Page 28 of The Duke's Spinster

“He’s probably just upset that she beat him in the fencing match,” Samuel jested, not knowing his conjecture was actually the truth. When the three laughed and Wesley didn’t join in, Samuel’s laughter turned to shock.

“She didn’t,” he whispered reverently, “did she?”

Wesley couldn’t bring himself to admit his defeat. It was one thing to lose in front of her, and she could gloat about it in her own mind, and likely to her sisters. It was another entirely for that victory to be more publicly advertised.

“Right, Samuel. Like I’d lose to a chit.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Chris said. “She’s a master wielding a blade.”

“So you do know more? Is it just a selective sharing then?” Wesley asked, aggravated.

James slapped Wesley on the shoulder, “Settle yourself, Wes.” He chuckled. “The chit has you riled up and she’s not even here. I would say she’s got her claws in you, though I don’t know how she did it.”

“There are no claws, and there’s nothing under my skin. It’s just this cursed ankle, that’s all. It needs to be elevated.” As much as it pained him to admit a weakness of any kind, it was better to blame his foul mood on his physical pain than the real source of his irritation. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

“As long as you don’t fall apart on me old man, I can’t wait to take you on in the tournament. It’s always a good day when I win. Though I must say, it won’t be quite as satisfying if you’re injured. Oh, I’ll still take the win, don’t misunderstand me, but it just won’t quite have that same”—he punched a hand into his palm—“oomph. You know what I mean?”

Wesley knew exactly what he meant. The two were cut from the same cloth. Obnoxious competitors. So Samuel’s taunting only fueled a demand inside of himself to be better. Do more. Mostly, the dynamic was healthy. It was a good thing Wesley came for lunch. He had a growing fire lit under his arse to win both the tournament and the bet.

His ankle would be better tomorrow. He would will it better, and he would fence with Boudicca. And then he would win. Whatever it was that needed to be won, he would win it. That’s all that mattered.

Chapter Eleven

The next morning,Boudicca was so restless, it required an immediate jaunt over to the Practice Hall where she started in on squats. Fifteen repetitions. No, twenty. Her regular routine was usually a light warm up, a precursor to the activity of a practice match. This morning she needed to push herself to feel drained before it even began the fight because her body felt like a pianoforte upon which someone was clunking away and the reverberations were unceasing. She felt a mottled mess. Not knowing whether the duke was calling on her today was especially irksome. If she pushed herself hard enough in some rigorous exercise, perhaps her body would realign itself and she would feel normal.

She wasn’t even sure what normal was. Proper ladies didn’t fence to begin with. They didn’t wear breeches. They didn’t do all the things Boudicca loved to do. She knew there were other women like herself, her sister for example, but she hadn’t discovered them yet because proper ladies didn’t even speak about what proper ladies didn’t do. Unless they were gossiping. Which coincidentally, proper ladies often did.

She should have gone out and paid calls. That was normal. She shuddered. There was a reason she didn’t do that. It was more painful to sit and listen to idle gossip than to pretend she wasn’t sitting at home waiting for Wesley. Besides, theon ditwas likely to be about her, so what benefit did it serve to eitherher or the tattlemongers if the object of their gossip was present? So she stayed home and her sisters went out for the morning.

A knock on the door interrupted her twentieth count. Mid-squat, Wesley entered the gymnasium.

She popped up, feeling awkward about her bottom being pointed directly at him. “I didn’t think you were coming today.” She made a point to peer down at his ankle.

He lifted it up as if for inspection. “It’s fine.” And then he twisted it around to prove his mobility. “I’ve been here the last several mornings. My intentions are clear. Why wouldn’t I come today?”

“There is that explicit comment about intentions again. How do I know what your intentions are?”

“I’ve told you.”

“You could be lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You could be hiding something.”

With a small huff, he walked over to her. “I told you that I’m courting you. What more do you need?”

“I need to know why.” There. She had said it. It was about time, too. She berated herself for not asking this sooner. So many women would have loved to have his attention. They fought for it. In ways thetondid. A dropped fan here, an eye fluttering there. She had witnessed it, though never participated. It was imperative to uncover his secret.

What’s not to court?”

His cavalier response sounded oddly, and terrifyingly similar to, what’s not to love? But she shook that nonsensical sentiment out of her head. Thankfully he continued on.

“You’re a well-figured woman with a sharp mind. You come from a wealthy and noble family. And…no one can accuse you of being boring.”

It was a swarm of half-compliments. He had stated, more or less, indisputable facts. But it wasn’t enough.

“Why doyouwant to court me?”

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