Page 28 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

She dared not look back.

CHAPTER 9

“You’re attacking like a man possessed, Henry,” Everett observed, parrying a particularly vicious thrust with practiced ease. “Has someone insulted your honor, or are you simply trying to murder me?”

Henry pressed forward with another aggressive strike, his blade singing through the air with deadly precision. The fencing salle at Southall Manor echoed with the sharp clash of steel against steel, a metallic symphony that matched the chaotic rhythm of his thoughts.

“I am merely ensuring you remain sharp,” Henry replied curtly as he executed a complex series of attacks that forced his friend to retreat across the polished floor. “Your form has grown sloppy.”

“My form?” The Marquess laughed breathlessly while deflecting another assault. “Good God, man, you’re fighting as though Napoleon himself were advancing through the room.” Hemanaged a riposte that Henry batted aside with irritated efficiency. “What has you so thoroughly wound up?”

The question struck closer to the mark than Henry cared to admit.

For the past hour, he had been attempting to exhaust himself sufficiently to banish the lingering memory of Miss Lytton’s proximity in the stable yard.

The way her lips had parted when he’d leaned closer, the intoxicating scent of lavender that had clung to her skin, and the dangerous moment when every instinct had urged him to close the remaining distance between them…

“Nothing beyond the usual concerns,” Henry said, launching into an attack sequence that drove Everett back against the wall. “Estate matters, parliamentary business?—”

“Bollocks,” Everett interrupted. His blade work became increasingly defensive under Henry’s relentless assault. “You haven’t fought with this intensity since Cambridge when you discovered that Pembroke had been spreading rumors about your mother.”

Henry’s thrust faltered momentarily at the unwelcome comparison, allowing the Marquess to regain some ground. The reminder of his university days—when passion had ruled his decisions more than prudence—was precisely the sort of observation he had no desire to examine.

“This has nothing to do with the past,” he said, pressing his attack with renewed vigor.

Everett chuckled. The annoying bastard found some measure of amusement even in his absolute thrashing. “Oh, I do suspect the same, in fact. I believe this has to do with the present, if I surmise correctly.”

Henry hissed through clenched teeth. He certainly did not quite like how confident the Marquess sounded, even though he was right on the mark.

“Again.” He commanded, lunging forward.

This time his blade found its mark with perhaps more force than sporting etiquette demanded. Everett staggered backward, barely managing to counter the attack and keep his arm from falling off.

“Yield,” Henry said tersely.

“I yield, you mad wolf!” Everett’s weapon clattered to the floor when Henry stepped back, and he lifted his hand to rub his shoulder. “Christ, Henry, are we fencing or dueling to the death?”

“Your guard was inadequate,” Henry said without apology, though something in his friend’s expression made him lower his blade. “You left yourself completely exposed.”

Everett scoffed. “Exposed to what? A damned berserker?” He bent to retrieve his épée with exaggerated caution. “What’s gotten into you today? You’re wound tighter than a watch spring.”

Henry’s jaw ticked. What had gotten into him today? It was more accurate to ask what had gotten into him all week. Although he already knew what it was that had gotten into him: persistent nightly dreams of a pair of luscious lips that trailed themselves down his torso to his hips, edging slowly between?—

Stop it!Henry turned away, ostensibly to examine the arrangement of weapons on the far wall, but truly it was simply to hide his stirring loins.

“You have yet to answer my question, dear friend,” Everett said, and Henry remembered that the Marquess was just as much of a busybody as those dowagers who lined the walls at most dances.

“I am not wound up. I simply require exercise. Nothing more.”

“Ah, yes,exercise,” Everett mused as they moved towards the refreshment table, where he poured two glasses of brandy. “Is that what this is?”

“Drop it, Everett,” Henry drawled as he accepted the offered glass, though his grip tightened around the crystal with enough force to suggest that his facade was nothing but just that. “I merely find that physical activity clears the mind.”

“Indeed, it does,” Everett agreed with suspicious mildness. “Though, one might argue there are… other forms of physical activity that prove far more effective for clearing particular sorts of mental fog.”

Henry’s shoulders stiffened. “If you have something to say, old friend, then say it plainly.”

“Very well.” The Marquess settled into one of the leather chairs that flanked the fireplace, and his eyes gleamed brightly. “You’ve been acting like a caged animal this past week. In my experience, such behavior in men our age typically indicates one of two things: either you’re contemplating the murder of some unfortunate bloke who has angered you, or you’re in desperate need of feminine companionship.”

---