Fencing for Ladies (The Archer Family Regency Romances #5)

by Amy Corwin

  He should never have married her. But they had both been young and foolish and had allowed their physical needs to overcome their better judgment. She’d been beautiful and rapacious in her need for male admiration. He knew that, but thought his adoration would be enough. And he’d shook with anger the first time she threw her head back and laughed at his demands for loyalty and fidelity.

  Only a fool ignores a chance for pleasure when it is offered, she’d mocked him. Life was hard — why not grab what opportunities arise?

  And he was inattentive, she’d said. Then she’d begun her complaints. Over the months, she railed at him so often that he could still hear the angry sneer in her voice as she complained, “All you care about is fencing. Why deny me my happiness? Is it so bad to want a little pleasure? You care nothing for me — you are cold — as cold as that sword you love so well. Take your blade to bed, if you want love. See if it will return your love.”

  Her words had tainted his life and haunted him, nearly killing his pleasure in the one thing she’d left him, the art of fencing.

  “Lord Milbourn,” Lady Olivia whispered, her gaze roving over his face as her hands smoothed his lapels.

  His memories fled like shadows at dawn. He caught her hands and gently pushed her away. “My apologies.” He forced a cold smile. “I don’t believe I will wait for tea, after all.”

  “Don’t go. Please, stay and talk.” She caught at his sleeve. “The journal — I don’t believe you had anything to do with Mr. Grantham’s death.”

  “Surely, you are not naïve enough to believe I am incapable of killing a man?” he asked with a sardonic twist to his mouth. “I assure you I am quite capable of doing so.”

  “I have no doubt you are,” Lady Olivia replied. Her grip on his arm tightened. “In a duel or a fair fight. You would not have killed Mrs. Adams for her key to the townhouse and then murdered Mr. Grantham.”

  “Not even if he had an affair with my wife?” He pried her fingers off his arm. It was for her own good.

  “You would have done it then. Not ten years later.” She walked over to her chair and bent down to rifle through the sewing box on the floor next to it. When she straightened, she held an old, brown leather book in her hands. “You wanted to examine Mr. Grantham’s journal.” She held it out to him. “Take it.”

  “Why not give it to Mr. Greenfield?”

  “You give it to him,” she flung the words at him.

  Her tight mouth and the look of confusion and hurt in her eyes forced him to harden his resolve. She wanted something more from him, something he couldn’t give her.

  Better disappointment now than a deeper pain later.

  But the scent of her hair and taste of her lips lingered like the taste of the sweetest Madeira wine.

  He stiffened. She would forget him soon enough. He reached out and took Grantham’s journal. After slipping it into his pocket, he bowed and bid her good day.

  She gazed at him, her eyes glittering with unshed tears, as he walked away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Olivia watched Lord Milbourn leave with feelings of confusion and abandonment. What was wrong with him? Or with her? First, Lord Saunders had decided to offer for Margaret, instead, which was actually a relief, and now, Lord Milbourn had rejected her, as well. She’d always assumed she’d marry and have children — lots of children — who would each have his or her very own beagle to sleep at the foot of the bed and follow them around with wagging tails, long, flapping ears, and adoring eyes. For the first time, the lonely misery of spinsterhood loomed in front of her as a very real possibility.

  Perhaps she should never have kissed him. She’d been too forward and made him angry. Maybe that was the flaw in her that frightened men away; she was too bold and presumptuous. Even her academy provided ample proof of that. Why would she have pursued such a grossly inappropriate activity unless she lacked a sense of propriety and understanding of polite behavior?

  Now, when she hoped her actions would bring her closer to Lord Milbourn, she’d only driven him away.

  The only man she’d ever loved — would ever love — was gone.

  The numbness of despair made her limbs feel leaden and heavy. She stared at her work basket. A few pale green silk threads spilled limply over the edge, taunting her with her inability to complete anything successfully. She’d promised Margaret a pair of elaborately embroidered sleeves over a month ago, and they were still unfinished. But now, sewing seemed tedious and too much effort.

