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Chapter Three
The next morning, Arabella dressed in her fencing gear—a pair of breeches, with padding in the legs, a padded jacket, over a protective breastplate, and then she tugged the gloves on.
Her pulse was racing as she walked downstairs, Annette, as always, trailing behind her. Arabella was excited to duel Mr. Conolly. As promised, he was waiting for her, down in the salle, with her fencing instructor.
“Good morning, Fabrizio,” she said, greeting her instructor—a small, wiry man, who had been brought to England from Italy, by her father. She then turned to Mr. Conolly. “I see you’ve met Mr. Conolly.”
“I have indeed, My Lady,” Fabrizio replied.
Mr. Conolly, too, wore fencing gear. She couldn’t help but notice—he looked smart in the form-fitting, white suit.
“Good morning, My Lady,” he said, bowing.
“Good morning, Mr. Conolly,” she replied, sketching a curtsey. She walked over to where her fencing foils were kept. “I believe you said that you preferred the epée?”
“I do, My Lady,” he said. “Although, I am able to perform with sabre, if it would please you.”
She smiled at him. He was quite the smooth-talker. “What would please you, Mr. Conolly?” she asked, her voice a low purr.
He didn’t even bat an eye. “To make you happy, My Lady.”
“Sabre, it is.” She grabbed her sabre, flipping it, then catching it by the hilt.
“Very well,” Mr. Conolly said, bowing.
They both faced off, pulling on their helmets. He was a skilled fencer—he was pushing her to use lightning-quick touches. She parried him easily. Fabrizio and Annette watched on.
“Are you going easy on me, Mr. Conolly?” she asked.
“Merely warming up, My Lady,” he replied, jumping back as she executed an offense.
She began to attack him down low, forcing him to step back. He attacked her high, causing her to take a pace backward. She moved, as fast as a striking snake, down beneath his defenses, scoring a hit on his hip.
“Hah!” she yelled in triumph.
“Good hit,” he said.
“Thank you,” she murmured, pleased. Mr. Conolly was actually fencing her. That hit had been well-earned and fought for.
* * *
Charles had to admit it—she was good. Brilliant. She was about to beat him, fair and square. He wasn’t even going to claim that he was out of practice. Even if he hadn’t been, she would still be beating him.
He had scored only one hit, while she was about to make her third. He’d given it his best go, not letting her have it easily. She was absolutely ferocious with a sword.
Finally, she came in from above, something that she hadn’t done—hitting him just above the sternum.
He stepped back. “Third hit,” he said.
Fabrizio was clapping. “Bene. Bene, My Lady.”
Lady Arabella threw off her helmet, beaming as she stepped forward, holding out her hand to shake Charles’s. He took it, pressing it in his as he shook it firmly. “Your skill is excellent, My Lady.”
“Thank you,” she said. A strand of her hair had fallen loose, and the tip of it was stuck just beside her mouth. “Thank you for actually fencing me.”
“What? You think I’d let you win?” he asked with a laugh.
“No, but I’m glad you didn’t.”
