Page 38 of The Duke Who Loved Me (The Duke's Estates 1)

James simply shook his head.

The place was not far away. They chose to walk. James’s valet followed with the case containing his fencing gear.

They found the garden crammed with gossiping spectators—some seated but most standing—surrounding a square marked out with chalk on the lawn. James looked for Cecelia and found her with her friends on the far side. She met his gaze. He could read nothing in her expression. She might have offered an encouraging smile.

“You have come,” said the prince from behind him.

He made it sound as if there had been some doubt, but James refused to react. How often had Angelo the fencing master pointed out that anger did not win matches? In fact, it often lost them.

James removed his coat and tied on a wire mask often used in bouts at Angelo’s school.

“Ah, you wish to protect your face,” said Prince Karl. “I am not accustomed to that.” He made it sound like a form of cowardice.

With a heroic effort, James kept his temper in check. They drew their swords and squared up for the salute.

Prince Karl was a hair taller, James realized, and he had a slightly longer reach. His arrogant confidence might be partly feigned, but it was convincing.

And unfortunately, it turned out to be justified. Three minutes into the bout, James knew that he was outmatched. Prince Karl was a superb fencer, and obviously trained by a master. He was faster than James and had a wider repertoire of moves. James might be one of the best at Angelo’s school. Prince Karl was better.

The points on their weapons were blunted. No one would die here today. But James realized that his winning reputation was in serious danger.

He fought grimly on, barely evading hit after hit. He grew winded while his opponent showed no signs of flagging. James tried a desperate flurry of strokes. All were parried without visible effort. His lesser ability must be visible to all by this time.

James waded in again. Prince Karl beat him off and then made a clever twisting motion with his weapon. The flat of it slapped against James’s wrist so hard that the arm went numb for a moment, and he dropped his blade. The prince kicked it away, gave James an odiously triumphant smile that seemed to last for an eternity, and then bowed to the audience, receiving their applause with smug enjoyment.

James shook his arm to restore feeling.

“Hurts, does it?” asked Prince Karl, smirking as he straightened.

The stares of the crowd felt like lashes. His opponent’s smile was insupportable. Cecelia was right there, witness to his humiliation. Shame and fury filled James’s brain, sweeping away every other consideration. He stepped forward, swung, and landed a crushing left to the prince’s midsection.

Prince Karl dropped his sword and folded over, clutching his stomach and gasping for breath.

There was a blank silence. The cream of society gasped, gaped, began to murmur, and then to chatter. The sound rose to a din that filled the garden.

James stood frozen. This was not done. The prince had not been ready for a blow. James had flouted the rules of sport. He’d been a poor loser, dishonored himself before everyone. His eyes found Cecelia. She looked shocked.

Abandoning his sword, James pushed his way through the thinnest part of the crowd. He ignored the stares—avid, gratified, sympathetic. Some people even looked frightened, as if he was going to start raining blows on bystanders as well. Did he seem berserk? Ought he to say something?

But he could not. Even now, the thought of an apology choked him. He fled. He didn’t even remember to remove his fencing mask until he reached his rooms, explaining the puzzled looks that followed him down the street.

Once home he threw it aside, shut himself in his bedchamber, and contemplated disaster. He’d lost the fight. Decidedly, definitively. The least knowledgeable observer could have seen that. Prince Karl von Osterberg had shown the polite world not only that he was a better fencer, but also that he was more sporting. Why had he hit the fellow? He might have bowed to a superior athlete, graciously admired his prowess. He was capable of magnanimity.

Only in victory, a sly inner voice murmured. But it wasn’t true. He had conceded others’ skills. Hadn’t he? He tried to remember an occasion, and could not. Had his hatred of losing driven him mad, James wondered. He’d behaved disgracefully. In the very arena that he had always claimed as his own.

James put his head in his hands. He didn’t do things he was no good at, he realized. He was wholly unaccustomed to losing. Still less to making a fool of himself before theton. Worse than a fool. What was he to do now?

There was a knock on the door. “James?” called Henry Deeping’s voice.

“Go away!” replied James.

A brief silence followed.

“Wouldn’t you like to talk?” Henry asked.

“No!”

“I really think…”

---