Romance Trope Lucinda wasn’t particularly ready for a blow to the abdomen, but her options had slipped through her fingers long ago. Thomas had said he would show her one night of freedom, a night escaped from boned ivory stays and suffocating corsets, but their moment of rebellion had turned into a nightly affair. Now, she was staying truthful to the promise she and Thomas had made with two countrymen almost a week ago: a brawl. Trousers had become Lucinda’s closest friend; she could move and pretend she was a child again, not expected to wear an impractical skirt. The pants would make it easier to run, hit, and possibly fight someone – but no matter how much the trousers helped, Lucinda was completely unconfident about her battle skills. It was her fault, she knew that. She should have never called so much attention to herself inside the tavern, but playing the role of a man had given her a spirit she had never felt before. She should never have asked for a third drink, but the offer was much too tempting, and the haze of the candle-lit lanterns created too dreamy an atmosphere. She knew she should never have listened in on the two men’s conversation in the booth near the door. She should never have walked up to them and claimed to be Duke Cunningham’s son, and she most definitely should never have challenged them to a brawl. She had claimed her father’s military fleet knew her as “Luke the Brave.” She boasted about all the ladies she hosted and all the men she had killed. “What kind of men could a skinny thing like you ever kill — mice?” The man had snorted, laughing uncontrollably as the other man to his right simply stared into the abyss, unbothered by his friend’s foolishness. Lucinda’s response was a biting of the thumb and an offer, no, most definitely a challenge, to a brawl. The small foolish one chuckled and agreed, almost instantly. At the sight of Lucinda’s rashness, Thomas pinched his brow and frowned. Now it was five days later, and Thomas was finishing her training. Lucinda had never been romantic with Tom. They had met in primary school in London and continued their friendship throughout finishing school. She couldn’t deny that for brief moments she had found him attractive, but every time she sailed off in a dreamboat thinking about it, Thomas would open his mouth and the ship would crash. Thomas attempted a hit in her ribs but she blocked the blow with her hand. Then came the shoulder — blocked by her flinging him over her own, and then a punch — which she ducked. It was Lucinda’s turn to initiate. Thomas fell to the ground with a crash. She was ready. At 7 o’clock, Thomas brought over some of his newly cleaned clothes for Lucinda and helped bind her bosom. They locked her bedroom door and escaped through the window, leaving her sapphire dress spread on the floor. The two rode their way to an open field in Northampton, infamous for bloodshed. Thomas had gone over exactly what to say, when to fight, and most importantly, when to surrender. He couldn’t let her die. The two men arrived at 7:30, but only one of them was dressed for battle. She had trained for the man she had met at the tavern — calculated every possible scenario specific to his stout build, his mischief, his humor. To her chagrin, the man who would be her match was the other one. The one whose face she was just seeing for the first time in the light, no matter how fleeting the daylight was. The man whose muscles were visible through his coat, who towered over her. Whose eyes burned into her like ice, a shade of sapphire — like her disheveled dress still lying on her bedroom floor. His hair, a wavy brown mane cut short along his neck. He had much stubble along his jawline and stood in a brooding stance, completely aware of Lucinda’s shock. His gait was a mockery of her own. The short man, whom she would later know as Paul, met Thomas in the middle of the field and decided on the rules of the brawl. There would be no weapons besides a single sword for each man, the fight ends when one pins the other with their sword, and that man shall be the victor. It began at 7:38. The tall man, the big man, named Harry Fairfax, smirked at Lucinda and spoke. “You tell me when you’ve had enough, Mr. Cunningham.” He walked to her with strong strides. “That moment may never come, Mr. Fairfax.” Thomas fired into the air with a revolver and the two reached for their swords. Harry made the first strike and Lucinda hit metal to metal, sword to sword. They fenced back and forth, striding along the bank of the river and back to the center of the field before Harry struck her with a strength she didn’t expect, and her sword flew out of her hands and into the tall grass. “I hope you have noticed that I’ve been using half my strength until now.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. She scoffed. “Please, you pompous ass, I don’t need my sword.” His head leaned in interest. “Let’s fight with our hands like real men.” His eyes smiled in agreement. Harry dropped his sword and waited for Lucinda to make the first move. She strolled around him until he was impatient and just when his guard was down she struck his ribs. He fought back with more fury than he had before. He pinned her to the ground and held her neck tight until her face turned red. “Bet you wished you had your sword now.” His mouth curled into a grin.
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