  She was still staring down at the basket when Mary brought up the tea tray, just in time for a series of social calls from ladies of her acquaintance. Most were avidly curious about the inquests and tragedies, probing delicately for titillating details and perhaps hoping to elicit a thrilling confession from Olivia.

  She answered their questions mechanically.

  The day dragged on. Despite her visitors, part of Olivia kept reviewing what she had read in Grantham’s diary, restlessly searching for a clue. The discipline was better than thinking about the uncertain London weather, the inquests, or the kiss and Lord Milbourn’s reaction to it.

  After the last lady left, however, she couldn’t think of anything except Lord Milbourn.

  Her heart had soared when he first put his arms around her and crushed her against him. She thought she’d found love at last and an answering need within him. Now, she wondered if his embrace had only been a reflex, like a boy who throws up his hands to catch a ball thrown at him without warning. What she had thought was passion might only have been surprise.

  How embarrassing. And how dismal.

  Such a reaction suggested that, despite his bitterness about his wife’s behavior, he still loved her. She was the only woman he’d ever given his heart to, and no other would ever match her.

  One couldn’t fight a ghost, and time only made them stronger as their faults melted away, leaving only the memory of their perfection.

  I can’t compete with her, or the perfection of their past together.

  Mrs. Bron’s specter would always stand between them. Olivia slowly went upstairs to change for dinner, her feet dragging with the effort.

  That evening, when Hildegard, Edward, and Peregrine decided to go to the theater again after supper, Olivia begged off, pleading a headache.

  “You have had a lot of headaches recently,” Hildegard remarked as they stood to leave the men to their after-dinner port. “Perhaps you should send for a physician.”

  “I don’t require a physician. I simply need a little peace and quiet. An evening at home will do me a great deal of good,” Olivia said.

  “You will just brood. You know you will. You should come with us,” Hildegard pleaded. She grabbed the newel-post, placed one foot on the first stair, and began to swing gently back and forth around the post. As she swung closer to Olivia, she flung a calculating look over her shoulder. “Mr. Belcher is joining us at the theater. Perhaps you should come. Don’t you think he’s angelic looking?”

  “Will you stop swaying like that? You are not a child anymore. You are a young lady and should act like one.”

  “What about the theater? Are you not interested?” Hildegard grinned. “In going with us, that is.”

  “I am not interested in going, nor am I interested in Mr. Belcher.”

  “Well, you ought to marry someone, you know, as you are the eldest. You should marry before Margaret.”

  “Lady Margaret,” Olivia corrected her and then winced. She sounded exactly like an old maid — an old bluestocking maid. And while Mr. Belcher was certainly handsome, she couldn’t make herself feel anything for him, even if that decision doomed her to remain alone for the rest of her life.

  She frowned. He’d always been pleasant, almost too pleasant at times and rather irritating when she considered him as a potential mate. Obviously, blond curls and a square chin failed to attract her as much as they should have, so it was her own fault if she slipped into spinsterhood without a protest.

  But
then Lord Milbourn’s sardonic features shoved Mr. Belcher’s pretty face out of her mind. The mere thought of him made her contrary heart beat faster. Why couldn’t she forget him and turn her attention to the charming Mr. Belcher?

  Hildegard snorted. “You know mother would have been quite disgusted with you, if she were still alive. She always believed in order, and it is certainly the height of disorder for Lady Margaret to marry first. You should take your responsibilities more seriously and set a good example for those of us who are younger than you. And still impressionable,” she added in a mockingly sweet voice.

  “Margaret—”

  “Lady Margaret,” Hildegard said, interrupting her.

  “Lady Margaret has certainly impressed her bad habits upon you,” Olivia said. Hildegard sounded almost exactly like Margaret had before her shocking betrothal to Lord Saunders.

  Hildegard eyed Olivia over her shoulder, but didn’t stop swaying. “You have been in the most terrible mood lately, and you used to be such fun.” She wrinkled her nose. “I thought you would be relieved that Lady Margaret is marrying Lord Saunders. Surely, you knew that she’s been in love with him forever.”

