Page 38 of Only Scandal Will Do

have been wounded in practice before. I know what it feels like.”

So did he. “I beg your pardon, but I felt my sword slice into your jacket.”

“Indeed, you may have done. But it did not go through to draw blood.”

Shaking his head, he extended his hand. “May I see the jacket, please?”

Matthews appeared at Katarina’s side in an instant. “Are you disputing the lady’s word, my lord?”

“I do not dispute her word, although I believe you overstep your boundary in this matter. I merely wish to inspect the cloth, to see if I did indeed cut it.”

Tense lines around Matthews’s mouth indicated his resentment of the request, but

Duncan knew he was within his rights. The Runner nodded and withdrew outside of the outline.

Pritchett handed the jacket over.

The garment was of good quality worsted, the color a little faded, with definite signs of wear--as if someone had worn it often, but taken good care of it. It seemed bulkier as well, as though several thickness of material had been used instead of the usual two, which was surprising. He found the cut his rapier made and his mouth tightened in annoyance. The slashed edges revealed five layers of thickness between the outer worsted and the inner lining of muslin. A substantial barrier between his blade and that one necessary drop of blood. “This is your usual fencing costume, my lady?”

She nodded, innocent eyes on him. “Yes indeed, my lord. My father agreed to allow me to use a sword if I was well protected. Whenever I practice I wear that jacket or another just like it. It gives good protection against cuts. My breeches are reinforced in a like manner. You can understand a father wanting to keep his daughter safe from all harm, can you not?”

Duncan closed his eyes and sighed. His task had just become many times more difficult, for in order to cut through all the layers of cloth he must thrust with greater force, thus risking a deeper cut to Katarina. “I believe I understand such a wish, although it hardly seems necessary in your case, my lady.” He met her steely blue gaze. “When you are ready, we will continue.”

Katarina donned her jacket, her cheeks flaming scarlet. The jacket, while protective, likely acted as quite good insulation. Between the strenuous exercise and the heat building up inside the jacket, she must be uncomfortable. This pause in the duel and removal of the jacket had given her a respite, perhaps allowing her a second wind. Duncan shook his head and began to revise his strategy.

Fully attired, Katarina raised her rapier, nodded to him, and again launched herself in attack. Meeting her blow for blow, he now pressed an attack of his own. She fell back a step before binding his weapon to the ground. He ducked as her blade whistled through the space his head had occupied mere seconds before. He retaliated with renewed vigor and their swords flowed like quicksilver through air that rang with the discordant sounds. Katarina’s blade danced dangerously close to Duncan’s face; the next instant her sword went spinning through the air and landed a mere foot from Tommy Redmond’s still sleeping form.

Katarina’s look of shock did not amuse Duncan in the least, for he assumed his own face bore a similar expression. The disarm had been instinctual, summoned from the long hours of grueling training with Signor Fucile last year. Had he never gone to Italy, this outcome might have been very different.

He straightened, rapier still en garde. His completely vulnerable opponent recovered her composure, however, and stood with face schooled into haughty disdain. Her chest heaved as she sucked in deep breaths, fire in her eyes as she returned his stare dared him to complete his office.

Duncan moved slowly toward her. As he stepped to her side she did not deign to turn her head toward him, although she tracked him with her eyes. Manning and Matthews had advanced to the edges of the dueling space, but did not breech the barrier.

He continued to circle her until he stood directly behind her. Where could he wound her with minimum damage? Curse her, for putting him in this position! “My lady, do you yield?” he asked.

Motionless, except for the still labored breathing, she replied, “Our agreement was to first blood, Lord Dalbury. If you do not take it, I claim the forfeit.”

Duncan closed his eyes in exasperation and said, “Very well, then, my lady.” The padded jacket precluded a wound to arms or torso. Breeches did likewise to the lower body and thighs. He could wound the calf, but she wore knitted stockings that might bind the blade and make a ragged, nasty wound. Her hands were encased in leather gloves. And he would be damned if he would mark her face. He was going to live with that face for many, many years and would not curse himself every time he looked at her because he had marred her beauty. What did that leave?

He continued to circle her, searching for a glimpse of skin that would allow him a small

wound. It need only be one drop of blood, for Christ’s sake.

Her coat and shirt were both collarless. She had loosely tied one of her brother’s cravats around her neck, but it was now askew from the ferocity of the fight, baring part of her neck. He moved behind her again. She tensed, likely in apprehension, not knowing from what direction the blade would come.

Duncan tossed his rapier to Lord Trevor, and quietly stepped so close to Katarina that his breath stirred the hair at her neck. He moved his head even closer, until his mouth was poised beside her left ear. Her breathing quickened.

“My lady,” he whispered, “you have given me little choice in this matter. I would not wound you, but I will not forfeit the match. Your protection has also tied my hands in the matter of where to wound you. So I must take where I may find.”

She began to tremble at his words. If it were done...

He turned his head and sought the delicate flesh at the nape of her neck, the one place on her not protected.

She went still, sucked in a breath and held it, as he worked at the tender spot open mouthed. With the tip of his tongue, he massaged the warm skin of her neck, salty from her exertions against him. A low moan, akin to the one she had given him in the garden two nights ago, escaped her before a shiver chased down her body. Then he nipped the skin, breaking it, drawing the precious drop that claimed her as his. She gasped, and he whispered again in her ear, “You did not stipulate, Lady Katarina, that the blood must be drawn with the sword. I therefore claim victory in the duel. Will you honor the forfeit?”

“Of course I will hold to my word,” came the answer, her voice low and breathless.

He turned her toward him then, until he stared down into the frank blue depths. Cupping her face, he gently rubbed her stubborn jaw with his thumbs. “Then will you name our wedding day, my lady?”