by Valerie King
He shifted on his feet, his teeth grinding a little. He did not wish to see Abigail caught up in another man’s arms. He would not stand for it.
If he heard Lavant chuckling nearby, he ignored him entirely.
Treyford did not experience even the smallest abatement of his irritation during dinner. Geoffrey Ferrers knew how to be a charming dinner companion, and because he was seated between Mrs. Marisfield and Abigail, he took turns conversing with each of them, as was proper. Treyford found himself watching Abigail carefully. Every smile she bestowed on Geoffrey, every intelligent remark, every chuckle following one of the man’s witticisms, worked strongly in him. What if she concluded she had erred in breaking off her engagement to Ferrers? He would whisk her away from Devonshire so swiftly that it would be as though a whirlwind had swept through Oak Hill.
At one point, Lavant caught his attention and eyed him with just such an expression in his eye as indicated his own belief that Abigail was in serious danger of once more falling beneath Ferrers’s spell. Shortly after, he signaled for his daughter to lead the ladies to the drawing room.
Treyford consumed his port, all the while assessing his foe. He had only one intention at this juncture, to be rid of Ferrers as quickly as possible.
Once the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Ferrers, having promised to show Sarah the latest improvements in the waltz, suggested that the party remove to the ballroom. Mrs. Marisfield offered to play the pianoforte for them, and before long everyone was leaving the drawing room.
Because Mr. Ferrers was escorting Sarah, Treyford offered his arm to Abigail. Once in the hallway, however, he held her back. “Do you still love him?” he asked quietly.
“Who? Geoffrey?”
Treyford nodded.
“N-no,” she responded slowly.
“Ah. I must say such a response does not convince me. You sound doubtful.”
She smiled and stared at the tips of her slippers as she moved slowly down the hall beside him. “I must confess I still hold him in a great deal of affection. After all, it was not so long ago that I thought I would be his wife. The decision to part from him was exceedingly painful, and this evening he has behaved more the gentleman than I thought he would. I have found myself relieved and, yes, reminded of just why I had accepted his hand in the first place.”
“Well, I wish he had continued as he began this afternoon, for then I know I should have had the opportunity to draw his cork, as I did Mr. Pomeroy’s.”
She glanced up at him and smiled. “I hope you are funning.”
“Not in the least. I vow I shall not be content until I have wrestled all of your beaus from off your person.”
* * * * * * * * *
Abigail could not help but laugh yet felt beneath Treyford’s joking words a serious tone. Treyford was right to feel a little concern, since Geoffrey had succeeded in capturing her interest during dinner. He had been at his most charming and she had been caught by it.
However, the truth was simple—for all of Geoffrey’s charm, he could not give her what she desired so very much.
Perhaps, the real question, then, was also quite simple—could the man walking beside her do any differently? He was, after all, separated from Three Rivers Cross society. Could she ever accept so isolated an existence were she to become his wife?
She glanced up at him again and he winked at her.
He smiled and winked. She chuckled in response. She had never had a beau wink at her before.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I would steal a kiss from you later, Abigail, if you would permit it.”
A spattering of gooseflesh rose along her neck where his breath had touched her skin. She responded in kind, “If I permitted such a kiss, you would not be stealing it from me.”
He squeezed her arm. “Then, be warned,” he murmured. “I shall not ask permission again.”
Abigail felt a familiar, delightful queasiness once more assail her. Oh, but she liked Treyford very much. He possessed the unique ability to make her laugh in one moment, and in the next to feel wonderfully passionate. She also knew him well enough to believe that when she least expected it, he would steal his kiss.
By the time she crossed the threshold of the ballroom, Mrs. Marisfield was playing the waltz on Lavant’s fine pianoforte and Geoffrey was guiding Sarah around the ballroom floor. She chanced to glance at Mr. Ditchling and saw that he appeared rather panic-stricken. She knew the cause—Geoffrey was a tall, handsome, and quite engaging man who knew how to lead a lady, even a very young one, around a ballroom floor. He was also closer in age to Sarah than himself.
