Chapter 323: A Flustered Gentleman
Chapter 322: A Flustered Gentleman
Lyria’s POV
I blinked at him, rather puzzled by the genuine surprise upon his face.
"W-why are you s-so surprised?" I asked.
Even as the question left my lips, I remembered that we had not truly stopped our lesson.
He had told me this was to be treated as though it were a genuine encounter.
So, without another word, I stepped forward and threw a punch towards him.
His hand moved almost lazily.
Before my fist had travelled even halfway, he caught my wrist effortlessly.
A low chuckle escaped him as he did.
"You tried, Your Highness," he said, amusement colouring his voice.
But I did not wait another moment.
Using my other arm, I threw another punch in quick succession, hoping to catch him off guard, even if only for a brief moment.
He laughed again, deflecting the strike with equal ease.
"You tried," he repeated, his grin widening.
I lowered my fists, a huff of frustration escaping me.
"You a-are not s-supposed to b-be so g-good at this," I muttered.
"I am supposed to be good at this," he replied cheerfully. "That is rather the point of teaching you."
He released my wrist and stepped back.
"You may continue your attempts," he said to me.
I nodded and did as instructed, continuing my attempts to strike him.
We resumed our training, falling into a rhythm that had become familiar over the past hour. I threw punch after punch, each one aimed with more conviction than the last. He intercepted, dodged, and corrected, his movements so fluid that, were it not for the fact that I was training with him, I would have admired how beautifully he moved.
"Your shoulder is rising again," he observed, gently guiding it back into place.
I adjusted it immediately.
"Better."
I threw another punch, which he sidestepped effortlessly.
"Your weight is shifting too far forward."
I corrected myself and threw another.
He caught my wrist once more.
"You are telegraphing your strikes," he said. "Your eyes give you away."
I frowned.
"H-how do I s-stop that?"
"Practice," he replied simply. "And learning to keep your focus elsewhere."
I nodded, filing the advice away for later.
As we continued, he spoke again.
"I never thought you were an artist."
I threw a punch.
"W-why?" I asked.
He dodged.
"I do not know," he admitted. "I simply never considered it. You never struck me as the type, I suppose."
I threw another punch.
"W-what type is t-that?"
He caught my wrist.
"The type who sits quietly with a brush in hand," he replied. "Though I suppose that is rather foolish of me. One can be many things at once."
He released me.
"I simply never imagined you with paint upon your fingers. Perhaps you might teach me."
"Y-you h-have never s-seen any of my w-work. You d-do not know if I-I am any g-good at it or n-not," I told him.
"No, but I do not doubt that you are," he replied. "And perhaps you can teach me as well."
"I d-doubt that, b-besides y—"
"Your Highness, if you were about to tell me that I am good at painting, then I must stop you there." He smiled. "The only knowledge I possess regarding painting comes from my younger siblings, and surely you have not forgotten the painting competition?"
Another laugh escaped me as I threw a punch.
There was no possibility of my forgetting that competition.
"I did not display anything remarkable," he said.
"Y-you were b-better than D-Duke Valenridge," I replied.
He chuckled.
"That may be true," he conceded. "But I was only marginally better. And, given who Evander is, he may very well know how to paint and simply pretended otherwise."
I considered his words for a moment before shaking my head.
"I d-doubt that," I said. "For s-some reason, I j-just cannot imagine h-him sitting quietly w-with a brush."
He tilted his head.
"And why is that?"
I shrugged, not entirely certain myself.
"I d-do not know. H-he simply does n-not seem the t-type."
Earl Hawthorne smiled.
"Perhaps you are right."
Then he moved.
It was fast—far faster than I had expected.
I barely had time to react before his hand came towards me.
I jumped back instinctively, my heart racing.
He grinned.
"You are learning," he said.
I let out a slow breath.
"Y-you c-could have w-warned me."
"I did," he replied. "Just not with words."
I shook my head, though I could not stop myself from smiling.
"Attack me."
I did.
I threw punch after punch, my breathing growing heavier as I pushed myself. Sweat gathered along my brow, and my arms began to ache from the effort.
Still...
He intercepted everything.
Every strike.
Every attempt.
Every movement.
He was like an immovable wall.
Steady.
Patient.
Entirely unyielding.
At last, I lowered my hands.
"I n-need a m-moment," I said between breaths. "A b-break."
He stepped back immediately, the teasing smile disappearing from his face.
"Are you quite well, Your Highness?"
I nodded as I struggled to catch my breath.
"J-just t-tired."
I reached for the light training vest I had been wearing, my fingers fumbling with the fastenings. The garment had grown warm from the exercise, and I was eager to remove the extra layer.
Pippa was beside me almost immediately.
"Allow me, Your Highness," she said softly.
With practised ease, she undid the fastenings and carefully lifted the sleeveless training vest from my shoulders before stepping away with it folded neatly in her arms.
The cool air of the training grounds brushed pleasantly against the long-sleeved chemise beneath, and I let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Only then did I turn back towards Earl Hawthorne.
And stopped.
He had turned his head sharply away from me.
The tips of his ears had become a rather remarkable shade of red.
Even his cheeks were flushed.
His gaze was fixed with extraordinary determination upon a distant section of the training hall, as though the empty wall had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in existence.
I frowned.
"W-what is w-wrong?" I asked.
He cleared his throat.
"N-nothing," he replied, his voice sounding just a touch strained. "Nothing at all, Your Highness."
I tilted my head.
For some reason, I did not believe him.
Surely something had happened.