Lucianna wanted nothing more than to strike down the man before her; however, he was not the cause of her rage. Nevertheless, he would do for now. She gracefully stepped back as her opponent lunged at her. Behind her mask, she grinned as the man’s foil thrust into empty air.

Recovering quickly, he returned to the en garde position and awaited her next move.

She took a deep breath, though it did nothing to calm the raging current within her.

The nerve of her father, bringing his mistress to a ball when he knew bloody well his wife and daughter would be in attendance. It was the height of embarrassment. What galled her further was the way her mother, Lady Camden—a pillar of London society—had shrugged and moved on to the refreshment table as if there were nothing she could do about it. As if she weren’t utterly mortified by her husband’s scandalous actions. At one time, her mother, Eloise Constantine, had been the envy of every woman at the ball. The rare, dark beauty every woman wanted to be and every man wanted to bed. But nearly twenty-two years with Luci’s father had broken something in the woman.

Not broken…utterly obliterated.

With time, her dark locks had lost their luster and finally given over to grey, her shoulders were not as straight as they’d once been, and her friends had, one by one, distanced themselves from the marchioness.

Did they think Luci’s father’s rakehell ways would rub off on their own dear husbands?

Luci didn’t doubt for a second her father would corrupt any man that gave him a speck of devotion. She’d spent years outraged over her mother’s situation, but what could a mere child do to change anything, especially when Lady Camden appeared unconcerned with her position.

Luci held her foil out in a point-in-line manner. She tired of this match.

She could have bested her opponent in her sleep.

This would force him to defend himself by enforcing a beat, a tap to her blade to either initiate an attack or provoke a reaction from her.

There was nothing more she wanted than for her opponent to force her to react.

The match had been one of parry and counter thus far. No grand moves, no unexpected flèche, and certainly no feint.

Luci had come to Bentley’s to work off her aggression and anger from the night before; instead, she felt as if she were matched with an amateur. After returning home, she’d hastily hurried to Ophelia’s townhouse and instructed her friend to write the Mayfair Confidential column about her father. Lady Ophelia had done her best to persuade Luci not to write such damning things about her own family—that it could ultimately harm her own reputation. Luci didn’t care. She was beyond giving a whit about her future prospects. Not to mention, she’d failed to make the acquaintance of a man worthy of her love, let alone her respect.

Lord Torrington, Lady Edith’s betrothed, was the exception, though she was loath to admit the fact aloud. The man had an overinflated, arrogant notion of his own self-worth as it was, and there was absolutely no way Luci would give the man more fodder with which to build himself on.

Regardless, it was her father whom Luci truly wanted at the tip of her foil.

Comical since fencing was the one thing her father had taught his eldest daughter. The only thing of worth the marquis had passed on to her as yet. The memories flooded her; not many fond ones surfaced, overshadowed by hours spent at the tip of her father’s foil as she learned harsh lesson after harsh lesson.

Never had her father taken compassion on her, even during her first years of learning.

Her opponent hadn’t made the decision to attack or force her to attack.

Taking one step forward, she thrust the tip of her foil in his direction—a challenge, of sorts.

Their masks made it impossible for her to tell what the man felt—either reluctance or renewed confidence. And, she knew, neither did he suspect his opponent was a woman. Which was for the best. Luci didn’t desire for anyone to go easy on her because she was female—they were all sportsmen at Bentley’s. Her tall stature and wide shoulders were only embellished by her outfitting.

Her opponent lowered his foil tip to the ground at his side, admitting defeat.

Bollocks.

It appeared she was not to gain the vigorous match she’d desired.

A part of her longed to place her tip at the man’s heart, forcing him to defend himself; however, unsportsmanlike conduct would have her membership revoked. It was something she’d never jeopardize.

Luci rolled her neck from side to side, dispelling the stiffness that came with hours on the strip. No doubt also partly due to her forgoing sleep the previous night to make certain the column reached the London Daily Gazette in time to be printed in this morning’s post.

No matter that Edith was distracted by Lord Torrington and their coming betrothal ball, and Ophelia would rather have her nose in a book, Lucianna was still determined to fulfill their promise from the night of Tilda’s death. She would expose any scoundrels for their misdeeds, and her own father was not beyond her vengeance. The man she longed to rip apart before all of society—Lord Abercorn—remained just out of reach. But she was certain he could not escape for long.

Her opponent bowed stiffly and departed the strip.

Luci was capable of biding her time. Abercorn would misstep eventually—she was certain of it—and Lucianna would be there to take him down. Permanently.

Turning, she surveyed the room for her next match partner; however, the pickings were slim this early in the day. Many men—the lords who could afford the dues at Bentley’s—were barely breaking their fast at this hour.

