He had seemed pleasant during their short courtship. A well-mannered gentleman who would make a faithful husband. But little by little she had seen glimpses of a callous heart behind what she feared was superficial charm.
The sword master’s gaze met hers for a moment as he looked back toward them. As his eyes brushed over her, a peculiar awareness coursed through her blood, as if she had been turned upside down and set back on her feet.
“Who is he again?” she asked in a hesitant voice, knowing what the answer would be.
“What?” Godfrey swung around, lowering his arms to stare at her. “Fenton. Christopher Fenton. I have mentioned him countless times. He’s performed in private for the prince regent.”
“Has he?” Violet asked, hoping she looked properly impressed, and not like a lady who had been invited to participate in one of Fenton’s performances.
“Do let me go now, darling. The other gentlemen have already gone upstairs to the gallery. It’s like a private club, you know.”
“For scoundrels.”
“Honestly, Violet. What a remark to make. I hope you will refrain from expressing comments like that to anyone else. It isn’t typical of you at all. I suggest you stay away from the champagne. It must be more potent than it tasted.”
Kit studied the clock in the corner of the candlelit gallery. The private chamber was known for the high-society seductions that had been sparked within its walls. He knew he should consider it an honor to be invited to mingle with the chosen few whom it pleased his host and patron to bring together for a brief interlude before the ball, but there wasn’t a woman in the room who drew Kit’s interest. He avoided looking at the viscountess in cream silk who half reclined in shameless invitation on the brocade sofa. She made it obvious what she wanted. Her eyes had been undressing him all evening.
He felt like stripping off a shirt and striking a pose with the other Roman statues against the wall. He wondered how attractive she’d find him if she knew the truth about his past.
The shame of it had discouraged him from any lasting relationships with the gentlewomen he’d met.
“She’s a bit obvious,” an amused voice said over his shoulder. “Why don’t you put her out of her misery and arrange a liaison with her for later in the night?”
He turned to Sir Godfrey with a wan smile. “She happens to have a husband.”
“And you aren’t eager to put your dueling skills to the test?”
“Not without a better reason. Besides, sir, you’ve taken lessons long enough to know that I counsel self-control.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
Not since petitioning to earn his diploma as a maître d’armes in France with his adoptive father’s influence had Kit allowed himself to be provoked into a genuine match. It would take an unthinkable insult for a master to issue a rash challenge. It would be a disgrace to kill someone unskilled. He’d decided years ago that he would rather peddle dreams to adventurous students than murder another man to prove his superiority.
On occasion, though, a challenge arose that could not be ignored. Some brash fool needed to show the world how exceptional he was.
He dealt with these unfortunates once or twice a year. The match usually involved a prodigious quantity of spirits and a woman who looked prettier through a pair of drunken eyes than she did the next morning. But Kit had seen too much sin in his life to find adultery the least bit appealing.
Of course, as a maestro, he was not above a friendly crossing of the blades when challenged, for a few extra pounds. It never hurt to pad one’s pockets.
Sir Godfrey took a deep swallow from his goblet. “You won the crowd tonight. I believe you could have your choice of nearly any woman in London as your bed partner after that rousing performance.”
“Now, that is an exaggeration,” Kit said with a laugh. Even if it were true, there was only one woman who came to mind. He didn’t know her name. He hadn’t had the wits to ask, but he knew that she wasn’t in this room and that she hadn’t been the type to fall for a scoundrel’s flirtation in an empty corridor. Nor had she accepted his invitation to take a seat of dubious honor in the audience.
He couldn’t explain why he’d felt drawn to her, as if he could talk to her as a friend.
Sweetness, sensual appeal, and an instant sense of compatibility in the same woman. Kit didn’t meet many ladies like her. His lovers and friends tended to fall into distinctly separate groups. He had to wonder what she was doing at a party like this. She seemed over her head.
But then again, Kit didn’t belong here, either. He gave lessons to gentlemen. He wasn’t one of them. Tonight he had entertained the ton on a grand scale. For all their accolades, he remained a commoner who depended on men like Sir Godfrey to earn his living.
“You executed the cloak-and-lantern episode without a flaw,” he said, resisting the urge to look at the clock again. “Not one hesitant move. I daresay a thief would think twice about assaulting you.”
“A pity that the lady I wanted to impress missed my performance. All because of her doddering old aunt.”
Kit pretended to appear sympathetic. The truth was that he liked Sir Godfrey a little less every time they talked. He had a double-sided nature that included demeaning the aristocrats he envied and the lower classes he employed in his business affairs as a merchant. He saw sword fighting as a means to impress others, not as an art. An intelligent man, but not a particularly kind one.
Godfrey gestured with his goblet to the far wall. “Do you have any notion how much those Roman statues cost?”
Kit liked new objets d’art when he could afford them. But then he wasn’t an aristocrat. He couldn’t sit on his arse all day admiring ruins. He had to work for his bread.
“I don’t even know if they are real,” he said honestly.
“It wouldn’t matter much to mortals like us if they’re fake,” Godfrey replied. “Replicates go for a fortune on the retail market. The past is all the rage. Do you know how my fiancée has asked to spend the next few days?”
