Fencing Books

“I’ve only an hour,” Colin said as he attached the safety tip to his foil. “I have an appointment this afternoon.”
“No matter,” Benedict replied, lunging forward a few times to loosen up the muscles in his leg. He hadn’t fenced in some time; the sword felt good in his hand. He drew back and touched the tip to the floor, letting the blade bend slightly. “It won’t take more than an hour to best you.”
Colin rolled his eyes before he drew down his mask.
Benedict walked to the center of the room. “Are you ready?”
“Not quite,” Colin replied, following him.
Benedict lunged again.
“I said I wasn’t ready!” Colin hollered as he jumped out of the way.
“You’re too slow,” Benedict snapped.
Colin cursed under his breath, then added a louder, “Bloody hell,” for good measure. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” Benedict nearly snarled. “Why would you say so?”
Colin took a step backward until they were a suitable distance apart to start the match. “Oh, I don’t know,” he intoned, sarcasm evident. “I suppose it could be because you nearly took my head off.”
“I’ve a tip on my blade.”
“And you were slashing like you were using a sabre,” Colin shot back.
Benedict gave a hard smile. “It’s more fun that way.”
“Not for my neck.” Colin passed his sword from hand to hand as he flexed and stretched his fingers. He paused and frowned. “You sure you have a foil there?”
Benedict scowled. “For the love of God, Colin, I would never use a real weapon.”
“Just making sure,” Colin muttered, touching his neck lightly. “Are you ready?”
Benedict nodded and bent his knees.
“Regular rules,” Colin said, assuming a fencer’s crouch. “No slashing.”
Benedict gave him a curt nod.
“En garde!”
Both men raised their right arms, twisting their wrists until their palms were up, foils gripped in their fingers.
“Is that new?” Colin suddenly asked, eyeing the handle of Benedict’s foil with interest.
Benedict cursed at the loss of his concentration. “Yes, it’s new,” he bit off. “I prefer an Italian grip.”
Colin stepped back, completely losing his fencing posture as he looked at his own foil, with a less elaborate French grip. “Might I borrow it some time? I wouldn’t mind seeing if—”
“Yes!” Benedict snapped, barely resisting the urge to advance and lunge that very second. “Will you get back en garde?”
Colin gave him a lopsided smile, and Benedict just knew that he had asked about his grip simply to annoy him. “As you wish,” Colin murmured, assuming position again.”
― Julia Quinn, An Offer From a Gentleman