Chapter Ten
Sarah stepped lightly forward. “En guarde!”
“You don’t actually have to shout that if you are practicing against thin air, you know,” came the placid tones of Montague from behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder with a mock scowl. “Are you purposefully here to spoil my fun?”
He grinned as he raised his hands in surrender. “Absolutely not.”
“I should think so,” said Sarah with a laugh, turning back and staring, with delight, at the foil in her hand.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, one of which had been propped open in the large gymnasium. It had not succeeded in cooling the temperature, but it had given the sense of the outdoors. Birdsong could be heard, the gentle sway of leaves in the breeze.
Sarah had done her best to drown it all out. Her entire attention had been placed on the blade in her hands.
Well. “Blade.” Try as she might, she had not yet been able to persuade Montague to give her a real sword, or foil, as he kept trying to convince her to call it. She instead had a rather impressively carved wooden version.
Montague—how easily that name slipped off the tongue—had convinced her it would hurt quite enough were someone to be hit by it.
So far, he hadn’t given her much of a chance to try.
“And lunge!”
Sarah lunged, her legs aching as they continued to practice her footwork. “This will be most excellent when my hero—”
“Less poetry, more fencing,” barked Montague. “Parry!”
Bringing up her wooden blade, heavy though it was, Sarah blocked an imaginary attack from an imaginary attacker.
It all seemed so simple now that the duke had taken the time to explain it. Why, fencing was so very simple. Only three moves when it came down to it, and—
“Riposte!”
And there were so many things she could include in her poem now. She had made scattered notes all through her pocketbook. It would take at least an afternoon to—
“Riposte, Sarah!”
Sarah blinked. Montague had a stern yet sympathetic expression. “I beg your—”
He shook his head. “Riposte! Are your characters going to be just as inattentive as you?”
Her characters, Sarah wanted to say, were nothing compared to him. Whenever she had thought of heroes, she had pictured a man swanning about with witty quips.
Not devilishly handsome dukes who stamped about the place snapping at everyone, except…except for her. Sometimes.
Delight prickled up the nape of her neck. Not that she should be seeing too much into that. She must not see attraction where deference—
“Are you going to riposte, or do I need to come over there and make you?”
An image flashed through Sarah’s mind—of Montague stepping forward, determination in his eye, his hands on her wrists, moving her body in a determined manner.
She shivered. She should not feel so much…well, excitement from such an imagining, but there was something darkly delicious about the concept.
Perhaps she could include it in the final part of her po—
“Sarah Lockwood!”
“Riposte!” she said hastily, twisting the wooden blade. “There, will that do?”
Montague sighed in despair. “The riposte is supposed to be a fluid counterattack chosen by the defender after parrying! Not a wiggle of the blade in someone’s face!”
She grinned. “Give me an opponent and you’ll see how excellent my riposte can be.”
He rolled his eyes.
Well, he was asking for such a retort! Since the very first time they had stepped into the gymnasium together—much to his chagrin, if her memory served her correctly—she had been hoping to have a duel.
Not a true duel, per se. Sarah was not foolish enough to think she could outsmart the man. But still—a real fight. To hear the clash of the wooden blades, feel the rush of—
“And parry!”
Trying to concentrate on the orders barked from across the room, Sarah focused on her footwork. Lunging, parrying, and offering ripostes, which were apparently better, though still unremarkable.
And her mind flashed with ideas. A riposte that led to a lunge! One of her heroes twisting, attempting a parry then staggering backward! A lunge that appeared to have failed but was a dummy all along!
“There,” he said briskly as she came to a halt. “Well done.”
It was rare praise indeed, but she could not think of that. She could only imagine what her poem would be like when she was finished with it—now that she had all this knowledge.
Sarah brushed hair from her eyes and turned to Montague, eyes shining. “Thank you—oh, thank you so much!”
For some reason, he looked uncomfortable with her gratitude. “It was nothing.”
“Nothing?” Sarah shook her head. Did he not see how appreciative she was? “There was something sorely missing in my poem. All these details, one cannot pay for—”
“You have paid for it,” Montague pointed out with a sardonic grin. “You paid for these lessons.”
But she brushed aside his comment. He knew what she meant. “You are by far a much better tutor than I would have expected.”
“For a stranger?”
“For a duke, I suppose.”
The words had slipped out without any thought as Sarah strode forward, whipping the wooden blade through the air.
