Page 20 of The Duke’s Spinster (Duke Dare #1)

B oudicca sat in the change room, in full gear save her mask, replaying the match over and over in her head. How had she tripped over her own feet? And not just once, but twice. She had never in all her years of fencing done that before, let alone two times in one bout. She was quick on her feet. Agility was one of her strengths. Yet, the referee had made the calls. The crowd booed at her poor performance, hoping for a better competitor. How had she ever thought she could compete in a man’s world? It was a different world, entirely.

She couldn’t shake it. It was impossible to discern if she had allowed the stress of the event to get to her, or if she had allowed her emotions to eat away at her. Whatever it was, it was something deep in her gut that would not leave her alone.

Her initial reaction to the calls of Tamely’s point gained was that he cheated. She knew him as a knave. It only made sense that he would be a knave off and on the piste. Not only that though, she was sure she had tripped over his foot, not her own. But for so many reasons, she didn’t want to contradict the referee. One, she was a woman and didn’t want to voice anything for fear of being found out too early that she was female and shouldn’t be competing anyway. Two, she didn’t want to call him out, as in for an actual duel. His honor was at risk, and she was in no need of a match to the death. Three, it seemed as though everyone accepted the call, so perhaps she had mistaken her own movements somehow.

She had made it to day two of the tournament. There was that as an accomplishment. She sighed. Not one to be a sore loser, she was ashamed at how defeated she felt. Perhaps the extra sting came from losing to Lord Tamely. At least she knew she had beat him off the piste. He hadn’t gotten his way with her there.

But then there was another thought. A sinking, pitiable thought. Perhaps she had overblown in her own mind her level of skill.

If she wasn’t in such a disheartened state, she would have been watching the final match between Samuel and Wesley from the perimeter of the room. Hidden, but able to observe. She would likely never get the chance again.

But she couldn’t bring herself to watch because she knew in her heart she would be cheering for Wesley to win. And that would be gut-wrenching. She wanted to despise him. She wanted to best him. But this awful niggling part of her still wanted the best for him.

They were competitors. She knew what it meant to him to win, especially against someone he had recently lost to. In order to increase his odds of triumph, he had humbled himself enough to take training from a woman for god’s sake. It was hard to look back at their time together. It was almost as if she could see everything in muted color. All the moments he had stuck around just to get one step closer to winning his outlandish bet were a dreary drab gray in her eyes.

But if she was being honest with herself, there were some bright memories as well, full of pistachio green ice, blood red cut, smooth peach skin. Lots of exposed skin. Her face grew warm. How could a person think they both loved and hated someone at the same time? Why wouldn’t her heart just listen to her mind? For that to happen, she supposed, she had to know what her mind was thinking. And all her thoughts regarding Wesley and fencing were now a jumbled mess.

Ugh. She sat with her mask in hand, rolling it around her palm. She should be proud that she tried. And proud that she made it as far as she did. A person could never earn a point by sitting out.

*

Wesley stood, gaping, at Boudicca in her gear. Obviously she had been competing. In fact, it was so obvious now that he stopped to actually open his mind and reflect on it that he was shocked he hadn’t identified her earlier. The flare and agility displayed was uniquely hers. And she should be uniquely his. But he didn’t say that. He said the first thing that came to his mind when faced with the woman he wanted in his bed but couldn’t have.

“What the hell?” he growled at her.

His first reaction was anger. Anger at her being here. In his manliest of places. Anger at her being here and him not knowing it. Anger that she was here, and yet he still couldn’t think of how to get her back into his life.

And then anger that she was here to witness a defect, his cursed broken mask. He needed to fix it and return to the match.

“What?” she challenged. “You act like you’ve never seen me in my gear before.”

“You know what the bloody hell I’m talking about. What the deuce are you doing here?”

“I came here to beat you. In front of everyone.” She had a wicked gleam, laden with pain, in her eyes.

“This is… this is…” how should he finish that? This is no place for a woman. This is a man’s game. This is my world.

Infuriated, he looked around, not seeing anything as it should be. He lifted his mask into the air. “I need a new one. Mine snapped.”

“You poor man. Your mask broke. At least you still have a chance at winning.” She scoffed. “You didn’t trip over your own feet when it mattered the most not to.”

Trip? On her own feet?

