn’t after the purse; he was after the hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds to be gained from betting on the right man.

“Hoy, Russell,” Jenks, Avery’s bottle man, called from the corner of the roped-off square that would serve as their stage.

“Jenks.” Avery nodded a greeting as he stripped to the waist. The crowds were drawing closer to the ring, each man attempting to get the best vantage for the upcoming brawl. The shouts and raucous laughter did nothing to calm his nerves or fray them. He’d stopped thinking of them as humans. They were cattle, mindless animals that brayed and milled about while he did his duty.

He moved lightly back and forth on his feet, relishing the feel of blood pumping harder through his veins. As he moved, Jenks spoke.

“You’re to face Martin Peters, a young scrapper just come up from Brighton. He lasted near two hours in his last fight, and would have won had Lockston not tripped him so underhanded-like. He’ll be spoiling for a tough ’un, s’truth.”

Avery nodded. “Then we shall give him what he asks for.”

Jenks laughed, tossing a rag over his shoulder. “That’s it, m’lad. His Grace will be glad of that, and the rest of the Fancy too, I’ll wager. Becoming quite their darling, you are.”

Jenks walked away from him then, leaving Avery to his exercises.

The earth was damp beneath his feet. Fortunately the rains had stopped early the day prior, or his bout would have been a much colder, more inhospitable affair. As it was, his breath fogged from his mouth and nose as he stretched his limbs.

Closing his eyes, he bent forward to stretch his spine. As it always did, the image of his mother leaped unbidden to his mind. He did not try to stop the horrendous memory from playing out, as he used to. Experience had taught him that was a useless endeavor.

They’d been delivering a meal to an elderly woman in the parish. On their return, his mother had looked at him and smiled.

“Do you know why I love you so, Avery?”

He’d grinned, looking up into his mother’s face. “No, why?”

She’d laid a comforting hand on his back, rubbing softly. “Because you are kind and good. You help me to remember to smile.”

She’d hugged him close to her side, and he breathed her in deeply. He’d been so young then.

The brigand had come upon them only moments later. The wild-eyed man had grabbed his mother’s basket, spilling the food over the roadway. His mother screamed, grabbing for her young son. But Avery had ripped free of his mother’s grasp to leap upon the man and defend her.

She’d fallen so quickly. The sharp crack of her skull on the rock haunted him even now.

And here he was again, ready to fight another man. It seemed that he killed her anew every time he stepped into the square to fight.

But this time, his violence ensured his aunt’s survival. It was his atonement for his mother’s death. He could never bring her back, but he could keep his aunt, her only sister, alive for her.

A prickle of warning spread across his shoulders, and he turned. Of course. Prachett approached, flanked by two of his men. The menacing smile on Prachett’s face boded ill. Avery stood silent, filling his broad chest with air. Calm. He must remain calm.

“Russell.” Prachett’s voice slid over Avery like grease. “’Tis good to see you here.”

Avery said nothing.

“It has been much too long since you’ve been among us. Peters is a newcomer and lost his first. You know where the bets will fall today, don’t you, lad?”

Avery shook out his fists, wishing he could use them to pummel Prachett into the dirt instead of young Peters.

“The right people are betting against you. And you must make sure that they win.”

Avery stilled, spearing Prachett with a look. “I cannot throw the match. The purse is too—”

Prachett’s laugh cut him off. “Oy, Russell, you lost your purse when you refused to fight today. I had to pay my men to convince you. You’ll fight, and you’ll lose, and your life is the only prize you’ll claim.” Prachett stepped close, his men shadowing him. “If you wish to live, you’ll make sure to allow Peters the victory. If you do not…” The glint of a knife flashed, and a sharp prick lanced his side. Avery froze, impotent anger crushing over him. “Peters will win. And make it look good, lad. I have use for you later, so I should hate to leave your body for the dogs tonight.”

The knife disappeared, and Prachett and his lackeys walked away.