tried to come up behind her. She turned and went low and swung at his shins and hit at last, but he was so quick on his feet, she barely tapped him before he was dancing away, circling her, just out of reach.
On it went. He never stopped moving, and neither did she. He gave her no quarter, no time to think. He was always there, always coming for her, relentless.
She fought him off, but she couldn’t get in a proper blow. For a man so large, he was amazingly light on his feet, and his reflexes were a match for Keeffe’s.
Boxing. That was it. Ashmont was a pugilist.
“And I don’t even have a weapon,” he said as he evaded another blow. “What would you do if I had?”
She was tiring, breathing hard, and he seemed as fresh as when they’d begun.
“Give him a blasted weapon!” she said.
Somebody slid an umbrella across the floor toward them.
Cassandra stood back only long enough to let him snatch it up.
He came up swinging, but she’d expected that, and stepped out of the way, shifting her hold to grasp her umbrella with two hands, a short distance from each end, and blocked the blow. He drew back, assumed a fencing stance, and said, “En garde, Miss Pomfret.”
“You idiot,” she said, even as she struck.
He parried, and they fenced, more or less, with the umbrellas, but not for long. A bit of pretend swordplay, then he changed his stance and brought his umbrella down exactly where she was about to step, and she missed tripping over it by a hairsbreadth.
Misdirection.
She was the idiot.
She heard Keeffe’s voice. Don’t signal. Somehow she had, though. Ashmont had read her mind. But she hadn’t read his.
Keep your head.
That was growing harder to do. She was tiring. Soon, her brain and body wouldn’t keep up with each other. Time was running out. She had to bring Ashmont down and quickly.
He rushed at her, and she pivoted and raised her umbrella as though to strike the back of his neck, but when he stepped aside, she swung downward. Her umbrella’s crook caught his ankle, and he wasn’t quick enough this time. He fell with a crash and an oath.
As though at a great distance she heard first one, then another pair of hands clapping, and others joining in, but it seemed to be happening in another place. Her heart pounded so hard, it deadened other sounds. Her blood roared through her veins. Her chemise was damp with sweat and her legs wanted to buckle.
She looked down at him. His chest rose and fell fast enough to tell her he was catching his breath. His face was flushed and his blue eyes were very bright.
He laughed.
“Not bad,” he said. “For a girl.”
“Not bad,” she said between gasps. “For a duke.”
All Ashmont wanted to do was lie there, gazing up at her—the flushed face, eyes gleaming silver in triumph, bosom heaving, breath coming hard and fast.
Her hat had slid to a rakish angle and her hair was escaping, dark red tendrils dangling at her neck. A few damp wisps stuck to her cheek. Her dress hung crookedly. Her pelerine’s bows having loosened, it was sliding from her shoulders. One sleeve sagged, and her belt had slid to one side.
Temptation, oh, the temptation—to hook his foot round her ankle and bring her down on top of him in a great heap of rustling muslin. To toss aside the hat and the lacy pelerine. To undo her hair. To undo everything.
. . . I trust you to see the ladies to Chelsea and home again without mishap.
The image of Lord deGriffith rose in his mind. It didn’t take any thinking to imagine his reaction to that scenario.
Ashmont had only an instant to enjoy the view, in any event, because the ladies were bustling about, skirts swishing, and somebody said, “We’re late!”
Pushing stray wisps of hair back from her cheek, Miss Pomfret said breathlessly, “We’ve gone over our time. The next ladies’ group will be here at any minute. Pray hurry. Or did I injure you? Break something, perchance?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but no,” he said.
He rose, and if he was a little dizzy, it had nothing to do with fatigue and everything to do with their wonderful battle. She was quick and clever and unpredictable. And more fun than anybody could have guessed.
And unbearably inviting, in her present state, her businesslike ensemble all to pieces.
“You’re a wreck,” he said.
She looked blank. She was discomposed, obviously.