She lunged. The foil whistled past his right ear, and Hugo sidestepped with a grin.
“Enthusiasm is not a substitute for technique.”
“Technique is not a substitute for determination.” She lunged again. This time the tip caught his sleeve.
“Better. But you are telegraphing. Your shoulder drops before you extend. I can read you from across the room.”
“Then stop reading me.”
“Impossible.” He parried her next thrust and riposted, stopping the foil an inch from her sternum. “I have been reading you since the night you walked into my parlor.”
She batted his foil aside and came at him again. Hugo retreated across the gallery floor, matching her stroke for stroke, and the clash of steel rang off the high ceiling. Lily’s laughter filled the spaces between the strikes, bright and fierce and utterly unguarded.
She was a quick learner. By the end of the hour, her footwork had improved, her lunges had tightened, and she had landed three touches to his one, though he suspected at least two of those were because he had been distracted by the flush in hercheeks and the way her loosened hair whipped across her face when she advanced.
That evening, they played cards in the parlor.
“The stakes,” Hugo said, shuffling the deck, “are as follows. Each hand lost, the loser removes one article of clothing.”
Lily set down her brandy. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am always serious about cards.”
“You are never serious about anything.”
“Then this will be a refreshing change.” He dealt. “Ladies first.”
Lily picked up her hand and studied it with the focused intensity she brought to everything. Hugo watched her over his own cards and felt the familiar pull of want and tenderness that had become the background noise of his existence.
She won the first hand. Hugo removed his cravat.
She won the second. His waistcoat.
“You are cheating,” he said.
“I am winning. There is a difference.”
She won the third hand, and Hugo pulled his shirt over his head. Lily’s gaze dropped to his bare chest and lingered there for three seconds longer than she would have admitted.
“Your deal,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady.
Hugo dealt. He won the next hand, and Lily removed her shawl with the dignified composure of a woman surrendering the least consequential piece of fabric available. He won again, and she removed one glove.
“That is hardly equivalent to a shirt,” he protested.
“A glove is an article of clothing. You did not specify size requirements.”
“You are exploiting a loophole.”
“I am playing within the rules. You should have been more specific.”
He dealt again. She won. Hugo stood and unfastened his trousers, and Lily’s eyes went wide.
“Hugo.”
“Those are the stakes.” He stepped out of them and sat back down in nothing. “Your deal, Duchess.”
The cards shook in her hands. She dealt poorly. Hugo won.
