“I have no idea, Fitzwilliam, as well you know.”
“You only dissemble because you believe it will be some God-awful sparrow father is promoting.”
“En garde!”
They crouched.
“Fear not!” he continued, grinning. “Who better to protect you from all young ladies seeking to distinguish themselves by breaking your heart?” He swished his sword about in front of him to demonstrate his readiness to defend his cousin.
“Prêt! Allez!”
The next assault began explosively as Darcy came at him with a fierce attack. He parried frantically and retreated a step—and another—before Darcy’s remise faltered, and he seized the opportunity. Parrying on the advance, he lunged forward, executing aglissadethat saw his foil scrape down the length of Darcy’s blade and land a hit on his flank.
“Ah ha, a hit!”
Spinning away, Darcy raised his sword arm, circling it around once, twice…on the third revolution, he slashed his sword downwards in an uncommon show of pique. The colonel grinned, gratified to have riled his usually imperturbable cousin.
“En garde!”
“Perchance it is not protection from the ladies you require?” he said, raising his sword. “Mayhap you ought to accept one of Father’s suggestions after all—scratch that itch of yours.”
“Prêt!”
“Better yet, take a leaf out of Bingley’s book and fall in love!”
“Allez!”
He won the next assault with uncommon ease, Darcy’s usually flawless execution distinctly off kilter.
“Touche!”
“Who is it, then?” his cousin enquired tersely, which was stranger still, for it was unlike him to be a poor sport.
“Who is what?”
“Your father’s secret dinner guest.”
“My Grandmother, Mrs Sinclair.”
“I thought she was dead.”
“She very nearly is. She is eight-and-seventy!”
The next assault began with a rapid flurry of feints and retreats but ended abruptly when Darcy launched himself forward in a perfectly executedflèche, landing a hit on Fitzwilliam’s shoulder. Someone behind him applauded.
“Very flashy!” Fitzwilliam panted.
“Display is not your prerogative.”
“I should hope not! What a dull place Angelo’s would be were it not for the glut of pageantry.”
The clock struck twelve, and the director called time, signalling for a man to take their practice foils and another to bring their coats. They bid him a good day and weaved their way through the crowded halls to the stables.
“What brings Mrs Sinclair to England?” Darcy enquired.
“One too many arguments with my cousin’s wife. She has forsaken Ireland forever and sworn never to return unless Niamh dies before she does. Only she arrived to discover her townhouse fallen into disrepair, so she has imposed herself on my father until it has been renovated.My father, who despises nothing in this world more than Sinclair women!” He chuckled at his father’s vast displeasure.
Darcy did not join him in laughing. Looking at him, Fitzwilliam suspected he had not listened to a single word he said. “Not on top form today, Darcy?” he ventured.
