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F encing. It would be bloody, fucking, fencing .

But Trevissick was on an entirely different level.

He’d been fencing obsessively ever since he was a small boy, because—as Harrington and the rest of the world had learned when the duke was forced to testify at a trial a few years back—his father was a violent piece of shit who used to beat his mother.

Trevissick had formed the idea that he could protect her in spite of being all of nine years old if he could gain enough skill with a blade.

Harrington knew he’d already lost. The real battle had taken place when they’d drawn straws. Had it come to targets, he would have won. Easily. He’d been shooting about as obsessively as Trevissick had been fencing, and for about as long.

But no. It had to be fencing .

The servants brought out a rack of swords, some canvas jackets, and mesh masks.

As Harrington shrugged into a jacket, his friend, Henry, came over.

Which was perfect, because just what Harrington needed—for someone to make a crack about how he clearly wasn’t interested in Diana, just as he’d said over lunch the other day.

He should have given his friend more credit.

“I’ve volunteered to fence so we’ll have four for the tournament,” Henry said, taking off his own coat.

“We’ve agreed to three rounds, unless someone draws ahead by ten touches, in which case, the bout will end.

I drew Fauconbridge in the first round, which leaves you to take on Trevissick.

” He reached for one of the padded jackets.

His eyes were sympathetic as he added, “I very much doubt I’ll get past your brother, but if I do, I’ll do my best to give Trevissick what for. ”

Harrington squeezed his shoulder. “Thanks, Henry.”

Surely enough, Edward, who was a damn good fencer by virtue of the fact that he was one of Trevissick’s regular sparring partners, eliminated Henry with ease. That brought up the most anticipated match of the day.

The duke didn’t bother donning one of the mesh fencing masks, which was both insulting and an accurate assessment of their respective skill levels.

Harrington put one on because he wasn’t a complete idiot.

He glanced around as they took up their positions, but he couldn’t find Diana in the crowd.

It stung that she hadn’t bothered to stay and cheer for him, but, upon further reflection, maybe it was for the best that she wasn’t going to witness his annihilation at the hands of her brother.

The bout went every bit as badly as Harrington had anticipated.

He felt the button on the tip of Trevissick’s sword spearing him in the chest before he even had a chance to blink.

He improved a bit after that and managed to prevent the duke from scoring the next touch for all of fifteen seconds.

But he didn’t score any touches himself, and the bout ended ingloriously near the beginning of the second round when the score reached ten to zero.

His smile was tight as he removed his mask, but he offered his hand to the duke, trying at least to be a good sport. Trevissick’s smirk was triumphant.

Harrington excused himself and stalked over to Edward, who was about to don his mesh facemask. “Can you beat him?” he asked without preamble.

Edward’s expression was pained. “Probably not. I’ve never done so before.”

“Try,” Harrington said tightly.

Edward squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll do my best.”

Trevissick again did not feel the need to don a facemask. Edward did a damn sight better than Harrington had, but that only meant that the final score was ten to two instead of ten to zero. After shaking hands, he jogged over to Harrington, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’m sorry, brother. I tried.”

Harrington thumped him on the back. “I know you did. Thank you.”

Trevissick’s face glowed with triumph. “It seems that I have won a boon from one of my competitors. Let’s see, from whom shall I claim it?” He tapped his chin as if considering the matter seriously. “Ah, yes—Lieutenant Astley.”

God, but this tasted like vinegar. But Harrington inclined his head. “What would you have from me, Trevissick?”

The duke’s eyes gleamed. “For you to never come near my sister, ever ag?—”

“Not so fast, Marcus.”

The words had not been spoken loudly, but they held an unmistakable air of confidence. Every head swiveled toward the house.

Diana strode across the lawn. She had changed into a snow-white fencing costume, which was similar to a man’s ensemble—a padded jacket and slim white trousers—with the addition of a loose skirt that fell midway down her shins to allow for both movement and modesty.

She slashed her sword through the air in a jaunty salute. “You have one more challenger.”