She felt compelled to intervene, and as soon as Mrs. Marisfield played the final chord of the waltz, she released Treyford’s arm and moved forward immediately. “You must show me now,” she declared forcefully, “and afterward Mrs. Marisfield, for I shall happily play the instrument for her benefit as well.”
Geoffrey, a little startled by Abigail’s intrusion, bowed gallantly to Sarah and accepted this change without the smallest objection. The only hiccough was the buoyant laughter that suddenly filled the air from Mr. Lavant, who undoubtedly had seen through her ploy. When she glanced at him, intending to scowl him down, she saw to her surprise that he was not watching her at all but, rather, Treyford who in turn wore a decidedly mulish expression on his face.
She saw his dislike of her scheme in the hard lines of his face and in the way he glared his disapproval at her. So, he did not wish her to be in Geoffrey’s arms even for a moment. She then realized he had purposely arrived a few seconds early to the drawing room in order to prevent Geoffrey from planting himself next to her. Treyford was jealous.
She was so caught up in these ruminations, in the concern they aroused in her mind, she only scarcely noticed that she had slid easily into the dancing embrace of her partner. She was shocked into the awareness of how happy Geoffrey was to be waltzing with her when he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “This is where you should be always, my darling.”
She drew back. “Geoffrey, I beg you will not say such things to me. Please attend to your steps.”
He merely smiled but unfortunately caught her tightly at the waist and kept her pinned far too close to him for comfort.
“Geoffrey, please,” she murmured again as he whirled her this way, then that.
“Why do you protest now, when you all but insisted upon waltzing with me?” he asked reasonably.
She could not have this conversation with him, not in front of several spectators, and why did Mr. Lavant have to keep laughing as he was, and why had Treyford taken several steps toward them, standing sentinel over the dance.
Her unease began to grow. Finally, she pushed him away, calling out airily as she stopped dancing, “The steps are not so very different after all.”
“This was the old waltz—yes, please continue, Mrs. Marisfield. Abigail, the new steps are these.” He did not wait, but drew her forcefully back into his arms again and once more set her feet to moving around the ballroom floor.
There was nothing for it. Unless she wished to battle Geoffrey in front of everyone, she would have to submit to the dance.
She did not have to wait much longer, however, for Treyford was suddenly beside them. “The lady does not wish to dance,” he stated so heatedly that Geoffrey stopped without hesitation.
“My lord?” he queried, disbelieving he had done anything wrong.
“Miss Chailey does not wish to dance. Even a nodcock can see as much.”
Geoffrey glanced at Abigail. “Is this true? Have I overstepped the mark again?”
Abigail looked from one man to the other and finally directed her remarks to Mr. Lavant. “Must you keep laughing?” With that, since the situation was beyond her ability to manage, she flounced from the ballroom. Sarah and Mr. Ditchling followed behind her, as did Mr. and Mrs. Marisfield.
Abigail found she was trembling by the time she reached the drawing room. She made her profuse apo
logies to Mr. Ditchling and to the Marisfield’s. Mr. Marisfield offered to fetch her a sherry. “For you are grown very pale,” he said.
“Yes, thank you, I should like it above all things.”
She then suggested that Mr. Ditchling might like to take Sarah to the terrace for a little air.
“An excellent notion,” Mr. Ditchling said, offering his arm to Sarah.
When her pupil hesitated, Abigail smiled. “Please; I wish you to be content, and it would seem I must make myself clear to Mr. Ferrers once more, and with that dilemma, I fear no one can help me.”
Sarah smiled in return. “Very well, but if you have need of me, pray send for me.”
Abigail tilted her head. “I shall,” she responded. How very much of a lady Miss Lavant was becoming, and that so quickly, as though she had been a bud ready to bloom all this time.
When they were gone, Mrs. Marisfield took up a place beside Abigail on the peach silk sofa. “I would have ceased playing had I known what was going forward.”
