Lord Harry's Folly by Catherine Coulter (read this if .txt) 📕

knit breeches, and felt her own legs begin to tremble. That she wasn’t a man would bring her down. That she simply didn’t have his strength would mean her death. It wasn’t fair. She wouldn’t accept it. She would beat him because she was in the right. There had to be justice somewhere. That justice had to be within her.

She was sweating and quickly dashed her hand across her eyes. Her breath was coming heavily now, and she knew she had to retreat at least a moment from him.

She took three light jumping steps backward, disengaging her blade from his, gulping in the precious air. But he was on her in an instant, his lunge curiously shallow, yet clashing against her blade with such force that her fingers nearly crumpled on their grip. She met his eyes in that moment, saw that they were calm and coolly calculating, and felt a quiver of anger at her own weakness. With more anger than skill, she stepped into the onslaught of his foil with a furious lunge. The blades crackled together and he bore his hand upward, pulling her forward until the foils were locked at their base. She hated her own harsh breathing, for he was but inches from her face and could hear her weakening. Damn him, there wasn’t even a drop of sweat on his forehead.

Hetty managed to jerk free and leapt back, almost losing her balance. Her free hand clutched wildly at the empty air, in a frantic attempt to keep from falling. Even as she regained her balance, she was aware that the marquess could have been upon her in a second. Yet, he stood silently back, the look on his face curiously dispassionate.

“Damn you,” she yelled at him. “Damn you to hell and the devil.”

The marquess readied himself for a wild lunge, his eyes, this time, resting coolly upon the boy’s right arm. He was fighting bravely and with some skill. But he was tiring visibly. It was time to bring the duel to an honorable end. Odd that he wanted it to be honorable, for Monteith. He didn’t understand himself, save that he saw something of what he’d perhaps once been in the boy, a boy who would, nevertheless, give anything to run his foil through his chest. It was a disconcerting thought, but it held him nonetheless.

Hetty wanted to leap upon him, to tear the foil from his hand. It was the severe, rapped out words of Signore Bertioli spoken on a long ago afternoon, that held her back. “Young lord, he who loses his head will most certainly lose his heart. And not, young sir, to a lady.” She’d laughed, digested his words and proceeded to feint with such subtle skill that for the only time during his tutelage, she had nearly managed to break through his guard.

She became aware of the calm yet expectant stance of the marquess. He expects me to lunge wildly, she realized with a start. Very well, let him think it to be so.

She clumsily lurched forward, her foil extended its full length, its tip aimed for his heart.

The marquess saw his opportunity, for Monteith had forfeited his guard. He swiftly parried the boy’s blade to one side and lunged at his upper arm.

In that instant, Hetty executed the Italian master’s most difficult trick: she drew back her blade, jumped quickly to the side, deflecting his blade from her arm, and lunged with all her strength toward his shoulder.

From instinct born of long practice, the marquess whirled about, slid his foil under Monteith’s and threw the boy off balance. But he couldn’t temper the force of his lunge, and with sickening ease, he felt the tip of his blade slice into Monteith’s side.

Hetty jerked her head up, startled that she’d failed. She felt a prick in her side, then a strange cold sensation, as if a slap of frigid air had hit her skin. The marquess stood frozen in front of her, his face pale, set.

She saw that his foil was covered from its tip to almost a quarter of its length in bright red. It is blood, my blood, she thought, but she felt no pain.

She heard the earl of March’s voice. “Hold Monteith. Lord Oberlon has drawn blood. It’s over.”

Over? No, nothing was over. Was the earl blind? Did he and the marquess expect her to crawl away in dishonor because of a slight prick in her side? She cried out suddenly, her voice strong and clear, “Damn you, Jason Cavander. I’ve just begun with you! En garde!” She felt strong, confident, as if her body no longer existed only her mind and her arm, the foil its extension.

The marquess shot a helpless glance at the earl. He had time for naught else, for Monteith lunged at him with the fury of demons from hell. He leapt back, parrying the thrust. He saw the glazed look of purpose in the lad’s eyes and knew that his mind had closed itself to any pain. The lad would bleed to death before he realized how badly he was wounded. The small circle of blood that stained the loose white shirt was spreading rapidly, flattening the material against the wound.

He called out over the hissing of the blades, “Monteith, draw in! Look at your side.”

He might as well have spoken to the wind, for though Hetty heard his words, her mind refused to allow her to understand their significance. She heard herself laugh aloud, a strong, triumphant laugh. She pressed him, her blade cutting so swiftly through the air that he backed away and to the side to diminish the force of her thrusts.

The attack was unmeasured, wild. The marquess was very aware that there was no timing or skill in the frantic lunges. The boy’s mind keeps him from seeing the truth of the matter, the marquess thought with growing concern. If he didn’t quickly bring the duel to a halt, the boy would die. He knew Monteith