Page 43 of A Bluestocking for the Wicked Duke
“It is not about my prowess with women. I met her on my way back from the ball hosted by the Viscount of Air.”
His father nodded. His expression had evidently softened, no longer was the mean frown on his face.
“Regardless of the manner in which you started it, it’s good you have listened to your mother for once.”
“When I was much younger. I wasn’t as prolific a rake as you but I did roam from damsel to damsel. Then I met your mother and married her. Now I don’t have that problem,” said the Duke.
“It’s not a problem father,” William said.
His father’s eyes lit up in jest.
“Of course it isn’t.”
This morning’s discussion started so well. Now, I can’t wait to get out of this room.
William stood up.
“Can I leave now?” he said.
His father sunk back into the bed. It seemed he was done with his harangue.
“Don’t use that as an excuse to escape our race son. I owe you a defeat,” the man said as he snuggled into the soft bed sheets.
William smiled wryly before he turned away.
“That cannot happen pa,”
William walked out of the room in a spirit more dampened than he had when he came in.
I need to go somewhere to lift this downed spirit.
He knew just the place.
*******
The hall was huge. William looked up to the ceiling which was many metres away and tried to make out the paintings of great duels that were said to have been embedded in the crafted designs. He had only seen one of such. He looked at the forefront of the ceiling, searching for the famous drawing of the short swordsman on foot who threw down the knight on a horse. It had taken him months to find that drawing. The roar from the crowd caused William to turn his gaze back to the fencing match going on. There was always a willing audience at the Wellington Fencing School.
The school was popularly thought to be owned by the Duke of Wellington which was false and had contributed greatly to the stories of William’s fighting prowess. William knew the school was a privately owned institution that collected fees from clients, majorly sons of wealthy men and royal figures, to teach them the art of fencing. William had learnt all he knew about swords here.
This is where I met James.
He was a hero here.
Lessons, theoretical and practical, were always held in the mornings. Faux fencing matches started close to noon and William saw he had just bumped into one. There was a group of about twenty young men watching a match between two fully kitted students. They were in complete white suits and had their masks on.
Where is Tutor George?
William walked closer. The students were so distracted they didn’t see him come. William didn’t want to distract them so he walked quietly till he was standing behind a short student who didn’t even bother to check the person who came to stand behind him. William saw their tutor, Mr. George, holding a piece of chalk and a small flat board. His eyes roamed between the banging swords and his board.
The fighters were of almost the same height and William found them difficult to differentiate. He could tell though that one was far better than the other.
One has to be a senior and the other a junior. He is so much better.
It was more a lesson than a duel as the senior outthought and outworked his opponent. He dodged his opponent’s swing, rarely bothering to parry or block with his sword. One close swing drew a “Woah,” from the watching group of boys but only once did it occur. The fight ended without much fuss. It seemed the senior boy was tired of their dance with swords so he eased away as the junior twirled his sword around his neck, moved behind his opponent and tapped him twice on his head with his blunt sword. They bowed to each other and Mr. George walked into the circle space that was set out for the fencers.
“Nice work boys, Quinn you can see that you need a lot more practice. I saw improvements from the last fight you had but you need to work on that inside swing more. Stop showing it so much, be subtle about it,” he said.
The boys had removed their masks and William could see that the winner was older than his defeated opponent.
