‘Your grip is wrong.’
He raised an arrogant eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You will lose your sword in combat if you are not careful, but it is a matter that can be easily solved.’ Eleanor swallowed hard. She’d done it again. Spoken before she thought. Said the wrong thing. But she had started now. He deserved it for being pompous—and his grip was appalling.
She glanced up at him. There was a gleam of speculation in his eye. It was a small opening, a glimmer of a chance. She needed to capture his interest if she was going to remain in this house until Sir Vivian returned.
‘You would lose any sword if your opponent possessed even a modicum of skill,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady as her mind worked feverishly.
‘Excuse me?’ His smile became withering. ‘You sent this sword flying through air without any provocation and you are telling me that my grip is wrong?’
‘If someone comes at you with a counterlunge you will struggle.’ She gave a small pointed cough. He hadn’t thrown her out yet. She had to take this one chance to convince him to allow her to stay. And in doing so, if she improved his technique, so much the better. ‘They will be able to send the sword spinning out of your hand if they do a moulinet.’
‘A moulinet is slow, and easy to twist out of if you know what you are doing. I doubt anyone could disarm in that fashion,’ he said, as if he were addressing a child rather than the owner of the best sword manufacturer in the country. ‘I must assume you know precious little about swords and the actual art of fencing, despite your position.’
White-hot anger flashed through Eleanor. Who did he think he was? ‘Is that a challenge? Do you want me to prove my assertion?’
‘If you like...’ He shrugged out of his velvet cutaway coat and put it on the back of an armchair. ‘Never let it be said that I am unwilling to accept criticism.’
Her hands undid her bonnet and tossed it on a table. The black feathers kept falling over the brim, making it impossible to see straight. And taking it off would make it more difficult for him to get rid of her.
‘That sword is made to be held in a certain way and you are curling your fingers incorrectly,’ she said, returning to his side.
‘Indeed?’ He arched one perfect eyebrow.
She stood beside him. His scorn was not going to intimidate her. His crisp scent rose around her, holding her, making her aware of him. Why did he have to be so beautiful? Eleanor swallowed hard and attempted to concentrate.
‘Show me.’ He held out the blade with the faintest trace of a smile. ‘What is the correct grip, my dear Mrs Blackwell?’
Eleanor froze. Was he flirting with her? Or mocking her? Men like him didn’t flirt with women like her. She knew her shortcomings. Her stepfather always catalogued them when he’d taken port—too tall, too thin, a strong chin and eyes far too big. No, Lord Whittonstall was being condescending, thinking to humour her and get her out of here.
‘I’m not your dear,’ she muttered finally.
‘A mere figure of speech.’ He looked at her through a forest of lashes. Men should not have lashes like that—particularly not arrogant aristocrats. ‘I shall remember not to call you that.’
‘You need to put your hand like this,’ she said concentrating on the hilt of the sword rather than on his eyes. ‘It is the slightest of adjustments but it makes all the difference.’
‘As simple as that?’ He curled his fingers about hers. ‘I want to make certain I am doing this properly. I’d hate to think I’ve been holding my sword incorrectly for all these years.’
‘You seek to mock me, sir.’
‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I wish to learn and further my skill. Help me to understand, Mrs Blackwell, why your swords are held in such esteem.’
She focused on the sword rather than on how his fingers had accidentally brushed hers. ‘A simple mistake, which is far too common amongst swordsman of a certain type for my liking.’
‘A certain type?’
‘Ones who failed to listen to their instructor.’
‘Do I have it right now?’ he asked. His voice flowed over her like treacle. ‘I fail to see how this particular grip can make the slightest difference. Perhaps it is all in the pressure. Is that what you are attempting to say, Mrs Blackwell? I will inform my cousin when I see him.’
She let go of the sword so abruptly that it would have fallen to the ground had he not had his hand on the hilt. He placed it on the table next to her bonnet with a smug look on his face. He thought she was trying to flirt with him in order to stay! He wasn’t taking her seriously.
Eleanor clenched her jaw. Very well. Lord Whittonstall deserved his comeuppance.
‘Do you have another sword? Perhaps I could demonstrate, as my word is clearly not enough,’ she said, striding away from him. Her body quivered with indignation. He wasn’t taking her seriously. ‘It is perhaps better that you see how it operates in actual practice. I can make any sword fly out of your hand in a few heartbeats.’
A muscle jumped in his jaw and she knew she’d hit a raw nerve. ‘If you wish. But you should be aware I am considered to be one of the top swordsmen in the country. The great Henry Angelo considers me to be his equal.’
‘Modesty is such an uncommon virtue that it takes my breath away when I behold it. I know the wrong sort of grip when I see it.’
‘Allow me to get my weapon of choice. I can’t allow such a challenge to go unanswered.’
Lord Whittonstall strode out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Eleanor put a hand to her head.
What had she done? Gone mad? She’d challenged Lord Whittonstall to a duel with no certainty of winning.
She picked up the sword intended for Sir Vivian and balanced it in her hand. Holding the blade made her more confident. She should be able to do it. She had to do it—to wipe the arrogant look off his face and find a way to stay here until Sir Vivian appeared.