“I was not even aware of it,” she responded. “And I had meant only to give Mr. Ditchling a little relief since Geoffrey was not withholding even a morsel of his charm in his attentions to Sarah.”
Mr. Marisfield brought her the glass of sherry. “Thank you,” she said, taking a sip. “I do not know what came over me to rail at Mr. Lavant as I did.”
“I believe I can comprehend a little of your sentiments. If I am not much mistaken, in the past few days, two of your previous suitors have been here already, pressing their suits in just such a manner as to have seriously frayed your nerves.”
“That much is true. I am mortified beyond words when I think on it, and then Geoffrey began holding me in a most inappropriate manner. And Mr. Lavant kept laughing.”
Mr. Marisfield shook his head. “In many respects, I truly admire Lavant, but he can be a bit thoughtless at times.”
Abigail took another sip of sherry. “When Treyford approached looking thunderous, I truly did not know what to do. I feared—”
She could not complete her thought, for Mr. Lavant was suddenly on the threshold, the door thrown wide. “Good God. I would have prevented it if I could, but the gentlemen have picked up their swords.”
“Swords?” the ladies said together.
“Fencing swords, in the ballroom.”
Abigail felt the color drain from her face as she quickly tossed off the remaining sherry. “Geoffrey and Treyford to fence? But they are both inordinately skilled in the art. Indeed, I would not know which has the finer reputation.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Marisfield said. “This is bad, very bad indeed.”
Fourteen
The ladies fairly ran back in the direction of the ballroom.
“What happened? How did this come about?” Abigail asked, gasping as she moved swiftly down the hall.
“After you left, the gentlemen exchanged words and the result was a challenge to a sword fight.”
“A duel,” both ladies said.
Abigail was stunned.
“No, not a duel, at least not precisely. Pray, slow down. I cannot keep running like this. I am an old man. Ah, that is better.” He drew in several deep breaths as he continued walking. “No, it was not a duel, though Treyford certainly provoked Mr. Ferrers sufficiently. It would seem he took exception to the waltz you shared with your former beau. The gentlemen stared at each other for a long while after you quit the ballroom so hastily. Mr. Ferrers politely asked if Trey still took a lesson now and then from his fencing master in London. Trey responded that he did, then asked if I had a pair of swords they might use for a short time, just for a little amusement.”
“A little amusement!” the ladies said again in unison.
“And you let them?” Mrs. Marisfield cried.
Abigail picked up her pace once more. “Oh, Mr. Lavant, why ever did you tell them you had swords they might use?”
“Only a woman would ask such a question,” he returned, scowling.
There was nothing more to be said. The men were dueling; there could be no two opinions on that head, even if the affair was spontaneous and not precisely arranged in the formal manner.
When Abigail arrived once more on the threshold of the ballroom, her heart seemed to stop in her breast. Both men were in shirtsleeves with only the thin linen fabric protecting each from a sword point.
The steel blades clanged, clashed, and swished with such speed that at any given moment she could not tell where exactly the swords were. She had been right about one thing, the two men were extremely well matched, though of the two, Treyford seemed a trifle more aggressive, since he repeatedly forced Geoffrey backward in his movements and only occasionally gave up ground himself.
She wanted to call out for the men to cease, but feared distracting either of them.
Within a few minutes, the sounds of the scraping swords competed with the men’s breathing. The rapidity of the movements and the vast amount of room that the parrying and thrusting used up every few seconds was enough to wear out the viewer, not to mention either Geoffrey or Treyford.
In a sudden rush of movement, Treyford caught Geoffrey beneath his chin with his sword hand, forcing him backward several steps in a row. “Have you had enough, Ferrers?” Trey asked hoarsely.
“Not by half,” Geoffrey spit out in return.
Treyford lunged and the clashing recommenced. Ferrers doubled his speed and attack so that the contest became frighteningly loud. Each man would occasionally grunt as sweat beaded on their foreheads.
