things of tempered steel, burnished and deadly, with quillons and counterguards lightly curved, the points unprotected. Phoebe took the one nearest her and turned away quickly to weigh it in her hand, to make it her friend. She felt the cool smooth floor through her silken hose, remembering how Signor Luigi had made her wear heavy shoes, at first, to strengthen her legs and teach her to be nimble, and now there were times when she would give him a good run for his money.
Yet having been repeatedly cautioned to keep her anger under control, the rage that had been building up inside her since her arrival at Ham House, which had exploded scarce an hour ago, still seethed and churned, coupled with the fear of losing and a desperation to win. This man was amongst the best in the country and would not allow her the smallest error when his reputation was at stake. Her heart hammered into her throat as she tried in vain to subdue the furies that had ranted and roared since their row in the Orangery, the pain as she had spoken of her losses, and the wound to her pride that still lingered after his well-publicized criticism of her. Well, she would show him just how easy she was. She would make him work harder than he’d ever worked in his life if he wanted her money to pay for those fancy buttons and bows, the prancing stallions, the brocade suits and golden spurs. She turned to face him. Yes, she would make him eat his words, whatever it cost her.
Sir Leo was courteous and in no particular hurry, but too soon, much too soon, Phoebe launched herself at her opponent, partly hoping to take him off guard and partly because her anger was not as under control as she would have liked. Sir Leo easily parried her first wild imbroccata, his steel wrist warding her off while recognising the temper that lay behind the charging blow. He pushed her back, hard. ‘Steady!’ he told her, quietly. ‘Calm down.’
Taking a deep breath, she began again, body upright, feet dancing, sword arm extended like an antenna, feeling, touching, every move focused, every muscle disciplined, her wrist and arm shocked by his inflexible parries. High, low and wide, he was there before her every time, testing her with an unexpected thrust followed by a quick riposte in which she was forced backwards to the staircase end of the hall. She knew the shallow step of the dais would trip her if she did not take care, so she took it in her stride, glorying in the few extra inches of height until, circling, she pushed him back towards the fireplace in a whirling, flickering, shimmer of steel too fast for the onlookers to see. Her arm began to ache with the jarring of clashing blades, and after only a few minutes she could feel the shirt sticking to her with sweat. Signor Luigi would have allowed her to take a rest, to sip water, to wipe her forehead after a short bout, but this man was not even breathing hard and would see no reason to let her recover.
Then he did something that infuriated her for, after a follow-through in a lightning-quick exchange, the point of his rapier cut the top button of her vest free and sent it flying through the air like a golden coin. She ought not to have allowed it to disturb her, she knew, but the insolence of his action only served to remind her of his dazzling superiority, as if she needed it, and the Duke’s warning that this man could cut her into collops began to take on a new meaning.
‘A hit!’ The Duke’s voice echoed round the room. ‘First to Sir Leo.’
As if this clever trick had been intended to concentrate her energies into working harder, Phoebe beat fast on his blade time after time, pushing it aside and pressing it down to open a way for a lunge that would reach his shirt, as his had reached hers. Finally, she was rewarded with a prick to his arm with the tip of her blade. ‘A hit,’ called the Duke, ‘first to Mistress Laker. Are you hurt, Sir Leo?’
‘No, my lord, but the lady will now have at least one
Yet having been repeatedly cautioned to keep her anger under control, the rage that had been building up inside her since her arrival at Ham House, which had exploded scarce an hour ago, still seethed and churned, coupled with the fear of losing and a desperation to win. This man was amongst the best in the country and would not allow her the smallest error when his reputation was at stake. Her heart hammered into her throat as she tried in vain to subdue the furies that had ranted and roared since their row in the Orangery, the pain as she had spoken of her losses, and the wound to her pride that still lingered after his well-publicized criticism of her. Well, she would show him just how easy she was. She would make him work harder than he’d ever worked in his life if he wanted her money to pay for those fancy buttons and bows, the prancing stallions, the brocade suits and golden spurs. She turned to face him. Yes, she would make him eat his words, whatever it cost her.
Sir Leo was courteous and in no particular hurry, but too soon, much too soon, Phoebe launched herself at her opponent, partly hoping to take him off guard and partly because her anger was not as under control as she would have liked. Sir Leo easily parried her first wild imbroccata, his steel wrist warding her off while recognising the temper that lay behind the charging blow. He pushed her back, hard. ‘Steady!’ he told her, quietly. ‘Calm down.’
Taking a deep breath, she began again, body upright, feet dancing, sword arm extended like an antenna, feeling, touching, every move focused, every muscle disciplined, her wrist and arm shocked by his inflexible parries. High, low and wide, he was there before her every time, testing her with an unexpected thrust followed by a quick riposte in which she was forced backwards to the staircase end of the hall. She knew the shallow step of the dais would trip her if she did not take care, so she took it in her stride, glorying in the few extra inches of height until, circling, she pushed him back towards the fireplace in a whirling, flickering, shimmer of steel too fast for the onlookers to see. Her arm began to ache with the jarring of clashing blades, and after only a few minutes she could feel the shirt sticking to her with sweat. Signor Luigi would have allowed her to take a rest, to sip water, to wipe her forehead after a short bout, but this man was not even breathing hard and would see no reason to let her recover.
Then he did something that infuriated her for, after a follow-through in a lightning-quick exchange, the point of his rapier cut the top button of her vest free and sent it flying through the air like a golden coin. She ought not to have allowed it to disturb her, she knew, but the insolence of his action only served to remind her of his dazzling superiority, as if she needed it, and the Duke’s warning that this man could cut her into collops began to take on a new meaning.
‘A hit!’ The Duke’s voice echoed round the room. ‘First to Sir Leo.’
As if this clever trick had been intended to concentrate her energies into working harder, Phoebe beat fast on his blade time after time, pushing it aside and pressing it down to open a way for a lunge that would reach his shirt, as his had reached hers. Finally, she was rewarded with a prick to his arm with the tip of her blade. ‘A hit,’ called the Duke, ‘first to Mistress Laker. Are you hurt, Sir Leo?’
‘No, my lord, but the lady will now have at least one
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