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W hat have you been thinking? Nathaniel asked himself the following day as he stood ready in his fencing attire, waiting for her.

Fencing a woman was unheard of. He should’ve said no. He should have put her in her place. This was utterly ludicrous.

But of course, Evelyn had that hold over him.

No—it was not a hold, as such. It was something about her that made him forget himself entirely—something about her that made him lose control, even if just for a moment.

It was her confidence. How she had declared—without blinking—that she, Evelyn Sinclair, formerly Langley, was going to defeat him in fencing easily. He, who had fenced since he was a small boy. It was absurd.

Of course, she stood no chance. He would most certainly enjoy beating her.

He would be gentle. Let her land a few decent swings to bolster her pride.

It might even become an amusing story to share at Almack’s, about how feisty and fearless she was.

It would be a good way to judge which men were drawn to such boldness—and which were not.

But in the end, he would teach her a lesson. She couldn’t simply mouth off and challenge him without consequence.

“You’re here,” her voice came as she strode in.

She was dressed in proper fencing attire, which entirely knocked the breath from his lungs, because it revealed the shape of her body in ways her usual gowns did not.

It didn’t reveal anything improper per se, but the curve of her waist, the slope of her hip, the rounding where her breasts sat—all of it was usually concealed, and now it was not.

He felt his mouth go dry and shook his head to remind himself why he was here.

Not to ogle her. Not to lose his wits.

“I see you take the duel seriously,” she chuckled. “I was unaware this was a fight to the death.”

“You know very well what I mean.”

“I do. And I thought it was only right that I be attired properly. You had the same thought. Now—” she moved to the wall of blades, “—which saber may I use?”

He walked over and handed her one. “This one is good for?—”

“I’m not a beginner,” she interrupted, making her way across the wall and selecting one that was far too heavy, far too cumbersome.

“If you wish. But let us set rules—no changing sabers mid-fight just because you don’t like the one you picked.”

“Indeed,” she said. “Now, are you ready?”

He shook his head slightly. “I am. But I will give you one last chance to save yourself from humiliation.”

“I dare say I shall not be humiliated. If anyone eats humble pie,”—she drawled, emphasizing the word with scorn—“it shall be you, Your Grace.”

The way she spoke his title, laced with mockery, made his blood boil—and something else stir.

It was best to get it over with.

“Very well,” he said. “Let us begin.”

He took his position. So did she. And to his surprise, she looked entirely composed. Balanced. Skilled.

As their duel began, Nathaniel quickly realized he had grossly underestimated her ability.

She advanced first, her blade slicing forward with confident energy.

He parried with ease, flicked his wrist, and countered—but she blocked him neatly.

Her feet moved with precision—heels lifting slightly, then tapping down as she shifted her weight like a trained fencer.

She lunged again, and he had to retreat three steps to avoid her.

He narrowed his eyes. She was quick.

They circled, blades clicking in an elegant, brutal rhythm. His wrist flicked right—feint. She didn’t fall for it. He tried a low cut—she parried high and riposted, catching the edge of his sleeve. He barely twisted in time to avoid a proper hit.

“You’ve been practicing,” he muttered.

“I never said I hadn’t,” she said, eyes flashing. “Only that I wasn’t allowed.”

She pressed again, faster now. Their sabers clashed, the metallic rings filling the room. She made a shallow cut at his shoulder—he dodged and advanced, his blade nearly grazing her arm, but she spun away.

She wasn’t just competent. She was enjoying herself.

Then she slipped.

She charged forward, but her grip was off balance. He stepped aside, and her saber clanged to the ground.

“You’re not holding it right,” he said. “You must?—”

“I know what I must do,” she fired back, irritated at having lost the advantage.

“I dare say, the way you’re fencing, I am beginning to believe you don’t wish to stop receiving suitors. Is it possible you seek to lose on purpose?”

“I do not,” she snapped. Of course, she hadn’t. She had given her all up to now.

“Then why will you not let me show you how to hold it properly?”

Her shoulders slumped. She exhaled. “Very well. Show me, then.”

He walked toward her, stepping behind her. Gently, he placed his hand along her extended arm. Her skin was smooth and cool. As he adjusted her grip, her scent—orange and soft vanilla—floated around him. He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled.

He pressed against her slightly, just enough to adjust her stance. But as he did, he could not deny the urge to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in that scent. Fool .

“Nathaniel,” she said, and he jolted slightly.

“Yes,” he said quickly, lifting her hand a bit. “You must hold it like this.” He repositioned her fingers around the grip, and something flickered in him at the softness of her skin beneath his hands.

Once satisfied, he stepped back. “That is better. And—you ought to move your hips back a little.”

He hesitated—then, acting without thinking, he placed his hand on her hip and pulled it gently backward into the proper form.

She gasped and turned her head slightly, eyes wide. “You?—”

“You wish to win, do you not?” he said coolly.

She narrowed her eyes—but then nodded. “Very well. Shall we?”

They resumed the duel.

And this time, she came at him stronger.

Their blades danced again—parry, lunge, riposte. He tested her defenses and found them far improved. Her footwork is tighter. Her blade is faster. The match was longer than he anticipated. He was sweating now.

A flick of her wrist—he nearly lost his grip. She grinned. He growled.

It was a battle now. An honest one. And though he could beat her—he knew he could—he began to wonder if he should.

If he won, she would go to Almack’s. He would parade her around and introduce her to eligible men. And likely, one would suit her. She would be gone.

But if he let her win, he’d get a fortnight—a reprieve. No matchmaking. Time to… spend with her. Time to watch her smile when she thought no one saw. Time to see her wield a saber again.

No, he scolded himself. Foolish thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. He was not here to entertain her. He was here to find her a husband.

People were already talking. A young widow living with her late husband’s heir—unmarried? Now fencing?

He had to end this.

He surged forward—quick feints, blade high and low in rapid succession. Evelyn parried with fierce intensity, but her breathing was ragged. Her movements were slower. Sweat dotted her brow.

One final thrust—he disengaged her blade, twisted his wrist, and tapped her on the shoulder with the blunt edge of his saber.

Match over.

Her saber clattered to the ground. She bent, hands on her knees, panting.

“Damn it,” she muttered.

He lowered his blade, trying to calm his breath.

“You fought well,” he said. “Far better than I expected.”

“Your condescension is noted,” she gasped, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Enjoy your fortnight of matchmaking, Your Grace.”

He managed a faint smile. “Indeed, I shall.”

But as he watched her turn and leave the room, her spine straight despite her fatigue, Nathaniel felt something strange in his chest.

He had won.

And yet, somehow… it did not feel like victory.