But he hadn’t planned the rest. Hadn’t intended the flames to blast so hot and untamed within him. He honestly could’ve gone a bit longer to discover how perfect her thighs felt in his hands, how her hips cradled his hardness. How her eyes glittered as her body awakened to his direction.
She’d asked for tenderness. And he’d given her what he had—heat and hardness. Nothing more.
But rather than admit she was wrong about him, she’d thrown down yet another challenge. The woman was dauntless. And determined. And so damned unexpected.
His body hardened further. Why the hell did that make him so bloody hot?
“Fuck,” he muttered out loud just as the woman torturing his thoughts appeared in the doorway.
He repeated the curse silently as he took in the stunning sight of her.
She walked slowly, proudly, into the room wearing black boots that reached to her knees, buff-colored breeches that molded smoothly to her lean, soft-curved thighs and hips, a white lawn shirt, and brown waistcoat. Instead of being twisted and pinned into an elaborate style, her auburn hair was secured simply in a thick braid that draped over her shoulder.
She stopped in the center of the room where he’d spread out an old carpet he’d found in the attic to cover the slick polished surface of the ballroom floor. Staring at him, she planted her hands on her hips and lifted her brows in expectation.
Mason couldn’t speak. He sure as hell couldn’t move yet. Not with the sexual pressure pulsing through his body.
She’d shocked him. He hadn’t thought such a thing possible, but the way she looked—almost cocky in her men’s clothes, as if she frequently dressed in such a way—fired his blood.
She released an audible sigh. “Are you quite finished staring, Mr. Hale?”
No. He lowered his chin and grinned.
“You said to dress comfortably.”
“And I’m glad I did,” he replied with an appreciative nod. “Where’d you find that getup?”
She tugged at the hem of her waistcoat. “I learned years ago that some things were nearly impossible to accomplish in skirts and slippers.”
As he allowed his focus to travel over every inch of her female form, he desperately wanted to ask what sorts of things she enjoyed doing in her breeches.
She huffed another exasperated breath. “I came here expecting to learn how to properly defend myself and my brother. If you’re incapable of taking me seriously, perhaps I should seek another teacher.”
Something hot and ferocious flared up inside him at the thought. No way in hell.
Pushing off from the wall, Mason started toward her, stopping once his feet reached the thick Persian rug. “I’ll train you.” The words came out in a near growl.
Her breath was long and steady as she stared at him. He half expected her to change her mind and leave. But not this woman. She’d committed to a path and wouldn’t be deterred. Sure as hell not by him.
Giving a nod, she replied, “Fine, then. Let’s begin.”
“Remove your boots.”
“Is that really necess—”
“Yes.” If she asked, he’d explain how he believed it was important for a novice especially, to feel balanced and connected to their base. No movement could be wholly effective without proper foundation.
A frown. An exasperated sigh. Then she strode to a chair that had been pushed to the edge of the room and sat down to remove her boots and stockings.
Mason refused to think of how attractive her bare feet and ankles were. He needed to get his head into the task at hand if he were to provide anything of value in this training session. Despite his confidence in his ability to protect her, he didn’t disagree with her desire to have some means of defending herself—same as Freddie—if, for some inconceivable reason, he failed to do so.
Stepping forward, he met her in the middle of the rug. Though she stood still and appeared fully composed, Mason detected the tension in her jaw and the light flush pinkening her skin.
“All right, then,” he said. “Attack me.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
Grinning, he made a beckoning gesture with both hands. “Come at me, duchess. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She hesitated, her spine stiffening. “You want me to throw a punch at you?”
He shrugged. “A punch, a kick, a full-on charge. Whatever feels right.”
Her gaze swept over him, swiftly assessing his large form—lingering a bit on the thickness of his thighs, the bulging muscles of his arms, and the span of his shoulders—before returning to his face with a flash of irritation. “Nothing feels right. You’re nearly twice my size and famously undefeated in the ring. What on earth could feel right about attacking you?”
Mason chuckled. “Smart girl.”
The comment earned him a swift glare. “Is this an attempt at discouraging me?”
“In any fight, you’ve gotta be aware of the strengths and weaknesses of your opponent. And yourself. A straight-on attack wouldn’t be an effective strategy for someone of your stature and lesser strength against someone larger and more skilled. Anyone you’re likely to come up against will undoubtedly outweigh you, have a greater reach, and more experience in physical contests.”
“Exactly why I’m here, Mr. Hale. To gain experience.”
“Right,” he noted as he walked a slow circle around her, intentionally stalking, forcing her to home in on him with her full awareness. “You’ve identified your disadvantages. What are your advantages?”
Her gaze narrowed as she followed his movements from the corner of her eye, as though she suspected some sort of trickery in his question. When he slipped out of her line of sight for a moment while crossing behind her, she made a soft sound of exasperation before turning her head to catch sight of him again on her other side.
He arched a brow, awaiting her answer.
“If I’m smaller than my opponent, won’t I be quicker as well? More agile?”
He gave a short nod.