“Visiting the museum?” Kit guessed.
“That would be an understandable activity,” Godfrey said. “But no. She is begging to see an exhibit of ancient tombstones. Can you imagine? A beautiful lady willing to pay to poke about a stranger’s grave.”
“As you say, it is the rage.” What Kit really wondered, and then for only a moment, was what kind of woman would measure up to Sir Godfrey’s ideals. “Why are you indulging her, if I may ask?”
“You may, since I brought up the subject. I am besotted with her. I was quite surprised when she agreed to marry me, and even then she did so with reluctance. There were three other men in competition for her hand. She chose me.” He drained his goblet. “Or rather, her aunt did. I had to convince the old lady to pick me.”
“Because you were . . . ?”
“Because I had the best manners and I was not a rake. When you meet my betrothed, perhaps you will understand why I was desperate to have her.”
“Is she that beautiful?”
“Yes. She’s an heiress, too, which doesn’t hurt, if you take my meaning.”
When Baron Ashfield died, Francesca lost the best friend she had ever known. Her father had chosen young Henry for her when she was seventeen and Ashfield was serving in the army. A sensible arrangement, Papa insisted, and Francesca had wept for weeks because she loved the vicar’s nephew, and if that was not a sensible choice she could not imagine who was.
She had cringed when she met the baron, an ungainly man twice her size who rarely spoke, and then in halting half thoughts that made her question his mental faculties. It was only after three years of marriage that he confessed how dearly he loved her.
She had been languishing in bed, despondent after the last of four miscarriages and the realization that she would never carry a child. She had never suspected a man could be capable of such grief or emotion. “Please, Henry, one of us must remain calm.”
“Well, then, Francesca
, it will have to be you,” he had said in a choked-up voice, “because you have brought me to my knees. I loved you the minute I saw you. I loved our lost children when you conceived them and—”
“Why did you not tell me this before?”
He’d hung his head. “I was afraid that you would take my affection for you as a sign of weakness.”
She had placed her hand on his shoulder. “Am I that much of a Tartar that I cannot be told the truth?”
She had never noticed that his eyes brightened whenever she paid him attention. She had been so pre-occupied with imitating the aloof marriage of her parents that it hadn’t occurred to her that it was possible to build abiding love upon affection. Upon a basic friendship.
He’d looked up quickly. “Yes,” he had said, “you are. And you are going to ruin Violet’s chance for genuine happiness with all your fears.”
Now Francesca sat with the other matrons in a quiet corner of the brilliantly candlelit ballroom. What have I done? I was so worried that a rogue would take advantage of Violet’s nature that I pushed her into Godfrey’s arms. Why did you leave me to make this decision, Henry? Why did you have to die before I had to decide? Why did you have to die at all?
Sir Godfrey had seemed to be the ideal suitor, a match that aimed neither too high nor too low. He was a self-made merchant who led a circumspect life. She had wanted Violet to have a stable marriage and surround Francesca with grandchildren before she died. She had not realized, however, that Sir Godfrey counted on her being dead before such a time.
Tonight, when Francesca had taken her turn, she had heard the truth revealed in Godfrey’s voice as he questioned the physician outside the door. The marchioness had summoned him from backstage, against Francesca’s wishes.
“How long can she go on?”
“That is not for you to decide, sir.”
“She cannot live forever, can she?”
“Forever? No, sir. But she is in good health, as far as I can tell. It is grief, in my opinion, that has weakened her.”
She knew she wouldn’t live forever. Her only purpose was to help Violet find the happiness Violet’s mother had thrown away during her short life. Anne-Marie’s ghost would never stop haunting Francesca if she broke her vow to protect Violet.
She had chosen Sir Godfrey for Violet for all the right reasons.
Was it unreasonable to hope that a righteous marriage would come of her good intentions?
Had she been wrong to value reputation above love? It was natural for a man to hope for an inheritance, wasn’t it? It wasn’t possible that Godfrey was marrying Violet solely for the money she would soon have.
Sudden quiet enshrouded the ballroom. Francesca turned, distracted, to watch the couple who had been announced at the door.
A broad-shouldered gentleman in black crossed the ballroom, a lady in flowing pink silk holding his arm. The entire assembly seemed awestruck by the formal entry of the party’s host and his elegant wife, the Marquess and Marchioness of Sedgecroft.
According to gossip, which Francesca gleaned primarily from her maid, the marquess had once been considered London’s most notorious scoundrel. Perhaps he still was. It was rumored that he had fallen in love with the bride who had been abandoned at the altar by his cousin. No. That was not right. The marchioness had botched her own wedding.
Faugh. London and its scandals. Francesca thought that Jane was an enchanting woman. The evening, she reminded herself, was a benefit performance. The look of unadulterated devotion that Sedgecroft gave his wife appeared genuine to Francesca’s eyes.
A fresh wave of excited whispers swelled.
Francesca sat up to locate the source of the furor.
Another man had followed the marquess into the ballroom.
He was a man whose presence caused chairs to be scraped back, footmen to straighten, ladies and gentlemen young and old to vent approving sighs.