  “What?” Olivia stared at her sister.

  Hildegard swung around the post in another arc. “Did you not notice what a foul mood she has been since everyone started talking about your betrothal to Lord Saunders?” She rolled her eyes. “It was obvious to everyone that she was horribly jealous.”

  Suddenly, Olivia understood why her sister had grown so difficult and contrary. Olivia shook her head ruefully. If only Margaret had said something — Olivia would gladly have relinquished her claim on Lord Saunders if she’d known Margaret loved him.

  “Clearly, she failed to make it obvious to Wraysbury or he would never have considered matching me to Lord Saunders,” Olivia said, trying to paint over her own blindness in the matter.

  “Well, you and Wraysbury were the only ones who did not know,” Hildegard said. She paused in her swaying to examine Olivia’s face again and sniffing. “You should be pleased. No one thinks you are guilty, you know.”

  “I am not worried about that.”

  “Then is it truly Lord Saunders? You did not love him, too, did you? I was sure you did not. I fail to understand the attraction he holds for both of you. I told Margaret—”

  “Lady Margaret,” Olivia said triumphantly, cutting her off.

  Hildegard wrinkled her nose and swung faster from side to side, left foot flying as she balanced on her right and clung to the post. “Don’t be so stuffy. No one is here but the two of us.”

  “Nevertheless, it is Lady Margaret, just as you are Lady Hildegard. It shows respect for your family and yourself. Mother never referred to father as anything but Lord Wraysbury.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she referred to him as something else. At certain times.” Hildegard giggled. “In private.”

  Olivia felt her face flame. “You are incorrigible.”

  “Oh, pooh. Titles are all very well if we have guests, but if you ask me, it is just ridiculously stuffy to worry about such things when we are alone.”

  “Have you been visiting Her Grace, the Duchess of Peckham, again?” Olivia asked.

  Hildegard was fast becoming far too lackadaisical in the matter of polite manners, and she grew worse each time she visited their cousins. The duchess had been born in the former colonies, now the United States of America, and she took the matter of titles very lightly. Perhaps a little too lightly to make her a good influence on the younger members of the Archer family.

  “What if I have?” Hildegard countered as she hopped off the bottom step. “The boys will be done with their brandy and gossip soon. Are you sure you don’t wish to join us?”

  “No.” Olivia laughed. “Honestly. I am looking forward to a quiet evening. Enjoy yourself, and don’t annoy Edward too much.”

  Hildegard giggled. “How am I supposed to enjoy myself if I cannot annoy Edward? It is one of the primary joys of my poor, benighted life. And he hates it so when I disappear from our box at the theater, even though he knows I’m only visiting friends. He seems to believe I’m on the verge of running off with an actor, or the groom, or some such person.”

  “Don’t even suggest such a thing.” Olivia held her hand over her mouth to hide her smile. “I think he fears Wraysbury will hold him personally responsible if any of us behaves outrageously. Or more outrageously than I have behaved already in founding my Fencing Academy for Ladies.”

  “Then it is a good thing Margaret is getting married. One female crossed off his list of responsibilities, and only two more left to burden him.” She slanted a sly glance at Olivia. “Unless he can cross you off, as well. I saw Lord Milbourn here today. And you spoke to him in private.” She snorted. “La de dah, de dah!”

  “Stop that noise! And it was for less than five minutes — just long enough to say our farewells. Now if you’re going to the theater, I suggest you get ready, or they may leave without you, and you will miss annoying the beautiful Mr. Belcher.”

  “They would not dare!” Hildegard yelped as she turned to dash up the stairs. “I would never forgive them.”

  Olivia waited until her sister disappeared around the curve in the staircase leading up to the third floor before she followed at a more decorous pace.

  Much to her relief, she spent a quiet evening at home and was able to mend the torn flounces around the hems of two dresses, although the green silk for Margaret’s sleeves still taunted her. Ignoring the embroidery work, she started reading The Pirate, instead. She’d wanted to read it ever since it had been published the previous year by Sir Walter Scott, but her brothers had insisted on their rights to read it first.

