Page 17 of His Wild Duchess
The drunk fell into a seat beside him, earning a loud growl from Antony. The man barely flinched, his attention not wavering from George.
“Mighty fine suit you’ve got on, sir,” the man drawled. “Coulda sworn I’d seen it somewhere else recently, yes, sir.”
George let a smirk slip across his face in amusement. He eyed the man’s clothes: a neat suit with a black overcoat and white beneath. A little rose was pinned to his breast, now askew from all his staggering. White gloves poked out his front pocket. George’s smile widened.
“Did you happen to attend a wedding earlier today, Mr…?”
“Lord Keton,” the man replied, standing up straight before swaying.”
The Duke nodded. “Were you at a wedding, Lord Keton?”
“Why, yes!” Lord Keton exclaimed, bumping into a few gentlemen that passed by. “It was for that Caney girl, the spinster. And the new Yeats - I mean, Duke of Yeats. Hounton something, or like that, sir.” The man raised a brow. “Well, how’d you know that?”
George breathed deeply, not letting himself get irritated just yet. The man was still amusing, in a pitiful way. “I am the Duke of Yeats, Lord Keton,” he replied. “And it’s George Hounton, but you can call me:your Grace.”
The drunken baron went a little green in the dim lighting of Lew’s and Crake’s. The grown carried on around them, a few still eyeing George and the mastiff suspiciously.
“Apologies, your Grace, sir,” Lord Keton said, once again back to his drunken and delirious state. “What’s a married man like you doing in a place like this?”
“It’s a gentlemen’s club,” George said. “For gentlemen.”
“You’re from the colonies, aren’t you?”
George sighed, not in the mood to defend himself to one more stuck-up Londoner. “Yes, what of it?”
“Don’t the gentlemen in there go to saloons?”
George rolled his eyes and sipped his drink, not feeling relaxed at all. Not only did the arguing with his wife still haunt him, but now there was a drunken fool who wouldn’t leave him alone.
Lord Keton reached behind him, grasping onto a random drink that passed by on a tray. He downed it in a single motion, dropping the glass loudly against the table. Another growl stirred up in Antony’s throat.
“Wait a minute,” the drunken man babbled, “it’s your wedding night!”
George bristled, gripping his glass.
“Funny, how you’re here and not at home, isn’t it, your Grace?” he laughed, leaning back in his seat as his voice raised unpleasantly, gathering the attention of nearby gentlemen. “If I’d just been given a wanton bride myself, I’d avoid going home too!”
The laugh barely gurgled its way out of Lord Keton’s throat when George’s hand clasped over him. Both of their chairs clattered to the floor, and Antony rose to bark repeatedly at the baron. The sound stirred the entire club, shouts and yells echoing against the walls.
George’s world went red.
With a hand firmly clasped around the drunken man’s neck, George held the man at his eye level, hearing the tips of his feet barely scrape across the floor. He didn’t bother to squeeze or inflict any pain upon the man. The mere magnitude of his stature and strength was a threat enough. There was no way Lord Keton would ever willingly step anywhere near George or Penelope ever again.
“Keep my wife’s name out of yourfilthymouth,” George sneered, “or I’ll make sure you can’t speak a word.”
The man shook in his grasp, breath coming out like a rattle.
George felt pride swell in his chest. In the colonies, he explored a different side of himself, one that he never would have found if he stayed in England. He craved the physical contact that violence brought. Not in a cruel way or one that brought him to criminal activity, but rather, the sport of it. The dance it brought. The power that came from beating an opponent. All of it grew his confidence and strengthened his pride.
“Your Grace!”
George lowered the drunk man back into his seat, removing his hand around his throat but keeping a firm grasp on his quivering shoulder. Antony’s barks simmered into a low but menacing growl.
“Don’t worry, my good man,” George called out to the owner of Lew’s and Crake’s, who steadily approached. Not that he knew the owner directly, but he had been thrown out of enough saloons to know when the man approached. “I was just leaving,” he added before shooting a glare down towards the Lord. He lifted his hand off him, wiping it against the drunk’s sleeve as though he dirtied him.
The owner crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “I see that, your Grace.”
“Perhaps you might consider having a…stricter admissions system to your club?” George asked, flashing him a wide smile. “You wouldn’t want the likes of this drunk to be your regular customer, now would you?”
