Philip lowered the sword. “It was entirely necessary. You were not paying attention.”
“Iwaspaying attention.”
“You were looking toward the garden.”
Andrew adjusted his grip on his own practice sword and glanced, quite involuntarily, toward the lawn. At a distance, Frances and Emma were walking along the gravel path beneath the early spring trees. Emma’s bonnet ribbons fluttered in the wind, while Frances’ darker gown made a graceful line besideher. The two women moved slowly, their heads inclined toward one another in conversation.
Frances had not looked back. Andrew told himself he had not expected her to.
Philip struck again. Andrew parried this time, listening to the sound of the wood cracking sharply against wood.
“You always were ungentlemanly,” Andrew commented playfully.
“And you always disliked being caught woolgathering.”
“I was not woolgathering,” Andrew frowned, keeping his gaze focused on Philip.
“No? What does one call staring across a lawn at one’s wife while armed with a sword?”
“Strategic observation,” Andrew offered.
Philip’s mouth twitched. “Of the shrubbery?”
“There may be weaknesses in the south hedge.”
“There arecertainlyweaknesses somewhere.”
Andrew laughed first, and then lunged. Philip blocked it with ease, then stepped back across the flagged terrace that served well enough for their old habit of sparring when neither wished to sit indoors and speak plainly.
The afternoon was cool but bright. A pale sun lay over the gardens, catching the damp shine upon the grass. Farther off, the ladies’ voices drifted faintly on the breeze, too distant to distinguish but near enough to disturb.
“You have grown slow,” Philip remarked.
“And you, my friend, have grown arrogant,” Andrew teased.
Philip shrugged. “I was always arrogant.”
“No,” Andrew corrected. “You were always solemn. Arrogance is an improvement.”
Philip gave a short laugh and struck again. For several minutes, they fell into an easy rhythm. Strike, parry, step, recover. The familiar movement steadied Andrew. Philip had been his friend long enough that silence between them had never required explanation. They had crossed from youth into responsibility by different roads, but each understood what it meant to carry a title like a weight rather than a decoration.
Still, Philip had become insufferably domestic in recent years. Marriage had done it. Love had made him worse.
“You know,” Philip said as their swords met again, “I still find the whole thing difficult to believe.”
“My footwork?” Andrew asked playfully.
“Your marriage.”
Andrew exhaled. “I wondered how long your restraint would last.”
“I have shown heroic restraint. Emma says I should have asked within the first ten minutes.”
“Emma has always possessed a taste for directness.”
“Frances says the same of you, though not as a compliment.”
Andrew’s sword paused half a second too long. Philip noticed, of course.
