Chapter Ten
S he shouldn’t have disclosed that fact. Obviously, he surmised, for absolutely no reason other than perhaps she was a forward-thinking woman for having the secret skill of fencing, that she was a forward moving woman in other areas as well. Well, she wasn’t. And it was no more painfully clear to her than at this moment, with his soft, warm breath against her neck, and his soft, warm fingers stroking her ear, that she had not ever been in such close quarters with a man. Let alone such a gorgeous specimen of a man.
Why had she exposed herself to him? It was bad enough the cut was stinging, she didn’t need her heart and her pride stinging as well.
But the words were out there.
And his look of shock, quickly covered in a cool demeanor, had her heart rate pulsing. What was he going to do with his newfound knowledge?
“Never?” he whispered, another stroke along her ear.
“What kind of woman do you take me for, Duke?” The tone she was going for was umbrage, but the execution sounded much more strained.
“You know…I’m not quite so sure anymore.” He was leaning toward her. His lips were inches from her face.
This was not how she had imagined her first kiss. She could feel control slipping from her fingers. And if she lost her grip on it completely, she wasn’t exactly sure where her fingers would end up. His dark, silky locks. His rippling bicep covered in a mere thin layer of linen. His sharp jaw. There were so many places to explore. So many manly places she had denied herself. Even in her imagination. She was a spinster. She was going to open a fencing school for girls. She had plans. But right now, those plans were being threatened by parted, lush lips.
And more importantly, she was not impulsive. Especially when being impulsive meant jumping into something she wasn’t confident in. If she was going to do something in the spur of the moment, it would be something she knew she was good at. And, sadly, kissing wasn’t one of those skills. Having never done it. There was no way she was going to show that level of vulnerability to Wesley.
“I’m fine,” her voice struggled for clarity. But at least it had accomplished its objective. The leaning stilled.
She brushed his hand off of her neck and checked the cut.
“You’re still bleeding.”
“It’s just a scratch. I’m fine. Did you come here to fence or not? A moment more, and I’ll question your motives, sir.” What she meant was that she would question them a whole lot more than she already did.
She stood and marched over to the piste, holding her blade high. But it wasn’t the same as yesterday. Yesterday had been full of anticipation and eagerness. There was a thrill in the air. Today the thrill was replaced by a chill.
Whatever heat had been simmering between them as they sat on the floor together had grown cold.
And she knew she wasn’t alone in feeling tense. Truth be told, it was not a good state to be in when engaging in combat, even a friendly one.
The blades met, and from the first clang, she knew this way led to trouble. It was a harbinger of dread to heed.
She lunged, attacked low outside. He retreated with not quite panic, but something in that realm, on his face. His flustered state was his demise, for her quick advance had him retreating again. Attack. Parry. Riposte. And then an advance-lunge caused him to retreat again, but he tripped on his own foot, and with a yelp he fell to the ground in a heap. She saw how his ankle had turned when he fell, and it didn’t look good.
The bout was over. Perhaps more than that. No man wanted to be bested—nay, humiliated—in such a fashion by a woman. No man’s pride could take such a beating.
But she couldn’t ease up on him. She wasn’t the type to let someone else win when she was clearly the better athlete. At least in this sport. If he wanted to win, he would have to earn it. If he wanted to court her, he had to earn that, too. And hadn’t she conceded her sisters’ point that if she wanted to know him, she needed to reveal herself to him as well? What a terrible concession. Look what it had led to. A grown man on his arse at her hand. It was almost amusing except that it was vexing beyond belief.
He was the catalyst of some very aggravating changes in herself of late. She just wanted to know the truth. What was he about? But she was too irritated to push him today. She had probably pushed him to his limits already anyway.
“That’s three,” she stated. Not triumphantly. Not pitifully. Just as a fact. She put out her hand to help him up, knowing his ankle would be sore.
With a grunt, he pushed himself to standing and gingerly took a step. He winced. And then he cursed.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
He was fine. She was fine.
Everyone was fine.
*
Wesley did his utmost to disguise the limp in his gait as he left Boudicca’s house. That had been such a disaster. His pride had never been struck from so many angles, with such rapidity. He was not the kind to lay down in defeat, yet he had literally lain at her feet. Defeated. Again.
It was all the more reason to continue fencing. He would most certainly learn something from her and her style of combat. Hopefully, it would give him enough of an edge to claim victory over Samuel in the upcoming tournament. Speaking of Samuel, the four of them had an engagement planned this afternoon.
