In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell Page 0,57
her forgotten name dragged out by Polite Society, who was always eager for a scandal.
Once, she’d cared about protecting her reputation. She’d thought it mattered enough that she’d been furtive in her acts of rebellion.
Of all the bad that had come from Peterloo, she’d developed something she’d been without prior to that day—perspective.
She was here with Hugh Savage because she wanted to be.
Today, something had shifted. It wasn’t just about learning skills with which to defend herself and those she loved, but rather a need to know about Hugh.
And here in his apartments, he’d revealed so much about himself, filling her with a greater need to know this man who was a mystery.
“Pay attention,” he chided, all business. As if their earlier exchange about Winfred and his carvings had never happened.
Hugh, however, appeared completely unaffected.
“I am.” Which was, of course, a lie. She should be thinking about everything she had to learn about fighting and looking after her family. Instead, she’d been thinking of Hugh Savage and how she wished to know—
He arched an eyebrow, snapping her out of her musings.
“Stances,” she blurted, recalling the day’s lesson.
He wiped a hand over his face. “I’m not asking you to tell me, Lila. I’m asking you to do it.”
Focus.
But then mayhap it had been far easier engaging in woolgathering about him and the wickedness that was also so very wonderful in them being together. Easier than focusing on the fact that he was now asking her . . . expecting her to do something with her legs.
Hugh gave her a pointed look.
In the end, she made one desperate bid for more time. “Perhaps you might show me again?” It’d been something she’d not truly thought through when she’d decided to appeal to him and seek out lessons.
The fact that she’d have to use her body in ways that were foreign, and likely now impossible with her leg.
Muttering to himself, Hugh got himself into position, demonstrating the fighter’s form. “Mendoza’s preferred stance was feet forward, body inclined forward, and hands up together.” His body pitched as it was, his powerful weight over his knees, he moved like an ancient Roman warrior preparing for battle with only one outcome certain—his win in that great arena.
He moved with a grace she’d not even possessed when her body had been whole prior to Peterloo.
“Lila?” he said impatiently.
“Why are you teaching me other people’s stances?” Exasperation pulled that question from her. Of course, she was only delaying the inevitable. She knew it, and also knew she’d have to put herself—and all her weaknesses—on full display before him. But she wasn’t ready. Not yet. “Shouldn’t people . . .” She cleared her throat and presented her palms up. “Shouldn’t I develop a style specific to me? Perhaps something more like . . . this . . .” Keeping her body perfectly erect, she put the weight over her favored leg.
He laughed. A single, sharp bark that sent her belly fluttering, and she almost forgot he was really just laughing at her. Almost.
Bristling, Lila let her arms fall. “What?”
“Stop stalling.” How was he able to read her after such a short time knowing one another? “Hands together,” he ordered, bringing her fists close. “You’ve never fought,” he went on to explain, “and so there’re different ways to hold yourself and carry your body . . . Stop tucking your thumb,” he said, interjecting pointers while they talked. “That’ll get it broken.”
“Seems like it would protect th—” Her words ended on a gasp as Hugh took one of her curled hands, his palm over hers callused and hard . . . and strong. And the sheer heat of it scorched her from within.
“If you keep your thumb tucked inside like so”—he coaxed her palm open, and it unfurled reflexively under that tender caress—“when you hit your target, there’s no question . . . you will break the digit.”
Something shifted. The air came alive, hissing and popping with the tension pouring between them as it had yesterday morn. He stroked his own thumb along her knuckles.
Her body trembled and curved reflexively toward him.
“Make sure your thumb is tucked below your curled fingers,” he said softly. “That way it is out of the way of the impact.” He abruptly ceased his stroking; his finger remained on that slight curve from where the bone had never properly healed. “It’s been broken.”
As it was a statement, she opted to give him nothing more than silence.