A Most Unsuitable Man

by Mara

  She frowned. “It’s called Autumn Sunset. Idiotic, for sunsets in autumn are no different in hue than in other seasons.”

  He took her hands. “No poetic temperament, I see.”

  “None.”

  “A poetic temperament isn’t a weakness, you know. Poetry can combine with courage and power.”

  He shouldn’t do it, but he kissed one long, elegant hand, fine and nimble from years at the keyboard. Hands that he could imagine touching him, even in intimate places. Her bed framed her. He wasn’t insane enough to carry her there and do what he wanted to do, but he wasn’t exactly sane, either.

  “You have an example as proof?”

  “What?” He had no idea what she was talking about.

  “An example of a poet who is also brave and powerful.”

  He laughed softly and let her force him back to sense, if a nonsense conversation could do such a thing. They were due downstairs, and the bed was too tempting by far. He picked up a heavy silk shawl woven in browns, golds, and pinks and draped it around her shoulders.

  “Let’s see.” He linked arms with her and led her to the door. “Many of last century’s poets were forced into the civil war. Then we have Sir Philip Sidney, who died in battle in Tudor times.”

  “Was he a good soldier?” she asked as she pressed her hoops together to pass through the doorway. “Or a good poet?”

  “Both, they say, but I confess, I cannot quote him.”

  “Having better things to do than to study the literary arts.” She looked directly at him. “What is your real purpose here, Fitzroger?”

  Her shrewdness caught his breath. “To enjoy Christmastide.”

  “And before that? You’ve been Ashart’s boon companion for months, which can hardly be challenging.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said, but lightly, as if this were a game. “When I left the army, I decided to indulge in amusement for a while.”

  She made a thoughtful humming noise. “My life in Worksop was quiet, but that gave time for observation. People seek amusement that matches their natures. The idle amuse themselves in another type of idleness. The active are active in a different way. It even affects illness. The idle embrace bed rest too much, whilst the active fidget themselves out of bed and into trouble.”

  “And what trouble could I be fidgeting myself into here?”

  “Me?”

  The truth silenced him.

  “What’s more,” she said, “you strike me as a hawk in a cage of singing birds.”

  Easy to laugh at that. “Do you truly see Rothgar, Ashart, Lord Bryght, and the rest as chirping canaries? You’ll see your error soon.”

  “Perhaps it’s just your army experience.”

  “What?”

  “The glow around you.”

  “You see me as a saint now?”

  “I didn’t say halo, sir. It’s as if you have a purpose when everyone else is idle.”

  ‘Struth. He must definitely be more on guard. He did feel more alive when involved in an important mission, and she was wickedly observant.

  Two women emerged from a corridor just ahead. They turned to go downstairs, but not before giving Fitz and Damaris a speculative glance. He remembered their purpose here—to persuade everyone that Damaris was heart-whole.

  “Perhaps the glowing effect comes from you,” he murmured. “My pretty autumn sunset.”

  She stared at him. “Don’t be foolish.”

  “I’m attempting brave poetic flirtation. For effect.”

  He saw her remember. They were approaching the head of the great staircase where others milled. From below, the murmur of voices indicated people already gathered for the swordplay. A middle-aged couple approached from the opposite direction. The Knightsholmes were good-hearted people who hadn’t cold-shouldered him, so they’d start their performance before them.

  Fitz stepped back and declaimed: “Damaris steps in russet hue, which suits her as well as her cloak of blue. Her eyes so sharp affect my heart, and soon will pierce me through!”

  People chuckled, and Damaris did, too. “I hope you fight better than you rhyme, sir.”

  He put a hand to his chest in pretend hurt. “I thought it clever for an impromptu, and it sprang sincerely from my broken heart.”

  “In badly broken verse, Fitzroger,” drawled Lady Knightsholme, causing more chuckles. “You seem well recovered, Miss Myddleton.”

  Damaris paled, but Fitz raised her hand and kissed it, holding her eyes. “Join me in poetry, sweet lady. You and I together mend.”

  She stared, and he thought she couldn’t do it, even with a simple rhyme, but then she said, “You will your steady presence lend?”

  “Even if the heavens rend.”

  “Then I thank you, my dear friend.”

