The diva gave a decided nod that was echoed by the parrot. "The manager sponsors this soiree, you perceive, to introduce the opera company here as the season comes into its own. The food and wine will be excellent and the company the best." She kissed her fingertips in an extravagant gesture. "Her benefit is, well, beneficial to my purse."
"The last sounds lovely but I must miss the party. I have another engagement."
"Do you? And what might it be?" Zoe gave her a droll smile. "Perhaps I may prefer to do something other than smile and smile and be obliged to sing before the night is done."
"Nothing of great interest." The fewer who knew of her appointments with a fencing master, Ariadne thought, the better it would be.
"You may as well tell her, chère."
"Indeed?"
"Being in and out of the house so often she is sure to stumble onto the truth."
"Mais jamais!" the parrot screamed.
It was again astonishingly apropos, almost as if the parrot understood the conversation, though it might also be on account of his having eaten the last of his meringue. With a small shrug, she said, "I am to have another fencing lesson. Maurelle has been kind enough to allow the use of a room for the exercise."
"But how brave of you!"
"Not at all. More patience than courage was required at our last lesson." She drank the last of her cooling chocolate, trying to appear blase.
"Our lesson?" Zoe watched her, her eyes bright and a little too knowing for comfort. "You have a fencing master for instruction then. Which, if I may ask?"
"Monsieur Blackford. You see the reason for my interest in his past."
"Oh, ma chère, I could almost envy you. These bouts are private, yes? To be closeted with the Englishman, to face him as he is stripped for action—la, my heart runs away with me to think of it." The diva put a hand to her ample chest, her eyes bright with exaggerated humor.
"It is nothing so very exciting." Ariadne was conscious of the warmth in her face even as she made the protest.
"Don't tell me it is all mere thrust and parry! I shall not believe it, don't want to believe it. No, no, it is all of the most romantic, I'm sure. I shall do myself the honor of attending on Maurelle the morning after, just to see how you progress."
"Vache!" the parrot said.
Ariadne, politely smiling, could only agree. Holy cow, indeed. The last thing she had intended was to draw more attention to her meetings with Monsieur Blackford. At the rate things were going, she might as well nail announcements to the lampposts and charge admission.
She must learn what she needed to know, then end this affair. The sooner, the better.
Seven
"Practical, most practical," Gavin said as he turned with the lazy lift of a brow to observe the ensemble Ariadne had chosen to wear for their second fencing session. "Also provocative. Is it meant to show your dedication or as a distraction?"
"The idea was simply to be able to move with more ease. And you did suggest fewer petticoats."
She closed the door of the long garçonnière chamber and came forward, much more aware than she wanted to be of the plain muslin canezou blouse she wore this evening which pulled over the head through an opening that plunged deep unless the overlapping ends at its front were securely fastened beneath the belt at her waistline. She had rolled the shirred sleeves to her elbows to free her gloved hands, in imitation of the maître d'armes, then used the pull cords running through the skirts of tan d'or twill—ordinarily used to lift the hem of the walking costume to avoid mud puddles—to raise it above her ankles in their soft leather half-boots. She had left off her heaviest petticoat with its stiffening of woven horsehair, or crin, retaining only a single underskirt for modesty. If Monsieur Blackford thought the resulting display of wrist and ankle provocative, she could hardly wait to see his reaction to the ensemble she had ordered yesterday morning.
Not that it mattered what he thought, of course. It was only that how he saw her, what he thought of her, might be useful.
Nevertheless, the heat she noted in the dark blue depths of his eyes made her so self-conscious it was difficult to move with any kind of grace. She was too closely reminded that no corset confined her waist and only the clever seaming in her camisole supported her breasts so they moved as she walked forward, brushing against the fabric with a tingling sensation in their sensitive peaks. That she and the sword master were alone once more, isolated by any number of rooms from Maurelle and her guests for the evening, was not lost on her either.
She should have insisted that the maid, Adele, attend them. The idea had crossed her mind only to be dismissed. It was pride that made her reluctant to have anyone as witness, at least in part. She was a novice at this sport, after all, and must naturally be somewhat inept. Then she was not some young girl requiring constant supervision, and it seemed best not to set a precedent. The time might come when she would prefer to have no witnesses.
"Thoughtful, possibly, but not simple," he said as he watched her approach. "Still, if you don't mind the draft, I don't mind the view."
Her lips tightened. Let him look, for what good it might do him. She would even return the favor so he might see her lack of concern. He had made his preparations again in the manner she had copied, and stood now in his shirt sleeves with the candlelight gleaming in the dark gold waves of his hair and creating leaping flames in his eyes. The only change was that he wore trousers this evening instead of pantaloons, with straps that fastened under boots of supple leather that had thin soles which would doubtless slip more easily over the fencing strip.
"Shall we begin?" she asked, then cleared her throat of its unaccountable huskiness. "I'm sure you will be glad to have done with this task so you may enjoy the rest of your evening."
"Now there you are wrong. This evening is my raison d'être and only solace. Prolonging it is my object. Do you doubt it?"
"Frankly, yes," she said. "Or will you leave me armed for more than an instant?"
