The Rogue by Katharine Ashe Page A

handle was comfortable in her palm.
    â€œPinch the grip between your thumb and forefinger,” he said.
    â€œThat was a test, wasn’t it?” She watched his face as she adjusted her fingers. “You wanted to see if I would choose a sword suitable to me.”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œDid I pass it?”
    â€œYou have chosen an épée. Favored by the French. It is a man’s weapon.” He gestured to another sword. “It is heavier than a foil, which is more appropriate for a woman to wield.”
    â€œAre you saying that I cannot manage this sword?”
    â€œNo. You have both height and strength. And you want to fight. You are unusual for a woman.”
    â€œThe desire to fight is not unusual for a woman.”
    â€œThe desire to use your body aggressively, however, is.” He smiled slightly, privately. Inside her, something shifted, tightened, and tumbled over itself in a mess of confusion. How he could do this—be so direct, tease, and yet play no games—she did not understand. She had never known a man who did not keep secrets or pretend to be what he was not. And she had never fallen apart from any other man’s smile.
    â€œTeach me,” she said, and hardly knew whether she wanted him to teach her how to fence or how to be honest.
    E LIZA’S USUAL HABIT after breakfast each day was to nap in the parlor. This daily nap did not require a chair; the cushioned bench at the edge of the ballroom to which theyhad all moved seemed to suit her just as well. Not an hour into Constance’s lesson, soft snores sounded across the floor, mingling with the patter of raindrops on windows. Libby had long since gone off in search of Dr. Shaw and Lord Michaels, and Constance had not seen her father since before dinner the previous night.
    They were alone.
    He said nothing of this flaw in his condition for teaching her. His focus seemed entirely on instructing her how to stand, hold her sword, and extend her arm so that the tip of her sword hit a padded wooden mannequin where he directed. Her focus might have been on these things too if she weren’t distracted by the evident strength in every movement he made.
    â€œI admit that this is more difficult than I anticipated. And tiring,” she said after some time practicing the simple arm extension that he demonstrated with such ease—and missing the target on the mannequin nearly every time. Each time he grasped her blade to readjust her position, it made her nerves jerk.
    â€œIf it were easy, everyone would do it,” he said.
    â€œWill you now insult me further?”
    â€œWould you like that?”
    â€œExcessively.”
    â€œThen I will not.”
    â€œYou are unobliging.”
    â€œAnd you are leaving your arm and hand open to attack. When fighting with a dagger or knife, any vital region might be the target. But in this your opponent will seek first to disable your sword arm.” He moved to face her, switching the sword into his left hand. “Look at the angle of my blade in en garde , the position of my hand and arm and how the guard protects them from your blade. Study them.”
    Men had begged her to stare into their eyes as they declared their devotion. They had entreated her to admire their horses, phaetons, dogs, estates, and occasionally even theirdrawings and paintings. No man had ever told her to study his body.
    â€œDo you have a picture of it now?” he said.
    She could only nod.
    â€œNow, imagine that you stand before a mirror and that I am your reflection. Follow my movements.” He extended his sword arm, and she mimicked him.
    His blade tapped hers back into place.
    â€œWasn’t that right?”
    â€œNo. Again.”
    Her fingers and wrist ached. She repeated the extension. Again he readjusted her position with his blade, then his hand.
    â€œAgain.”
    Watching him so closely and ignoring what it did to her insides made her tongue sharp. “You