Читать книгу The Courtesan - Julia Justiss - Страница 12

AUBREY MUST HAVE suspected Jack might have second thoughts about challenging Belle, for shortly after Jack rose the following morning, he answered a rap on his door to discover his friend standing in the hallway. “Help yourself to some ale,” Jack invited, suppressing a smile.

“Much obliged,” Aubrey said as he seated himself. “Wanted to arrive early and make sure you were prepared.”

“Or to make sure I went through with it?”

“No question about that,” Aubrey responded as he poured a glass. “Gave your word. Just thought I’d escort you over, me being your second of sorts.”

“Not a second—a principal,” Jack retorted wryly. “You being the one who volunteered me.”

“Could have refused if you’d wanted. But what man could resist the opportunity to win a kiss from Belle—especially one who has an excellent chance of succeeding?”

Jack wanted to protest, but honesty kept him silent. It would be gratifying to succeed where other men had failed, but Jack knew that deep down, what he sought most was a taste of the woman who so intrigued and attracted him. He had tossed restlessly most of the night, sleep eluding him as his mind kept conjuring vivid images of taking her in his arms, her mouth yielding, opening under his. In lieu of replying, he took a long draught of ale.

“I tipped the hackney driver to wait,” Aubrey said after draining his mug. “Given your reputation for swordplay, the gallery should be crowded. We must depart immediately if we wish to secure chairs.”

“I would rather stand at the side, where I can observe the lesson without it being obvious.”

“Search out her weaknesses,” Aubrey agreed, “though not being a fencer of your rank, I’ve yet to note any. You’ll not want to miss even the smallest opening that could allow you to win the wager—and perhaps persuade her that further intimacy would be even more enjoyable, eh?”

Jack laughed. “There’s little chance of that. I can’t meet her price, and I doubt my lovemaking skill is sufficient to impress a woman of Belle’s vast experience.”

“Did those French and Spanish ladies not teach you a trick or two?”

Jack shook his head. “Your vivid imagination again, Aubrey. Soldiers spend much more time slogging through dust, mud and rain to bed down on damp ground or in flea-infested hovels than romping with foreign beauties.”

Aubrey picked up Jack’s uniform jacket. “Please, don’t shatter my boyhood illusions. Your coat, sir. If Belle should take a liking to you, promise you’ll not forget the part I had in bringing you together.”

“I’m unlikely ever to forget,” Jack replied dryly as he fastened the jacket and buckled on his sword. He would not, he told himself as they proceeded to the waiting hackney, let his imagination play with the intoxicating notion of luring Belle into more than a simple kiss.

She’s a wanton who would bed any man for a price, his righteous mind protested. But such a wanton! the part of his brain devoted to pleasure replied. Hadn’t she kept Bellingham’s desire aflame for years? His whole body tightened at the notion of the love tricks she must know…He dare not allow himself to imagine those smooth white hands, those plump pink lips performing their magic on him.

Enough, he brought his thoughts up sternly. Let lust rule his head and, talented fencer that she was, she’d insure he didn’t win so much as one kiss.

As they approached the hackney, Edmund Darnley walked up. “Thought I’d come lend my support.”

“Come along,” Aubrey said. “But if Jack does succeed in winning Belle, he’s promised me the first introduction.”

“Winning Belle?” Edmund echoed with a puzzled look.

“Just Aubrey leaping to unsupported conclusions, as usual,” Jack replied. “There’s no question of anything but a kiss—which, I may add, I’ve yet to win.”

“Then let us take our places so you have maximum time in which to determine how to do so,” Aubrey said.

The three friends piled into the coach. A short time later, they entered the fencing room to find it, as Aubrey had predicted, already crowded. Jack nodded to Montclare and several others, while Rupert gave Jack a glacial glance as he passed to take up a place along the left wall.

A short time later, master and pupil walked in. Belle, dressed again in breeches and shirt, her golden hair pulled tightly back, ignored the assembly, focusing instead on inspecting her sword and testing its balance.

Releasing the breath he’d not realized he’d been holding, Jack wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or vexed that this time he hadn’t drawn to himself that compelling, focus-shattering gaze. Though she did not deign to look at him, he was acutely aware of her every movement.

He mustn’t, he reminded himself, become distracted by the shapely derriere hugged by her doeskin breeches as she bent to adjust her foil or the arresting curves outlined beneath the shirt as she raised her arm, lest he be trounced as ignominiously as Wexley.