‘Shall we see, Mrs Blackwell, who knows what they are about?’ Lord Whittonstall asked, coming back into the library, carrying one of her competitor’s swords. From the way he held it, she knew that he was far from a novice.
‘I look forward to it.’ She tucked an errant strand of black hair behind her ear and tried to quell her nerves. She knew how to fence. Better than most. And she could take advantage of his mistakes.
‘May the best...person win.’
‘You need to learn. En garde, my lord.’
Benjamin Grayson, the third Viscount Whittonstall, glowered at the black-shrouded creature standing before him, daring to lecture him on the inadequacy of his grip and challenging him to a duel. Did she actually think she’d win, or was she merely trying to prolong the time she was here, hoping to encounter his cousin?
If so, she was in for a shock. He’d defeat her in short order and the price of her defeat would be her departure.
The larger question, though, was why she was here at all. Had his cousin ignored the appointment, knowing it was going to be trouble, or had he truly forgotten?
He knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was about more than the sword Mrs Blackwell defiantly held in her hand. She had gone beyond the bounds of decorum to stay, and there was a faint air of desperation in her manner.
If he were a gambling man he’d be willing to wager a considerable sum that Mrs Blackwell’s need to see Viv had to do with the wretched state of Viv’s finances.
Viv and he had been close as boys, but had grown apart. His aunt’s latest missive had entreated him to come and discover what the true situation was. The trip made a welcome relief from his mother and her increasingly strong hints about his duty to provide an heir and preserve the dynasty. She ignored the fact that he had tried once and lost his wife. Tragic accident? Maybe one day he’d believe it. Maybe one day he’d stop b
laming himself.
What he’d discovered up north gave him pause. Viv needed funds. Unless something was done it was only a matter of time before the bailiffs came knocking and Viv had to flee the country. And he did not intend that to happen. Viv had helped Ben in his hour of need at Eton. Fighting his corner. Ben would repay the favour now. He’d solve the mystery before Viv woke from his port-induced stupor and teach Mrs Blackwell a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget into the bargain.
‘Shall we have at it, Mrs Blackwell?’ he asked softly.
‘Whenever you are ready.’
Their swords clashed. He parried easily and did a counter-lunge, blocking her move. She took a step backwards. A tiny frown appeared between her brows and she slightly readjusted her grip.
‘Not as easy as you thought, Mrs Blackwell?’ he said in a withering tone. ‘You will see my grip needs no improvement. I am not a swordsman who wishes to have his sword disguised as a walking stick or festooned with frills, but a swordsman who spends hours practising my skill.’
‘You are worse than I imagined,’ she replied with the faintest trace of a smile. ‘Do try to put up a fight, Lord Whittonstall.’
She half-turned and countered his move with a parry, forcing Ben on the back foot. He missed his stroke and it was only through sheer instinct that he blocked her sword.
‘You do need some pointers. You have become complacent,’ she said with a tiny laugh.
Ben stared at her, seeing her for the first time as a person rather than as an object of pity or a woman to be indulged. A brain existed behind those grey eyes. She knew how to fence and in all likelihood was better than him. He rejected the thought. As good as he was.
‘Complacency? An interesting accusation,’ he said finally, moving a step closer to where she stood, ready for the next onslaught. Their swords crossed. They circled around each other. Their breath intertwined. Their faces were no more than a few inches apart. He was suddenly aware of the magnificence of her grey eyes and the determination of her chin.
‘But a true one. You play with skill but lack the heart. Every truly good fencer combines skill with a zest for life. Do you know where your heart is?’
Ben missed his step. He knew exactly where his heart lay—buried in a coffin with his wife and their baby who had never breathed. He remembered everything about the day when they had buried Alice and he had stood at the graveside, watching as the dirt slowly buried the coffin, listening to the sounds of sorrow, knowing that he’d never be whole again. Even the heavens had wept for his loss. He accepted that, but this—this had become about proving this woman wrong.
‘I beg to differ. This has nothing to do with hearts and everything to do with skill.’
‘An observation. But to truly rank among the greats you must fence with passion and fire.’
He redoubled his efforts, to show her that she was wrong. All it would take was his considerable technical skill.
She twisted her hand at the last possible instant. Sharp and to the right. His sword slid harmlessly past her shoulder, barely ruffling the black tendril of hair that had snaked loose from her bun.
He clenched his jaw. A mistake could happen to anyone at any time. The unpredictability was one of the things he loved about swordplay. But he had enough confidence in his ability to recover.
He concentrated on his next stroke. It was only a matter of time before her luck ran out and she made a mistake. Over-confidence would be her undoing.
She parried and then paused. Her long lashes swept down over her eyes, making dark smudges on her bright pink cheeks. The exertion of the match had transformed Mrs Blackwell from a colourless mouse into a vibrant creature.
He missed a step and barely recovered before he was forced to retreat backwards. He glanced over his shoulder as the table dug into his thighs. But he used it to propel himself forward and forced her on to the back foot. This time it was her sword which missed.
