Chapter 23

Twenty-Three

CADIEUX HOUSE, LONDON - JUNE 15, 1816

WILLIAM

Breeches. It was the breeches that would do me in, in the end. Celine in breeches specifically. All long lines, and gentle curves. The sight was certainly going to be the death of me.

I had been too distracted that day in Yorkshire to notice how fetching the woman in front of me was. I wasn't distracted now. Not from the breeches anyway.

"Let's fence," she said. All warm and sweet-smelling in my arms and in my bed between nibbles of biscuits and sips of coffee. The excitement in her eyes had been intoxicating, addicting. What kind of monster would decline an offer that made that delight line her face? Not this one.

Of course, now she would kill me, and it was entirely due to the breeches. Somewhere, filed in the back of my mind, I understood on a purely intellectual level that she was certainly good. She had already stabbed one of the men who attacked her with the umbrella before I even arrived. But this… She was incredible.

And incredibly distracting. Curls piled on top of her head, clad in a shirt and breeches that were almost certainly made specifically for her. Specifically for her to torment me to death. The linen of the shirt, though fine, was thin and nearly transparent. It made no effort to conceal whatever stays or corset or frilly underthings she had on.

She was clearly aware of the effect she was having on me if the self-satisfied smile on her lips was any judge. That was fine. I was out of practice, but I had done more than my fair share of fighting in France. True, my opponents had never been quite so lovely, but even as talented as she was with an umbrella, I didn't anticipate a serious challenge.

She tossed me a foil with a familiar ease. It was finely crafted.

"The smith near Rose Hill?" I asked.

"Indeed. Gabriel always said he was the best."

"He is. This is a fine sword." It was too. I was unused to fighting with a foil in general and a tipped one in particular, but I could recognize fine craftsmanship. I took a few practice slashes and thrusts to adjust to the lighter, thinner weapon.

"I'm glad it meets your approval." There was just the slightest bite in her tone, a hint of sarcasm I shouldn't have found attractive. She fell into formation with a practiced ease and raised a brow expectantly.

I suddenly felt every one of my years behind a desk. And my years as a soldier. And all the years between when I learned how to follow the rules she knew well. And this moment, bathed in sunlight on the terrace of the goddess in breeches before me.

I made the perfunctory salute, following her lead. She made the first attack, thrusting with the point of her foil. It was unexpected and I was barely able to sidestep. This was how she had wrought such damage the other night. I was making the same mistakes those devils did. Underestimating her.

She recovered quickly, slashing back. I blocked it, lamenting my choice of right hand when I was met with more force than anticipated.

She was good. She was more than good. I was suddenly incredibly grateful she had chosen the blunted weapons. That being said, she'd done more than a fair bit of damage with my tipless umbrella.

After parrying yet another attack, I made my first move. I went for a slash, changing my mind when she anticipated it and aborting it for a thrust. Still in motion, it grazed her arm, harmless. It must have startled her though because she began to attack with a frightening rapidity.

Her expertise was clear. She must have practiced regularly. Her motions were thoughtless, effortless. I was more than certain she knew the appropriate term for every step she took, every motion she made.

There was a grace to her, unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was a dance.

I blocked and sidestepped, the tip of her blade whispering past my ear, catching on the loose fabric of my shirt, meeting air an inch off my flank. She was exceptional.

And still she couldn't get a touch. I could see the irritation mounting with each miss. It was an enticing look for her, frustration mixed with exertion. Her cheeks flushed while curls escaped her coiffure and stuck to her glistening skin. She was breathing heavily, panting between reddened lips.

I saw the exact moment when vexation won out.

"How are you doing this?" she demanded.

God himself could not have willed me to ease her annoyance, not when her bosom rose so enticingly with each irritated breath. Not when she made adorable little grunts with every unsatisfying attack.

"Doing what?"

"You're not following any of the rules."

"I don't remember the rules, love. Told you as much." My own thrust hit her shoulder before she flicked it away with her blade.

"But you were a soldier, you fought all the time." I thrust toward her throat, freezing an inch away.

"No rules in battle."

"But…"

"No, remember the other night? You weren't following the rules then? Or perhaps I missed when they added ‘grab an umbrella with both hands and whack a man upside the head as hard as you can' to the guidelines." She lowered her foil and I followed suit, our harsh breaths in perfect synchrony.

"That was life and death."

"Right. Why are you practicing as though it isn't? Those men the other night, they weren't going to salute you."

"No…"

"Exactly. You were brilliant. You are brilliant. Better than I am, certainly. But if someone wants to hurt you, they're not going to follow the rules. You want to fight, you should practice the way you intend to if you're attacked. Years on the battlefield and not once did anyone wait for someone to keep score. Those points, they're not just points, love. They're wounds. Wounds that can maim, wounds that can kill."

"I've never... I wouldn't know how to."

"Of course you would, you did the other night. Just have to stop thinking so hard. Now, attack me. I won't attack, only block. But I want it all, everything you have."

"But I'll hurt you."

"No you won't, love. Dulled tip, remember?"

"Still…"

"I'd rather you hurt me than be unable to defend yourself if you need to because you're used to fighting nice. No saluting, attack when you're ready."

And she did. Somehow, with the shackles of civilized sportsmanship removed, she was even more graceful, more ferocious, more beautiful.

Finally, she caught me in the ribs with the tip and wore a pleased smirk.

"Good, love. That was good. Next time, aim for the eyes though, or the uh… delicate areas. Feet can be good too, slow a man down to give you time to run."

"You want me to?—"

" Want is… perhaps the wrong word. But if you're being attacked, those will shut a man down faster than the torso. They may not be as deadly but they're damn painful."

"I'm not certain Monsieur Jereaux will approve."

"You can do things properly for your lessons. Though I think it's a travesty that he's teaching you to fight politely."

She pulled the foil from my grip, set it aside with her own, and dragged me toward the nearby bench with enticing kisses.