His Favorite Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Julianna’s brows drew together on her lovely face. “Well, if you are sure. We can always put this away and find something else to do.”

  “No. Please keep painting, or else I shall feel horribly guilty for ruining your fun. Go on, and I will see you all at nuncheon.”

  “Very well, but do not forget our outing this afternoon,” Julianna reminded. “We’re driving to the village to shop for new trimmings and such. I hear the millinery has a fresh selection of Brussels lace in stock.”

  “I cannot wait.” With a small wave, Gabriella let herself from the room. Once in the hallway, however, a sense of being at loose ends came upon her, for despite her assurances, she wasn’t really in the mood to read. She could always take a walk, she supposed, since the weather was holding fair. Of course, that would require a trip to her bedchamber to retrieve her cloak, but what else had she to do? Strolling down the hallway, she made her way toward the stairs.

  As she did, the Marquis of Vessey came striding out from one of the hallways in the rear of the house. Around his neck was draped a small towel that he was using to wipe perspiration from his flushed skin, his linen shirt sticking to his chest in a few places. He stopped when he spied her, a friendly smile coming to his handsome, blond-haired visage. “Miss St. George, how do you do? Please forgive my current state of undress, but I have just been enjoying a bout of fencing.”

  “Oh, swordplay! That sounds fun. So you did not ride out to view the home farms with my uncle, then? Julianna mentioned that he is giving the gentlemen a tour this morning.”

  He shook his head. “Impressive as Rafe’s farms indisputably are, I have seen them countless times before. Tony has, too. That’s why he and I decided to beg off and get a bit of exercise with the rapiers. I’ve just now come from the armory.”

  She paused at the information, her flagging spirits abruptly revived. “Ah, so the duke is here.”

  “That he is. Well, I had best be getting to my rooms. Have you seen my wife this morning? She said she planned to do some watercolor painting with the ladies.”

  “I saw the marchioness at that very endeavor not five minutes past. They’re gathered in the morning room, by the way.”

  His smile widened, delight shining in his gaze at mention of his bride. “My thanks. Maybe if I make myself presentable, they’ll let me in to see their progress.”

  She laughed. “Oh, I expect they might be persuaded.”

  “Until later, then,” he said in a good-natured tone before turning away.

  Murmuring a good-bye, she watched for a moment as he hurried up the stairs. As soon as he disappeared, so did her thoughts of him, instantly replaced by thoughts of Wyvern. Is he still in the armory? she wondered. Dare I go find out? Without giving herself time to debate the issue, she set off for that section of the house. After all, if she didn’t hurry, he would most definitely be gone.

  But she need not have worried, she discovered a minute later, when she found the duke still inside the spacious, wood-paneled room. The scent of beeswax polish, oiled metal, and a hint of clean, male perspiration drifted on the air. Breathing in the warm aromas, she moved to stand just inside the doorway.

  Unaware that he was being observed, Wyvern continued his dancelike movements, wielding his rapier with an agile grace that was very nearly poetic. With each maneuver, his sword gave out a subtle hiss, the sharp blade cutting through the air like a shark through a calm sea. The room itself bore the stamp of lethal masculinity, the walls decorated with a collection of weaponry whose origins ranged from ancient to modern. There were rapiers, sabers, and short swords; broadswords, battle axes, jeweled daggers, and a few spike-studded maces. Several heavy pieces of chain mail hung in one display, while a suit of armor topped by a fearsome-looking helmet stood as if on guard duty in the far corner.

  For a moment Gabriella imagined Wyvern dressed in the medieval steel suit, a mighty broadsword clutched in one of his fists as he prepared to protect his people and castle from invading marauders. She supposed his ancestors had done exactly that, having learned the other day from Beatrix Nevill that the first Duke of Wyvern had fought alongside William the Conqueror himself. As a reward for his loyalty and bravery, Édouard Black had been granted a dukedom, an immense duchy in the north of Bedfordshire. Since that time, the family had held the land against all trespassers.