Geoffrey began visibly to weaken. His movements slowed and a corresponding expression of triumph overcame Treyford’s face. He pressed his opponent harder still, backward about the chamber. Geoffrey’s breath came in heaving gasps. In desperation, he flung a chair in Treyford’s path, which caused the viscount to stumble even though he remained on his feet.
Abigail could not contain her horror and cried out.
Treyford’s attention wavered. Ferrers’s sword slashed and Treyford’s shirt was sliced up one side. A gush of blood accompanied the cut. Treyford fell to the floor. For the barest moment, Geoffrey appeared as though he meant to run him through.
“Geoffrey, no!” Abigail shouted, toward the men.
Geoffrey turned in her direction, his eyes wide with battle fever. He scarcely saw her at first. Finally, he said, “What the devil are you doing here?” His breathing was ragged.
“Only look what you have done.” she said, gesturing toward Treyford.
He glanced at his opponent. “Good God.”
“You have nearly killed him and you did not behave the gentleman by throwing a chair under his feet. How could you have done anything so ignoble?”
“What are you talking about?” He glanced around the chamber and saw the chair on its side. “Did I do that? I—I wasn’t thinking. I was so deuced tired and he kept coming at me like a full brigade. Treyford, I do beg your pardon.”
He extended his hand to help the viscount up, but Mr. Lavant intervened. “You had best leave Lord Treyford to me,” he said. “May I suggest you leave my house—at once.”
Geoffrey turned an anguished face to Abigail. “I am sorry,” he said. “I never meant . . . I didn’t think . . .”
Abigail nodded. “As well you should regret what you’ve done, but I believe it is all of a piece with you. You did not think, Geoffrey. You never do. You live your life by instinct alone, and these do not always serve you.”
“Abigail,” he said, his hands spread wide.
“I will speak plainly, and I beg this time you will hear me when I say I can never marry you. Indeed, I could never marry a man who would comport himself in this manner, particularly when Lord Treyford has already begged formal permission to court me.”
“What?” he said, shocked.
“And I gave him permission. Your disregard for his avowed intentions have astonished me.”
“But I didn’t know.”
“You could have known quite easily had
you merely observed his conduct toward me.”
He stood before her, utterly dashed.
“Good-bye, Geoffrey.”
Geoffrey glanced around him, at Treyford, who was being attended by Mr. Lavant, and at the Marisfield’s, who regarded him solemnly. “There is nothing more to be said,” he murmured.
“No, there is not,” Abigail stated firmly,
Geoffrey drew himself upright and made his apologies. The Marisfield’s offered to escort him to the front door, a kindness he readily accepted. “For I vow of the moment I could not find my way,” he admitted. A moment later, and he was gone.
Abigail dropped to her knees beside Mr. Lavant, who had rolled up the bottom of Treyford’s shirt and pressed it against the wound to try to stop the bleeding. “Hurts like the devil, eh?” he asked Treyford lightly.
“It’s little more than a scratch,” Treyford returned. His breathing had slowed and the color had returned to his cheeks.
“Nay, do not try to rise. I shall fetch Stockleigh. He has had the tending of every wound on my property since times out of mind. He will know what to do. Abigail, use your petticoat and stop the bleeding.” With this final command, he quickly left the ballroom.
Abigail did not hesitate but lifted the skirts of her green silk gown and quickly tugged at her shift until a ruffle of white muslin tore away from the hemline. She unbuttoned Treyford’s shirt and after forming the muslin into a thick square, placed it securely against the cut, which proved not to be so very deep after all.
She could finally breathe. “I see you are not mortally wounded,” she said, smiling in some relief.
“No,” he laughed. “I spoke truly. A scratch only. I was glad of it though. There was a blood lust in Ferrers’s eye. I thought for certain one of us might die if I did not bring our match to a quick end.”
“I am glad of it, then, but I am still angry that Geoffrey threw the chair in front of you.”
“I chose not to skirt it. I could easily have done so.”
“Indeed? What are you saying?”
