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D iana regarded her brother in the dappled sunlight. She had wondered how he would react to her flagrant attempt to subvert his will.

He looked more annoyed than angry. But he also looked confident. And why shouldn’t he? They were evenly matched.

But he wouldn’t win this time. Diana was determined.

And she had a plan .

“Three rounds,” Marcus said crisply. “The bout will end if one of us goes up by ten touches.”

“That won’t happen,” Diana said coolly.

Her brother’s lips twisted into a reluctant smile. “No. Finally, some proper competition.”

Marcus stalked over to the rack of swords and picked up a mask. Diana took one as well and pulled it on. She performed a few lunges to warm up.

They took up their positions and saluted one another. Marcus went into a classic French guard, with his sword pointing toward Diana’s heart and his left arm raised behind him.

Diana, on the other hand, adopted a German guard known as the Ox.

It was a stance seldom taught in the British fencing schools, with her wrist high, at the level of her forehead, and her sword angled downward.

Behind his mask, she saw Marcus’s eyes narrow, and she knew he was wondering what she was about.

He soon found out. During her childhood on the moors of Yorkshire with Aunt Griselda, Diana had had nothing but time. Time to fence, time to think, and time to read every book in their library three times over. This included a half-dozen fencing manuals written in Italian, French, and German.

One of those German books described a duel.

The victor, it said, fought in a position of very high prime , just like the one she had assumed.

He focused not on the attack, but on an endless series of flipping cuts and parries, delivered from the wrist. It was an exhausting technique, “as much a trial of endurance as of skill,” as the book had put it, and the slightest lapse of concentration would be her downfall.

But Diana knew that it put her at an advantage. She had been born missing her right hand, meaning that she had to do everything, absolutely everything, with her left.

That meant that her left side was strong . It had to be.

And she was risking everything on the conviction that she had the strength in her sword arm to outlast her brother.

It took Marcus only a moment to notice what she was doing. “Attack, damn it!” he growled in German.

Diana did no such thing. She focused all her attention on flicking his blade to the side, flicking it hard , the better to wear him down, again and again. She was biding her time, waiting for him to falter.

And falter he did. After a few minutes, she saw it. The slightest wobble in his sword point. An uncharacteristic gracelessness to his movement.

Without warning, she slashed as hard as she could, knocking his sword to the side, and lunged. Her blade bent as the button buried itself in her brother’s padded coat.

The onlookers burst into cheers. Marcus ripped his mask off, scowling, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “That’s only the first round. We’ve two more to go.”

Diana inclined her head. She had not expected this to be easy.

In the second round, her attention faltered, only for a fraction of a second, but that was all the opening Marcus needed to execute a balestra , skipping into a lunge with perfect form and skewering her in the left breast.

They retreated a few paces, both breathing hard. Anticipation was thick in the air because whoever scored the next touch would be the winner.

After a moment, they resumed their stances, and then, it began.

Diana tried to focus on Marcus’s sword, to block out the cries of encouragement from her friends.

It was probably for the best that only she and Marcus understood German, because the things Aunt Griselda was shouting were not considered suitable for mixed company.

He almost got through on a couple of occasions, and she found herself back on her heels, barely managing to deflect his blade. But she recovered, reset her stance, and continued her relentless series of parries.

Cracks started to form in her brother’s technique. His wrist action, always crisp and impeccable, began to slow. Diana wasn’t doing much better, truth be told. Her forearm was aflame, and she could feel her grip on her sword starting to fail.

But the one thing that never wavered was her determination.

She would not give up, would never quit, no matter how much it hurt, or if she couldn’t bend her wrist for the next week.

As much as she wanted to win an interlude with Harrington, this was about more than that.

This was her way of showing her brother that he couldn’t push her around, couldn’t dictate the terms by which she would live her life.

So, she fought on through the pain.

And when her brother made an uncharacteristically graceless feint, she attacked.

She dropped into a passata-sotto , lunging so low to the ground that she had to rest the tip of her right arm on the grass for balance.

With the last of her strength, she thrust her sword up toward his exposed stomach.

She couldn’t make out much of Marcus’s face through his mask, but she registered the shock in his posture as the tip of her blade struck home.

Raucous cheers surrounded her. Izzie and Lucy reached her before she could rise, almost bowling her over in their exuberance. They helped her up and she peeled off her mask. Her face was coated in sweat, and she could feel frizzy curls breaking out at her temples.

She held her breath as Marcus removed his mask, wondering how he would react to his public defeat. Would his face show rage? The icy disdain he usually reserved for others? Or what was perhaps worse, disappointment?

But when he pulled his mask off, she found his lips were twisted wryly, his expression one of pride. “That was brilliant , Diana. You have become such an outstanding fencer.” He crossed to her in three strides, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.”

Her smile was warm, at least, by Latimer family standards. “Thank you, Marcus.”

There was a smattering of applause. Once it died down, Diana lifted her chin. “And now, I believe I am owed a boon.” She turned her head, smiling as she found Harrington in the crowd. “Lieutenant Astley. Might I have the pleasure of your company during the picnic luncheon?”

Beside her, Marcus rolled his eyes. Diana ignored him. She couldn’t seem to look at anything but Harrington’s beaming face.

He placed a hand over his heart as he sketched an elegant bow. “I should be delighted.”