Chapter Four #2
The gymnasium door creaked as Sarah opened it and she winced, hating the attention it would inevitably draw toward her.
As she closed the door, she saw Montague, face dark and glowering as ever. As though she could avoid his notice in an empty room. As though she wished to.
Sarah pushed away the thought. She was becoming a little too much like a hussy, to use her mother’s expression!
“You are late,” Montague snapped.
Trying not to think of him as Montague and instead as His Grace, the Duke of Caelfall—as she should—Sarah stepped forward.
“The letter only arrived minutes ago,” she pointed out reasonably, her footsteps echoing in the large room.
Summer sunlight drifted through the large windows, and there was a smell of polish in the air. Her foot squeaked. Newly polished, she would say.
The duke did not look pleased. Perhaps that sparked the rebellion in Sarah’s chest.
Before she knew what she was doing, she said, “Besides, you never know—I may have had a prior engagement.”
The look on Montague’s face was one of absolute astonishment. “You—you did?”
Now why did he look so surprised? Sarah tried not to dwell on it, but words were her passion, and expressions something she had always struggled to depict with words.
Did he think her so unpopular in society she had no invitations?
A twist in her stomach forced guilt through Sarah’s heart. Well, she supposed, technically, that was true. Few people sent invitations to her anymore, not after declining—or ignoring—so many.
But still. Her mother was still respected. They were still invited to things together.
“I didn’t, as it happens,” Sarah said, flushing at the very thought.
She should not have said that—she had been too forward. That was the word her mother used to describe any young lady she did not like.
“You should have kept an eye on the time,” said the duke gruffly.
Sarah frowned. “How am I supposed to predict what day and time you arranged—”
“I just think you should, that’s all,” Montague snapped.
It was on the tip of her tongue to point out how unreasonable the man was being, but she had managed to come this close to fencing and did not want to stumble at the final hurdle.
She could see, out of the corner of her eye, a rack of swords. Her fingers tingled to get hold of one, to feel its weight, to know the strength and power of wielding one.
That was why she was here. Not to argue with handsome—with dukes.
“I don’t have a pocket watch and I am not a mind reader,” Sarah said quietly, eyes downcast. “If you wish to organize a regular time for our lessons, I shall do my best to remain at home on those days.”
“Remain at home?”
There was such confusion on Montague’s face it almost made her laugh.
“Of course,” she said politely, wondering why on earth this had confused him. “So I know the time. So as not to be late.”
Montague frowned. “Why not just look at your pocket watch?”
She did laugh this time, though Sarah brought it to a sudden stop as she saw him flinch. “I beg your pardon, Mont—Your Grace, I mean. But ladies do not wear pocket watches. At least, most ladies do not.”
The man blinked. “How in heaven’s name do you tell the time?”
Sarah shrugged. “That is an excellent question.”
They stood in silence for a moment, Sarah enjoying his look of bewilderment. It did her good, she reflected, to have surprised him. He was always surprising her, after all.
Her gaze flickered to the cane by his side. His hand was gripping it so tightly his bones were white against his skin.
Her curiosity soared once again, but she said nothing. It would be most uncouth to ask directly about such a thing, and she had already learned more than enough about the man’s temper to know how that sort of question would be received.
Montague sighed. “Well, you are here now, I suppose. And you want to learn this for a poem?”
Sarah nodded, stomach twisting. She prepared herself for a lecture much like the one she had endued from her mother on several occasions.
Poetry was not for ladies. What did she hope to achieve by it? Why did she—
“Right, well, we’ll want to start with footwork, your stance,” said Montague matter-of-factly. “Safest thing, that way you’ll learn about the sport itself. That, I think, will be useful for this duel of yours. First—”
“You mean I don’t get to play with a sword?” Sarah could not help asking, pointing to the rack.
The duke winced. “Foils?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“They are called foils, or an épée, or a saber—”
“Oooh, a saber!”
“But we’ll work with foils,” Montague snapped, his gruff manner returning. “If you’re going to write about this sort of thing, the least you could do is get the terms right.”
Sarah flushed. That was what she was here for. To learn. How was she supposed to know that?
“Now, you’ll want to put your feet like this.”
She had to look at Montague again as he moved his feet—one of them with great difficulty. It was all she could do not to blush again.
How did the man have such a…a presence? Was it being a duke? Was it being a gentleman—a man at all?
The whole gymnasium felt full of him, his presence, his power. Just looking at him—
“Miss Lockwood!”
Sarah flinched at the sharpness of his tone and immediately attempted to replicate the stance he had taken. “My apologies, I was thinking of…” No, she could not say that. “I was thinking.”
The duke snorted. “I am sure you were. Take your stance.”
Sarah looked down. She had done—at least, she thought she had. It was hard to tell if her feet mirrored those of the duke for her voluminous summer skirts, layers and layers of cotton and muslin, entirely obscured her feet.
Sharp annoyance twinged her heart. Why did everything have to be so difficult—far more so for ladies than for gentlemen!
“It’s going to be impossible to learn like this,” she muttered under her breath, half forgetting the duke could hear her. “Right.”
Not thinking of the consequences, only eager to learn as best she could from a man who so clearly had no wish to teach, Sarah lifted her skirts to reveal shoes, ankles, and her lower calves.
There was a sharp intake of breath.
For a moment, Sarah was confused. Only when she looked up and saw the crimson stained cheeks of the Duke of Caelfall did she realize who had gasped so audibly at the sight of her legs.
Montague stood there, staring as though he had never seen a woman before.
Sarah flushed, embarrassment overcoming her—but that emotion was not alone. It was accompanied by one she had never felt before, and its bizarre discomfort rattled her far more than embarrassment did.
And then it settled, and became…delight?
It was delightful, Sarah discovered, to see the way Montague responded. For he was responding, that much was obvious. His eyes were wide, greedily taking in the sight of her. He had even, unless she was dreaming it, stepped toward her.
Sarah swallowed. She had never had power over men. In truth, she had never sought it. Power over men would require her to speak to them, after all, and that was something she assiduously avoided.
Perhaps if the gentlemen of Oxford had been like Montague, she might have thought differently. It was splendid, seeing the effect just a few inches of leg had over the man.
Power soared through her veins. This was wonderful! She had never expected such authority over a man. In truth, before now, if she had been offered it, she would have shied away from such a thing.
But this…this she rather liked.
“Like this?” she said innocently, looking up at Montague.
She watched with pleasure as his throat bobbed.
“Y-Yes,” he croaked, before coughing and turning away. “Yes, that is not bad.”
Sarah smiled, forcing it away as the duke turned and started barking more orders. Perhaps they would both enjoy these fencing lessons more than they thought.