Mrs Blackwell? I will inform my cousin when I see him.’
She let go of the sword so abruptly that it would have fallen to the ground had he not had his hand on the hilt. He placed it on the table next to her bonnet with a smug look on his face. He thought she was trying to flirt with him in order to stay! He wasn’t taking her seriously.
Eleanor clenched her jaw. Very well. Lord Whittonstall deserved his comeuppance.
‘Do you have another sword? Perhaps I could demonstrate, as my word is clearly not enough,’ she said, striding away from him. Her body quivered with indignation. He wasn’t taking her seriously. ‘It is perhaps better that you see how it operates in actual practice. I can make any sword fly out of your hand in a few heartbeats.’
A muscle jumped in his jaw and she knew she’d hit a raw nerve. ‘If you wish. But you should be aware I am considered to be one of the top swordsmen in the country. The great Henry Angelo considers me to be his equal.’
‘Modesty is such an uncommon virtue that it takes my breath away when I behold it. I know the wrong sort of grip when I see it.’
‘Allow me to get my weapon of choice. I can’t allow such a challenge to go unanswered.’
Lord Whittonstall strode out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Eleanor put a hand to her head.
What had she done? Gone mad? She’d challenged Lord Whittonstall to a duel with no certainty of winning.
She picked up the sword intended for Sir Vivian and balanced it in her hand. Holding the blade made her more confident. She should be able to do it. She had to do it—to wipe the arrogant look off his face and find a way to stay here until Sir Vivian appeared.
‘Shall we see, Mrs Blackwell, who knows what they are about?’ Lord Whittonstall asked, coming back into the library, carrying one of her competitor’s swords. From the way he held it, she knew that he was far from a novice.
‘I look forward to it.’ She tucked an errant strand of black hair behind her ear and tried to quell her nerves. She knew how to fence. Better than most. And she could take advantage of his mistakes.
‘May the best … person win.’
‘You need to learn. En garde, my lord.’
Benjamin Grayson, the third Viscount Whittonstall, glowered at the black-shrouded creature standing before him, daring to lecture him on the inadequacy of his grip and challenging him to a duel. Did she actually think she’d win, or was she merely trying to prolong the time she was here, hoping to encounter his cousin?
If so, she was in for a shock. He’d defeat her in short order and the price of her defeat would be her departure.
The larger question, though, was why she was here at all. Had his cousin ignored the appointment, knowing it was going to be trouble, or had he truly forgotten?
He knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was about more than the sword Mrs Blackwell defiantly held in her hand. She had gone beyond the bounds of decorum to stay, and there was a faint air of desperation in her manner.
If he were a gambling man he’d be willing to wager a considerable sum that Mrs Blackwell’s need to see Viv had to do with the wretched state of Viv’s finances.
Viv and he had been close as boys, but had grown apart. His aunt’s latest missive had entreated him to come and discover what the true situation was. The trip made a welcome relief from his mother and her increasingly strong hints about his duty to provide an heir and preserve the dynasty. She ignored the fact that he had tried once and lost his wife. Tragic accident? Maybe one day he’d believe it. Maybe one day he’d stop blaming himself.
What he’d discovered up north gave him pause. Viv needed funds. Unless something was done it was only a matter of time before the bailiffs came knocking and Viv had to flee the country. And he did not intend that to happen. Viv had helped Ben in his hour of need at Eton. Fighting his corner. Ben would repay the favour now. He’d solve the mystery before Viv woke from his port-induced stupor and teach Mrs Blackwell a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget into the bargain.
‘Shall we have at it, Mrs Blackwell?’ he asked softly.
‘Whenever you are ready.’
Their swords clashed. He parried easily and did a counter-lunge, blocking her move. She took a step backwards. A tiny frown appeared between her brows and she slightly readjusted her grip.
‘Not as easy as you thought, Mrs Blackwell?’ he said in a withering tone. ‘You will see my grip needs no improvement. I am not a swordsman who wishes to have his sword disguised as a walking stick or festooned with frills, but a swordsman who spends hours practising my skill.’
‘You are worse than I imagined,’ she replied with the faintest trace of a smile. ‘Do try to put up a fight, Lord Whittonstall.’
She half-turned and countered his move with a parry, forcing Ben on the back foot. He missed his stroke and it was only through sheer instinct that he blocked her sword.
‘You do need some pointers. You have become complacent,’ she said with a tiny laugh.
Ben stared at her, seeing her for the first time as a person rather than as an object of pity or a woman to be indulged. A brain existed behind those grey eyes. She knew how to fence and in all likelihood was better than him. He rejected the thought. As good as he was.
‘Complacency? An interesting accusation,’ he said finally, moving a step closer to where she stood, ready for the next onslaught. Their swords crossed. They circled around each other. Their breath intertwined. Their faces were no more than a few inches apart. He was suddenly aware of the magnificence of her grey eyes and the determination of her chin.
‘But a true one. You play with skill but lack the heart. Every truly good fencer combines skill with a zest for life. Do you know where your heart is?’
Ben missed his step. He knew exactly where his heart lay—buried in a coffin with his wife and their baby who had never breathed. He remembered everything about the day when they had buried Alice and he had stood at the graveside, watching as the dirt slowly buried the coffin, listening to the sounds of sorrow, knowing that he’d never be whole again. Even the heavens had wept for his loss. He accepted that, but this—this had become about proving this woman wrong.
‘I beg to differ. This has nothing to do with hearts and everything to do with skill.’
‘An observation. But to truly rank among the greats you must fence with passion and fire.’
He redoubled his efforts, to show her that she was wrong. All it would take was his considerable technical skill.
She twisted her hand at the last possible instant. Sharp and to the right. His sword slid harmlessly past her shoulder, barely ruffling the black tendril of hair that had snaked loose from her bun.
He clenched his jaw. A mistake could happen to anyone at any time. The unpredictability was one of the things he loved about swordplay. But he had enough confidence in his ability to recover.
He concentrated on his next stroke. It was only a matter of time before her luck ran out and she made a mistake. Over-confidence would be her undoing.
She
