Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

The marquess was mildly surprised at the quickness of the lunge, but felt the loosening of the lad’s foil when he’d disengaged with brutal strength. The lad had quickness, but not the strength and endurance to last for any length of time against him. He needed only to engage the boy in a continuous flurry, giving him no time to rest, and, above all, rigidly control the encounter so that Monteith couldn’t slip through his guard. He drew a wide path of control in front of him, discouraging further sudden attacks, but engaging with pounding force. He saw the uncertainty and frustration growing on the boy’s face, and held to his strategy.

Hetty knew exactly what he wanted to do. She tried to save her strength, drew back and began to stalk him, lightly on her toes, dancing in a circular direction opposite from his, just as Signore Bertioli had taught her. He drew toward her to force a flurry, and in that exact instant, she lunged forward, her right arm extended to its full length.

He evaded her attack handily, giving ground to her. She followed, her blade dancing in the silent air in the brief seconds between clashes. Then she felt the power of him, unchecked for an instant, driving her back. She saw his powerful thigh muscles bulging in his knit breeches, and felt her own legs begin to tremble. That she wasn’t a man would bring her down. That she simply didn’t have his strength would mean her death. It wasn’t fair. She wouldn’t accept it. She would beat him because she was in the right. There had to be justice somewhere. That justice had to be within her.

She was sweating and quickly dashed her hand across her eyes. Her breath was coming heavily now, and she knew she had to retreat at least a moment from him.

She took three light jumping steps backward, disengaging her blade from his, gulping in the precious air. But he was on her in an instant, his lunge curiously shallow, yet clashing against her blade with such force that her fingers nearly crumpled on their grip. She met his eyes in that moment, saw that they were calm and coolly calculating, and felt a quiver of anger at her own weakness. With more anger than skill, she stepped into the onslaught of his foil with a furious lunge. The blades crackled together and he bore his hand upward, pulling her forward until the foils were locked at their base. She hated her own harsh breathing, for he was but inches from her face and could hear her weakening. Damn him, there wasn’t even a drop of sweat on his forehead.

Hetty managed to jerk free and leapt back, almost losing her balance. Her free hand clutched wildly at the empty air, in a frantic attempt to keep from falling. Even as she regained her balance, she was aware that the marquess could have been upon her in a second. Yet, he stood silently back, the look on his face curiously dispassionate.

“Damn you,” she yelled at him. “Damn you to hell and the devil.”

The marquess readied himself for a wild lunge, his eyes, this time, resting coolly upon the boy’s right arm. He was fighting bravely and with some skill. But he was tiring visibly. It was time to bring the duel to an honorable end. Odd that he wanted it to be honorable, for Monteith. He didn’t understand himself, save that he saw something of what he’d perhaps once been in the boy, a boy who would, nevertheless, give anything to run his foil through his chest. It was a disconcerting thought, but it held him nonetheless.

Hetty wanted to leap upon him, to tear the foil from his hand. It was the severe, rapped out words of Signore Bertioli spoken on a long ago afternoon, that held her back. “Young lord, he who loses his head will most certainly lose his heart. And not, young sir, to a lady.” She’d laughed, digested his words and proceeded to feint with such subtle skill that for the only time during his tutelage, she had nearly managed to break through his guard.

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