hated the way her voice squeaked on the last syllable. Lord Whittonstall couldn’t turn her away—not while her goal was so close. And the entirety of her scheme was dependent upon her making her appeal in person. Leaving a note was impossible. She pulled her shoulders back and looked at him with her best closing-the-sale gaze. ‘How long will he be?’
‘Impossible.’
‘But he will return. I understand he is in residence? I’m willing to wait.’
Lord Whittonstall tilted his head. His dark eyes assessed her, sweeping from the crown of her black feathered bonnet to the hem of her black silk gown. His frown increased. ‘A respectable woman in a single gentleman’s house?’
‘Lady Whittonstall is not here?’ Eleanor asked, grasping for an amicable solution, and then winced silently. His entire countenance had changed, becoming remote and forbidding. She had chosen the wrong words.
‘My wife died years ago and my mother is elsewhere.’
‘I’m sorry. Truly I am.’
If anything Lord Whittonstall became more granite-like, and Eleanor knew only some vestige of politeness prevented him from throwing her out of the house.
‘You never knew her,’ he said, in a voice which would cut through steel. ‘What is there to be sorry about? Mawkish sentimentality is one of the more depressing features of modern society.’
The pain in Eleanor’s head became blinding. She wanted to escape and hide under the bedcovers, start the day again. On a day that she needed everything to go right, everything was going wrong.
‘An expression of politeness is never out of place.’ She took a deep breath and hated how her stomach knotted. She couldn’t afford any more mistakes. ‘And it is never easy to lose someone who is dear to you. No matter how long it has been, it still hurts. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my grandfather and his wisdom.’
She finished with a placating smile and hoped. The ice in his eyes softened.
‘Your expression of sympathy was far from necessary, I assure you. A tragic accident—or so they told me.’ He inclined his head but his mouth bore a bitter twist. ‘I thank you for it. I believe that is the response you require. Will you now depart?’
Eleanor kept her chin up. She refused to be intimidated and quit the field. ‘If I go, the sword goes. You might discount Moles swords, but Sir Vivian is a keen customer. He wants the sword. Desperately. He wrote to me, begging for it.’
He balanced the sword in his hand before making an experimental flourish with it. ‘Despite the workmanship of the hilt, it seems barely adequate. This sword would fly out of your hand in a trice—as indeed it did earlier.’
‘Your grip is wrong.’
He raised an arrogant eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You will lose your sword in combat if you are not careful, but it is a matter that can be easily solved.’ Eleanor swallowed hard. She’d done it again. Spoken before she thought. Said the wrong thing. But she had started now. He deserved it for being pompous—and his grip was appalling.
She glanced up at him. There was a gleam of speculation in his eye. It was a small opening, a glimmer of a chance. She needed to capture his interest if she was going to remain in this house until Sir Vivian returned.
‘You would lose any sword if your opponent possessed even a modicum of skill,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady as her mind worked feverishly.
‘Excuse me?’ His smile became withering. ‘You sent this sword flying through air without any provocation and you are telling me that my grip is wrong?’
‘If someone comes at you with a counter-lunge you will struggle.’ She gave a small pointed cough. He hadn’t thrown her out yet. She had to take this one chance to convince him to allow her to stay. And in doing so, if she improved his technique, so much the better. ‘They will be able to send the sword spinning out of your hand if they do a moulinet.’
‘A moulinet is slow, and easy to twist out of if you know what you are doing. I doubt anyone could disarm in that fashion,’ he said, as if he were addressing a child rather than the owner of the best sword manufacturer in the country. ‘I must assume you know precious little about swords and the actual art of fencing, despite your position.’
White-hot anger flashed through Eleanor. Who did he think he was? ‘Is that a challenge? Do you want me to prove my assertion?’
‘If you like …’ He shrugged out of his velvet cutaway coat and put it on the back of an armchair. ‘Never let it be said that I am unwilling to accept criticism.’
Her hands undid her bonnet and tossed it on a table. The black feathers kept falling over the brim, making it impossible to see straight. And taking it off would make it more difficult for him to get rid of her.
‘That sword is made to be held in a certain way and you are curling your fingers incorrectly,’ she said, returning to his side.
‘Indeed?’ He arched one perfect eyebrow.
She stood beside him. His scorn was not going to intimidate her. His crisp scent rose around her, holding her, making her aware of him. Why did he have to be so beautiful? Eleanor swallowed hard and attempted to concentrate.
‘Show me.’ He held out the blade with the faintest trace of a smile. ‘What is the correct grip, my dear Mrs Blackwell?’
Eleanor froze. Was he flirting with her? Or mocking her? Men like him didn’t flirt with women like her. She knew her shortcomings. Her stepfather always catalogued them when he’d taken port—too tall, too thin, a strong chin and eyes far too big. No, Lord Whittonstall was being condescending, thinking to humour her and get her out of here.
‘I’m not your dear,’ she muttered finally.
‘A mere figure of speech.’ He looked at her through a forest of lashes. Men should not have lashes like that—particularly not arrogant aristocrats. ‘I shall remember not to call you that.’
‘You need to put your hand like this,’ she said concentrating on the hilt of the sword rather than on his eyes. ‘It is the slightest of adjustments but it makes all the difference.’
‘As simple as that?’ He curled his fingers about hers. ‘I want to make certain I am doing this properly. I’d hate to think I’ve been holding my sword incorrectly for all these years.’
‘You seek to mock me, sir.’
‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I wish to learn and further my skill. Help me to understand, Mrs Blackwell, why your swords are held in such esteem.’
She focused on the sword rather than on how his fingers had accidentally brushed hers. ‘A simple mistake, which is far too common amongst swordsman of a certain type for my liking.’
‘A certain type?’
‘Ones who failed to listen to their instructor.’
‘Do I have it right now?’ he asked. His voice flowed over her like treacle. ‘I fail to see how this
