Page 36 of Romancing the Rifleman
“Try,” Harrington said tightly.
Edward squeezed his shoulder.“I’ll do my best.”
Trevissick again did not feel the need to don a facemask.Edward did a damn sight better than Harrington had, but that only meant that the final score was ten to two instead of ten to zero.After shaking hands, he jogged over to Harrington, wiping sweat from his brow.“I’m sorry, brother.I tried.”
Harrington thumped him on the back.“I know you did.Thank you.”
Trevissick’s face glowed with triumph.“It seems that I have won a boon from one of my competitors.Let’s see, from whom shall I claim it?”He tapped his chin as if considering the matter seriously.“Ah, yes—Lieutenant Astley.”
God, but this tasted like vinegar.But Harrington inclined his head.“What would you have from me, Trevissick?”
The duke’s eyes gleamed.“For you to never come near my sister, ever ag?—”
“Not so fast, Marcus.”
The words had not been spoken loudly, but they held an unmistakable air of confidence.Every head swiveled toward the house.
Diana strode across the lawn.She had changed into a snow-white fencing costume, which was similar to a man’s ensemble—a padded jacket and slim white trousers—with the addition of a loose skirt that fell midway down her shins to allow for both movement and modesty.
She slashed her sword through the air in a jaunty salute.“You have one more challenger.”
Chapter18
Diana regarded her brother in the dappled sunlight.She had wondered how he would react to her flagrant attempt to subvert his will.
He looked more annoyed than angry.But he also looked confident.And why shouldn’t he?They were evenly matched.
But he wouldn’t win this time.Diana was determined.
And she had aplan.
“Three rounds,” Marcus said crisply.“The bout will end if one of us goes up by ten touches.”
“That won’t happen,” Diana said coolly.
Her brother’s lips twisted into a reluctant smile.“No.Finally, some proper competition.”
Marcus stalked over to the rack of swords and picked up a mask.Diana took one as well and pulled it on.She performed a few lunges to warm up.
They took up their positions and saluted one another.Marcus went into a classic French guard, with his sword pointing toward Diana’s heart and his left arm raised behind him.
Diana, on the other hand, adopted a German guard known as the Ox.It was a stance seldom taught in the British fencing schools, with her wrist high, at the level of her forehead, and her sword angled downward.Behind his mask, she saw Marcus’s eyes narrow, and she knew he was wondering what she was about.
He soon found out.During her childhood on the moors of Yorkshire with Aunt Griselda, Diana had had nothing but time.Time to fence, time to think, and time to read every book in their library three times over.This included a half-dozen fencing manuals written in Italian, French, and German.
One of those German books described a duel.The victor, it said, fought in a position of very highprime, just like the one she had assumed.He focused not on the attack, but on an endless series of flipping cuts and parries, delivered from the wrist.It was an exhausting technique, “as much a trial of endurance as of skill,” as the book had put it, and the slightest lapse of concentration would be her downfall.
But Diana knew that it put her at an advantage.She had been born missing her right hand, meaning that she had to do everything, absolutely everything, with her left.
That meant that her left side wasstrong.It had to be.
And she was risking everything on the conviction that she had the strength in her sword arm to outlast her brother.
It took Marcus only a moment to notice what she was doing.“Attack, damn it!”he growled in German.
Diana did no such thing.She focused all her attention on flicking his blade to the side, flicking ithard, the better to wear him down, again and again.She was biding her time, waiting for him to falter.
And falter he did.After a few minutes, she saw it.The slightest wobble in his sword point.An uncharacteristic gracelessness to his movement.