“Are you prepared to take on a skilled opponent, my lord?” A man stepped from the shadows created by the rack holding spare foils and other gear. He was tall, even by her standards, with massively broad shoulders. Thankfully, a man’s sheer size normally spoke of their less than agile abilities. His mask in place and his foil at the ready, he didn’t wait for her response but joined her on the strip. “En garde.”

His impertinent manners were overlooked when she noted his expert stance and strong hold.

This was the opponent she’d been waiting for—and his disregard for proper etiquette only fueled her ire.

Exhilaration hummed through her, but she focused her entire being on the match to come—the correct footwork, the perfect hold on her foil, and, lastly, the appropriate set of moves to gain the win.

Luci lowered her chin and immediately advanced, her need to take control of the match overpowering her common sense to bide her time and assess the fencer’s skill set.

He expertly parried her action.

She’d learned years before to always knot her waist-length hair tightly and securely under her mask—or face the consequences. Namely, male opponents treating her like a weak female as opposed to the accomplished sportswoman she was. Thirteen years of daily fencing lessons would turn any girl into a fierce competitor—either that, or break their spirit. Luci allowed no one and nothing to bring her down, especially not her father’s relentless need to best his children at the one sport he could muster any talent for.

Very advantageous for her father that business was not considered a sport.

Regrettably for Lord Camden, Luci, his eldest child, had mastered the art of fencing by the young age of fourteen.

After a year of lost matches, Luci’s father refused to spar with her and had instead purchased her membership at Bentley’s.

The buzz of her opponent’s foil sounded close to her ear as he advanced, forcing her to back step or risk injury. His skill was something she hadn’t witnessed at Bentley’s before, nor did she recognize the man’s voice.

She needs must keep her head on the match—not on her father’s scandalous activities or their rough past as father and daughter.

And most positively not on attempting to identify her opponent.

Concentrating on the set of her feet, she knew a match could be won—or just as easily lost—because of footwork.

Luci cross-stepped, bringing her farther from his dominant hand, but he was too quick and had anticipated the novice move, bringing his foil around. She was forced into a passata sotto, twisting and lowering herself under his weapon and holding herself balanced with her free hand upon the ground. She moved to attempt an upward thrust with her own foil, hoping to catch her opponent off guard; however, he’d deftly accomplished a riposte and outmaneuvered her point.

He was a worthy opponent, indeed.

Recovering quickly, she prepared her next move.

It had been many months since she’d located a fencer with half the skill she possessed.

But his retreat gave her ample time to reset and contemplate her next move.

She must think two steps ahead. She quickly advanced with a straight extension, knowing any decent opponent would parry, and she’d be forced to disengage, twisting her foil. But she expertly changed tactic to an expulsion, successfully opening the man’s defenses. Before he knew her course, the tip of her foil was aimed directly at his heart. Victory surged through her. The thrashing of her heart as she allowed herself several deep inhales and exhales, echoed through her head.

She expected him to enact some practiced maneuver, removing the tip from his breast, but instead, he chuckled and flipped up his mask.

Luci was not fool enough to think her opponent had no other moves planned, and she kept her tip trained on him until he lowered his foil in surrender.

She had the oddest sense it was not a move of defeat but one of promise for another time.

She narrowed her glare on him, her irritation only growing. The man had not shown her his true capabilities on the strip, but had only seen the match as spirited fun. Luci did not have the same opinion, and she wished to slash her foil before his face to remove his smug grin.

“To whom do I owe the honor of my first loss in too many years to count?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling. A nagging sensation of recognition filled her. He completely removed his mask, revealing hair of the darkest black—so deep, Luci thought she saw hints of blue. It was a shade darker than hers, which Luci hadn’t thought possible. His locks were midnight obsidian, while his eyes were as clear as the blue sea. “Come now, lad. You are certainly skilled and deserve to be commended.”

She studied the set of his jaw, his extreme height, and commanding presence. Where had she seen the man before?

Her rule was to never, ever remove her mask while on the strip. Never reveal that she was a lady. And, under no circumstances, allow any man the opportunity to go soft on her during a match based on her femininity. She entered Bentley’s prepared to fence and only removed her mask when she’d once again gained the safety of her carriage. Bentley’s proprietor had never betrayed her confidence, which she suspected had more to do with her father’s money as opposed to any loyalty to Luci.

However, a piece of her needed to show the arrogant man that a mere woman had bested him. Longed to show the haughty lord that no matter his superior demeanor, he was no competition for her…

Slowly, she pushed her mask up and completely off her head. A tumble of dark waves cascaded down her back and over her shoulders. Luci flipped her head as she tucked her gear under her arm, sending her long tresses out of her face.

His mouth gaped, and his brow rose in question.

Luci knew well the sight he beheld: ebony waves of hair, piercing, intense green eyes, and sun-kissed skin. She was tall in stature, and every inch the lady many women envied—just as every woman had envied Luci’s mother in her day. This man now took in her regal stare and supple curves in her masculine garb—though it was tailored to hug every inch of her body.