  Lady Knightsholme led applause, and Fitz linked arms with Damaris again and moved toward the stairs. The crush parted, so they led the way down, their audience following. He heard people comment on the clever exchange.

  Had they been as surprised by her quick wit as he had? No, he’d not been exactly surprised, but impressed by its emergence despite panic. Damaris Myddleton was remarkably brave, and might be one of those people who achieved brilliance only when pushed to their limit. He wondered if God sometimes made mistakes. If she’d been born a boy, might she now be like her successful, piratical father?

  As they reached the bottom of the stairs, he reminded her, “Smile and adore me.”

  “Only,” she said, sweetly beaming, “temporarily.”

  Damaris hoped her smile didn’t look as grotesque as she feared. This nonsense rhyming helped, but she still felt shaky to be facing the people who’d witnessed her behavior yesterday, so many of whom eyed her as if anticipating more of the same.

  “Relax,” he murmured into her ear as they mingled with the guests who were already in the hall. A circle of chairs awaited the audience, and some were already filled. Damaris felt as if they settled to observe her, not the swordplay.

  She tried to act as if yesterday had never happened. A smile for middle-aged Miss Charlotte Malloren, uncertainly returned. A comment on the weather with Dr. Egan. An inquiry about Lady Walgrave’s baby to Lady Bryght Malloren.

  She turned to Fitzroger, trying to think of something witty to say, but nerves blanked her mind.

  “There’s nothing to fear. Nothing to hurt you here.” Then he winced. “The deuce, I didn’t intend that to rhyme.”

  It made her laugh, and she silently thanked him. “Do you think rhyming’s addictive? If so, I’ve found the curative. What could rhyme with addictive?”

  He raised a brow and she winced. “I didn’t mean that, either. We’re stuck in a rhyming trap!”

  “Endlessly spouting pap.”

  “Forcing our tongues to flap—”

  “Fitz.”

  They both turned, midlaugh. Ashart had come over with Genova Smith, her blond beauty enhanced by happiness, on his arm. Damaris held on to her smile. She had a part to act here, and what point in resenting Miss Smith’s looks? As well curse the sky for being blue. Besides, the future Marchioness of Ashart was clearly as tense and wary as she.

  “Fair friends,” Fitzroger orated, “we greet you on this merry day, ready as always for most elegant play.”

  Ashart laughed, but in confusion. “What the devil... ?”

  “Miss Myddleton and I are trapped in a rhyming curse.”

  Damaris’s brain and tongue unlocked. “Than which, I assure you, nothing could be worse.”

  “I don’t know,” said Miss Smith. “We could all be stuck in a hearse.” But then she frowned. “That’s terrible.”

  Ashart kissed her hand. “Thank God. We’re unblighted.”

  “Except by love,” Fitzroger said. “You are by Cupid benighted. Perhaps that’s the key to protection.”

  “A magical antidote derived from affection?” Damaris offered. “Then we must seek devotion. Let’s put it in motion!”

  Ashart applauded, as di
d some people nearby. They were becoming a center of attention again, but creating the right impression.

  “Your rhyming is skillful,” Ashart remarked, “but you both scan atrociously. You could turn this curse to profit on the stage, however.”

  “A curse that leads to a fortune from bad verse?” Damaris asked.

  Fitz grinned. “Such a fate could cause a man to expectorate.”

  “Internal rhymes now,” Ashart said. “‘Tis bad, ’tis very bad.”

  “Sad, very sad,” Fitzroger said.

  And Damaris realized that she was thoroughly enjoying herself. She assembled a passage and turned to Fitzroger.

  “Sir, before this curse grows worse we must both become very terse. No one can turn a single word to verse.”

  “Bravo!” cried Ashart, leading widespread applause. “Single words only from now on, Fitz. ‘Tis my duty as your friend to keep you safe.”

  “Aye,” said Fitzroger.

  “Why?” asked Lady Arradale, newly arrived in the hall.

  The whole place exploded with laughter. Ashart explained and their hostess laughed. “A duel of rhymes. We should try it again. But for now, everyone, please be seated for a duel of blades.”