  She wondered if Wyvern had a room similar to this one at his own estate—guessing he did, since the Black family must have collected great numbers of weapons that had been handed down over the centuries. Yet in spite of the beguiling notion of Wyvern as a knight of old, she found she much preferred him as he was, with no need to conceal his powerful male physique and urbane grace in anything heavier than a thin white linen shirt and tightly fitting fawn breeches. She couldn’t help but admire the sight of him. Not only was his fencing form excellent, his tall, powerful body was as well.

  She must have made some small noise—an appreciative sigh, perhaps—since abruptly he ceased his movements and swung his head her way.

  His deep blue eyes collided with her own. Barely winded despite his activity, he lowered his rapier to his side. “Gabriella.”

  She sent him a smile, her hands tucked against the folds of her white-and-caramel-striped day dress. “Hallo.”

  “I didn’t see you before. Have you been there long?”

  “Not very,” she said. Rallying her nerve, she strolled farther into the room. “I happened upon Lord Vessey in the hallway and he mentioned you were here.”

  “Did he?” Crossing to a long table that stood against one wall, he laid down his sword, then reached for a small towel resting on a nearby chair. Using it first to wipe his hands, he then applied it to the hilt of his sword to remove any perspiration he might have left behind. Done, he turned back to her. “I thought you were occupied with the ladies this morning. Painting, was it not?”

  “Yes, but a morning of water coloring has taught me a very valuable lesson.”

  One of his elegant dark eyebrows rose in inquiry. “And that would be?”

  “That I am an utterly dreadful artist.”

  A smile broke over his face, eyes twinkling as a chuckle reverberated in his chest. “Surely, you’re not that bad.”

  “No, I’m worse, believe me. And although Julianna tried her best to convince me not to give up, I know a hopeless cause when I see one. No, art will never be one of my finer accomplishments.”

  He set a fist on his hip. “Not to worry. You have myriad other talents, many of them quite exceptional.”

  “Though perhaps not always in the usual realm of ladies. My prowess with archery and firearms, for example. And I know how to fence as well.”

  “Really? And where did you happen by that ability?” Before she could answer, he held up a hand. “No, wait, don’t tell me, another one of your circus performer friends.”

  Thrusting out her lower lip, she made a face at him. “Not at all.” Ambling toward the table, she reached over and took his practice sword in hand, taking a few steps backward so she could safely slash the blade through the air. “I was taught by the sword master for our theater company, Monsieur Montague, who could slice a branch of candles in half and leave them all standing exactly as they were.”

  “Your Monsieur Montague sounds quite skilled.”

  “Indeed, yes. He was a French émigré who lost his home and family during the Terror. He never gave details, but we all believe he was the younger son of an aristocrat who watched his loved ones perish at the hands of the Committee and Madame Guillotine. He had an occasional habit of drowning himself in a few too many bottles of wine. Otherwise, he was an exceptional swordsman.”

  “And he taught you, did he?”

  Another smile curved her mouth as she played the blade of the sword in a slow circle. Raising her left arm into the air behind her head, she assumed a fencer’s stance. “En garde,” she dared.

  Managing a thrust in spite of her long skirts, she lunged forward three steps and set the b
lunted tip of the weapon against his chest. “Surrender, Your Grace!” she cried in a dramatic voice. “I have you at my mercy.”

  He cast a brief glance down to where the blade rested with innocent intent against his shirt. “So it would appear,” he observed in a familiar drawl. “Though I must say this reminds me of another time we found ourselves in a similar situation.”

  The study in London, she thought. A small shiver rippled just beneath her skin, particularly when she recalled what had transpired between them that night after he had taken her gun. Without knowing she meant to, the edge of her tongue darted out and slid across her lower lip.

  At the movement, she saw his gaze dip and hold, a dark gleam flashing inside his eyes. But an instant later, the look had disappeared, the only discernable expression on his face one of agreeable amusement.

  “As I recall,” she observed, “you tricked me that night.”

  “With good reason.”

