It was ridiculous. All of it.
But she knew what she would have to do.
She would beat him at yet another one of his foolish games.
And she was sure she would. That would buy her what she needed most: time to put her plans into action.
CHAPTER 11
What have you been thinking?Nathaniel asked himself the following day as he stood ready in his fencing attire, waiting for her.
Fencing a woman was unheard of. He should’ve said no. He should have put her in her place. This was utterly ludicrous.
But of course, Evelyn had that hold over him.
No—it was not a hold, as such. It was something about her that made him forget himself entirely—something about her that made him lose control, even if just for a moment.
It was her confidence. How she had declared—without blinking—that she, Evelyn Sinclair, formerly Langley, was going to defeat him in fencing easily. He, who had fenced since he was a small boy. It was absurd.
Of course, she stood no chance. He would most certainly enjoy beating her. He would be gentle. Let her land a few decent swings to bolster her pride. It might even become an amusing story to share at Almack’s, about how feisty and fearless she was. It would be a good way to judge which men were drawn to such boldness—and which were not.
But in the end, he would teach her a lesson. She couldn’t simply mouth off and challenge him without consequence.
“You’re here,” her voice came as she strode in.
She was dressed in proper fencing attire, which entirely knocked the breath from his lungs, because it revealed the shape of her body in ways her usual gowns did not. It didn’t reveal anything improper per se, but the curve of her waist, the slope of her hip, the rounding where her breasts sat—all of it was usually concealed, and now it was not.
He felt his mouth go dry and shook his head to remind himself why he was here.
Not to ogle her. Not to lose his wits.
“I see you take the duel seriously,” she chuckled. “I was unaware this was a fight to the death.”
“You know very well what I mean.”
“I do. And I thought it was only right that I be attired properly. You had the same thought. Now—” she moved to the wall of blades, “—which saber may I use?”
He walked over and handed her one. “This one is good for?—”
“I’m not a beginner,” she interrupted, making her way across the wall and selecting one that was far too heavy, far too cumbersome.
“If you wish. But let us set rules—no changing sabers mid-fight just because you don’t like the one you picked.”
“Indeed,” she said. “Now, are you ready?”
He shook his head slightly. “I am. But I will give you one last chance to save yourself from humiliation.”
“I dare say I shall not be humiliated. If anyone eats humble pie,”—she drawled, emphasizing the word with scorn—“it shall be you, Your Grace.”
The way she spoke his title, laced with mockery, made his blood boil—and something else stir.
It was best to get it over with.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us begin.”
He took his position. So did she. And to his surprise, she looked entirely composed. Balanced. Skilled.
As their duel began, Nathaniel quickly realized he had grossly underestimated her ability.
