Barbara Pierce (9 page)

Kilby’s gaze rested on the Duke of Solitea’s back as he accepted another gentleman’s hand and hauled himself back onto the stage.
What just happened?
she wondered, lightly touching her right temple with her fingertips. Had she been bewitched? What had possessed her to stand there docilely while the young duke had untied the bow on her bodice and with confidence born of practice removed the threaded length that framed her bosom?

The combatants were preparing for the match. Coatless and hatless, they wore no padding to protect themselves from the stinging blows of the sticks. Each had what appeared to be a wicker guard in their grasp. The ash rods were inserted into the hilt, creating a wooden sword. In their opposing hand they held a length of rope that was looped between their legs and the two ends were held rigidly in place by their hand. The rope was designed to hinder the movement of that arm. Each man could lift their bent elbow high enough to protect their face, but the arm could not block a ruthless strike to the head.

“Encouraging that particular man will lead only to disgrace,” Darknell warned. “The duke is not thinking how to court you, of taking you as his bride. He is wondering how quickly you will tumble into his bed, my naïve Fitchwolf.”

Kilby clenched her teeth at his chastisement. She was not
that
dimwitted. Given time, she would reason out the duke’s motives on her own. “Silence, my lord. You are becoming positively tedious. My ears are still ringing from your previous lectures.” She was being intentionally rude, guaranteeing that the viscount would refrain from speaking to her.

Kilby did not owe her friends an explanation about her reaction to the duke. She was not even certain what had occurred between them. The Duke of Solitea had looked
down at her with those penetrating green eyes of his, a slightly amused expression on his face. When he had asked her to tie the favor to his arm, how could she refuse the innocent request?

Kilby mentally shook off the lingering effects of the duke’s proximity. She was still flabbergasted he had approached her so daringly in public. The man had called her by name and openly flirted with her. His actions completely baffled her. If he knew her name, he knew she had been with his father when he had collapsed and died in her arms. Although the Carlisles had agreed that Kilby’s connection to the duke should not be revealed, Priddy had hinted that the family did so not for her sake—they cared little for her fate—but to avoid a scandal. If this was true, why had he not cut her dead?

Kilby jolted at the thwacking sounds of the ash rods connecting. Lord Hollensworth and His Grace had begun the match. The brief affable respite of having them search for a lady’s favor had not dimmed their thirst for battle. Glancing at the scrap of white lace tied to his arm, she surmised that the baron had found a lady to favor him. Kilby had been too focused on the duke to witness which one of the ladies had bestowed her favor.

As she watched them, the speed and grace with which the two men attacked and parried was extraordinary. This was definitely not a sport for the fainthearted. The duke took a solid hit on his arm. The man did not even grimace. He swiftly returned the hit by striking the baron on the shoulder and again on his upper right thigh. A small red spot of blood appeared on the shoulder of Lord Hollensworth’s white linen shirt, and the crowd cheered. The duke circled and Kilby noticed a larger bloodstain ruined his sleeve, too.

“Oh, I cannot watch,” Lyssa complained, covering her eyes. “Tell me when they have finished.”

Kilby brought the handle of the parasol to her lips. She wanted to look away, too. “What is the point? Thrash one another until each is bloody and senseless?”

She had not realized she had spoken aloud until Darknell replied quietly, “A singlestick can be as damaging to the flesh as a sword. These types of matches can get quite gory.”

She cringed as the duke parried twice and then took a stunning blow to his lower back. He used the forward momentum to crouch low and spin around for a countering attack. His Grace tripped the baron and the man landed hard on his back. Lord Hollensworth froze when the duke pressed the tip of his singlestick against the man’s breast.

“Surrender,” the duke demanded. He was drenched in sweat and breathless, his white linen shirt was marked in half a dozen places with his blood.

Lord Hollensworth sneered and batted the stick away with his own weapon. “Mercy from a Carlisle? What a laughable notion! Are you finally feeling remorse over my brother’s death, you bastard? Surrender? Ha! Never to you.”

