Page 54 of The Duke's Spinster

Leading up tothe tournament, Wesley had trained every day. Hard. Servants that were otherwise content to be in his employ steered clear of him. They took turns bringing him trays of food and reassured each other that his growling would pass. Surely, a man with a calm demeanor (until this week) would not turn into a permanent monster. Surely, the smashed vase out of anger was a onetime occurrence. Surely, he would not be so demanding as to have nine flavors of ice provided at a random dinner, again. Surely.

The worst of it befell Wesley’s poor valet though. The first day he had shaved Wesley, he had missed a hair on his chin. Wesley shouted obscenities. The second day, his valet had paid extra attention to the chin area and had missed a couple of hairs under Wesley’s jawline. More obscenities and water on the floor. The next time the valet came to shave he had a slight tremble to his hand, and fate of all fates, had nicked his volcanicemployer. The vulgarities lasted an hour. Wesley hadn’t ceased his mutterings until breakfast forced him to stuff food into his mouth. And even then he had grumbled a couple of times. The fourth day the valet’s hand trembled so badly that Wesley took the damn razor from him and attended to his own face. The valet had winced, but the grimace was followed by an obvious sigh of relief.

“If you can’t get it right, I’ll do it myself,” Wesley had said. “Or I’ll find someone who can.” The valet was loyal though, as were they all to their master. And the decision to ride it out had been unanimous among Wesley’s staff. He knew this because he had overheard a couple of them discussingHis Grace’s foul temper of late. Their grumbling only led to more grumbling from him. It would pass, though. As soon as he won this damn fencing tournament and bested Samuel. That’s what he needed right now. He needed a win. He needed to sleep in his own damn bed.

He needed a breakthrough. A breakthrough from the fencing match in his head. Only two thoughts playing tag in his mind.No.AndDon’t come home until you win.A more formidable tag-team foe he had yet to encounter: the woman he now sought and the father he had once fought.

The fencing match in his head was hopeless, so he turned his thoughts to more controllable events. The tournament was to last two days. The first day had played out so that the best of the best would make it to day two. A fencer had to score thirty points to pass round one. There were matches all day long for each fencer to achieve their high score.

Only eight men had made it to day two. Day two was set up in pools. If Wesley won his first round, he would likely be up against Lord Tamely, the cheater. Since the poor sod Tamely was up against first was new, he probably didn’t know to watchfor Tamely’s tricks. Samuel would win his pool, and then Wesley and Samuel would meet in the finals.

It was day two, and the auditorium was full of male spectators, most of them were betting on the winners of each pool and the overall winner of the tournament. Much money would exchange hands. He breathed in the scent of sweaty men. Manly men. Sweaty, manly men doing manly activities. No women allowed. No rose-scented (or otherwise-scented) females here. This was where he needed to be, if the tight churning in his gut was any indication.

The matches for day two were timed for a single audience, which meant everyone was able to see every fencer. As predicted, Wesley and Samuel both won their first matches. Also as predicted, Lord Tamely won his match. With cheating. The crowd had booed, but nothing was done. Wesley pitied his opponent though. Without the cheating, he was sure to have won. There was something about his movements, a flare, a dexterity he had rarely seen the likes of. The only thing to be done in a match against Tamely was to eschew his signature trip and strike more.

Anyone who had witnessed the first tournament would be privy to Tamely’s move. Or at least the gossip surrounding it. His matchup must have been from outside of London not to have heard or seen it. He didn’t seem the type to not be able to deflect such a simple move if he had the foreknowledge of it.

But Wesley shook the odd thoughts from his mind. They were not pertinent to his own imminent win.

The time had come for the final match. The match forthe win. Wesley hadn’t been able to execute Boudicca’s signature move, just as she had forewarned him, but he had learned quite a few maneuvers from her that he knew would catch Samuel off guard.

Within a minute of stepping onto the piste, Wesley knew the win was his. The first lunge, attack, low inside. It was too easy.

After that first point, Samuel asked nonchalantly, “Who have you been training with?”

The question made Wesley consider that perhaps his body had picked up more from Boudicca than he had originally thought.

The referee made the calls to reposition and commence, and Wesley was about to advance-lunge when his mask fell from his face. What atrocious timing. Damn mask. He had a match to win. He didn’t need to deal with this.

He moved to continue the match, but the referee raised his hands.

Immediately, the bout was paused while the referee insisted that Wesley return to the change room to retrieve his other mask.

When he made his way down the corridor though, he must have opened the wrong door because instead of finding it empty, he discovered the most peculiar sight. But more peculiar than the sight was the scent that greeted him. Roses.

Chapter Twenty

Boudicca sat inthe change room, in full gear save her mask, replaying the match over and over in her head. How had she tripped over her own feet? And not just once, but twice. She had never in all her years of fencing done that before, let alone two times in one bout. She was quick on her feet. Agility was one of her strengths. Yet, the referee had made the calls. The crowd booed at her poor performance, hoping for a better competitor. How had she ever thought she could compete in a man’s world? It was a different world, entirely.

She couldn’t shake it. It was impossible to discern if she had allowed the stress of the event to get to her, or if she had allowed her emotions to eat away at her. Whatever it was, it was something deep in her gut that would not leave her alone.

Her initial reaction to the calls of Tamely’s point gained was that he cheated. She knew him as a knave. It only made sense that he would be a knave off and on the piste. Not only that though, she wassureshe had tripped over his foot, not her own. But for so many reasons, she didn’t want to contradict the referee. One, she was a woman and didn’t want to voice anything for fear of being found out too early that she was female and shouldn’t be competing anyway. Two, she didn’t want to call him out, as in for an actual duel. His honor was at risk, and she was in no need of a match to the death. Three, it seemed as though everyone accepted the call, so perhaps she had mistaken her own movements somehow.

She had made it to day two of the tournament. There was that as an accomplishment. She sighed. Not one to be a sore loser, she was ashamed at how defeated she felt. Perhaps the extra sting came from losing to Lord Tamely. At least she knew she had beat him off the piste. He hadn’t gotten his way with her there.

But then there was another thought. A sinking, pitiable thought. Perhaps she had overblown in her own mind her level of skill.

If she wasn’t in such a disheartened state, she would have been watching the final match between Samuel and Wesley from the perimeter of the room. Hidden, but able to observe. She would likely never get the chance again.

But she couldn’t bring herself to watch because she knew in her heart she would be cheering for Wesley to win. And that would be gut-wrenching. She wanted to despise him. She wanted to best him. But this awful niggling part of her still wanted the best for him.

They were competitors. She knew what it meant to him to win, especially against someone he had recently lost to. In order to increase his odds of triumph, he had humbled himself enough to take training from a woman for god’s sake. It was hard to look back at their time together. It was almost as if she could see everything in muted color. All the moments he had stuck around just to get one step closer to winning his outlandish bet were a dreary drab gray in her eyes.

But if she was being honest with herself, there were some bright memories as well, full of pistachio green ice, blood red cut, smooth peach skin. Lots of exposed skin. Her face grew warm. How could a person think they both loved and hated someone at the same time? Why wouldn’t her heart just listen to her mind? For that to happen, she supposed, she had to knowwhat her mind was thinking. And all her thoughts regarding Wesley and fencing were now a jumbled mess.

Ugh. She sat with her mask in hand, rolling it around her palm. She should be proud that she tried. And proud that she made it as far as she did. A person could never earn a point by sitting out.

*

---