Page 34 of Souvenir of Love

Lord Grenville cleared his throat.

James paused as if considering Rafe’s words, then he shrugged. “I regret, my Lord Moreham, that I cannot agree to all of your terms.” He did not offer to explain and Rafe did not ask him to elaborate.

Lord Grenville cast both men the briefest look of disappointment. “Very well. We shall continue. My Lord Davenport, have you brought the weapons?”

Cole stepped forward, offering the leather case. Lord Grenville opened it. Three finely fashioned Spanish blades lay in a bed of black velvet. He examined each one in turn, testing the sharpness of the blades, the balance, the strength of the grips. Assured the swords were in order, he offered the case first to James and then Rafe.

Each man having chosen a blade, they stood at attention as Grenville explained the rules that would be followed, the distances that must be observed, the conditions under which either man might claim victory or admit defeat.

“It is understood, then?” he asked. “Should one man call for mercy, the other shall grant it and claim victory?”

James and Rafe both nodded. Somewhere in the trees beyond the flower beds, a bird called and another answered. The mists had begun to thin, diluted by the first rays of the morning sun.

“Very well. You may salute.”

James and Rafe faced each other, simultaneously drawing their swords up, hilt to chin, then down in a graceful arc, to end in position with blades pointed directly at one another. They paused. Blue eyes met hazel. Neither blinked.

Grenville’s voice cut through the stillness. “En garde.”

The two men circled, assessing the other’s position, looking for an opening. Rafe lunged low; James caught the blade and turned it, then lunged at Rafe’s hip. Rafe twisted his body away from the blade and thrust upward. James dodged back, parried the blade, circled, and thrust.

Steel clattered against steel, the only conversation now possible between them.

“Can we not stop them now?”Grenville murmured to Cole. “Surely His Lordship’s desire for satisfaction has been quenched with so much blood?”

Rafe and James circled each other in the morning sun, their breath as ragged as their blood-spattered clothes. James had a slash to his arm and several cuts on his left hand. Rafe’s left hand, too, bore several cuts and blood stained his hip where James’s sword had glanced him. Where blood had not glued their clothes to their bodies, sweat did.

Cole shook his head. “Where Elizabeth is concerned, Rafe is not a reasonable man. Do you think Dinsmore will cry mercy?”

“I cannot say, but I doubt it.”

“He’s fought bravely today.”

“More bravely than you expected, you mean.”

“I did not say so.”

“Ah, but you thought it.” Grenville raised his hand. “It is what everyone thinks of James, that he has no thoughts but for fashion, exerts himself only for a glass of wine or to try on a new waistcoat. But, there is more to him than that.”

“I have not seen it,” Cole said blandly.

“You have not looked for it.”

“Fair enough.”

There was a grunt as Rafe’s blade bit into James’s leg. James staggered back, drew up his sword. Rafe met it, grabbed his wrist, knocked him off balance, and threw him to the ground. With a rush he was on James, muddied foot on his chest, bloodied sword at his throat. “I should kill you, you bastard.”

“Then do.” James’s words were strained, but defiant.

“Don’t, Moreham,” Grenville and Cole cried simultaneously.

“Beg, Dinsmore,” Rafe said coldly. “Tell me you are not worthy of a woman such as my sister. Tell me you’re sorry you ever laid so much as a hand on her.”

“I am not worthy of your sister,” he said hoarsely.

Rafe’s arm did not move, but with his wrist he teased the blade across James’s neck. “And—” he prompted.

James swallowed hard.