by Lily Reynard
The nymph caught his eye and gave him a bold smile. Kit felt himself blush and was stung by her instant laughter.
His gaze sought Antonia, dignified, gracious, and beautiful even under her mask and paint, her lush tresses shining in the golden candlelight.
He accepted a glass of wine from a passing servant, and drank deeply, but it failed to dissolve the leaden feeling in his gut.
* * *
Antonia spent the first hour of the ball standing at the earl's side, greeting his guests, some of them more warmly than others.
Finally, it was time to start the dancing. The earl led her out to the middle of the gallery, the other guests joining them, until they were lined up in a double column, men facing women. The musician starting playing "Cuckolds all in a row," and though she had not danced in over a year, Antonia found her feet moving in time to the brisk rhythm of fiddle, flute, and drum.
As she bowed and turned through the steps, she caught a glimpse of Kit clapping and handing the ladies down the line with the rest of the men.
"So, Puritans dance, milady?" he asked, jokingly, as she reached him.
"In moderation!" she called over her shoulder, as he passed her to the next man in line.
She caught the flash of his grin before continuing on, the fiddles coming to a crescendo as the dance ended, only to be immediately succeeded by another.
Antonia was enjoying herself too much to leave the dance floor. She lasted through three dances before she was forced to stop.
As she sipped watered wine and tried to catch her breath, she noticed that Kit was still dancing. He hadn't even broken into a sweat.
Then she was distracted by a nearby commotion. A group of young courtiers had swaggered into the ballroom. Antonia dutifully put down her goblet and went to greet them.
There were five or six of them, including the Earl of Thornsby and the Marquess of Chelmsford, masked, and draped in lace and huge curling periwigs. Gold embroidery shone on the cuffs and hems of their fashionably short jackets and puffed breeches. Knots of ribbon hung from wrist and knee, and several of them sported gorgeously-plumed hats. They were in high spirits, arms clapped about each other's shoulders, laughing.
As she approached and made her curtsey, she overheard them teasing Chelmsford: "But you can't go a virgin to your marriage bed, lad. One of you has to know what to do!"
The others guffawed. "Get him a widow. She'll show him what to do!"
They caught sight of Antonia, and fell silent. A few of them attempted bows, swaying dangerously in their high red heels.
"Gentlemen, I bid you good evening and welcome you to the Earl of Cranbourne's ball," Antonia said, repeating the phrases for the hundredth time this evening.
"Lady Cranbourne." Thornsby made her an elaborate bow in the full formal French style. "I am your most obedient servant."
He drawled the words, letting them linger in his mouth as if he were tasting a fine wine, and gave her the full benefit of his dazzling smile. "We were just discoursing on widows—"
Chelmsford hiccoughed and staggered forward. He was roaring drunk. Antonia could smell the brandy on his breath from a distance of five paces.
"A widow!" he said, fixing Antonia with a vacuous grin. "And a goddess! Be my wife!"
Alarmed, she stepped backward, forgetting about the train of her gown. At the same moment, Chelmsford lurched, and threw his arms around her. "A kiss, sweet goddess!"
Antonia toppled backwards, Chelmsford clinging to her, his wet mouth planted on hers, clumsily trying to poke his tongue between her lips.
As Chelmsford's companions exploded into mirth, Antonia tried to heave off her attacker, but he clung to her, and her frantic attempts to shove him away merely made him giggle and his companions laugh all the louder.
* * *
Something was happening at the other end of the gallery. The music stopped, and as the dancers in his line came to an uncertain halt, Kit heard gasps, exclamations, and unkind laughter.
Antonia! He grabbed his pinecone-tipped staff from where he had propped it against the nearest wall, and raced toward the knot of people gathered near the entrance.
He pushed ruthlessly through the gathered onlookers, and felt a burst of killing rage when he saw her struggling on the floor, a beribboned young man on top of her, and Julian laughing uproariously at her plight.
There was real fear and anger in her face, and—by God—that puppy had his hand down the front of her bodice!
With an oath, Kit swept the staff around, and cracked Lady Cranbourne's attacker smartly alongside the head.
