Page 24 of Six Nights to Marry a Marquess

“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.

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