“I—” Liliana swallowed around a dry throat. “Thank you…I think. But I must insist—”
A trumpet blare cut off her rebuttal.
Stratford removed his sword from its scabbard. “While I find my mother’s entertainments frivolous”—he gave Liliana a long-suffering look—“I am ever the dutiful son. Therefore, would you do me the honor of allowing me to wear your colors into battle, m’lady?” He held an oddly decorated sword out to her, hilt first, with an exaggerated flourish.
The other women in her row were dutifully tying their ribbons around the swords of the other competitors. Liliana looked behind her. Aunt Eliza raised her eyebrows in encouragement.
Liliana sighed, then took one of her ribbons and tied a neat clove hitch around the hilt.
He looked up at her in surprise.
Perhaps she should have tied a bow.
She met his questioning gaze blandly. One corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile as he spun away, strode out onto the field and took his spot across from an opponent.
Liliana cast a glance over her shoulder. Sneaking away was out of the question—nor realistically possible given her highly visible position. She dropped onto the chair. She could still feel more than one glare coming from her left.
Irritation burned. How had she ended up here? Not only were these foolish games keeping her from her search, but she’d now attracted the attention of a pack of jealous harpies.
She took a steadying breath, willing her feet to stop fidgeting. She couldn’t change that now, at least not where this afternoon was concerned. If she were fortunate enough that Stratford did not suspect her, she needed to make the most of this debacle.
She would do her level best to annoy him so badly that he would run the next time he caught even a glimpse of her. But how to do that? Liliana thought about all of the things she detested most about her own sex. Simpering? Crying? Batting of the eyelashes while acting weak and helpless?
She snorted. No. While she did hate those things, she’d never be able to carry it off. She wasn’t an actress, after all.
She’d be herself—well, sort of. She’d share her mind. She’d be opinionated and flaunt her intelligence. And, of course, she’d criticize his every move, and then tell him how he could have done it better.
Men hated that.
Stratford would be begging to see the last of her by the time this afternoon was through.
Chapter Six
G
eoffrey flicked his wrist, testing the weight of his sword.
His wooden sword.
“Hell’s bells,” he muttered.
“What’s that?” asked the man across from him. The newly belted Viscount Holbrook stood eyeing his own “sword” dubiously.
“Only a woman would organize this foolishness,” Geoffrey grumbled, looking over the assembly. It looked like a damned medieval fair. Guests sat on one side of the marked field looking jovial and relaxed, while servants crowded the opposite end, like the nobles and peasants of old. Twelve women sat apart in places of honor, ready to cheer on their champions. All that was missing were juggling jesters. Ridiculous.
Thank God Holbrook was the only political sort who’d come up so far. The rest weren’t due to arrive until week’s end.
Geoffrey tugged at the leather breastplate that served as armor. So much for dazzling Liliana Claremont with this display. By God, he felt like a bloody stage actor. “Why the devil are you playing in this farce?” Geoffrey asked the younger man.
“For sport, of course. Besides, I’ve need of a bride, same as you,” Holbrook said as he shifted on his feet, limbering up for the competition. “You’ve certainly invited the crème to this little party. Thought I’d try my hand at impressing one or two.” Holbrook flexed his shoulders. “Rotten luck drawing you as challenger. While the bragging rights of having bested Wellington’s darling would be well worth it, you’re sure to give me quite a drubbing.” Holbrook smiled good-naturedly. “S’pose I’ll just have to count on finding m’self a sympathetic young chit to tend my wounded pride.”
Geoffrey laughed, twisting to loosen his knotted left hip. “Even newly returned from the continent, I’ve heard of your reputation with a blade,” he said. Indeed, which was why Geoffrey had switched his opponent to the very skilled Holbrook.
Mother had originally paired Geoffrey against some poor milksop, no doubt to make him look better by comparison. Geoffrey scanned the field, shaking his head. She must really think he needed help. A man in the pair nearest them had no idea how to even hold a sword properly, and his partner looked to be in his dotage, swallowed by the armor, with his balding pate sticking up like the head of a wizened old tortoise.
At least Holbrook would be fair competition. “I expect we shall make a good show of it,” Geoffrey stated as he squared himself to Holbrook.
“Ah, Stratford, that is what the ladies want, is it not?”
Geoffrey snorted. His gaze immediately flew to Liliana Claremont. He’d intended to throw the match, just to thwart his mother, but no more. Liliana sat coolly in the warm afternoon sun, not laughing and smiling like the other girls around her, but with a regal air. She reminded him of a master’s painting of a dark-haired queen.
Only her rapidly tapping foot belied her sense of calm. Clearly, she wished to be anywhere but here.
That made two of them.
“En garde.”
Geoffrey turned his attention back to Holbrook, whose easy smile had vanished. At the blast of a trumpet, the matches commenced.
Thwack.
The sound jarred Geoffrey. Wood certainly differed from the clanging of metal upon metal, but after only a couple of passes he fell easily into the familiar moves of combat. In his periphery he noted the clumsy attempts of those around them.
Holbrook’s were anything but.
Geoffrey dodged Holbrook’s thrust, which shot pain through his lower back. He sucked in a breath. Damn. The last time he’d done any hand-to-hand fighting, he’d taken a bayonet through his side. He was considerably slower on his feet these days.
He adjusted his stance to accommodate and swung his stick in a swift upward arc, catching Holbrook’s side.
“Point,” Holbrook acknowledged with a nod. The game was to ten. The men faced each other again and Geoffrey led with a thrust toward Holbrook’s middle.
Fifteen minutes and several points later, only the two of them remained. Geoffrey led nine points to eight, but his back burned and he struggled to hide his limp. He didn’t want to show Holbrook his weakness so close to the finish.
The air rang with the clacking of wood and with the cheers and enthusiastic groans of the spectators. Geoffrey drew a deep breath—he could almost smell the victory to come as blood pulsed through his veins. He hadn’t felt this alive in more than a year. He’d been a fool to think he could have thrown the match any more than he could just roll over and marry whomever his mother wanted him to.
His eyes darted once again to Liliana, sure that now he’d see at least appreciation on her face.
He couldn’t see her face at all. In fact, she wasn’t even watching! Instead, she focused on her lap…What was she doing? It looked as though she was scribbling something—