  “Agreed. But that doesn’t mean my pride wasn’t wounded. A sporting man would give me the opportunity to repair it.”

  “By dueling with you?”

  She nodded.

  “Most of the sporting men I know would categorically refuse to fight a lady.”

  “But luckily you are not most men, are you, Your Grace?”

  “Wyvern,” he corrected. “And stop trying to appeal to the unconventional side of my nature. Besides, how can I accept when I stand here at your mercy—you in possession of my sword, as it were?”

  At my mercy indeed, she scoffed with silent mirth. Given he had half the room at his back, he knew as well as she that he could step free of his “capture” any time had he wished.

  “There are a number of other weapons on the walls,” she invited. “Choose one.”

  He tilted his head with arrogant refusal. “I prefer my own. I’m used to the grip on my rapier, you see.”

  Realizing he was right, she lowered the sword. “Fine. I shall choose one for myself, then.” Flipping the weapon neatly in her grasp, she offered him the hilt.

  He made her a small bow as he accepted. “My thanks, Miss Gabriella.”

  Moving toward the far wall, she began to inspect the swords. Behind her, she felt him watching.

  “Surely you are not serious about this?” he asked after a moment.

  “Of course I am,” she returned. “I haven’t had a chance to fence with a worthy partner in ages.”

  “All the more reason why you should not do so today. You are out of practice.”

  “A bout with you will help me refresh my technique. What do you think of that one?” Stretching out a finger, she pointed toward a likely sword.

  “It appears to have good balance, but the rapier Ethan was using is better, particularly since its tip is already blunted.”

  “And which sword might that be, pray?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “The answer scarcely matters, since we are not proceeding with this plan of yours.”

  Spinning to face him, she planted her knuckles on her hips. “Do you doubt my ability?”

  “Not at all.” In a sweeping motion, he raked her with his gaze. “Still, even you must admit you are hardly dressed for such exertions. You’ll trip over yourself in that gown.”

  She shrugged aside his doubts. “I’ve learned to do more in a dress than you might imagine possible, so not to worry. Come on, Wyvern, fight me. Unless you’re afraid of being bested by a girl,” she added, hoping the taunt would ruffle his male pride enough for him to agree.

  A laugh rippled from his throat. “You, my dear, have a very droll wit. No, the only thing of which I might possibly be afraid is for your reputation should we happen to be observed.”

  “But all of us here are family and friends. No one will mind.”

  He gave her a skeptical look. “I am not so sure of that. It’s doubtful, for one, that Rafe would approve.”

  “Oh, surely he’s not so stuffy as all that. But even if he is, why are you worried? After all, if I am not alarmed at the prospect of incurring his displeasure, then why should you be? Or do you only do the things of which my uncle approves?”

  His smile widened. “Hardly, as well you know. I do as I see fit in accordance to my own rules and none other. Now, enough of your baiting, hoyden.”

  “But I am only longing to have a little fun,” she implored, inwardly conceding the futility of her previous persuasion tactics. “Where can the harm be in that? It is not as if we are doing anything so very scandalous, is it?”

  When he said nothing further, she continued. “Besides, who is to know, with everyone occupied elsewhere? My uncle and most of the men aren’t even in the house, and the ladies are buried in their painting. Please, just fifteen minutes with the rapiers. No one will know but us,” she finished, showing him her most winsome smile.

  Like a star in a night darkened sky, a twinkle winked deep within his intense blue gaze. “You do not lack for persistence, I will say that much.” Unbending, he gave a nod. “Very well, we shall have a bout.”

  Clapping her hands, she let out a small squeal and leapt up and down on her toes.

  “But ten minutes only, not fifteen,” he warned.

  “Yes, Your Grace. Ten minutes and not a second more.” She flashed him a mischievous grin. “Despite the limitation, that should give me more than enough time to defeat you.”

  He laughed again. “Outrageous minx!”

  “Would you do me the favor of retrieving the sword Lord Vessey used?” she added in a light tone.

  “But, of course,” he agreed with a gallant sweep of his hand.

