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  “Regrettable for Lord Dalbury, I am sure, my lady.”

  “Indeed, Lord Trevor.” Katarina turned to Duncan. “We are waiting for your other second, I believe, my lord? My lord?”

  While she talked to Tris, Duncan had envisioned her standing in his bedroom, one foot on a chair, taking her stockings off to reveal the creamy flesh of her legs and ankles. Those breeches left so little to the imagination that... He shook his head, then turned toward the table, grabbed a glass, and liberally splashed brandy into it. The amber liquid traced a fiery path into his stomach, jolting him out of his stupor. He sucked in a deep breath and fought to maintain his composure.

  Behind him, Katarina laughed. “I trust you do not begin each morning with such a libation? Perhaps today, however, you need help to steady your nerves.”

  He could not let her goad him into unwise actions. “Why are you dressed so provocatively, Lady Katarina? I am astounded that your brother let you out of the house dressed so.” He turned toward her, determined to show only a cool disdain for her clothes.

  And failed miserably. The close-fitting stockings showed off her calves and neat ankles in a fetching manner. He closed his eyes, hoping to dispel the image, but it appeared as if seared on his inner eyelids.

  “My brother never had any objection to my dress, my lord. Neither did my father, nor the men in his regiment.”

  “His regiment!” Duncan’s eyes flew open and Tristan smothered a laugh. “You mean to tell me that other men have seen your legs like that? Your ankles?”

  Katarina threw her head back and laughed again. “Tell him, Jack. He may not believe the truth, coming from me.” She picked up her weapon and began to limber up.

  “She’s always fenced in these clothes, Dalbury,” Manning said. “Since she began lessons. She tried skirts, but even short skirts proved unmanageable. One day she appeared for our lesson wearing what you see before you, and dared me to make a fuss. They’re my cast-off clothing, altered to fit tolerably well.”

  Duncan scowled. It galled him that Matthews had seen his wife’s legs. Soon to be wife. He opened his mouth to make another objection but Katarina interrupted.

  “If you wish me to change into skirts, Lord Dalbury, I will oblige you.” Her sickeningly sweet voice told him a barb was on the way. “But only if you will change likewise.”

  “Into what?”

  “Why, skirts of course,” the imp had the audacity to say. “I insist that I duel with an opponent who is equally handicapped.” She beamed. “No? Then I will remain so attired.”

  Katarina paused, glancing around. “Where is your other second? The time was appointed for ten o’clock and your most excellent clocks have already struck the hour. I am ready, as are my seconds, but am sadly ignorant of the protocol in such matters. May I inquire if such a breach of etiquette warrants forfeiture?” Brows raised, she gave him a charming smile.

  About to deny such a penalty, he paused. A commotion in the hallway captured his attention. Moments later, a disheveled Tommy Redmond careened into the room. Nodding to Lady Katarina, Duncan grinned. “I believe your point is rendered moot, my lady.”

  Tommy was on the verge of crashing into the refreshment table. Duncan strode to his friend, who seemed much the worse for wear. “God, Tommy, what are you playing at? She started talking forfeit. Pull yourself together, man. Where have you been?” In addition to looking as though Tommy’s clothes had been slept in, his garments reeked of some cloying perfume. An oddly familiar scent.

  “Been amusing myself, don’t you know, old chap?” Tommy drawled. “First time in a month or more. Father finally reinstated my allowance, so I went out for a night on the town. Just got home when I remembered you. Got to stand as your second for the duel and as your witness for the wedding.” Leaning close and almost tipping over in the process, he asked in the raised volume preferred by all the inebriated, “Which one do we do first?”

  Before he could shush the befuddled man, Katarina stalked over, cold contempt covering her face like a mask. “It sounds as though you have anticipated the wedding again, my lord. Are you so very sure of the outcome of this wager that you have already laid plans for the nuptials? Should I lay another wager on whether you have about you a special license? Or what time the clergyman is supposed to appear?” Her words fell like icicles. “I daresay I could raise a substantial dowry with such wagers.”

