Page 18 of The Duke’s Unwilling Bride

With a clang of metal on metal, she slaps her blade against mine, as if testing my resolve. In an effort to be a more chivalrous opponent, I allow my blade to falter as if struck with considerable force as opposed to the light quiver she delivered. Again, she strikes, moving forward just a touch, and again, I let my blade drop.

With a flurry of movement, she rushes forward, using my generosity against me. I watch, unable to parry as she brings her blade high on the outside, thrusting the tip into my shoulder. Instead of the normal blunted impact I was expecting, however, a sharp, searing pain pricks my deltoid, a sensation I’m not at all expecting.

She pulls back, her bosoms heaving. “I have drawn first blood, but I am not satisfied. Shall we go again?”

Her words ring in my ears as I look down at my shoulder, noting the bloom of red seeping into the pale shirt. “What the devil?” I move to capture her blade, but she dances out of reach.

“I told you I demanded satisfaction. That cannot be achieved while the blossom is still in place. Seeing as I am the injured party, and as you so decidedly pointed out, at a disadvantage to you, I thought it best to give myself a helping hand.”

“By cutting me?” I roar, storming over to her.

But she holds the point in front, guarding her body with a stance that mimics the most trained of fencers. Who or what is this woman? Rage wars with admiration as I bring my tip up, ensuring the blossom is still in place. She might play dirty, but I will not have my honor besmirched by this harridan.

Though now, I’m wondering if that's where she received those faint scars. Unable to puzzle through, I leap back, preparing for her next attack. She continues to press forward, as if her dress isn’t even an encumbrance. Her moves are lithe and sinewy, graceful even.

Where was this woman on the dance floor? Again, that niggle of unease scratches at my skull, demanding I sit and ponder the conundrum in front of me. It’s clear she’s hiding secrets, and now, more than ever, I want to uncover them. Much like I want to undress her and fence in the nude—blossoms attached to the ends, of course.

And next time, I’ll check. Shaking my head, I dispel the lurid thoughts. There will never be a next time. Nor will I be seeing her naked. The fact I allowed myself to even ponder that shows just how far this harpy has turned my head.

Anger filters through my body as I parry yet another lunge, sweat beading on my brow. This just proves even more she’s a slippery snake, a vulture hiding who she is until it benefits her. It shores up what her cousin said, solidifying the hatred in my mind.

With renewed vigor, I press into her, our blades clashing and then retreating. This time, it’s my turn to lunge, but not only does she parry my blow away by angling her wrist up and to the left, but she also rotates back around, countering my move with a riposte. The blade levels back to center, thrusting deep into my abdomen.

Since the blossom is no longer in place, the foil cuts deeper than I would like, piercing my midsection hard enough she breaks the skin, sending another bit of blood up to the surface to stain my shirt. The minx dances back, a smile on her face as she stares at my injury.

How badly I wish to get the upper hand in this situation, but my honor will not allow me. That is not to say she’s not a force to be reckoned with. In fact, she fights just as well as my other friends—dukes that have trained long and hard to be at the same skill level she possesses.

Blossom or no blossom, I’m still finding myself working to drive her back, sweating as she advances. What devilment is this woman who both vexes me and causes me to feel such a high level of esteem? I press again, studying her movements, noting her weaknesses.

For the most part, her height in accordance with mine is a detriment to her. More so the skirts that whirl about her ankles. At times, I had the perverse notion of just stripping her of them to see how she would move without the encumbrance, but deep down, I knew if I did that, I’d succumb to more than her blade.

Enough. I need to end this now and send this chit back to her house so I can regroup. Refusing to show any further mercy, I take advantage of her failings in stature and draw her blade up high, aiming to her right and high outside. As she chases it, I rotate my wrist around, lunging while I bend low, striking her center.

A hit to her breastbone. She pauses for a moment and blinks at me, before drawing her blade away and setting it to her side. “A very palpable hit, Your Grace. I applaud your ability to finally hit a target.” I grind my teeth at her flippant response and draw up, prepared to fight her some more. “I have found satisfaction. It is enough.”

“And who are you to say it’s enough for me? What if I wish for satisfaction?”

She bats her eyelashes before turning away and putting up her sword, leaving the tip bloody for someone else to clean. Fitting. “‘What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?’”

First Plato and now Shakespeare. “Methinks the lady puts on too many airs and thinks too highly of herself. The satisfaction I wish could also be to draw blood.”

Turning back to face me, she opens her arms. “And what is stopping you? Would you care for another bout? Perhaps an opportunity for you to remove your blossom and get revenge? ‘O happy dagger! This is thy sheath! There rust and let me die.’”

Smirking, I prowl toward her, grabbing a short sword from a nearby desk and unsheathe it. She watches me, her eyes wide as I close the space between us until every breath she takes presses her breasts against me. With a swift move, I hold the blade to her throat, watching as the muscles convulse with each swallow.

“‘Tis not not the sheath I so desire.”

Her brow scrunches up in an adorable look of confusion. “That’s not Shakespeare.”

“No, fair lady. Tis not.” Unable to resist any longer, I lower my lips to hers, keeping her still with my blade as my tongue laps at the seam of her mouth. That small gesture makes her gasp as arousal perfumes the air. “‘Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow,’” I growl against her mouth, drinking in the sweet honeyed taste, so erotic, so tempting, so forbidden.

She wriggles underneath me, taking care to not slice herself on my blade. I ignore the soft whimpers of protest as I collect the satisfaction I demand. Soon, her scent changes, perfuming the room with her arousal. The little minx seems to like it rough, and I don’t mind obliging.

However, just as I go to thrust my tongue into her mouth, the thunderous sound of hooves greets my ears from outside the window. It must be time to send her back, and not a moment too soon. Pulling back, I stare down at Lady Teresa, noting the quiver to her full lips. How could I have almost lost myself in those fathomless eyes, wide with innocent longing?

“‘Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss,’” she whispers, sliding her fingers across the plump swell of her bottom lip. “I suppose it’s time for me to let you see to your wounds while I run back home and lick my own.”

I move the blade, allowing her to slip out from underneath me. “You will return tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that,” I order. “You will see me until your coming out ball, so I may shape you up into a bride fit for an Alpha.”