  Damaris took her place beside Genova Smith, grateful for a moment to settle. She’d been swept up in the moment, but last time that had happened, she’d been swept to disaster. Most people’s interest now seemed amused or even kindly, but she caught Lord Henry glaring at her. Doubtless he thought she was too bold. She almost glared back, but remembered she was free of him and inclined her head. He turned puce, which was a victory of sorts.

  Rothgar stepped into the oval through the one-chair space left open. She was shocked to see him undressed down to stockings, breeches, and shirt. Would Fitzroger fight in a similar state?

  “My friends, my cousin Ashart and I have long wanted to test each other’s skill with the sword. Hence, this tournament—merely for amusement, I assure you. No blood will be spilled.”

  A ripple of laughter stirred, because only days before a duel between the cousins might well have been to the death.

  “A tournament with a small prize to lend excitement.” Like a conjuror, Rothgar produced a spray of jewels on a golden chain. “A trinket, no more, but a pretty gift for a favored lady. At present the contestants are myself, Ashart, Lord Bryght, and Mr. Fitzroger, but any of you gentlemen are welcome to compete if you wish. We fence to first contact. A three-minute bout without contact will count as a draw. Sir Rolo has agreed to be timekeeper.”

  Sir Rolo Knightsholme grinned, holding up a large pocket watch.

  “I would like to take part.”

  Lieutenant Osborne stepped forward, and Damaris suppressed a groan. He’d been a persistent suitor here, and she’d sometimes encouraged him to try to make Ashart jealous. She didn’t want him to make a fool of himself over her, but she certainly didn’t want him to win.

  Another young gentleman, Mr. Stanton, rose, and he and Osborne left to take off confining layers of clothing. Lord Bryght joined his brother in the center of the oval, carrying two foils and also stripped down.

  “Note well,” Lord Bryght said to everyone, as he tossed his brother a foil, “that I have never claimed to be a better swordsman than Rothgar.”

  Even so, as soon as the match began he seemed brilliant to Damaris, who was shocked and gaping. She’d never seen men fence before and had imagined, especially in “play,” some sort of delicate, tapping dance.

  Instead, they hurtled backward and forward on strong, supple legs, blind to all but each other and to seeking an opening for the delicate buttoned blades. She couldn’t follow it, and could only react to the violent danger it pretended to be. Lord Rothgar’s button touched his brother’s chest, the blade flexing like a birch twig, and the bout ended.

  Damaris breathed and put a hand to her chest. “Oh, my!”

  “Indeed,” said Miss Smith.

  Damaris glanced sideways. “This is new to you, too?”

  Miss Smith was flushed with excitement. “No, but I’ve never seen such speed. I doubt Rothgar need fear to give up his trinket.”

  “Ashart cannot compete?”

  Miss Smith stiffened. “I’m sure he can.”

  Ashart entered the oval next, partnered with Mr. Stanton. It was soon obvious that Ashart could compete, and might even be as good as his cousin. When the bout about lasted the full time, Damaris suspected an act of kindness. Even so, laughing and breathing hard, Mr. Stanton bowed out of the contest.

  Fitzroger and Osborne were next. Damaris was disappointed that neither showed the skill of the other fencers. Perhaps a soldier’s life didn’t leave space for ornamental fighting.

  Nor, she remembered, was swordplay always ornamental. Not long ago Lord Rothgar had killed a man with this deadly art, and it almost seemed that Osborne would have liked to kill his opponent. He lost in the end, and shot her a thwarted, angry glance before stalking out of the circle to stand waiting for another contest.

  The burden of her wealth weighed on her—that men might kill for it.

  The air seemed full of tension now, and when Ashart returned to match Lord Bryght, she saw that both men’s shirts clung to their bodies. Even these short bursts of violent power had summoned sweat.

  Perhaps something of the feud between the Mallorens and the Trayces sparked to life, for Damaris sensed an extra edge to Ashart’s intensity, an extra power to his drive. Lord Bryght was soon grinning, clearly finding it great fun, but Damaris had her hands clasped tight as she prayed that no one be hurt.

  “Time!” called Sir Rolo, and both fencers stepped back, sucking in breath.