From the lust in his open stare, he had noted every womanly curve he’d only moments ago attributed to the form of a young lad.

It was Luci’s turn to smirk.

And smile she did. “You may show proper honor to my skill by collecting your senses and closing your gaping mouth, or I will think you find it offensive to be bested by a woman.” Luci outright grinned, pride swelling inside her to finally have the nerve to expose her face to one of her defeated opponents. “You may issue your accolades whenever you are ready…and it is my lady, not my lord.”

He stalled for a moment before speaking. “I must say, the only thing to overshadow your skill with a foil is your beauty, my lady.” He bowed slowly, his eyes traveling the length of her as he did.

Luci could feel the heat of his stare as it took in her form for the second time.

She’d never had occasion to overthink her preferred fencing attire, that of her male counterparts, to be scandalous or revealing in any overt manner. But his intense scrutiny scorched her from her face, down to her toes, and back up again. It was not hard to imagine her face blossoming with heat, as well. She would give him due credit for his eyes only lingered at her bosom—barely noticeable under her tightly bound cloth wrap—a brief moment before returning to her face.

However, his inspection gave her time to look closer at him. He was as tall as she’d suspected, and just as broad, his fencing attire not adding to his size as hers did. His hair hung nearly to his shoulders in a way far less gentlemanly than was preferred in London’s premier ballrooms. But it was his eyes that attracted her notice most. Their blue depths held something she couldn’t quite place her finger on. Hurt? Anger? Betrayal?

What could this lordly arrogant man know of these things?

His examination of her person sent a shiver down Luci’s spine, and all her defenses, bred through years of dealing with her father and competing in fencing, jumped into action. She should pivot, turn and flee Bentley’s immediately; instead, she asked, “Your name, kind lord? I wish to add it to my extensive list of conquests.”

She would never allow him to know of his appeal. When a man was given the upper hand in any situation, it was Luci’s experience that they used it to exploit others and gain exactly what they searched for. Though there couldn’t be anything the dark-haired lord sought from Luci. Only a moment before, he’d had no notion whom he sparred against, let alone that she was the eldest daughter of the Marquis of Camden.

His grin only widened when he snorted with laughter.

Was the man overly familiar with such blasé commentary from the women he associated with?

Luci was in the presence of a rogue—a taker of the innocent, a philanderer with no moral compass, a charlatan in lord’s attire. The set of his crooked, self-assured grin, and his open appraisal of her was something Luci had witnessed on at least a dozen occasions.

She knew the type well, had lived under the roof of such a man her entire life—and called him father.

“What is so amusing?” she asked when he continued to grin at her after this laughter had ceased—likely due to her penetrating stare and uplifted chin. “Do you think it luck that handed me the win today?”

“Oh, certainly not, my lady.” He moved and set his mask and foil on the bench against the far wall and then proceeded to remove his gloves, his back to her. “For a lad, your skill was at an expert level, but for a woman?” He shook his head and turned back to face her. “It was complete mastery—a practiced prowess many men never achieve in all their years at the sport.”

Her face flushed—from the compliment or the overt use of the word prowess, she was uncertain. “I am overjoyed to see that we are in agreement of my skill, and furthermore, your need to study the sport more thoroughly before our next match.” She rocked back on her heels, not attempting to hide her smugness over her victory and her mastery of their back and forth banter.

As he paced back toward her, he tapped his bottom lip with his forefinger. “And what, my lady, makes you think I would agree to another match only to be bested soundly once more?”

It was Luci’s turn to laugh. Her deep chuckle filled the room, empty except for her and the jet-black-haired man before her. His shoulders stiffened when she expressed her own merriment with the situation. “Are you saying you would turn down another round of sparring?”

“I said nothing of the sort; however”—he halted several feet from her—“I am not in the routine of agreeing to things if there is no chance of them working in my favor.

“Well, I never offer if I do not know I will win.” Luci tilted her chin up a notch.

“Your name, my lady?” he requested again, his stare returning to its former intensity and never leaving hers. He was not appreciating her womanly curves nor waxing poetic prose about her silky hair and vibrant green eyes. It appeared he truly wished to learn her given name. “My lady?” His brow arched in question.

She should not give her name, but there was something about the man that pulled the words from her. It could be his sincerity, his forthright nature, or possibly his confidence in being bested by a woman at a predominately male sport. “Lady Lucianna Constantine, my lord.”

“Your Grace.”

“Pardon?”

“It is Your Grace.” His smirk returned as he seemed to go from intense to playful with each breath he took. “The Duke of Montrose, but you may call me Roderick—you have bested me with a foil, after all.”

All thoughts of her own coy nature disappeared quickly with the one damning name.

As she’d suspected, he was a rogue, a rakehell, and a debauched man.

And the very first lord she’d taken down with the Mayfair Confidential.

The exhilaration from her victory on the strip dissipated.