The ridiculous periwig flew off and slid along the polished floor like a startled cat as the young man fell heavily to one side.
Without hesitating, Kit drove the butt of his staff into the other's stomach, which knocked the wind out of him. The young man curled up and retched helplessly, bringing up an inordinate amount of wine.
His opponent disabled, Kit reached down and lifted Lady Cranbourne to her feet.
"Are you all right, my lady?"
She stood in his arms for the briefest second, and he felt her shaking.
Then she raised her chin, nodded, and stepped away from him, trying to smooth her rumpled skirts. The upper half of her beautiful gown was torn and disheveled, and the ribbons were coming out of her hair.
He caught sight of Mall, and gently took Lady Cranbourne's elbow, steering her towards her maid.
"Mall, take my lady somewhere private and safe," he ordered, "whilst I settle affairs with these...gentlemen."
Mall nodded, her mouth set in a tight line. "If they hurt milady, I'll deal with 'em myself."
Kit turned his attention back to the group of troublemakers. Almost everyone in the gallery was watching him now, and Julian was smirking.
But where was the earl?
Antonia's assailant struggled to his feet, still wheezing a bit. There was a reddened bruise on his temple, stark against the dark stubble of his natural hair.
"How dare you lay hands upon me? I am the Marquess of Chelmsford!" the other replied haughtily. He had retrieved his long, curling wig and replaced it on his head, where it sat, somewhat crookedly.
"Have you no manners, my lord?" Kit asked icily. "Since when do you treat a lady like a tavern wench?"
"Are you a gentleman, sir?" Chelmsford's gaze swept Kit insolently from head to foot, lingering a second on Kit’s staff. "I see no sword."
"You may be a marquess, but I'm certain that you are no gentleman," Kit snapped. "The lady wishes you gone. Go!"
The boy drew himself up. "You deny that I am a gentleman? You have struck me and insulted my honor, sir! I demand satisfaction."
Oh, Lord. What sort of mess have I gotten myself into now?
Kit saw the lad wipe a trembling hand surreptitiously against the skirt of his velvet coat, and revised the boy’s age downward. Too young to be facing a man nearly twice his age.
But neither could Kit refuse the challenge, not with the memory of the boy's fingermarks across the top of Antonia's bosom.
Kit bowed stiffly.
"I shall await your challenge, then. Would a fight to the first blood satisfy your honor?"
Kit saw the boy’s shoulders relax slightly, though his expression remained belligerent. "It would. And your name, sir?"
"Christopher Fitzgeorge, at your service," Kit said, and ignored Chelmsford’s look of outrage at discovering that Kit bore no title, not even the honorific of knighthood.
"You can't fight a duel with a commoner, Chelmsford!" one of youth's companions protested.
Kit allowed his anger to get the better of him. "It's true I have no title, but I am kin to Lord Thornsby."
Julian rolled his eyes just before Chelmsford turned to him, and Kit was suddenly sure he would deny the connection.
To his surprise, Julian nodded. "Distant kin," he said, still smirking.
Kit realized he was enjoying these events as if they were a play—Antonia's humiliation, Kit's chivalrous
defense, and Chelmsford's challenge.
"Does that make me enough of a gentleman to fight you, my lord?" Kit said, forcing his attention back to Chelmsford.
"Yes." Chelmsford bowed, a little shakily. "The choice of weapons is yours. But—but who will be my second?" he asked with comical dismay, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
It was no light matter to serve as a second, for seconds were expected to fight alongside the primary duelists. He looked around, a little desperately, and his eye lit on Julian.
"My lord Thornsby?" Chelmsford pleaded.
If Julian was as drunk as his friends, he showed no sign of it, beyond a certain high color in his cheeks. Kit saw his quick flash of annoyance.
"It would be my honor," he said, after a moment.
No doubt, the last thing Julian wanted was to be involved in this duel if it diminished his appeal to Lady Cranbourne. But once asked, he could not refuse without good reason.
"And who will stand as your second, Mr. Fitzgeorge?" Julian asked with apparent innocence.