  Tommy chose that unfortunate moment to surface from his alcoholic haze. “Who the devil is that chap, Duncan? You goin’ to take that cheek off such a stripling? Gad, call him out after this one is done. He can’t be less experienced than your bride, do you think? Where is the gel, by the by? Shouldn’t we be done with this by now?”

  Duncan cheerfully considered strangling his friend, but refrained. If he simply ran him through, perhaps it could be put down to an accident during the duel. Katarina had not raised her weapon yet, which he found encouraging. But the fire in her eyes, he feared, was all for him. Unfortunately, it was not the kind of fire he hoped for.

  “Tommy, you arse, this is Lady Katarina, who has challenged me to this duel...wager. Keep a civil tongue in your head or I will cut it out for you. My lady,” he said, in a lowered tone designed to placate. He met her eyes also, in hopes of blunting her anger. “My apologies for Mr. Redmond’s rude behavior. He is, as you can see, quite foxed. Pay him no mind, I pray you. Lord Trevor,” he called to Tristan as the one sane harbor left him. “Will you stand my second so we may proceed?”

  With an amused glance at Katarina, Trevor nodded. Duncan, now fully supporting the unconscious Tommy, inclined his head toward Matthews, who stood by like some bird of prey waiting to swoop in to rectify any breach of protocol. Trevor approached Matthews and while they conversed, Duncan half carried, half dragged Tommy to the nearest wall, slid him down and sat him up against the gold-patterned brocade. Better out than creating mischief.

  Matthews gave a yelp of laughter. Tris must have given him the alternative to the wager. He never imagined Katarina would capitulate without the drawing of blood. Now he just hoped to make the deed swift and as painless as possible. He cringed from the thought. Was there no other way?

  At the weapons table, he selected his blade and began to prepare. Katarina had retired to her end of the room and waited in a relaxed stance. She held the sword naturally in a gloved hand, her grip sure, as if with long hours of practice.

  He watched the snug cut of her breeches hug her calves and thighs as she executed a series of practice lunges. If only he could strip off that garment to feast his eyes on the smooth, creamy flesh of her lean thighs. Trace the curve of her sleek calf with a reverent hand all the way up to...

  His breath caught in his throat, stifling the harsh rasp of his panting. With Herculean effort, Duncan dragged his gaze away from her siren’s form. He pulled on his gauntlets, reached for his sword–and stole another glimpse of her. Damn! How in hell was he to focus on the duel with such a distraction before him?

  Cursing under his breath, he looked over his shoulder. Katarina now stood between Dr. Pritchett, who had arrived just after Tommy, and Matthews, seeming relaxed and calm. She raised her head and, catching his look, sent a dimpled smile his way.

  Damn the woman! He’d wager she could fence just fine in skirts and had donned this outlandish costume merely to distract him. The idea of her cold, calculating nature steadied him, brought him back from the brink of a muddled disaster. He’d show her. He would give her the five minutes he’d promised himself, then a swift cut to her arm and his torture would be over.

  Now completely composed, he affected a careless air as he walked to the center of the ballroom where chalk lines delineated the combat area to await his opponent. Katarina embraced Matthews, making every hair on Duncan’s head stand on end. “That is not the usual method to acknowledge a second, Lady Katarina,” he hissed as she took her stance across from him.

  “But this is not the usual duel, is it, Lord Dalbury? I will not be offended if you do likewis
e and embrace Lord Trevor before we begin.” Her eyes were wide in false innocence.

  Hah! He would not take that bait. “Shall we commence, my lady? To first blood?”

  “To first blood, my lord.” She became quiet and grave. “I wish us both bon chance.”

  Beauty, strength, integrity. The perfect woman. “I as well, my lady. You are ready?”

  In response, Katarina raised her rapier into position and nodded her head. Duncan took a deep breath and raised his weapon to hers.

  Chapter 16

  The moment his sword came into position, Katarina attacked, moving in close, trying to come in underneath his guard. Retreating, he tried to shift the distance, but she kept pressing him, always staying so close he could not fully extend his arm. In effect, he could not reach her.

