lines. And it was made of leather, which on its own shouldn’t be enough to give Kit palpitations. Maybe it was the combination of leather and all those little buttons? Maybe it was the fact that the garment fitted so closely over Percy’s chest?
Maybe, if he were honest, he had this reaction to everything Percy wore.
“We’ll try again, just you and me,” Kit said, shoving the few pieces of furniture against the walls to clear a space for sparring. Finally, he took his walking stick and stood it up in the corner. He walked to the center of the room without it, conscious of his limp and the pain in his hip. The other night, Percy had said that Kit’s balance was off, and the more Kit thought about it, the more he thought that was the problem. If he could shift his weight to his good leg and rely less on moving, he could probably hold his own. And if he couldn’t, then they’d figure something else out. “We’ll try to fight, and then from there work up to disarming.”
He stood in the middle of the room without his cane and felt horribly exposed. His leg could give way at any moment.
“All right,” Percy said, coming to stand before him. “How do you want to start this?”
“I ought to tell you that I’ve never taught anyone how to fight,” Kit said. “And I’ve never fought anyone without needing to, so I’m not sure how—”
Percy punched him in the gut.
Kit used his bad leg to sweep Percy’s feet out from under him, and Percy hit the floor. Percy sprang up with more speed than Kit would have thought possible and hit Kit in the jaw.
Kit grabbed Percy’s wrist and used it to spin him around, then pinned it behind his back.
“Well,” Percy said, his back flush against Kit’s chest. “We’ve established that you can fight.” He elbowed Kit in the belly and then got free.
“And so can you,” Kit said, dodging a fist. “Your punches are weak. I can’t tell if you’re pulling them or if nobody’s ever taught you how to properly hit someone.”
“I assure you it’s the latter.”
Kit was out of breath, but Percy plainly wasn’t. He decided that later on, he’d let himself have a good long sulk about being old and out of shape. For now, he held his hand to the side of his body, at shoulder height. “Hit my palm, as hard as you can.”
He watched as Percy pulled his arm back and swung.
“Not horrible,” Kit said. “Give me your hand.” He took Percy’s hand and folded the fingers in, one by one, then tucked the thumb. His fingers were long and fine boned and looked frail in Kit’s own far larger hands. But there were calluses on his palm and the side of his thumb, which Kit hadn’t expected. “Now that’s a proper fist. You do the other hand.” He watched as Percy copied exactly what Kit had done and then held both hands out for Kit’s approval.
Kit hadn’t expected that, either, hadn’t thought Percy would be an eager student, or that he’d take orders from a commoner. In his experience, rich people went out of their way to avoid listening to anybody else.
“Good,” Kit said, his voice a bit gruff. And then they stood there like a pair of idiots, Percy’s fists in Kit’s hands. “Good,” he repeated, and watched Percy’s eyes open a bit wider. They weren’t a simple dark gray, as Kit had previously thought, but the same glittering steel as the buttons on his waistcoat.
The late afternoon sun that filtered through the high, dusty windows of the back room lit Percy so he was all porcelain skin and cheekbones and hair the color of a new guinea, all golden and bright. Kit was thinking of how very badly he did not want to hit that face, when the next thing he knew Percy was aiming a punch at his jaw.
“You can do better if you swing like so,” Kit said, blocking the blow and demonstrating the desired arc of his arm. Percy tried and didn’t quite manage it. “No, let me show you.” He stood behind the other man, moving their right arms as one. “Like that.” Kit used his left arm to wrap around Percy’s chest, holding him in place. “Now you do it.” Since they were so close, Kit naturally dropped his voice and found that he was all but whispering into Percy’s ear. Percy tried to