Kit gritted his teeth, reminded yet again he was an outsider to this noble company.
"I shall," said the Earl of Cranbourne, pushing through the crowd of bystanders.
His words rang loudly in the sudden silence, and Julian's smirk abruptly disappeared.
"You cannot!" A heavy-set man pushed himself to the front of the throng surrounding Kit and Chelmsford. "My lord, think of the risk! And you have no heir!"
"If Mr. Fitzgeorge is willing to defend my aunt's honor, then I can do no less," Cranbourne said, firmly. He wiped his face with a lace handkerchief, and Kit saw the fine tremor in Cranbourne's fingers, though his voice betrayed neither fear nor excitement. "Lord Chelmsford, may I suggest Lincoln's Inn Fields, at dawn?"
Chelmsford bowed. "At your service, Lord Cranbourne."
"Good," Cranbourne said, calmly. "Now, I must bid you and your companions to depart from my home."
Chelmsford's face turned a deep scarlet, but to his credit, the youth simply bowed and left the gallery, followed closely by Julian and his other companions.
The heavy-set man—most likely Cranbourne's steward, thought Kit—escorted them out.
"Thank you, my lord," Kit said, sincerely.
Cranbourne nodded. "Let us see how my aunt fares."
* * *
As they left the gallery, servants were scurrying to mop the floor, and the music started up again.
A passing footman informed them that Lady Cranbourne had been taken to the Virginals Parlor, some distance from the gallery.
In silence, Kit followed the earl down a corridor hung with tapestries.
The earl raised his hand to knock on the oak-paneled door, then paused. His snub-nosed face was serious as he studied Kit for a long moment.
Kit bore the scrutiny uncomfortably, wondering how Cranbourne would fare in tomorrow's duel. He didn't look like a swordsman, and he had a scholar's soft hands.
A pity Kit would be miles away when young Lord Chelmsford tumbled out of bed in the hour before dawn, his head no doubt splitting from a surfeit of drink, and the Earl of Cranbourne was left alone to face him.
Apparently, the earl's thoughts were also concerned with the duel.
"It will be an honor to fight at your side tomorrow, Mr. Fitzgeorge. And I thank you for your service to my aunt."
Kit inclined his head politely, feeling a stab of shame. "Thank you, my lord. But I regret I wasn't quick enough to prevent that young fool from actually putting his hands on my lady."
The earl smiled grimly. "I'm certain the marquess will shortly be taught a lesson in manners."
He opened the door, and Kit followed him inside.
Like the other rooms in Hampstead House, this chamber was crowded with books and bits of broken statuary.
Lady Cranbourne's makeup had been repaired and her gown pinned to hide the worst of the damage.
She was staring out the window into the night-dark garden while Mall deftly gathered up her disordered curls and attempted to retie the loosened ribbons.
I could take advantage of her distress to urge her to go home early, thought Kit, and thus gain an hour or two on his pursuers when he abducted her.
Kit halted near the parlor's entrance as the earl stooped and asked low-voiced questions of his aunt.
She took the hand he offered, and they spoke softly for a few moments, his expression grave, hers concerned.
I should step forward now, Kit told himself, and offer to escort her home. It was the perfect opportunity.
Then Lady Cranbourne caught sight of Kit, and her face lighted with an incandescent smile of relief and joy.
Like a bolt from Heaven, realized the truth.
He couldn't betray her, couldn't rob her of her freedom and deliver her to Julian. Not when his first instinct was to protect her.
I love her. The knowledge illuminated him as if he had stepped from shadow into sunlight, making him feel joyful and sad all at once.
The sickness in his belly finally dissipated.
He looked into the countess's radiant gray eyes and knew he had made the right decision.
Henceforth, he would be her guard in truth. It wasn't as rich a living as Julian's reward would have been, but he could feed his daughter with the salary he earned, and if he was prudent, even save a sum for her dowry.
And tomorrow, he would fight to avenge the insult that had been done his lady.
The thought roused a fierce song in his blood. He bowed deeply, his eyes never leaving hers.
"My lady," he said, with all his heart.
