She advanced first, her blade slicing forward with confident energy. He parried with ease, flicked his wrist, and countered—but she blocked him neatly. Her feet moved with precision—heels lifting slightly, then tapping down as she shifted her weight like a trained fencer. She lunged again, and he had to retreat three steps to avoid her.
He narrowed his eyes. She was quick.
They circled, blades clicking in an elegant, brutal rhythm. His wrist flicked right—feint. She didn’t fall for it. He tried a low cut—she parried high and riposted, catching the edge of his sleeve. He barely twisted in time to avoid a proper hit.
“You’ve been practicing,” he muttered.
“I never said I hadn’t,” she said, eyes flashing. “Only that I wasn’t allowed.”
She pressed again, faster now. Their sabers clashed, the metallic rings filling the room. She made a shallow cut at his shoulder—he dodged and advanced, his blade nearly grazing her arm, but she spun away.
She wasn’t just competent. She was enjoying herself.
Then she slipped.
She charged forward, but her grip was off balance. He stepped aside, and her saber clanged to the ground.
“You’re not holding it right,” he said. “You must?—”
“I know what I must do,” she fired back, irritated at having lost the advantage.
“I dare say, the way you’re fencing, I am beginning to believe you don’t wish to stop receiving suitors. Is it possible you seek to lose on purpose?”
“I do not,” she snapped. Of course, she hadn’t. She had given her all up to now.
“Then why will you not let me show you how to hold it properly?”
Her shoulders slumped. She exhaled. “Very well. Show me, then.”
He walked toward her, stepping behind her. Gently, he placed his hand along her extended arm. Her skin was smooth and cool. As he adjusted her grip, her scent—orange and soft vanilla—floated around him. He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled.
He pressed against her slightly, just enough to adjust her stance. But as he did, he could not deny the urge to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in that scent.Fool.
“Nathaniel,” she said, and he jolted slightly.
“Yes,” he said quickly, lifting her hand a bit. “You must hold it like this.” He repositioned her fingers around the grip, and something flickered in him at the softness of her skin beneath his hands.
Once satisfied, he stepped back. “That is better. And—you ought to move your hips back a little.”
He hesitated—then, acting without thinking, he placed his hand on her hip and pulled it gently backward into the proper form.
She gasped and turned her head slightly, eyes wide. “You?—”
“You wish to win, do you not?” he said coolly.
She narrowed her eyes—but then nodded. “Very well. Shall we?”
They resumed the duel.
And this time, she came at him stronger.
Their blades danced again—parry, lunge, riposte. He tested her defenses and found them far improved. Her footwork is tighter.Her blade is faster. The match was longer than he anticipated. He was sweating now.
A flick of her wrist—he nearly lost his grip. She grinned. He growled.
It was a battle now. An honest one. And though he could beat her—he knew he could—he began to wonder if he should.
If he won, she would go to Almack’s. He would parade her around and introduce her to eligible men. And likely, one would suit her. She would be gone.