Francesca wished for a quizzing glass. Was this the marquess’s son? She compared the two attractive figures in silence. No. They were too close in age, even for prematurely sewn oats.
Cousins, perhaps. The marquess motioned the younger man into his intimate circle.
Perhaps, if not for the matron beside her, Francesca would have withdrawn back into her thoughts. But the lady, who clearly meant to be kind, leaned toward Francesca and said, “I almost miss the danger of the past century’s duels. At least one could address an enemy with dignity and skill.”
Francesca studied the young man who had caused such a stir.
He did not possess the arrogance of a peer. He looked, in fact, rather unassuming, possibly amused to find himself the center of attention.
He was lithe, light on his feet. He wore the plainest clothes of any gentleman Francesca had observed that night. A flowing shirt of fine linen. Dark breeches of an indeterminate fabric. And yet an irresistible elegance radiated from his person.
He was indeed a young man who drew one’s notice—to Francesca’s surprise he seemed to have caught even Violet’s attention. Francesca half rose from her chair, as if she could act as a barrier before this questionable connection.
Too late.
The handsome newcomer had also noticed her niece.
He had turned his back on the marquess and was cutting a path toward Violet as precisely as a pair of tailor’s scissors through silk. And it was Sir Godfrey, the man meant to protect Violet, who appeared to be summoning him to her side.
Chapter 6
The chamber players began to warm up their instruments after Kit followed his host into the ballroom. The Marquess of Sedgecroft had insisted that Kit attend the dance. Kit could not refuse. As Sedgecroft said, “You are the hero of the hour, Fenton. My guests paid to see you perform. Your performance is not quite over.”
Agreed.
The orchestra started to play, and the melodious notes of violins, flutes, and French horns competed with the chatter of guests in the ballroom. The clamor rose as Sir Godfrey approached Kit with a brunette in lilac-gray silk on his arm. Godfrey said something over the music.
Kit didn’t understand a thing through the blood that rushed to his head.
He stared at Violet and only a moment passed before he recognized her. He would have known her in the hall if it hadn’t been for his mask and the dark shadows and the decade that had changed her. He stared at her and felt himself as challenged by her presence as he had the day she had first confronted him in the churchyard. He knew he was expected to make some polite response. But she was beautiful, and he was soaking in the sight of her after too many years.
Sir Godfrey had bragged of her charm. This could not be the first time a man had faltered when introduced to her. It was better to say nothing and appear awkward than to give her away. She would be shamed if Kit revealed that she had befriended him once upon a time when he was a beast and she was a lovely girl.
Now he was a larger beast and she was a lovelier woman. Some things never changed. Could he still convince her that he was worth her company?
“Master Fenton?” a voice said, and he ignored it.
Did Violet recognize him? No wonder he’d been attracted to her in the hall. No wonder they could talk to each other like old friends.
“Fenton?” the voice repeated.
There was so much to say, and yet discretion forbade that Kit say anything at all. Violet was the prize that one of his students had pursued and won. Godfrey, of all persons. A petty man whose only charity was himself. How in the hell had that happened? She had to be marrying him for his money. But that didn’t seem like the Violet whom Kit had known.
The warmth and wicked remembrance that glowed in her dark eyes acknowledged their secret pact from childhood. He turned, irritated at the voice that finally intruded on his thoughts. Sir Godfrey was getting on his nerves.
“Master Fenton,” Godfrey said, “may I again present to you my enchanting fiancée, Miss Violet Knowlton. Master Fenton is my instructor, Violet. In fact, he will go down the dance
with you while I accompany Lady Heyville. She is one of our best customers, you will recall.”
Kit turned back to Violet, inclining his head. “It is my pleasure,” he said meaningfully.
“No,” she said, her voice strong. “It is mine.”
“An honor then,” he said.
Then they looked each other in the eye, and the blood that had rushed between Kit’s temples hit him in the center of his heart. And he was grateful that there were other people standing around them, because he might have said or done something unpardonable otherwise.
“Be on guard, Master Fenton,” Sir Godfrey said with a pleasant smile as he walked away. “She dances like a dream.”
Kit stared spellbound at Violet.
Of course she did. She was a dream. He’d dreamed about her so often that it wasn’t surprising he felt as if he’d known her when he saw her in the hall with the toy sword. Violet had been the chink in his armor before, and maybe she still was. She had always looked a little lost to him, as if she were a deposed princess in need of a protector. But talk about the damned leading the damned.
She might have been brave to venture into the churchyard, or more likely she’d been driven by a desire for friends. But now that Kit was old enough to ponder the past, he realized she had put herself in a vulnerable position.
Hell. She was still vulnerable. Who had been taking care of her all these years? It was a good thing he hadn’t been as dangerous then as he’d pretended he was. Now was another matter.
He smiled, knowing she’d be offended if she could hear his thoughts. He had managed to offend her tonight without even trying. His lonely girl. Why else had she made friends with a pauper? Lonely or not, she was who he dreamed about when he felt most alone.
She had been his morning star, and he had found her in the dark again.
She shook her head, her eyes lowering as Godfrey disappeared. “I should have known it was you,” she said, releasing a rueful sigh. “I never could resist your swordplay.”
A Bride Unveiled Page 6
