Pain exploded through his left side.
The crowd roared.
Geoffrey hobbled backward, catching himself before his weak side crumpled.
“Point!” Holbrook shouted, exuberant.
Damn it. He’d let himself be distracted by a woman who by all appearances could not care less about him.
Geoffrey glanced back at Liliana. She hadn’t looked up from her doodling even to see what the roar was about.
He shook his head. Well, appearances could be wrong.
The two men squared off for the final sparring. As Geoffrey circled Holbrook, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Liliana wasn’t like the other women here. Ever since she’d been dragged across the lawn by her aunt this afternoon, he’d noticed her discomfort. He’d swear it was the social situation that made her so. And when he’d called his mother’s games frivolous, Liliana didn’t prettily demure. Though she hadn’t said as much, he was certain she’d agreed with him. In fact—
Crack. Geoffrey barely blocked Holbrook’s thrust. Holbrook grunted, then danced away from him.
Geoffrey’s thigh throbbed and his lower back knotted. He thrust Liliana Claremont from his thoughts. He needed to end this. He planted his feet, knowing that moving was beyond him at this point. He shifted as much weight to his right as he could and tightened both hands around the hilt of his sword as he waited for Holbrook to come to him. If Geoffrey were to win now, it would have to be with strength and cunning rather than agility.
Holbrook advanced, his face alight—he, too, anticipating victory. Geoffrey brought his stick down, blocking Holbrook’s quick swipe. Holbrook shifted to his own left, quickly striking again. Geoffrey had to twist hard to his right to fend off Holbrook’s blow.
He saw the moment Holbrook realized his advantage. The blond man’s eyes narrowed and one corner of his mouth rose in a triumphant smile. He moved even farther to Geoffrey’s right and raised his sword high to deliver the final strike.
Geoffrey crouched, his lower body screaming as he moved into the unnatural position. He shifted his sword into his right hand, then passed it behind his back to his left, a move he’d never have been able to make with the weight of a true sword.
Holbrook’s swing missed high.
Geoffrey arced his sword up and around with his left arm, catching Holbrook in the side. As the crowd erupted around them, Geoffrey’s leg crumpled and he dropped to his knees.
“Damnation, Stratford,” Holbrook exclaimed, grinning as he reached down to help Geoffrey up. “Thought for certain I had you there.”
“As did I,” Geoffrey grunted, regaining his feet and nodding thanks. He straightened, ignoring the agony, and turned toward the spectators. His eyes sought only one.
Liliana had risen along with the rest of the crowd, and while she didn’t clap like the others, she did at least have a smile on her face—albeit a cool one.
A servant came running onto the field from Geoffrey’s left, bearing a bouquet. Mother had intended the victor to present his lady with roses. Geoffrey hoped his valet had had time to fulfill his earlier request.
Geoffrey straightened, dusting himself off a bit as he anticipated presenting Liliana with her flowers. It hadn’t been pretty, but he had won the contest and he was absurdly proud of the accomplishment. Now he would be rewarded with the praise of a beautiful woman. He accepted the wrapped bouquet from the servant and smiled. Perfect.
He turned toward Liliana, his eyes drawn to her shimmering hair, which was swept up in a loose chignon. Stray curls escaped as though they couldn’t bear to be away from her captivating face for even a moment. He couldn’t blame them—she was enchanting.
As he advanced toward her, she shifted. It was a slight movement—she caught herself and stilled quickly—but he noticed. Her eyes darted to either side. He sensed that she didn’t like everyone watching her, that she was out of her element.
Empathy swelled within him—along with confidence that he’d chosen the safest debutante to champion. If she were trying to win him, he’d expect her to be beaming as he approached. Proud of her position as his “fair maiden,” at least for the day, smiling coquettishly, ready to gush and coo over him.
Instead, she straightened her spine and pasted a false smile on her face.
He stopped before her. As foolish as he’d felt when the games began, he now found himself tight with anticipation.
“For you, m’lady,” he said, presenting her with the bouquet.
Liliana accepted the flowers and looked down. Her smile changed for a moment, softening. He felt it deep in his gut.
Her violet eyes rose to him. “Prickly, yet passionately purple,” she murmured, her voice low. Her tone rolled over him with waves of sensuality that drifted low, causing a slow burn. He’d have to reward his valet for finding globe thistle on short notice. Her pleasure at the gesture had been well worth it.
His breath caught at her loveliness. She was a queen, he thought, with high cheekbones and a narrow chin. Her full mouth entranced him and her skin fairly shimmered, though her complexion was darker than your average English rose. A knight of old could have done far worse in a maiden.
Then she seemed to remember herself. She dropped the bouquet onto the seat behind her and the fake smile returned. “Congratulations, my lord,” she said, her sensual tone turning imperious. “ ’Twas quite a spectacle, though I must own to being surprised by your victory.”
Any heat he’d felt moved swiftly to his head. “Surprised?” he choked.
She nodded. “Shocked, actually. Your form is quite deplorable,” she remarked. She glanced down, pointedly. “Were I you, I would focus on my footwork. You can’t just stand there all day and expect to overpower your opponent with brute force. You must be fleet of foot.”
“Fleet of foot…,” Geoffrey repeated. His lower back howled.
“Precisely,” she returned, looking earnest. “Lord Holbrook is a much more graceful swordsman. Had it not been for that bit of trickery at the end, you surely would have been defeated.”
Trickery? Trickery? Did he say “queen”? More like “fishwife.” Why, if they weren’t surrounded by a crowd of people, he’d— “How would you know?” Geoffrey sputtered, remembering her scribblings. “You hardly observed the match.” Her hands were empty, so he looked behind her. On the chair, peeking out from beneath the discarded bouquet, he saw a corner of paper. He reached around her and snatched it up. What had she been writing?
She gasped, grasping for the paper but missing. “That’s private!”
He ignored her, opened the page and looked. Then looked again. It resembled the mathematical equations he’d suffered over as a boy at Harrow, with long and short lines and addition, subtraction and equals symbols. Yet there were also little arrows and letters instead of numbers.
“What is this?” he asked, intrigued.
“It’s none of your business,” she said and held her hand out.
He didn’t give it back. She firmed her lips and narrowed her eyes. In answer, he raised a brow.
She sighed. “I was working out a reaction,” she said.
“A reaction?” He looked again at the paper, then back at her.