Page 1 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
Chapter One
“You are pushing me hard, Your Grace.”
Sweat dripped down Adrian Winchester’s back as he raised his foil to meet that of his opponent. The metal clicked, hard and cold, and he advanced a step.
His partner, the Earl of Putney, retreated, blowing out a harsh breath.
Adrian, also known as the Duke of Somerset, merely smiled coldly as he tucked his hand behind his back, keeping his balance as he plunged forward with another series of strikes. The earl found these more difficult to defend against; his posture slipped, and Adrian’s foil cut through.
“I believe you are disarmed,” Adrian said, and stepped back. “Congratulations.”
The earl allowed the tip of his sword to dip toward the piste they danced on, wiping sweat from his brow.
“I believe it is I who should extend the congratulations,” he said, running a hand through his hair.
He was one of the finer fighters at the fencing club, but although the exercise had brought Adrian out in a sweat, he wasn’t out of breath.
“You are a magnificent fencer, Your Grace,” the earl added.
“You flatter me,” Adrian said indifferently.
“Indeed, I do not.” The earl padded after him, stripping off his gloves. Adrian did the same, handing them to a waiting servant. “I have rarely seen such skill and power.”
“Then I believe I must argue that you have seen little of the world.” Adrian glanced up at some other gentlemen gawking at him.
They had watched the fight avidly, and he might have told them to find entertainment elsewhere if a small part of him had not remembered what it had felt like to be young and enthusiastic about the world.
Still, he did not wish for their ardency now.
“Would you be so good as to teach me?” one lad asked, breathless with excitement.
“No,” Adrian said. “There are tutors aplenty here, and they taught me everything I know.”
“Not everything,” another said, with irritating awe in his voice. “No one could teach that sort of strength.”
Adrian ignored them as he moved to wipe his forehead with a damp rag that another manservant provided. For a club this exclusive, he had expected better from its members, but perhaps that was foolish of him.
Exclusive meant expensive. Few clubs denied their members access due to lack of skill, and this was evidently not one of those places.
Shouldering his way back through the group of young lords, he was making his way toward the door when he heard the sharp tones of an argument.
This, he knew well. The anger behind the words, the aggressive way the two men matched up to one another.
“That was my point,” one said, bristling. He puffed out his chest. “I won the match.”
“You cheated!” The other’s wrapped hands still grasped his dulled weapon, the threat in his posture clear.
Perhaps he would not strike, but the way they faced up to each other suggested there was a danger of it. Adrian turned, heading toward the altercation.
“That makes the match mine!” the second man continued his protest.
The first man’s face slackened at the accusation. “How dare you?”
“You left the piste.”
“You’re imagining things.”
Adrian reached the two men and surveyed the situation. Both were flushed, sweat gleaming on their foreheads. They also looked like young men, barely past university age. Volatile and arrogant; an unfortunate mix, particularly for gentlemen so unschooled about the world.