  He emptied his mind and let his training take over. A duel was a chess game to him, a mental image that focused him whenever he fought, whether for pleasure or in earnest. Always grateful for this dispassionate objectivity, he welcomed it now that he was engaged in the fight of his life. Mentally, he stood back from Katarina, seeing her moves, counteracting them automatically. The problem was, she was very good. He’d told Tommy he would give her five minutes; he’d be lucky to find a way through her defenses in twice that time.

  Her form, her movements, her cunningly executed parries bespoke her as one of the better opponents he had fought. Her technique was good, her footwork excellent. His sword slid past a parry to slash her upper left arm. Damn, they were just getting underway. Then elation hit. He’d won. She would marry him now.

  He stepped back, breathing hard, only to find her advancing, fire still in her eye. “My lady!” He continued to parry, lest she skewer him in earnest. “We agreed to fight to first blood. You are wounded.”

  She stopped, guard still up. Between gulps of air she said, “I am not wounded, my lord.”

  Duncan grew still. “I wounded you in the arm.” He believed her too honorable to renege on the terms. What was she about?

  “I think not. But if Dr. Pritchett will verify?”

  He motioned Pritchett over as Katarina began to unbutton her jacket. Her movements drew his attention to the fact that his opponent had chosen to fight with her coat on. Most men preferred the freedom of the loose shirt alone, but perhaps Katarina had thought it would be too revealing of her breasts. Though she certainly had no qualms about showing off other parts of her body.

  The final buttons undone, Pritchett drew the garment off her and began inspecting for tell-tale signs of blood. There was none. Her white shirt remained pristine and intact.

  “I told you so, my lord,” Katarina said, gloating. “I felt no sting to indicate a wound and I have been wounded in practice before. I know what it feels like.”

  So did he. “I beg your pardon, but I felt my sword slice into your jacket.”

  “Indeed, you may have done. But it did not go through to draw blood.”

  Shaking his head, he extended his hand. “May I see the jacket, please?”

  Matthews appeared at Katarina’s side in an instant. “Are you disputing the lady’s word, my lord?”

  “I do not dispute her word, though I believe you overstep your boundary in this matter. I merely wish to inspect the cloth, to see if I did indeed cut it.”

  Tense lines around Matthews’s mouth indicated his resentment of the request, but Duncan knew he was within his rights. The Runner nodded and withdrew outside of the outline.

  Pritchett handed the jacket over.

  The garment was of good quality worsted, the color a little faded, with definite signs of wear–as if someone had worn it often, but taken good care of it. It seemed bulkier as well, as though several thickness of material had been used instead of the usual two, which was surprising. He found the cut his rapier made and his mouth tightened in annoyance. The slashed edges revealed five layers of thickness between the outer worsted and the inner lining of muslin. A substantial barrier between his blade and that one necessary drop of blood. “This is your usual fencing costume, my lady?”

  She nodded, innocent eyes on him. “Yes indeed, my lord. My father agreed to allow me to use a sword if I was well protected. Whenever I practice I wear that jacket or another just like it. It gives good protection against cuts. My breeches are reinforced in a like manner. You can understand a father wanting to keep his daughter safe from all harm, can you not?”

  Duncan closed his eyes and sighed. His task had just become many times more difficult, for in order to cut through all the layers of cloth he must thrust with greater force, thus risking a deeper cut to Katarina. “I believe I understand such a wish, although it hardly seems necessary in your case, my lady.” He met her steely blue gaze. “When you are ready, we will continue.”

  Katarina donned her jacket, her cheeks flaming scarlet. The jacket, while protective, likely acted as quite good insulation. Between the strenuous exercise and the heat building up inside the jacket, she must be uncomfortable. This pause in the duel and removal of the jacket had given her a respite, perhaps allowing her a second wind. Duncan shook his head and began to revise his strategy.