‘You appear to be losing. Do you wish to ask for quarter?’ he asked.
‘Never!’
Ben stared at Mrs Blackwell. A series of ringlets had formed about her forehead, making her appear far more womanly than he’d first considered. She might have the advantage now, but he would regain it. It was a matter of concentrating on the sword rather than on her parted lips or her grey eyes. No more distractions.
‘As you wish... I believe the time has come to end our bout.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
She lunged forward, twisting the sword and performing a perfect moulinet.
Ben moved his arm to block it a heartbeat too late. His grip shifted. He clung on—barely.
With a twist of her sword and the faintest hint of a smile she completed the move.
His sword arched out of his hand, landing embedded in her hideous coal scuttle of a bonnet.
Chapter Two
Ben stared at the sword where it lay. Disbelief swiftly followed by horror coursed through him. He went over the moves in his mind. It should have been impossible, but the evidence stared at him, quivering in the black bonnet. Mrs Blackwell had not boasted. He’d lost his sword.
He glanced at her, ready for tears or possibly hysterics at the loss of a bonnet. A small infectious bubble of laughter escaped from her covered mouth, swiftly followed by another larger one.
To Ben’s surprise, a laugh loud and long exploded from him in response to the joyous sound of Mrs Blackwell’s mirth. The sound made him pause. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spontaneously laughed with a woman. Probably before Alice died. He hadn’t laughed much since then, and certainly not this all-consuming belly laugh.
‘Oh, dear.’ She dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It couldn’t have happened to a nicer bonnet. You should have seen your expression when the sword flew out of your hand. Priceless.’
He sobered immediately. He’d misjudged her and over-estimated his own skill. He pulled his sword out of the now ruined bonnet. ‘I owe you a bonnet and an apology. I was insufferably rude and pompous. It was uncalled for.’
She shook her head. ‘The bonnet was far from my favourite, but it seemed appropriate to wear it. You owe me nothing and I thank you for the apology.’
‘Appropriate to wear?’ Ben eyed the hat. Rather
funereal. The back of his neck prickled. What did Mrs Blackwell want to see Viv about?
‘One must look proper when one makes an important business call.’
Ben regarded her upturned face, flushed from their exertions. Her eyes sparkled and her lips shone the
colour of port. Mrs Blackwell was far more attractive than he’d first considered. He should send her away right now. It was the correct thing to do. But she intrigued him. He wanted to learn her secret. Why was Mrs Blackwell desperate, and why was Viv the only person who could help her?
‘Viv remains, alas, unavailable. Can I assist you with this mysterious matter?’
Eleanor gulped. Lord Whittonstall’s words pounded through her brain—can I assist you? She wasn’t even going to think about confessing her predicament to Lord Whittonstall. Or asking for his help. She had nothing to offer him.
‘It must be Sir Vivian,’ Eleanor said, her stomach clenching. She hated the way she felt as if an opportunity had slipped past. ‘It has to be him and no other.’
‘You are doomed to disappointment.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Then we must agree to disagree.’
Eleanor bit her lip. She had said the wrong thing—reminding him about the meeting, about why she was here. That moment of camaraderie and laughter they had shared vanished. And she wanted it back. She had to find a way before he manoeuvred her out through the door and her chance to ask Sir Vivian slipped away for good.
‘Shall we fight again?’ she asked as brightly as she could. ‘Best out o
f three? Give you a chance to prove that it was luck on my part?’
‘I know when to admit my mistakes.’ He raised his rapier in a gesture of respect.
She returned the gesture, ending the bout. She searched her mind for another excuse to stay, but she seemed fresh out of ideas.
‘I must congratulate you, Mrs Blackwell. You are a worthy opponent. And your swords are far more than mere decoration for the well-dressed gentleman.’
He took a step closer to her. Her sword would have dropped to the ground if he had not taken it from her slack grasp. He placed it beside his.
‘We won’t need these.’
‘Yes. I believe I have proved my point.’ Her voice sounded husky to her ears.
He stood a few inches taller than she was, but not too tall. His eyes were not coal-black, as she’d originally supposed, but full of a thousand different colours from the deepest black to light grey and every colour in between.
Her heart pounded in her ears and she knew she was far too breathless, far too aware of him as a man rather than as an opponent.
‘You are a far better swordswoman than I considered possible.’ His voice held a new rich note that flowed over her, warming her to the tips of her toes.
‘Fancy that. You admitting defeat so easily.’ She attempted a little laugh but it came out far too high. She winced and studied the folds of his cravat. Intently.
‘I never hesitate to admit my mistakes. It is part of my charm.’
Charm? He was trying to flirt with her after she’d bested him? Eleanor struggled to get her breathing under control.
‘Is it?’ she whispered through aching lips.
This had been all about proving that Lord Whittonstall had underestimated her rather than a prelude to flirtation. But right now all she could think about was him and the way his lips moved. All she had to do was move forward a pace and she’d be in his arms.
His Unsuitable Viscountess Page 2
