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honor demands it, I do understand. You must not regard my presence.”
    â€œOh, I don’t since this is hardly a social occasion.”
    â€œPrecisely.”
    It was a reminder, if he needed one, that there was no basis for the two of them to meet socially. None was required. Folding back the other cuff, he took his foil in a hard grip and stepped back onto the strip.
    â€œThis,” he said, tapping the canvas under their feet with the blunted tip of his blade, “is our world for the moment. If either of us steps off it, the bout is ended and the one who transgressed is the loser. If you want to concede at any time, you have only to say a single word: stop. If I touch you with my foil, you must acknowledge the hit by the classic signal of calling out touché. I will naturally do the same. We begin with a salute, after which we assume the guard position you have been shown. When I give the order, we will raise our weapons and cross them at the tips. I will then provide the signal to begin. Your object during this first lesson will be to touch me, no more than that. All targets are to be above the waist.” He paused then ended in soft promise, “And my purpose, of course, will be to touch you. But…only above the waist.”
    Her eyes blazed at him, hot as the fires of hell as she absorbed the innuendo, and rich color bloomed across her cheekbones. He was satisfied. Annoyance with him would perhaps compensate for whatever self-consciousness she might feel due to lack of skill and, just possibly, remove any curb she might be inclined to put on her natural instincts.
    He had not brought the usual chest padding and masks since he had expected to have no use for them this evening. It occurred to him as he stood there that without them this initial bout, or phrase d’armes, had the feel of a duel. It made no difference. He had no intention of harming a hair on the lady’s head. That she could touch him was so unlikely that he hardly considered it at all.
    â€œReady?” he asked with the lift of a brow.
    Her nod was positive, the grip she took on her foil like a stranglehold.
    â€œGood.” His foil whistled as he swept it up before his face, then out in a wide arc as he made her an ironic bow. “Salute!”
    Eyes narrowed, she copied his action. He thought her lips trembled a little at the corners, but she compressed them and stood waiting.
    â€œEn garde.”
    He raised his blade, holding it steady. She lifted her arm, but could not quite meet his steel for the restriction of her sleeve. Obligingly, he lowered his foil tip a fraction as a concession to her problem.
    Frustration crossed her features and she reached with her free hand to pull at the tight gray sleeve. The result was plainly inadequate and she scowled as she tried two of three times to stretch higher from the shoulder.
    The current fashion seemed likely to defeat her. Gavin stepped back out of the engaged position.
    â€œWait. Please,” she said without quite looking at him. Curling her fingers like claws, she dug them into the cloth of her sleeve and gave a hard wrench. A dull rip sounded, and the stitches holding it at the shoulder seam gave a fraction. She pulled again to break those remaining, then peeled the tight tube of fabric down her arm and tossed it behind her. A cool smile tipped her mouth and she turned to face him again.
    Gavin stood in his tracks, his gaze on the bare skin of her arm where it emerged from the ragged armhole. He had wondered if the rest of her had the same warm-pearl bloom as her neck and bosom. Now he knew. Oh, it did indeed. And the nonchalant way she had exposed her arm to his gaze, as if it mattered not at all that he saw, stirred his blood to a slow boil. What would it be like to stand and watch while she ripped away layer after layer of clothing, emerging in naked, incandescent splendor? Would she dare him to touch her or beckon him near?
    â€œEn garde?”
    She was