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“Lord Perrin…” said Mr. Rose with no sign of regret. “I suggest you haven’t seen anything.”

Lucien finally caught up to Dorian, panting. Taking a look at both his friend and Mr. Rose, he shook his head. “Not another duel,” Lucien said as he came to stand by Dorian. “Don’t challenge him to a duel, you oaf! The girl is no one to you! Give him a good smack in the face and let him go.”

“Do maids not deserve to have their honor protected?” growled Dorian as the rage he felt inside crashed against his guts like a storm surge. It was not just about the maid’s honor. “Who’s going to step up for her?”

He needed someone to fight. He needed something to destroy. A pretty man like Mr. John Rose would just do the trick.

“Dorian—” There it was, the warning tone he’d heard from Lucien thousands of times.

Dorian… Just before he’d taken a cricket bat and smashed his papa’s favorite colonial vases when he was eight, after Papa had killed his lamb, Bramble.

Dorian… Just before Dorian had smashed his fist into a pulp hitting the wall over and over after Papa had taken Mama away. He’d locked her in an estate up north because she was too soft with Dorian. Because she was undoing the effects of Papa’s spartan education.

Dorian… Just before Dorian had taken the fencing sword and slashed Papa’s favorite portrait commissioned by Sir Thomas Lawrence, a famous artist, into ribbons. That was after Papa had broken Chastity’s microscope and forbidden her to even think about studying anatomy and reading medical books. She was supposed to be the perfect lady. A socialite, learning manners and the subtle ways of leading a social conversation.

“You bastard,” growled Dorian, looking into John Rose’s smug face. Not a sign of remorse in his eyes.

“Why, did I take your turn with her?” asked Rose. “I apologize. You should have said.”

“You were assaulting her,” Dorian growled. “I demand satisfaction!”

“What is going on?” asked yet another voice as someone else appeared in the mews.

Distantly, Dorian noticed it was Sir Bertram, who studied botany and was often seen together with Mr. Rose.

John Rose’s face fell in surprise. “A duel? Because of a maid? It’s not your honor I offended…” He frowned in confusion. “Did I?”

“You offended her honor,” growled Dorian. “She has no one to defend her, so I will.”

John Rose shook his head slowly. “Sir, I have to say, your reputation is true. No one has called more duels in the history of Oxford than you.”

“Shut up,” spat Dorian. “Do you accept?”

“What is going on?” asked the Duke of Pryde, who emerged from the door with a puzzled look and stood next to Sir Bertram.

Dorian knew Pryde, like most aristocratic sons knew each other, but had never liked him very much as the man seemed to be aloof, stuck-up, and rigid. Perhaps he reminded him of his father. Father would have loved Pryde as he would have been the perfect son.

“It appears I’m challenged to a duel,” said Rose. “And I didn’t even offend the man himself.”

“Come on, Perrin,” jeered Bertram, “let this go. You’ve already called five duels this autumn.”

“Lord Perrin?” asked Pryde. “Is this true?”

“He offended the honor of a woman, and she has no way of defending herself. I must defend her honor.”

Pryde winced, looking Rose over. By that time he didn’t look ruffled, his shirt back in his breeches, his coat on his shoulders, the rosy blush on his cheeks.

“Mr. Rose is not a dishonorable man,” said Pryde. “He wouldn’t assault a woman. You must be mistaken, Lord Perrin.”

“Do you accept my challenge, or will you be a coward and dishonor yourself even further?” growled Dorian through gritted teeth.

Rose paled a little but straightened his neck and nodded. “I accept.”

“I’ll be your second,” said Pryde.

Lucien sighed and shook his head. “I’ll be yours, Dorian.”

“First light in the morning. Shotover Park,” threw Dorian. “Your choice of weapon.”