Extremely winded from their battle, he staggered to his feet, never taking his hate-filled gaze off his opponent. He swung his singlestick wildly, aiming at his opponent’s head. The duke jumped back, dodging the blow.

“Getting careless, Hollensworth?” His Grace taunted. “Tasting blood, are you?”

“Only yours,” the baron replied, feinting left and then blocking his opponent’s hit. “Since you are too cowardly to accept my challenges, I will gladly use this staged mockery to bleed you dry.”

Her close proximity to the stage allowed her to hear their angry discourse. None of it made sense to Kilby. Something terrible had occurred and the baron was determined to take his revenge on the duke.

The duke used the side of his arm to blot the sweat on his face. “Looks like you are bleeding your fair share, sir!”

The baron reversed their direction and aggressively lashed out at the slight opening his opponent presented. The duke must have predicted this move, since he turned his body, using his bent arm to block. Blood instantly soaked the duke’s forearm.

Lord Hollensworth howled in fury at his opponent’s apparent skill and agility. As he kicked out, his foot connected with the duke’s knee.

“No!” Kilby shouted, clutching her parasol in a stranglehold as she watched the duke’s face contort with pain.

Solitea stumbled backward to find his footing. The baron did not hesitate. He lunged and drove the point of his singlestick into the duke’s chest.

“Unfair!” Darknell unexpectedly called out beside her.

The crowd was also booing and jeering their disapproval. Kilby did not know the rules of this bloodthirsty game, but it was apparent Lord Hollensworth had acted dishonorably.

His Grace glared at the baron in disbelief. The point of the stick had pierced the meat of his ribs. Furious, he grasped the offending rod and jerked the tip out of his chest. A bright splash of red appeared on the front of his shirt. The duke tossed aside his singlestick and released the rope confining his other hand. “To hell with good intentions, you miserable, sanctimonious devil!” He slammed his fist into the baron’s jaw and sent the man flying backward. “I’m through playing. Let’s settle this. I call for sabers!”

The bastard had impaled him with a stick! Unbelievable. His friends had been right all along. He should have accepted Hollensworth’s challenge and been done with it. This was his reward for allowing guilt for his minor part in
Hart Mitchell’s suicide to interfere with his dealings with the grieving brother. When Hollensworth had first challenged him, he should have accepted, and then callously fired a bullet into him to discourage him from ever picking up the gauntlet of revenge.

Fayne deliberately turned his back on the baron and marched over to his friends. It was Cadd who offered up his saber. If Hollensworth dared to attack him while his back was turned, Fayne
would
kill him. There were hundreds of witnesses present who would verify that he had acted in self-defense.

“Solitea,” Ramscar greeted him, his face a mask of concern. “How badly are you wounded?”

Fayne glared at the bloodstain on the front of his shirt that had a circumference larger than his hand. “I’ll live. I give even odds for Hollensworth after his cowardly deed.” The baron’s ash rod must have split at the tip some time during their frenzied clashes. The point had been as lethal as an unbuttoned foil. Fayne had felt the tip slide into his muscle. The only reason why he was not lying on the ground fighting for his life was that the rod had struck one of his ribs.

“You are deservedly furious, Solitea,” Cadd said, handing him the saber. “All the same, you do not want to commit murder in such a public fashion.”

Fayne sent his friend a look of annoyance. Cadd had acted as one of his seconds for every duel he had ever fought. He was generally the bloodthirsty one of their group. “God spare us all,” he muttered. “Cadd spouting sagacity. I thought you at least would be standing on my side.”

He turned away from his friends, not waiting for a response. Fayne was livid, and a healthy portion was directed at himself. The wind picked up and teased the gauzy bluish-gray fabric tied to his arm. The ends fluttered on the breeze, reminding him of the lady who had given it to him.
His hot gaze latched on to her pale face within seconds. Lady Kilby was clutching her collapsed parasol to her as if it were a shield. Her violet gaze met his, and he sensed her fear for him even at this distance.