Only when she saw Montague’s face did she see she’d offended. “I do not mean—”
“Yes, what precisely did you mean?” he asked, eyebrow arched.
Sarah hesitated. That was the trouble with Montague Lancaster, Duke of Caelfall. It was impossible to tell sometimes if he was genuinely irritated or just waiting to see how long she would continue to embarrass herself.
“You…you know what I mean,” she hazarded.
A twinkle appeared in his eye. “No, I don’t.”
Sarah whipped the wooden blade through the air, delighting in the sound it made. Why, no wonder gentlemen of old went about the place with swords at their sides! It gave one a wonderful sense of power. One she rather enjoyed.
Then she allowed her hand to fall to her side as Montague continued to examine her seriously. “I just meant you are a duke, not someone trained in teaching. You probably never taught anyone anything in their lives. You know I meant naught but that.”
Her progress across the gymnasium had ended right before him, which meant even if Sarah had wanted to, she could not avoid his serious expression.
“You are right, in the main,” Montague said quietly, leaning against his cane. “Teaching is not something I have much experience in. Ordering about, certainly.”
Sarah repressed a mischievous smile. “Which you do very well.”
“Cheek! Though, again, you are right. Being a duke was not something I could have earned, nor something I aspired to. It was my birthright, and I hope I have earned the respect of those around me by my conduct.”
All of a sudden, the mirth of their conversation seeped away. Sarah saw the seriousness in his eyes, the earnestness with which he spoke.
He was a good man. Of that, she was absolutely certain. There were probably dukes—not that she had met them—who treated their position with frivolity. But not Montague.
Why, he even wished to return to France, Sarah thought with a stifled shiver. To serve.
“Now, are you ready for a duel?”
Sarah’s eyes widened as her head jerked up. “I beg your pardon?”
Montague was placing his cane by the rack of foils and carefully examining them. “Have you not been asking for a duel since the moment you arrived here?”
A duel? With him? A man, a gentleman moreover, a duke!
“Y-Yes,” Sarah stammered, fingers tightening around the wooden blade in her hand. It felt ineffectual as she watched Montague pick a similar one.
He nodded. “Well then.”
“B-But—I don’t know enough to have a duel!” Sarah said with a laugh. He could not be serious. “You might—I could—”
He brought the wooden foil up to his face, holding it in the beginning position. “You are the poet, Sarah, and I bow to your expertise in wordy matters, but in this, I am the expert. And you cannot write a duel scene without dueling yourself.”
Sarah’s heart was hammering in her chest.
Well, she could not argue with him, could she? She had been aching for a duel, a chance to prove herself, an opportunity to see if she had truly learned anything.
The trouble was…
If she were honest with herself, she was more than a little nervous about hurting the man.
Not that, if he was healthy, she would have a chance in heaven of even touching him, Sarah thought wildly as he led her to the center of the gymnasium. If Montague’s leg had healed from his injury, he would be running literal rings around her.
Her stomach tightened as he told her to stay there, then walked away six paces.
But he was injured, wasn’t he? Sarah watched him. Every other step was tight, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. How was she supposed to help him lose gracefully?
The wretched thought overwhelmed her as Montague turned on the spot and wobbled slightly, his right leg obviously unable to entirely take his weight.
She bit her lip. “We don’t have to—”
“Just three points,” said Montague briskly. “I wouldn’t wish to exhaust you.”
Sarah hesitated. It was not herself she was concerned for. “If you are sure—”
“En guarde!”
She almost did not react in time. Montague launched forward, footwork impeccable, injury seemingly forgotten. Sarah almost stumbled as she retreated, her own footwork sloppy as her memory kicked in.
The wooden foil she held was hanging by her side and it was with great effort that she managed to parry off his first attack.
But it did not remain his only attack for long. Sarah’s breath hitched in her throat, heart pounding as she swiftly attempted to attack but was immediately blocked by a clever twist of Montague’s wooden blade.
“That’s not fair!”
“Why?” he asked with a grin.
Sarah could not help but laugh breathlessly. “You haven’t taught me that yet!”
“Ah well, you have the advantage of me on footwork,” Montague said with a shrug. “I thought it only fair to even the odds.”
That was when Sarah decided she would not hold back. Trying desperately to remember everything Montague had taught her—including the things she had found most dull at the time—she attacked, lunged, parried, and even managed a riposte or three.