Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

She became aware of the calm yet expectant stance of the marquess. He expects me to lunge wildly, she realized with a start. Very well, let him think it to be so.

She clumsily lurched forward, her foil extended its full length, its tip aimed for his heart.

The marquess saw his opportunity, for Monteith had forfeited his guard. He swiftly parried the boy’s blade to one side and lunged at his upper arm.

In that instant, Hetty executed the Italian master’s most difficult trick: she drew back her blade, jumped quickly to the side, deflecting his blade from her arm, and lunged with all her strength toward his shoulder.

From instinct born of long practice, the marquess whirled about, slid his foil under Monteith’s and threw the boy off balance. But he couldn’t temper the force of his lunge, and with sickening ease, he felt the tip of his blade slice into Monteith’s side.

Hetty jerked her head up, startled that she’d failed. She felt a prick in her side, then a strange cold sensation, as if a slap of frigid air had hit her skin. The marquess stood frozen in front of her, his face pale, set.

She saw that his foil was covered from its tip to almost a quarter of its length in bright red. It is blood, my blood, she thought, but she felt no pain.

She heard the earl of March’s voice. “Hold Monteith. Lord Oberlon has drawn blood. It’s over.”

Over? No, nothing was over. Was the earl blind? Did he and the marquess expect her to crawl away in dishonor because of a slight prick in her side? She cried out suddenly, her voice strong and clear, “Damn you, Jason Cavander. I’ve just begun with you! En garde!” She felt strong, confident, as if her body no longer existed only her mind and her arm, the foil its extension.

The marquess shot a helpless glance at the earl. He had time for naught else, for Monteith lunged at him with the fury of demons from hell. He leapt back, parrying the thrust. He saw the glazed look of purpose in the lad’s eyes and knew that his mind had closed itself to any pain. The lad would bleed to death before he realized how badly he was wounded. The small circle of blood that stained the loose white shirt was spreading rapidly, flattening the material against the wound.

He called out over the hissing of the blades, “Monteith, draw in! Look at your side.”

He might as well have spoken to the wind, for though Hetty heard his words, her mind refused to allow her to understand their significance. She heard herself laugh aloud, a strong, triumphant laugh. She pressed him, her blade cutting so swiftly through the air that he backed away and to the side to diminish the force of her thrusts.

The attack was unmeasured, wild. The marquess was very aware that there was no timing or skill in the frantic lunges. The boy’s mind keeps him from seeing the truth of the matter, the marquess thought with growing concern. If he didn’t quickly bring the duel to a halt, the boy would die. He knew Monteith was beyond understanding, and he swallowed back further words of warning.

For the next several minutes, the marquess gave ground, parrying thrust after wild thrust, his movements wholly defensive. The boy was tiring, his attack so awkward and ill-timed that the marquess could have easily slipped through his guard. Yet, he held back. He was waiting for the instant when he could catch Monteith’s foil high near his hand and rip it from his fingers. He watched, parried, his eyes alert, waiting for the perfect moment.

He is weakening and falling back, Hetty’s mind told her. Press him, press him harder. That’s right, he’s afraid now. He’s afraid of you, afraid of the death you will bring him. That’s right, send him back and back even more. Press him!

The marquess made a mistake. For the instant his eyes returned to the matted, now huge circle of blood that had spread upward toward the boy’s chest, he broke his concentration.

Hetty whipped her foil under his, and the suddenness of the impact, at the same instant as his attention wavered, jerked his blade from his fingers and sent it flying to the ground.

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