The mob was cheering his name. He let their energy flow over him, through him. Dismissing her, he faced his adversary. “You made a mistake, Hollensworth.”

“How so?” the baron scoffed. “I am not the one with the hole in his chest.”

He refused to be baited. “My skills at backswording are merely above average. My skills with a saber . . .” He passed the hilt of the sword from one hand to the other, smiling evilly. “Are exceptional.”

Fayne raised his sword, acknowledging his opponent, and then attacked.

Kilby brought her fist up to her mouth, completely undone by the brutality she was witnessing. Both men seemed oblivious to their wounds as they circled, lunged, and parried in a terrifying
danse macabre.
The singing clash of steel set her on edge. There was a horrifying beauty to the violence that made it difficult for her to glance away.

The Duke of Solitea was a lethal extension of his weapon. He did not hesitate to trip the baron when there was an opening or use his fist to land a well-deserved punch. Lord Hollensworth’s mouth and nose were bleeding and his defensive parries made it clear the duke had been holding back. The man’s eyes seemed to glow with an inner green fire as he pursued the baron around the stage. Each movement he executed was another step closer to the other man’s defeat.

It was evident Lord Hollensworth was succumbing to fatigue. Even to Kilby’s untutored eye, the man’s technique was clumsy and desperate. She could hear Darknell quietly
comforting Lyssa, but she did not spare them a glance. All her attention was centered on the stage.

Suddenly, the baron slipped. Sweat and blood from both combatants had splattered the wooden planks, making them perilous in places. Whether by design or accident, the baron’s foot had backstepped into a wet patch and he lost his balance. The crowd’s roar was deafening.

The duke pressed the tip of the saber into Lord Hollensworth’s ribs. The man’s eyes widened in fear, knowing his life was literally in his opponent’s hands.

“Pray I do not slip, Hollensworth,” the duke mocked, unmoved by the impressive bloodstain forming on the man’s shirt. “At this range, my blade will not miss puncturing your lung. What say you?”

The Duke of Solitea waited patiently for the baron’s response while the mob circling the stage chanted for the man’s death. Kilby closed her eyes, unable to watch any more.

“I—I yield!” Lord Hollensworth cried out. “Your Grace, I yield!”

The frenzied mob cheered the victor.

Someone shoved Kilby into Lyssa and Darknell as many of the spectators tried to move closer to the stage. She could not help smiling as she watched the duke graciously offer his hand to the man so determined to hurt him. Playing to the crowd, the Duke of Solitea raised his saber in triumph and caused them to cheer louder for him. The man certainly had a flair for the theatrical.

Darknell leaned his head close to Kilby’s ear. “We should leave.”

Kilby nodded in agreement; though she was unconvinced their departure would be simple. She turned away from the stage and waited for the viscount to clear a path for them.

A heavy hand kept her in place. She looked back and was amazed to see the young duke grinning at her. Despite all the blood and sweat mottling his white shirt, he seemed unharmed. In his hand was the diaphanous scarf he had taken from her bodice.

“This brought me luck,” he shouted over the din of the crowd. “I suppose you want it back.”

“Yes. Thank you,” Kilby said, surprised he would have bothered returning the bit of fabric to her. She offered him her hand. “I hope yo—Oh!”

Instead of giving her the length of crepe, the Duke of Solitea seized her hand and tugged her closer.
Good heavens, he was not so bold as to think of kissing her?
She stared at the large, strong hand imprisoning her. Kilby was close enough that she could feel the heat from his exertion rolling off him. She could smell the musk of his sweat, the recognizable scent of blood. Twisting her palm up, the duke brought her hand up until it was poised inches from his lips.

He waited.

For what?

The anticipation was too much. Curious, Kilby lifted her lowered lashes, her wary gaze meeting his, which burned with confidence and triumph. Using his thumb to peel down her kid glove, he exposed her wrist with a practiced gesture. Kilby inhaled sharply at the touch of his lips against her flesh. His mouth on her felt like hot silk and she trembled under his tender assault.