Really, the last thing he wanted to do was meet his Betting Buddies for lunch now. But he did need to eat. And he was not one to renege on his commitments.
And they were not the kind to let things slide.
“What’s the limp all about?” James asked before Wesley could even sit down.
“Mind if I get a drink first, James?” He ordered a brandy and sat back in his seat, still under their scrutiny.
“Did you fall?” Chris asked.
“Yes.”
Samuel must have caught something in his tone or in his face because he followed up with his own interrogation. “How did you fall?”
“I was fencing.”
“Ah…practicing for the upcoming tournament were you? Do you think you can beat me this time?” Samuel was already digging for a bet. “Shall we place a wager on it?” He made a point to peer down at Wesley’s foot. “Or will your injury heal in time?”
“I’m fine.” Wesley straightened his spine. “I’ll be ready, and I’ll win. So you had better prepare to pay up if you’re planning to put a wager on it.”
Samuel laughed. “Right.” He looked around the table. “So, anyone in for one hundred pounds?”
James and Chris both bet on Samuel, the traitors.
“Where were you fencing?” Chris asked and then took a bite of his mint and fennel mackerel.
His friends were many things, but gossips they were not. So Wesley deemed it safe to divulge Boudicca’s secret.
“Where do you think? Who have I been with every morning since the bet we made?”
“Boudicca?” James’ eyebrows shot upward while Chris continued eating.
“Come to think of it…” Wesley turned to Chris. “You probably already knew this secret, didn’t you? With how familiar you are with the family.”
Chris neither confirmed nor denied the accusation.
“Are there any other secrets I need to know about?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
“Couldn’t be more helpful than that, I suppose?”
Chris smiled and shook his head.
“I appreciate that you’re a man of few words, but I could use a couple if you have any to spare.”
“Well, all I can say about Boudicca is that she’s always on guard.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.”
“You know, she’s actually a lot like you.” Chris hugged one arm across his body. “You’re both competitive.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that as well.”
Chris threw up his hands. “Well, what else do you want to know if you know it all?”
How to win her over. How to get a kiss out of her. How to beat her in a bout.
“Never mind.” He stuffed a piece of mackerel into his mouth. “I don’t know why I bothered asking.”
“Really, Wes. I don’t recall the last time I saw you this irritated.” James stared at him.
“Haven’t been sleeping the greatest.” He rubbed his back where his recent sleep on the settee had caused a small kink in his shoulder.
“You’re not usually easily rattled. There’s not a chance that the chit is getting under your skin, is there?”
“No. Not a chance.”
“Don’t say you’re backing out of the bet? She’s quite the kraken, but she can’t be too much for you to manage, can she?”
“I can manage.”
“He’s probably just upset that she beat him in the fencing match,” Samuel jested, not knowing his conjecture was actually the truth. When the three laughed and Wesley didn’t join in, Samuel’s laughter turned to shock.
“She didn’t,” he whispered reverently, “did she?”
Wesley couldn’t bring himself to admit his defeat. It was one thing to lose in front of her, and she could gloat about it in her own mind, and likely to her sisters. It was another entirely for that victory to be more publicly advertised.
“Right, Samuel. Like I’d lose to a chit.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Chris said. “She’s a master wielding a blade.”
“So you do know more? Is it just a selective sharing then?” Wesley asked, aggravated.
James slapped Wesley on the shoulder, “Settle yourself, Wes.” He chuckled. “The chit has you riled up and she’s not even here. I would say she’s got her claws in you, though I don’t know how she did it.”
“There are no claws, and there’s nothing under my skin. It’s just this cursed ankle, that’s all. It needs to be elevated.” As much as it pained him to admit a weakness of any kind, it was better to blame his foul mood on his physical pain than the real source of his irritation. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”
“As long as you don’t fall apart on me old man, I can’t wait to take you on in the tournament. It’s always a good day when I win. Though I must say, it won’t be quite as satisfying if you’re injured. Oh, I’ll still take the win, don’t misunderstand me, but it just won’t quite have that same”—he punched a hand into his palm—“oomph. You know what I mean?”
Wesley knew exactly what he meant. The two were cut from the same cloth. Obnoxious competitors. So Samuel’s taunting only fueled a demand inside of himself to be better. Do more. Mostly, the dynamic was healthy. It was a good thing Wesley came for lunch. He had a growing fire lit under his arse to win both the tournament and the bet.
His ankle would be better tomorrow. He would will it better, and he would fence with Boudicca. And then he would win. Whatever it was that needed to be won, he would win it. That’s all that mattered.