  Damaris, too, was breathing deeply, and part of it was because of the beautiful contours hinted at by damp, clinging lawn. She glanced at Miss Smith and saw a similar reaction, but perhaps also a similar fear. Why in heaven’s name did men think this amusement?

  Rothgar and Osborne fought next, and the young man looked nervous before they started, which showed some sense. Though Damaris knew nothing of the art of the sword, she suspected that the three minutes that followed were an exhibition of mastery that gave Osborne no chance of scoring while bringing the bout to a courteous draw. It was, she assumed, a gentle suggestion that he bow out as Mr. Stanton had, and he took it, though not without another thwarted glance at her. It might have been flattering if she thought he cared for anything but her fortune.

  “So,” said Miss Smith, perhaps to herself, “the main four are left.” She turned to Damaris. “Who do you think will win?”

  Damaris didn’t want to be unkind, but she said, “Rothgar.”

  Miss Smith nodded, frowning. “I hope Ashart doesn’t mind too much.”

  Murmurs around the room suggested others were speculating. Two men slapped hands, which probably indicated a wager. If she had the chance, would she place money on Rothgar? She wanted to wager on Fitzroger, but when he came out with Lord Bryght, she anticipated only defeat.

  But then everything changed. Perhaps Lord Bryght had intended to stage an entertaining bout before ending it, but in moments his relaxed good humor fled. His eyes became intent, and his movements increasingly desperate.

  Damaris couldn’t imagine how the quick wrists and supple legs kept both men out of danger, but the bout went the full three minutes. When Sir Rolo called, “Time!” both fencers bent to breathe, running sweat.

  Men handed them cloths to wipe their faces, and they straightened to do so, chests still heaving. Fitzroger pulled the ribbon from his hair, which had mostly escaped to plaster around his face. His sudden grin at Lord Bryght, fully returned, hit Damaris, shocking as lightning on a pitch-dark night.

  Joy. He’d enjoyed that. Why was she sure his life was short of such pure joy? How foolish to want to shower it upon him like sunlight, like diamonds. She realized she was applauding, that everyone was. There’d be money laid on Fitzroger now, and she felt fiercely proud of that.

  Rothgar came out, smiling, even if there seemed
something wolfish about it. “This becomes more interesting than I expected, I admit. So Bryght has completed his matches with a score of a loss and two draws.”

  “What did I tell you?” Lord Bryght said amiably. “I’ll fight Fitzroger again for the pure pleasure of it, though.”

  “Another time,” his brother said. “Ashart, myself, and Fitzroger have a win and a draw each. Ashart and I should match off next, being rested, but then Fitzroger would have two bouts in a row. Therefore if you agree, gentlemen, I will fight to retain the trinket. Against you first, Ashart?”

  Ashart stepped forward, then halted. “That gives you two bouts in a row, cousin. If you will allow him a short rest, I designate Fitzroger my champion.”

  “By all means. As long as the champion receives the prize.”

  Ashart agreed, and Rothgar turned to Fitzroger, who was still mopping sweat. “I welcome an opportunity to test blades with you, sir. Where have you learned?” The two men fell into a discussion about fencing that Damaris couldn’t hear, especially with chatter rising all around.

  Ashart strolled over to Miss Smith. “I hope you don’t regret the necklace, Genni. I’ll buy you a better.”

  Damaris looked elsewhere, thinking, So much for economy. But she couldn’t help overhearing the couple.

  “Of course not,” Miss Smith said. “A match between you might not have been wise.”

  “But interesting. Fitz against Rothgar will be equally so, I think.”

  Damaris looked at Fitzroger, who seemed recovered now except that his shirt still clung and his hair still rioted. He brushed some back from his face, and the movement emphasized his long, lean body. He was more lightly built than the other men, but there was clearly nothing weaker about him.

  She felt as breathless as the fencers, and almost as hot. It was a strictly physical reaction, but something she’d never experienced before, not even during their quite astonishing kisses.

  It was animal, she recognized. Base, but powerful, throbbing between her thighs and urging her to embarrass herself again here. To rise and go to him, touch him, wind herself around him...

  She inhaled and tore her eyes away to see that she wasn’t the only woman ogling him. She looked to Ashart, similarly undressed and damp, and so close she could smell his sweat. He had no special effect on her.