And Lord help him, he wanted that kiss.

That kiss and more.

Alarmed by the insidious observation that sprang, as powerful as it was unwanted, from somewhere deep within him, Jack turned his attention to the fencing master.

After a brisk review of stance and positioning, master and pupil assumed their places. During the lesson, Belle displayed the same quickness of foot and ingenuity of movement Jack had noted in her previous bout with Armaldi.

She maneuvered the foil as if it were a natural extension of her arm, her hands light and quick, her stance well balanced and her intense concentration evident in the swift countering moves with which she met each of Armaldi’s advances. Though this time she did not disarm him, the match concluded with neither scoring a decisive advantage.

“Buono, mia bella,” Armaldi said. “You fence again?”

“Perhaps not,” Belle said. “I am a bit winded today.”

Already stepping toward the fencing floor, Jack halted, surprised by the refusal. Quelling a ridiculously keen sense of disappointment, he had to compress his lips to keep from adding his objection to the shouts of protest.

“But you must accept a challenge,” Ansley cried, dropping on one knee before her. “You gave your word!”

“Besides, someone particular has pledged to meet you today.” Jack heard Aubrey’s voice and sighed. “A soldier and veteran of Waterloo. Surely you won’t deny this heroic defender of England a chance to win a victory far sweeter than the one he wrested from the brutal fields of battle?”

Belle’s gaze swept the room and found Jack. For a long moment those intense blue eyes focused on his, sending a wave of shivers over his skin.

“You,” she said at last.

Jack bowed. “Captain Jack Carrington, ma’am, at your service. And perhaps later, if you are skillful enough, at your mercy.”

Her lips twitched at that, but in the next moment a man from the gallery strode forward, stripped to his shirtsleeves and obviously intending his own challenge.

As Jack watched the other man approach, the unexpected and disturbingly intense conviction seized him that the chance to fence with her, best her—kiss her—belonged to him and him alone. He had to squelch a strong, primal desire to draw his sword and repel any other contenders.

The other man frowned at Jack. “’Tis not fair for Belle to be challenged by a military man, a professional!” he protested to Armaldi.

“Do you imply ’tis impossible she could match him, Waterfield?” Aubrey shot back. “That’s presumptuous as well as ungentlemanly!”

While Waterfield sputtered that he’d not meant to disparage Belle’s skill, Lord Rupert raised his voice above the clamor of disputing opinions. “Mr. Waterfield speaks the truth, Captain. You have, by your friend’s admission, fought recently and in deadly earnest. To challenge Lady Belle, who fences upon occasion and for sport, would be to take unfair advantage of the terms of Ansley’s wager. I must ask you to decline.”

“You only wish him to step down because you fear he might actually win,” Aubrey inserted hotly.

Rupert ignored him, his gaze fixed on Jack. “Lady Belle, unusual though she be, is still but a woman. Though she has achieved a remarkable level of proficiency, it is hardly possible for one of her sex to acquire the strength and skill necessary to best an accomplished gentleman.”

Belle had been looking into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the argument around her, but at that, she snapped her gaze back. “You think me so paltry an opponent, my lord? ’Tis time, then, that I faced someone of unquestioned skill. Captain, I accept your challenge.”

Exclamations erupted from around the gallery, some protesting against Belle meeting a soldier, some calling for the match to begin. His pulse having leapt in anticipation as soon as Belle accepted the challenge, Jack ignored them all, striding instead to an exuberant Aubrey, who stripped off his jacket and handed him his sword.

Lord Rupert followed, still arguing as Jack readied himself, until at last Armaldi waved his arms and stamped his feet to command the group to silence.

“The lady has spoken,” he pronounced. “So be it.”

After attempting without success to stare down Armaldi, Lord Rupert at last reluctantly took his seat. “We shall have a reckoning over this,” he muttered to Jack.

Every nerve tightened by excitement and the tantalizing prospect of victory, Jack did not reply.

A moment later, he bowed again to Belle. “As eager as these gentlemen are to watch, so am I to test your skill.”

Lady Belle fixed him with a look whose icy coldness surprised him. “I daresay you are. En guarde, Captain!”

SO CARRINGTON’S FIRST name was Jack, Belle thought as she slowly circled him, looking for the opportunity to strike. She’d spotted him immediately, watching her, disturbing her concentration during her lesson as he’d disturbed her during the play last night.