  Fully attired, Katarina raised her rapier, nodded to him, and again launched herself in attack. Meeting her blow for blow, he now pressed an attack of his own. She fell back a step before binding his weapon to the ground. He ducked as her blade whistled through the space his head had occupied mere seconds before. He retaliated with renewed vigor and their swords flowed like quicksilver through air that rang with the discordant sounds. Katarina’s blade danced dangerously close to Duncan’s face; the next instant her sword went spinning through the air and landed a mere foot from Tommy Redmond’s still sleeping form.

  Katarina’s look of shock did not amuse Duncan in the least, for he assumed his own face bore a similar expression. The disarm had been instinctual, summoned from the long hours of grueling training with Signor Fucile last year. Had he never gone to Italy, this outcome might have been very different.

  He straightened, rapier still en garde. His completely vulnerable opponent recovered her composure, however, and stood with face schooled into haughty disdain. Her chest heaved as she sucked in deep breaths. Fire in her eyes as she returned his stare dared him to complete his office.

  Duncan moved slowly toward her. As he stepped to her side she did not deign to turn her head toward him, although she tracked him with her eyes. Manning and Matthews had advanced to the edges of the dueling space, but did not breech the barrier.

  He continued to circle her until he stood directly behind her. Where could he wound her with minimum damage? Curse her, for putting him in this position! “My lady, do you yield?” he asked.

  Motionless, except for the still labored breathing, she replied, “Our agreement was to first blood, Lord Dalbury. If you do not take it, I claim the forfeit.”

  Duncan closed his eyes in exasperation and said, “Very well, then, my lady.” The padded jacket precluded a wound to arms or torso. Breeches did likewise to the lower body and thighs. He could wound the calf, but she wore knitted stockings that might bind the blade and make a ragged, nasty wound. Her hands were encased in leather gloves. And he would be damned if he would mark her face. He was going to live with that face for many, many years and would not curse himself every time he looked at her because he had marred her beauty. What did that leave?

  He continued to circle her, searching for a glimpse of skin that would allow him a small wound. It need only be one drop of blood, for Christ’s sake.

  Her coat and shirt were both collarless. She had loosely tied one of her brother’s cravats around her neck, but it was now askew from the ferocity of the fight, baring part of her neck. He moved behind her again. She tensed, likely in apprehension, not knowing from what direction the blade would come.

  Duncan tossed his rapier to Lord Trevor, and quietly stepped so close to Katarina that his breath stirred the hair at her neck. He moved his head even closer, until his mouth was poised beside her left
ear. Her breathing quickened.

  “My lady,” he whispered, “you have given me little choice in this matter. I would not wound you, but I will not forfeit the match. Your protection has also tied my hands in the matter of where to wound you. So I must take where I may find.”

  She began to tremble at his words. If it were done...

  He turned his head and sought the delicate flesh at the nape of her neck, the one place on her not protected.

  She went still, sucked in a breath and held it, as he worked at the tender spot open mouthed. With the tip of his tongue, he massaged the warm skin of her neck, salty from her exertions against him. A low moan, akin to the one she had given him in the garden two nights ago, escaped her before a shiver chased down her body. Then he nipped the skin, breaking it, drawing the precious drop that claimed her as his. She gasped, and he whispered again in her ear, “You did not stipulate, Lady Katarina, that the blood must be drawn with the sword. I therefore claim victory in the duel. Will you honor the forfeit?”

  “Of course I will hold to my word,” came the answer, her voice low and breathless.

  He turned her toward him then, until he stared down into the depths of her frank blue eyes. Cupping her face, he gently rubbed her stubborn jaw with his thumbs. “Then will you name our wedding day, my lady?”

  She laughed and stepped back from him, seeming to shake herself. After a moment, she took a deep breath, raised her chin and said, “That is for you to decide, Lord Dalbury. Any date I name will certainly be at least a hundred years hence.”

  Duncan smiled at that. God, she was worth everything. All the trouble and pain, all the guilt. For he did feel guilt over his treatment of Katarina. First for trying to ravish her, now for all but forcing her to marry him. But he was not sorry. Not a bit. And one day, pray God, she would not be either. “Then I would see the matter done today, my lady.”

  Her lips fought against a smirk. “I knew I should have wagered on that special license. May I have time to return home and change? Or will you wed me in these?”