The Courtesan. Julia Justiss

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      SO CARRINGTON’S FIRST name was Jack, Belle thought as she slowly circled him, looking for the opportunity to strike. She’d spotted him immediately, watching her, disturbing her concentration during her lesson as he’d disturbed her during the play last night.

      Good that he had challenged her. In her current angry, restless mood, she welcomed the opportunity to strike out with the full fury that raged within her, a fury she always held in check when fencing with Armaldi.

      So he wanted to “test her skill”? She could just imagine what sort of expertise he wanted to plumb.

      She’d show him the edge of her blade, drive him back…Better yet, she decided, she’d feign the amateur and lure him to a humiliating defeat. Then he would leave her in peace and she could put him and his unsettling effect on her out of mind for good.

      But though she tried to play on the disdain she suspected he harbored for her skill, attempted with weak and clumsy thrusts to make him commit to a lunge that would allow her to deliver a blow that knocked him off balance and perhaps off his feet, he refused to comply.

      With a dawning respect for his perspicacity, Belle discarded that tactic and reverted to fencing him properly. Within a very few minutes, she began to wonder wryly whether she’d truly wanted this demanding a challenge.

      Unlike her opponents thus far, Carrington was a fencer who truly knew the art, handling his blade with more finesse than anyone she’d yet faced, save Armaldi himself.

      To have survived the slaughter of Waterloo, he must possess skill as well as luck. But she’d not expected a cavalryman, accustomed to brute slashing with a heavy saber, to be a master of subtle moves and shrewd strategy.

      Just then he paused, and seizing that chance, Belle lunged. Their blades caught, forcing Armaldi to step in and untangle them.

      Belle went immediately on the offensive again. Though the captain fell back, he never allowed her another opening. Seeming content to counter her moves with only an occasional strike back, he simply did not make any mistakes she could use to deliver the decisive hit.

      Back and forth across the floor they continued. Belle’s hands grew sweaty, her breathing labored. Already tired by her lesson, she knew she was flagging. She would have to redouble her efforts before the captain could turn her growing fatigue to his advantage.

      Breaking away to gather her breath, Belle caught sight of the gallery. Men stood beside their chairs, waving their fists and shouting, their eyes feverish, their faces distorted by an excitement very much like lust.

      The captain paused also, watching her with those bold dark eyes, a slight smile on his face. Aside from the sheen of sweat on his face, he appeared not at all fatigued. Not at all challenged.

      The humiliating, infuriating suspicion swept through Belle that the captain was not truly engaging her at all. No, he was merely playing with her, checking her moves to keep from being pricked, but not using his full abilities.

      Once again, a man was toying with her—while other men watched and cheered him on.

      Frustration, fatigue and anger ignited into a fireball of fury that, intensified by remembered shame and pain, blazed out of control. Her eyes narrowed, her head and body felt suddenly light and her breast filled with a single, murderous desire for vengeance.

      On the fencer now taunting her. On all of them.

      Teeth clenched in a snarl, she attacked.