"You are still annoyed over that, like the brick-mason's helper reprimanded for sloth who had only two naps all day, each four hours in duration. Passion without politesse does not a fencer make. You must control your emotions, madame, or they will defeat you."
A hard knot formed in her chest as she absorbed his meaning. Was there another message in the words? It seemed possible; he was not a stupid man. Oh, but surely not. He could know nothing of her real purpose.
"I shall endeavor to remember," she said finally.
"Cry peace and hosanna but no quarter, and let us arm ourselves."
He turned to where chest pads and masks lay ready next to the case of foils on the long side table. Handing the smaller of the two pads to her, one shorter at the lower front than his own, he showed her how to manipulate the buckles, also how to pull the wire-grid mask on over her face. Then he stepped back, leaving her to it while he donned his own protection.
The concealment made him seem a different man, she thought, watching covertly even as she struggled with the metal fastenings of the chest pad. It removed personality and identity, concealed the changes of expression that might indicate imminent attack or vulnerability, exultation or pain. His eyes were only a blue glimmer, a bright hint of mockery that might have been for her but could also be for the arrangement, or even for himself.
He was as much aware of her as she was of him, for he swept off his mask and strode back to her, removing his gloves and tucking them under one arm. "Allow me," he said, and reached to brush her hands aside, fastening the buckle that had stymied her with quick, competent movements.
"Thank you." The words were uneven. He was so close, much too close. His scent of starched linen, night freshness and warm maleness enveloped her.
"Reluctant gratitude," he said mildly, "is often worse than none. Breathe."
It was a frowning instant before she realized he wanted to check the fit of her padding. It was, she saw as she lowered her gaze, down-filled and white, no doubt the better to show blood i
f sliced by an accidental blow. She filled her lungs with air to show that she could, in fact, breathe without unusual effort.
The movement lifted the padded vest. He reached to catch the front edges, tugging them into place. His gloved knuckles grazed her abdomen in shockingly intimate contact. She inhaled more deeply, a soft sound in the quiet, while something warm and tenuous swirled inside her before settling heavily in her lower belly.
He met her eyes, the dark sapphire depths of his own rich with contemplation and something more that hovered, tightly restrained, behind it. The moment stretched, marked only by the flutter of a candle flame and the distant clip-clop of passing carriage horses in the street beyond the windows. She was almost painfully aware of his virility and inherent power. She wanted to step away but could not move, could find nothing to say even in protest.
His gaze flickered downward, lingered. Following it, she saw that his adjustment of the padding had pulled the opening of her canezou blouse lower, exposing the upper curves of her breasts. Something she saw in his face caused the heat in her midsection to leap higher, flushing her throat, scalding her face. Yet she would not acknowledge it, would not call attention to her exposure by attempting to cover herself.
He released her abruptly and turned away, ducking his head as he pulled on his mask again. Reaching for his gloves, he drew them firmly into place then picked up his foil from the nearby table as he stepped to the strip.
She followed more slowly while pressing the leather of her own gloves tighter between her spread fingers. She had thought they would protect her from any chance contact, but she had been in error. The question that occupied her mind was just how intentional the sword master's aid just now had been, how unavoidable. She had the distinct impression that he did nothing without a reason. What possible purpose could he have for touching her except, possibly, to unsettle her?
The leather-wrapped hilt of the foil and its metal guard felt cold as she took it up, and the blunted blade was weightier than she recalled. However, she would not show it, but moved to her place on the piste with as much impassivity as the man who joined her there. Even as she stepped on the canvas strip, a troublesome doubt unfurled inside her. Was it possible she had miscalculated?
Ariadne turned to face the sword master. He swept up his blade in salute and down again, his eyes a watchful flicker behind his mask. She followed suit, then waited with her foil tip resting on the strip for what might come next.
"We will begin," he said, "with a series of taps at the tips of our two blades, taps as soft as a lover's sigh, as tentative as a first kiss. It will be a gentle exploration of intentions and desires, no kind of assault. You understand?"
"I believe so."
"Good," he replied, his voice like warm honey; then he continued without change, "En garde."
She reached out to cross his foil tip with hers. Scarcely had they touched when he gave the office to begin. They exchanged the beats he had described for several seconds, their blades chiming together in measured rhythm as polite and steady as a metronome. Abruptly, he launched into an advance that pushed her blade aside, sliding past it to immediately touch her chest padding. It was a careful nudge, one that barely curved his blade, but she did not make the mistake of believing it was not rigorously planned.
"Touché," she said, her gaze level.
"Excellent," he said with a nod. "To acknowledge a touch is always a matter of honor. A fencer should never call out his own claim to a touch made upon his opponent for that's vainglory. Nor should he inquire about one that has not been acknowledged. If you should happen to concede a touch I don't believe is valid, I will decline credit for it by saying pas de touché, not a touch."
"I understand."
"We begin again. This time, you will advance."
She did as he directed, but her small foray was instantly flicked aside so she defended once more. Again and yet again they went through the movements while their blades chimed and clanked until, abruptly, he swirled into a riposte and she felt the thud of his buttoned point against her padding again.
