The rhythmic clatter of wooden swords echoed through the air until, with a decisive flick of her wrist, Emily sent her opponent's blade spiraling into the grass.
She stood breathless, the undisputed master of the ring.
"You have a natural flair for the blade," a voice observed. It was Olivia.
Emily turned, her breath catching. There stood the Duchess, a vision of imposing grace with her silver hair cascading over the obsidian silk of her gown.
For a fleeting second, Emily found herself lost in the woman's ethereal beauty before recollecting herself and dropping into a deep, formal curtsy.
"I humble myself before Her Grace, the Duchess," Emily murmured.
Olivia's gaze was piercing, tracing the slight tremor in Emily's stance and the way her eyes darted toward the ground, searching for an escape.
The heavy shadow of the previous night still loomed between them, making silence a precarious bridge.
"Come, sit, Miss Emily," Olivia commanded softly.