  Shortly before midnight, she blew out her lamp and settled into her bed, pulling the heavy covers up to her chin. Her worries failed to keep her awake as she half-feared, and she soon sank into a deep slumber.

  Ordinary life thankfully continued the following morning. Olivia caught up on her correspondence, discussed household management with Mrs. Keene, and prepared the menus for the rest of the week. Edward and Peregrine wanted to invite some friends to supper Thursday evening, so she expanded the menu to include cray fish soup removed with a roasted turkey, poulet a la duchesse, oysters, a loin of pork, matelot of eels, and fish removed with a fillet of veal for the first course, followed by a pheasant, asparagus, macaroni, cederata cream, ratafia pudding, jelly, omelet soufflé, cardoons with sauce, and wild duck for the second course. The list should provide a welcome variety for even the most delicate appetite, and since Mrs. Peale did an excellent job with most of the dishes, she couldn’t lodge too many complaints.

  Olivia had just sifted the drying sand off the menu when Latimore appeared at the door to the sitting room.

  “Lady Olivia, Miss Denholm has sent a note.” He bowed as he held out a silver salver with a creamy card on top.

  “Is she here?” Olivia picked up the calling card and glanced past his shoulder.

  No one had shadowed him through the gallery. She studied the card. Cynthia Denholm’s name was printed on the front, and a few scrawled lines covered the back. Olivia frowned. The writing didn’t have the bold flourishes and curls she normally associated with Cynthia, but it was obviously hastily written. And she’d used pencil, so perhaps that accounted for it.

  The terse message certainly sounded precisely like Cynthia.

  Where are you? Time for a lesson.

  — Cynthia Denholm

  A lesson? It was at least two hours before they were supposed to have the next session at the academy.

  Olivia sighed and rose, looking through the doorway again. “Is she waiting in the hall?”

  “No, Lady Olivia.” Latimore shook his head. “She sent a boy with the card.”

  “She must be at the academy, then.” Olivia shook her head. “I suppose I must go. If my brothers ask, please inform them that I have gone there. I should return in a few hours, four at the latest.” She handed him the menu
s for the week. “Please, see that Mrs. Peale receives these.”

  “Very good, Lady Olivia.” He took the menus and bowed his way out.

  She listened to his steady tread echo across the marble as he descended the staircase again. Although she was pleased that Cynthia had caught some of Olivia’s pleasure in the art of fencing, she was beginning to recognize some of the disadvantages, as well. Particularly as it was taking an increasingly large chunk of her time.

  Well, the sooner she went to the academy, the sooner she could return to her social responsibilities here.

  Upstairs in her room, she had Farmer gather up her soft curls and pin them into a tight knot at the nape of her neck to keep the wayward locks out of her way. When fencing Cynthia, good, unobstructed vision was crucial.

  “Where are my new kid half-boots?” she asked the maid as she smoothed the lapels of her dark green Spencer and stared out the window of her bedchamber. Soft sunshine glittered over the hodgepodge of mews’ roofs and chimneys. For once, it promised to be a fair day, with only a few fluffy, white clouds scudding across the pale blue skies.

  The short jacket would be warm enough with the addition of her thick cashmere shawl. And that light clothing would be more comfortable than her fur-lined pelisse when she was flushed and perhaps overheated on her return.

  “Here they are, Lady Olivia.” Farmer held out the white boots, which Olivia had had ordered especially for fencing.

  The white leather was soft and supple in her hand, and the thin soles should provide for excellent footing on the wooden floors. Olivia smiled as she draped them by their laces over her arm.

  “Is there anything else, Lady Olivia?” Farmer asked, watching her with anxious eyes. She twisted her thin hands together in front of her, obviously still fearful that Olivia would decide to let her go without a recommendation.

  Olivia impulsively reached out and squeezed her maid’s wrist. “No, and please, stop worrying so. I am not going to terminate your employment simply because you told Mr. Greenfield the truth.”