"I owe you thanks for another rescue, my gallant Mr. Fitzgeorge," she said, huskily. She looked up at the earl. "My lord—Lionel—I would like a word alone with him."
"Of course." The earl bowed, and turned to go.
"You also, Mall," Lady Cranbourne—Antonia—said.
Mall looked unhappy at this, but obeyed. The moment the door closed behind her, Antonia rose to her feet, and took Kit's hands.
"Is it true that you're going to fight a duel? For me?"
"It's only to first blood—and I'll wager young Chelmsford is no swordsman." Kit's fingers closed around hers. He was dizzy with her orange blossom perfume.
"This is the second time you've saved me." She looked up at him, and with a jolt, he recognized the same mixture of nervousness and yearning that he felt.
"Then perhaps I might claim a kiss as a reward?" He tried to keep his tone light, but he was consumed with longing.
Her eyes widened, and her hands, still resting in his, gave a little flutter.
Then she stood on tiptoes, and brushed her lips against his mouth in a swift, chaste kiss that nevertheless set all of his nerves on fire.
Her fingers grew hot, and she tried to pull away.
"Wait," Kit said, unwilling to release her. "Let me kiss you properly."
She felt like a captive bird between his hands, her pulse throbbing wildly against his skin—or perhaps it was just his own heart, beating in anticipation—but she did not pull away as he leaned toward her.
He kissed her with all the skill he possessed, lightly at first, nibbling her lips, then pulling back a little. Her eyes were closed, her expression unreadable, but as he withdrew, she leaned into him, as if reluctant to lose contact.
That was all the encouragement he needed.
His heart pounding, craving the soft taste of her mouth, Kit kissed her more urgently. Her hands released his, and her lips parted, responding to him.
He put his hand on her waist and slowly drew her towards him, wanting to feel her soft curves against him. He was already hard, achingly so, and to keep from alarming her, he drew her in against his side, and lightly ran his other hand up her arm, then gently stroked the soft curls against her neck.
She responded by devouring his mouth with unexpected fierce strength, twining her arms around him, reaching up to hold his face.
He began to tease her a little with his tongue, flicking it across
her lips as he continued to stroke her hair, her neck, her warm bare shoulder.
She felt so good in his arms, so right. He was fiercely aware of how long it had been since he had lain with a woman.
With a gasp, she yielded to him utterly, opening herself to his tongue. He ravished her mouth, driven by the sweet strength with which she clung to him.
He kissed her for a blissful eternity, her scarred skin velvety under his fingers as he caressed her throat, her collarbone, and the luscious swell of her breasts over her bodice.
Finally, he pulled back, joyful and satisfied and aching with desire all at the same time, wanting to continue kissing her forever, and knowing that the earl awaited them.
She was flushed under her powder and rouge, heavy-eyed with passion. She caught his hand against her throat as he reluctantly ended the kiss. "Kit..."
He sighed, and brushed her lips one last time with his own. "I'm not worthy of you, my lady. You deserve a lord, not the lord's poor relation who must sell his sword for a living."
"You are worth ten of those lords," she said, fiercely, with a gesture in the direction of the ball.
"If you believe that of me, then I'm the luckiest man alive," he whispered.
Antonia raised his hand from her throat, and pressed a kiss into his callused palm. "Take me home. Kit. Tell the earl that I'm feeling unwell. I've had my fill of the nobility tonight."
Chapter Thirteen
"...I affirm, that amongst all the weapons used in these days, there is none more honorable, more usual or more safe than the sword." — Giacomo DiGrassi, The True Art of Defense, 1594 trans.
As they emerged from the room, the earl gave Antonia's glowing face a swift, sharp glance.
Kit feared that his own countenance was not a whit less sober. But mercifully, Cranbourne did not comment on it as he and Kit spent a few minutes gravely discussing the logistics of tomorrow's duel.
They left Hampstead House shortly thereafter.
Bonfires celebrating the sixth anniversary of the king's restoration burned ruddy and gold on every street corner between Covent Garden and the river. In the shifting light they cast, Kit saw Antonia looking at him, her eyes shining through the holes in her mask.