  Once he had gone to find the correct sword, she moved to a nearby chair and dropped down onto the seat.

  As he strode across the room, Tony shook his head, wondering what had possessed him to give in to her entreaties. Usually he had no difficulties resisting such feminine wiles, especially when they came from naïve little innocents. But as he was beginning to realize, Gabriella St. George was a genuine original. Of all the women he knew—and there were literally hundreds—he could think of none so daring and unconventional that they would challenge him to a fencing bout. He knew a great many men who didn’t have the nerve to do so—not even for a practice round, since he was considered one of Society’s most deadly swordsmen—but then she could hardly be expected to know that fact. But like a tiger indulging an adventurous cub, he would let her have her fun. As she said, what harm could come from a few minutes’ sparring?

  With Vessey’s rapier in hand, he turned around—and nearly lost his hold on the sword. Lips parting, he stared wide-eyed with the sort of surprise he couldn’t recall experiencing in a very long while. “Good heavens, your legs are bare!”

  Glancing up, she tossed her skirts off her knees, the material instantly blocking the all-too-brief view he’d had of her beautifully turned knees and calves. Yet that single glimpse was enough to send his blood flowing faster inside his veins, and set his palms itching with the desire to uncover all that satiny-soft, alabaster flesh again so that his hands might go a-wandering. Such an interlude, he knew, would be nothing short of exquisite.

  Down, boy, he reprimanded himself. This is Gabriella, remember? Your friend’s niece, who is strictly out of bounds. Though even if she weren’t Rafe’s niece, she would still be out of bounds for all the usual reasons. Giving himself a firm mental shake, he pushed aside the fantasy. Treat her like a sister, he silently advised. Yet even as he focused on the thought, he realized the absurdity of it, a derisive laugh rising to his lips followed by an inaudible groan.

  Plainly unaware of being the cause of any consternation, Gabriella tucked her stockings inside her slippers, then placed her footwear neatly beneath her chair. “This,” she explained with a wiggle of her toes, “is one of the little tricks I’ve learned in order to compensate for dueling in a dress. Otherwise I really would stumble and do myself an injury.” Springing to her feet—her very bare, very lovely feet—she padded toward him. “Ready to proceed?”
/>
  Swallowing down another groan at the sight of her loveliness, he passed her the sword with its protective, wood-covered tip. “Of course. I shall leave it up to you to begin.”

  He didn’t have long to wait as she resumed the proper stance and brought her blade upward. He did the same.

  “En garde,” she called.

  He let her make the first move and the first strike, the rapiers sliding against each other in a high-pitched whining of honed metal. With an easy, single maneuver, she knocked his sword to one side, then stopped.

  “What was that, Wyvern? You’re barely trying.”

  “I am allowing you to warm up. You said it’s been a while since your last bout.”

  “A while, yes, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten everything I ever learned. Now, don’t baby me. I want a real match.”

  He arched a brow. “Very well, I shall endeavor to do better.” She gave a nod, then moved to once again assume the proper stance.

  This time when she came at him, he countered with a bit more force. Still, he was careful to hold back, far too aware of his superior strength and the fact that it would take very little effort on his part to overpower her. Meeting a trio of her parries and thrusts, he allowed her to take the point.

  “That was still too easy. Quit protecting me,” she complained.

  “And quit asking me to fight you as I would a man. You are not a man and when it comes to a contest of sheer strength, I will beat you every time.”

  “Perhaps that is true, but fencing isn’t only about strength, it is also about cunning. Show me the courtesy of displaying more of your true ability and let us see how cunning I can be.”

  He considered her statement. Maybe he was mollycoddling her, and by doing so depriving her of the chance to actually test herself and her skills. He’d promised to give her a bout, but so far he’d done little more than condescend. “All right, Gabriella. You want the real me, then prepare yourself.”

  Lifting his rapier, he waited for her to move into position.

  This time when they began, he didn’t restrain himself—at least not too much. Moving with lightning speed, he lunged forward, their blades clashing in a series of parries that she valiantly struggled to meet.