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“Only if I believe that as a lady, you cannot be exposed to my sword.”

Stella narrowed her eyes at him. “Was that a randy comment?”

His grin was perfectly wicked. “I will live in thy heart and die . . . in thy lap. That’s Shakespeare. As schoolboys, we memorized all the naughty parts.”

“My heart is not available, and neither is my lap,” Stella said briskly. He was circling her, holding his sword up. She couldn’t stop looking at his chest, the power and grace of it. The way those muscles seemed chunky from afar but lithe and supple up close. The inherent strength that his shoulder displayed.

Why should a shoulder be erotic?

It was like a neck. Just a body part, no more than a body part, but the blood was racing through Stella’s body as if they were back at the striped tents and she’d drunk three glasses of champagne.

Silvester was coming too close so she hastily circled to the right. He wouldn’t slap her with the sword, so he’d have to trick her into allowing him to come close.

From behind her, she heard a cacophony suggesting that Merry had taken two blows.

“You’re out, Mother!” Thomas bellowed.

“Retreat, retreat!” Merry called.

Silvester always wants to win, Stella reminded herself. That fierce light in his eyes? She wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret it, but she’d seen it any number of times when she was closing in on checkmate. Or he was.

The Duke of Huntington wanted to win, even if the weapons were wooden swords and the army led by children.

The problem was that if she didn’t let him come close, she couldn’t strike him with her sword either. So she had to lure him close enough so that he gave her a blow, which meant she could give him a blow, and then he’d be dead.

She lowered her sword and watched him prowl around her, only turning to keep her front to him. “You’ll have to come closer,” she observed. “You might hurt me otherwise.”

“Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.”

“Seize the day,” Stella said, frowning. “What’s the other half of it mean?”

“Put no trust in tomorrow.”

“What does that mean, in the context of this particular battle?”

“I will do my best to find a wife today, as I have little hope of tomorrow.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Stella asked. “Are you referring to losing Yasmin?” She had her eyes fixed on his sword. It hung loose from his hand but she was certain he could tap her with it if he lunged.

She had to welcome death in order to bring death.

Chapter Twenty-One

“It has nothing to do with Yasmin,” Silvester said, sliding sideways. He recognized the sneaky look in Stella’s eyes. She got just that expression when she was about to attack in chess.

But that wasn’t all he read in her eyes. The drumbeat of awareness between them, the way his toga was (thankfully) disguising his erection, the pink rising in Stella’s cheeks . . .

She felt it too.

His desire wasn’t one-sided.

As afternoon entertainments went, this one was proving sartorially challenging. It wasn’t a matter of keeping his toga on. Stella’s toga was the problem.

The breeze kept blowing it back, flattening silk against her bosom until he could actually see the lines of the corset she wore over her chemise. And everything else. All the generous curves and dips and valleys.

He forced himself to move to the right, his hand tightening on his sword. Sword! What in the bloody hell was he supposed to do with a blunt instrument besides make dirty jokes about it?

“Run to the tree, Stella!” a voice suddenly shrieked, bringing him back to the realization that they were silently circling each other like duelists.