And then he saw it. She didn’t know. And she blamed herself. Foolish, foolish chit. She was a fighter, but she couldn’t see what she was fighting. Or maybe more accurately, who she was fighting. She couldn’t see the truth about her match. Perhaps she couldn’t see the truth about him either. She blamed herself. He saw it now. She blamed herself for his lies. She blamed herself for losing the match. But how could one blame her when all she had done was try? His anger seeped out of him.

“How can you be so blind yet so sharp at the same time?” he asked quietly.

“What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t trip.”

“The referee said I did—”

“He’s being paid off. I’m not sure who’s worse. The ref or Tamely. Tamely’s a miscreant, a bounder, and a cheat. He tripped you. Didn’t you hear the crowd booing?”

She looked stunned. “I thought they were disappointed in my performance.”

“My God, Bodi. How could you think that? You’re amazing. And…” Perfect. Difficult. Irritating as hell, but irresistible. “Wrong. They weren’t booing at you, they were booing at him.”

“If everyone knows it, then why don’t they do something about it?”

“They might. But no one’s going to call him out.”

“Why not?”

Wesley scoffed. “Who knows? Not enough evidence? Pride? Fear? Maybe no one thinks he’s worth it. If every enemy that man has made called him out, it would have been fatal long ago. He’s just one of those weasels that gets away with bullying people. Some people can get away with murder.” He shook his head. Pointing to her garb, he said, “Sorry you lost your round. Obviously it took great effort for you to be here.”

“It’s fine. It wasn’t meant to be.”

Wesley shuffled his mask between his hands, an idea forming in his mind. An idea just outrageous enough to befit a warrior like Boudicca fighting for her lost freedom and bruised body .

“Maybe it was though.” Maybe it was meant to be exactly as it was.

Maybe he was supposed to have bumped into her that fateful night. Maybe the gods had a plan. Maybe…he just needed not to be an arrogant arse.

“Take my place.” He held out his sword.

“What?” She retreated a step, as if he were holding out stinking socks rather than a weapon, and a tool, to make her a champion.

“Go fence Samuel. And win. For me.” He offered a smile. “No. Not for me. For you. You deserve this. You are the better fencer. The world should know. You came here wanting to beat me, but go beat the best of the best. If you won against me, you would have revenge. Revenge is sweet, but the taste doesn’t last. Go win this for yourself.”

Her silence was his answer.

“Bodi,”—he stepped closer to her and kneeled in front of her—“this is your passion. I have seen it and felt it. I have lived a part of it with you. I know, it’s clouded now, but what happened between us was real.” Gently, he wrapped a hand around her upper arm. “This is who you are. Let the world see the real you. Do not be ashamed. Be you. And they will love you.” He had so much he wanted to tell her, like, they will love you the way I do , but he couldn’t say more past the lump in his throat.

Still she said nothing, so he stood to his feet. Gazing down at her sitting frame, she seemed as solid as stone. His soft words would do nothing. He could read her so plainly. She was unconvinced, and he knew he had to provoke her.

Not provoke. No, he had to cut her. He had to push where he knew it would hurt. So he said three words that he could never take back.

“I dare you.”

Her eyes narrowed to a thin blade as she ground out, “It’s yours to win.”

“It’s yours to win.”

Her shoulders rolled back to straighten her spine. His words were either rolling down her back like water droplets on a leaf, or sinking into the dirt to find roots. He needed it to be the dirt. He needed to reach her roots, for her to open up to him again. He wanted to see her bloom where she should plant herself. Not just where the world told her to grow in secret.

He was offering her the tournament. The weight of the offer hung in the air between them. If she fought and won, the ton would have to recognize her skill. If he took the match, he could beat Samuel and reclaim his pride. But love couldn’t be about pride. Could she see what he was offering her?

And just when he thought perhaps he had broken through her impenetrable wall, the wall he had once before cut a door in, walked through, and then locked himself out of, she spoke.

“No.”

There was that word again. But this time it burned a hole into his heart. This time she wasn’t saying no to him, she was saying no to herself. And he just could not abide that.

He shrugged, casting his last line. “I bet you’d lose anyway.”

She shoved herself up from her chair and made toward the door. She was leaving. Of course she was. He was being a cad. What else could he say though? If he couldn’t soften her into it, nor could he provoke her into it, what did he have left?

She reached the door and turned to glance back over her shoulder with daggers for eyes, “How. Much?”

“How much, what?”

“How much do you want to bet?”