"Is it?" she answered, the words slightly clipped as she readied herself for the assault to continue, keeping her focus on his movements and the rhythm of the moment rather than risk dividing it too far between responding and replying. He was testing her, she decided; the first punch had been a tentative opening, and every subsequent attack had increased in confidence from there. And that said something, too, about the good Mr. Armstrong — while he may have wanted a fight, evidently he didn't want it enough to risk hurting her as a consequence of it. Quite possibly, he could stop this blow before it ever touched her, if he wanted. If so, she'd find his control and precision nothing short of admirable.

On the other hand, giving him a reason to find her admirable was starting to sound rather appealing, too.

Moving fluidly, she instinctively checked her balance, readied her stance, and then moved in forward as the punch was thrown, bring her arm up to block it even as she began to twist into a throw that, if successful, would leave him rather neatly on the ground. She didn't think; she didn't need to. She simply reacted, muscle memory and years of practice to acquire it coming to the forefront once more.

He had said the warm-up was over. It was the least she could do to oblige.