Page 34 of The Scarred Duchess
“Maintain a defensive posture.”
“I am not Reeves,” admitted Legget.
Bennet grinned. “No, I can see you are not.”
“And the Miss Bennets?”
Bennet’s grin evaporated. “Dismantle any threat.”
When Fitzwilliam Darcy was nearly fifteen years of age and close to six feet tall, Pemberley’s beautiful ballroom was, with his father’s approval, temporarily decommissioned. Previously, carpet runners had framed the outer perimeter, and within its borders was a dance floor that gleamed like a diamond. That stately situation was no more. That woven framing lay in parallel lines as the room floor alternated between gleaming marble and Turkish carpets.
He was both excited and nervous. He was to fence with Mr Reeves!
“Prêt,” announced Mr Jeffers.
Fitzwilliam snapped his sword into the ‘ready’ position.
“Allez,” called Mr Jeffers. With blinding speed, Mr Reeves lunged forward and jabbed him in the chest. Mr Reeves lowered his sword.
“Arrêt,” commanded Mr Jeffers. Both fencers returned to theirstarting positions.
“Again,” announced George Darcy as he entered the arena. “Enjoying yourself, Jeffers?”
“Aye, sir. Nothing tops the elegance of the sport.”
“Would you agree with him, Reeves?”
Mr Reeves did not respond. Darcy looked at his father, who was gazing steadily at the man. “We did not bring Reeves this far north to assess his fencing skills, did we, Jeffers?”
Mr Reeves nodded and assumed his stance. Darcy, a tad confused at the tension in the room, did the same. As he snapped his sword into the ready position, Mr Reeves slithered forward and kicked his legs out from under him. Darcy fell to the floor. “Oof.” He looked to his father, taken aback that he merely grasped Mr Jeffers’s arm and shook his head.
Darcy stood up without his sword and pointed at his opponent. “Foul!”
Mr Reeves grabbed his extended arm and twisted it, forcing Darcy to give Mr Reeves his back. He yanked Darcy’s arm higher.
“You are hurting me!” he cried out.
“Had enough?” Mr Reeves taunted.
Furious and in pain, Darcy ground out through gritted teeth, “You shall regret your actions. And with my hands shall I render such!”
Mr Reeves released him. Darcy spun to face him, fists raised.
“Good!” his father said loudly.
He turned to stare at him. “Father?”
“You have two months before you return to school.” His father’s stony face brooked no argument. “Other than meals, you shall spend your days in this room until you can leave it under your own power. Reeves, carry on.”
Darcy lifted himself from the carpet. He ached less than he had two weeks ago, though defeat time and time again left ashes in his mouth. He stood, ready to engage again. Reeves apparently had other ideas, as he walked to the nearest chair and sat. He beckoned him to follow.
“You’ve improved, Master Fitzwilliam.”
“Thank you, sir,” he replied with a grin.
“I have a friend. Roark. Me and him go ways back. There was a free trader we called Mill, because he always was beating on someone. Didn’t matter who or what, longs as they was smaller than him. He caught Roark out one day, me being a hair late. When we was the two of us, Mill let us be. But with Roark alone, he went to pounding on him.”
“What happened next?”
