Page 9 of Introducing Mr. Winterbourne
“Mr. Jessop is quite good,” the fencing master said in a low tone, “but don’t be deceived—Mr. Winterbourne is holding back considerably.” He arched a brow at Adam. “Even at half strength, he is a pure pleasure to watch though, don’t you agree? His form is beautiful. Oh, look! Did you see thatcroisé?”
Lysander Winterbourne’s opponent stepped back and lowered his sword, acknowledging a point, and the two men moved apart, taking up their starting positions again. Adam tracked Winterbourne with his gaze. He’d discarded his jacket, and in his skin-tight breeches and waistcoat, he was trim and handsome.
“Yes,” Adam murmured. “Beautiful form.”
The two men saluted one another with their blades and began again, and it was another dazzling display of attacks and counterattacks, swift and glittering and intent. At the end of it, Jessop accepted defeat, grimacing a little, but good-humoured enough, and offered his blade to Adam.
“Are you going to try to best him?” he asked, arching a brow.
Adam glanced at Winterbourne, who smiled at him, a slow, challenging smile that made his absurdly handsome face even more appealing.
“Come on, Freeman,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Very well,” Adam said. He didn’t take the blade from Jessop immediately. Instead he removed his coat and put it to one side, taking his time. He was conscious of the other three men watching him, mostly Winterbourne, with that devil-may-care smile of his.
After he accepted the blade, he took a few moments to learn its weight and shape, moving it from hand to hand, carrying out a few exploratory slashes and thrusts. Gris watched him, his gaze considering, but giving nothing away of his thoughts.
“Take your positions, gentlemen,” was all he said, then simply, “En garde.”
Adam was a good swordsman, but he wasn’t as good as Winterbourne. He already knew that, just from watching him fight Jessop at half strength. He suspected too that Winterbourne was not an entirely ruthless opponent. That he would give Adam one chance at least, at the start of the bout. He would give him that chance with all the magnanimity of a man who knew himself near unbeatable.
So Adam took it.
His initial lunge was explosive, a powerful surge of strength that took Winterbourne by surprise. It gave him a half second of an advantage—less—before his blade struck the other man’s and the bout was underway.
The next few minutes were frenzied, Adam moving on pure instinct as their weapons clashed and scraped, working in opposition and in accord too. Adam knew that there were times when it was more intelligent to yield than to hold firm—knew too that the moments in a bout on which victory pivoted were not always won by brute force. But the fact was, heonlyknew. With Winterbourne, it was more than knowing. Heunderstoodthose moments, had an instinct for how to play them, his body seeming to move almost without thought.
Adam fought hard, but he was no match for his younger opponent. As he realised the extent of that truth, his grin grew till he was laughing aloud, simply admiring Winterbourne’s skill as the man sliced effortlessly through Adam’s best swordsplay, trying to keep the bout going as long as possible for no reason other than to prolong the mad joy of it.
Winterbourne began to grin too, his face flushed with enjoyment, cornflower-blue eyes bright and happy. That unruly lock of golden hair tumbled over his forehead, making him look carefree. Tempting. Adam wanted nothing more than to throw his sword aside and take the man in his arms. Kiss him senseless till they were both panting. Instead he kept fighting. Kept thrusting and parrying till Winterbourne finally did the inevitable, landing a hit on Adam’s shoulder, thefleuretof his foil pushing bluntly into Adam’s shoulder, making the blade bend in an outrageous, glinting arc.
They both halted, panting madly, grinning at each other while Gris and Jessop laughed, applauding their appreciation.
“Extraordinare!” Gris exclaimed. “So fast! You are a well-matched pair.” He took Adam’s foil from him and clapped him on the shoulder. “You will have to come back and demonstrate again when I have more students here. There are not many who can give Monsieur Winterbourne a run for his money! I am ever struggling to find him worthy opponents.”
“He is much better than I,” Adam said, catching Winterbourne’s eye. “I cannot call myself a worthy opponent.”
“Are you joking?” Winterbourne sputtered. “You nearly overcame me in the first two seconds. I’ve never seen anything so fast in my life!”
Gris laughed. “He’s fierce,” he said, turning aside to hand the foils to Jessop. “Like a Bengal tiger.”
“I see the resemblance,” Winterbourne agreed. He looked Adam up and down, raising one provocative brow, and Christ, the look on his face—amused, admiring—it went straight to Adam’s cock.
Stupidly he shifted, seeking to disguise his body’s response. Of course, it only served to draw Winterbourne’s attention, and his gaze duly dropped, the minute widening of his eyes confirming that, yes, he had noticed. But then how he could not, given how tight Adam’s breeches were, and how much his cock had swelled?
Thank God Gris and Jessop were busy putting the equipment away, at least.
Flustered, Adam turned away, reaching for his coat and tugging it on, buttoning himself up with stiff, jerky movements. What must Winterbourne be thinking of him?