Good God,he thought for the second time. He had known women made beautiful by candlelight, by diamonds, by laughter, by nakedness. He had never before seen a woman made quite so devastating by the prospect of violence. It was, without question, the most erotic thing he had ever witnessed in daylight.
His throat went dry. “We must agree upon the terms,” he said, more hoarsely than he would’ve liked.
Miss Tolliver tilted her head, one brow lifting in polite inquiry. “First to disarm?”
“Agreed. No deliberate blood.”
“Unless it is yours.”
He laughed under his breath. “You are in a mood today, Miss Tolliver.”
“Indeed,” she said, raising her sabre. “I am always in a mood.”
He drew his blade in turn, the steel catching a narrow line of sunlight as it left the scabbard. His heart had begun to beat too fast, which was inconvenient, for his thoughts ought to have been occupied with distance, line, wrist, and footwork. Instead, they had become ensnared by the red slash of colour on her lips. The vixen!
Jasper cleared his throat, and chastised himself, because—idiot that he was—he very much wanted to see what she would ask of him if she won. God help him.
“Very well,” he murmured, lifting his sabre into guard. “Mind your distance. These are not toys.”
“I had observed as much.”
“En garde.”
Miss Tolliver moved first. She came forward by inches, light upon the balls of her feet, her left hand lifted behind her for balance. There was no smile upon her face now.
Jasper’s amusement thinned. Ah. She was skilled, indeed.
He shifted to meet her, keeping the measure between them. The first touch of steel was a test; her blade gliding against his, seeking the line, and he turned his wrist to carry it aside.
A neat attack followed at once, a cutting motion towards his outside arm. He parried with the forte of his blade and gave ground, sliding over the bare boards. “You’re quick,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied, advancing again. “I am also left-handed.”
He faltered for the smallest instant. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh,” she said sweetly, “did I forget to mention that?”
Her next cut came from the other line, sharp and low enough to make him retreat rather than risk a foolish counter. He parried, recovered, and felt the impact run through his wrist.
“You truly are hell-bent on humiliating me,” he muttered.
“Not humiliating,” she said airily, advancing again. “Correcting. Perhaps, unseating. You have long been too comfortable on your pedestal.”
He barked a breathless laugh. “Is that what this is? A public service?”
“Precisely. My contribution to the social order.”
She pressed him then—one cut to the arm, another to the shoulder, a quick feint that forced him to bring his guard acrosstoo soon. Jasper gave ground, not because he was beaten, he told himself, but because she was attacking with a live blade and he had no intention of explaining to Lord Tolliver why his daughter had been opened from sleeve to elbow before luncheon.
Still, damn her, she was good. Too eager, perhaps, and too inclined to chase the advantage. But fast. Clever. Utterly without fear.
He caught her next cut, turned it aside, and answered with a short attack of his own—not to her body, never that, but towards her blade hand. She withdrew it just in time, and his sabre passed close enough to stir the cuff of her sleeve.
Her eyes flashed. “Careful, Mr Deverell.”
He smiled tauntingly, and she came in again. This time he did not retreat. He let her think he would, shifting his weight as though yielding ground, and then stepped off the line. Her blade passed where his shoulder had been. Jasper caught it with his own, not edge to edge but sliding along the stronger part of his blade, and turned her attack wide.
Miss Tolliver recovered beautifully, damn her, pivoting away before he could take advantage. Her curls had begun to escape their pins; one lay dark against her jaw. Her breath came faster now, and so did his.