"Touché." She had to unclench her teeth to make the acknowledgement.
"Just so. Again." He waited only until she had raised her foil before he continued. "Fencing, you should realize, can be like a silent conversation, one in which you come to know your opponent. You sense the strength of his wrist, the power of his will, the extent of his training, his physical condition, whether he views himself as invincible or merely competent. These things can all affect the end of a phrase d'amies."
"Yes, I see." Insofar as she could tell his strength was unyielding and his physical condition superb if the disturbingly well-oiled flexing of the muscles in his shoulders and thighs was any indication. She was no judge of his training but thought he most certainly had no doubt of his invincibility. The almost negligent ease with which he controlled the passage between them was beyond annoying, well beyond.
"Or consider it in the light of a flirtation," he went on, his voice lilting above the measured tap and clack of the blades. "Just as you would not reveal your every feeling to a suitor, it's bad strategy to permit that advantage to an opponent. Hold something of yourself in reserve so he is left guessing. Allow him to wonder, to doubt, to feel that he has no chance."
The image he conjured up was disturbing, while some tender current within the deep timbre of his voice sent a shiver along her arm. It seemed best to put an end to that. "And if he becomes importunate?"
He gave a short laugh. "Then you are allowed a slap to remind him of his place."
"This is the method you use to teach young men to defend themselves?"
"By no means. Instruction is much more direct in their case."
"Why make an exception for me?"
"You suspect condescension? Or is it the comparison to flirtation that offends?"
She would give much to see his face. It was frustrating to be unable to guess whether he was flirting in all truth or merely goading her. "Neither," she answered. "I only seek the true value of the lesson."
"Done," he said, his voice even. An instant later, he touched her again, a gentle probe of his sword point that landed squarely on her padded nipple. He stepped back, surveyed her for a long moment, gave a nod.
They began again.
Now his comments were an unending dissertation on the advance, the parry, the riposte. He called corrections for her form and how she moved, and as regularly as a ticking clock, he invaded her defenses for a light, expert touch.
It was maddening.
Her right arm felt on fire. Her lungs worked like a bellows and the fog of her breath slicked the inside of her mask. She wanted to cry quits but stubborn pride would not allow it. And she hated the man who faced her with a fierce heat that was the only thing that allowed her to lift her foil again and again.
"So you would be a Boadicea with your enemy lying dead at your feet," he said after a small interval of silent combat. "What has this man done to make you long to shed his blood?"
"That is no concern of yours." It was all she could do to rap out the words as her heartbeat thundered in her ears and she struggled to draw enough air into her lungs.
"Even if I forge the weapon of his doom?"
"You do the same...for men every day. What is...one more?"
"An excellent question, one I would debate at length another time. My more pressing concern is that this enemy of yours may leave you lifeless on the ground or lay open face or breast. Where then is the glory of justice? Or my absolution?"
"I should hope...absolution is not required." Fury that he gave no sign of strain, much less laboring, made a red haze at the edge of her vision.
"Oh, a consummation to be wished, but is there basis for it?"
His words were followed, inevitably, by another touch. This one was directly upon where her heart shuddered in her chest.
Her anger boiled suddenly into rage, even as she stepped back for the usual pause in their play. "You must see to it," she sa
id in biting tones.
"Preparation without guidance is folly. It could be beneficial to know what drives you."
"Nothing you would understand."
"Make the attempt. I may surprise you."
The words were whimsical, but his stance was not. He faced her with challenge in every line of his body, every hard muscle of his form, even the way he held his foil and the tilt of his head. He stood waiting for her to speak, so armored in his strength, so certain that nothing she could say or do would affect him that she wanted to annihilate him. She also wanted, quite suddenly, for him to know the answer to his question.
"He killed my brother."
"Killed?"
"Cut him down in a duel so unequal as to be legal murder."
He stood perfectly still. His gaze seemed to pierce the grid of her mask. In the quiet could be heard the splattering of renewed rain as it fell from the eaves of the house into the courtyard. Finally, he stirred. "Unequal. That suggests superior skill on the part of the murderer, and yet you expect to succeed where your brother failed."
"I do."
"Then gird your loins, my warrior queen, and sharpen your blade, for you will need everything I can teach you. That is, if he meets you."
He thought she would be defeated. The need to prove him wrong drove her forward the instant he gave the signal. And he engaged her, meeting her advance with effortless grace and concentration, the point of his foil a glittering blur as he executed parry and riposte with narrow-eyed vigilance but made no attempt to pierce her guard.
He could have. He could and she knew it, which was more infuriating than his constant touches had been. Her anger burned higher even as her strength flagged, draining away so her lunges became mistimed, almost clumsy. Still he would not end it but let her flail and hack at him while her breath rasped in her throat and rage turned her vision as red as blood.
Just as she began a last desperate advance, one of the cords holding her skirt above her ankles slipped its knot. Her hem dropped of its own weight. The toe of her half-boot caught in the fabric and she plunged forward. Steel flashed before her eyes, whispering past her, caressing her arm as she fell. She dropped her foil with a low cry as she reached out to catch herself.
Guarded Heart Page 6