Good that he had challenged her. In her current angry, restless mood, she welcomed the opportunity to strike out with the full fury that raged within her, a fury she always held in check when fencing with Armaldi.

So he wanted to “test her skill”? She could just imagine what sort of expertise he wanted to plumb.

She’d show him the edge of her blade, drive him back…Better yet, she decided, she’d feign the amateur and lure him to a humiliating defeat. Then he would leave her in peace and she could put him and his unsettling effect on her out of mind for good.

But though she tried to play on the disdain she suspected he harbored for her skill, attempted with weak and clumsy thrusts to make him commit to a lunge that would allow her to deliver a blow that knocked him off balance and perhaps off his feet, he refused to comply.

With a dawning respect for his perspicacity, Belle discarded that tactic and reverted to fencing him properly. Within a very few minutes, she began to wonder wryly whether she’d truly wanted this demanding a challenge.

Unlike her opponents thus far, Carrington was a fencer who truly knew the art, handling his blade with more finesse than anyone she’d yet faced, save Armaldi himself.

To have survived the slaughter of Waterloo, he must possess skill as well as luck. But she’d not expected a cavalryman, accustomed to brute slashing with a heavy saber, to be a master of subtle moves and shrewd strategy.

Just then he paused, and seizing that chance, Belle lunged. Their blades caught, forcing Armaldi to step in and untangle them.

Belle went immediately on the offensive again. Though the captain fell back, he never allowed her another opening. Seeming content to counter her moves with only an occasional strike back, he simply did not make any mistakes she could use to deliver the decisive hit.

Back and forth across the floor they continued. Belle’s hands grew sweaty, her breathing labored. Already tired by her lesson, she knew she was flagging. She would have to redouble her efforts before the captain could turn her growing fatigue to his advantage.

Breaking away to gather her breath, Belle caught sight of the gallery. Men stood beside their chairs, waving their fists and shouting, their eyes feverish, their faces distorted by an excitement very much like lust.

The captain paused also, watching her with those bold dark eyes, a slight smile on his face. Aside from the sheen of sweat on his face, he appeared not at all fatigued. Not at all challenged.

The humiliating, infuriating suspicion swept through Belle that the captain was not truly engaging her at all. No, he was merely playing with her, checking her moves to keep from being pricked, but not using his full abilities.

Once again, a man was toying with her—while other men watched and cheered him on.

Frustration, fatigue and anger ignited into a fireball of fury that, intensified by remembered shame and pain, blazed out of control. Her eyes narrowed, her head and body felt suddenly light and her breast filled with a single, murderous desire for vengeance.

On the fencer now taunting her. On all of them.

Teeth clenched in a snarl, she attacked.

PAUSING HIMSELF as Lady Belle paused for a respite, Jack assessed his opponent. She was amazingly good, and he’d been hard-pressed to protect himself without resorting to the dragoon’s killing slash that might have injured her, despite the protective bit of cork attached to their foils.

But not having the stamina he had developed after years of performing this deadly game, she was tiring. A few more turns about the room, he judged, and her arms would weaken, her steps start to falter. Then, he would wait for an opportunity to disarm her…and win that kiss.

His whole body stirring at the notion, he smiled slightly. And then suddenly she sprang at him.

Whipping up his blade to protect his face, he was forced to concentrate all his energies on defending himself as, in a frenzy of thrusts and parries, she drove him hard.

Even as sweat began dripping from his face and soaking his gloves, he wondered what had happened. Between one instant and the next, this match had ceased to be a test of skill. He’d fought in enough battles to recognize in the ferocity of Lady Belle’s attack the blood lust of an adversary bent not on simple victory—but on murder.

As he parried one furious slash, the momentum of her lunge carried the deflected blade to the floor, embedding the tip into the wood. With a growl, Belle yanked the blade free—leaving behind the cork protector.

He should call the match to a halt, he thought as she drove him into a corner and tried to pin him. But before he could bring himself to end this curious, exhilarating contest, he gazed down into her eyes.

And encountered a look of such complete, blind hatred that it shocked him to the soul. Unable to imagine what he could possibly have done to have inspired so venomous an expression, for an instant he stood motionless.

In the next instant, he saw light dancing off a flash of blade, felt a blow to the chest followed by a searing, white-hot pain. As he looked down in bemusement, blood began seeping from a hole beneath his left shoulder.

For a long moment, he watched the pulsating flow while the voices from the gallery faded to a hum. His head grew light, his limbs clumsy. Dimly he noted the sword falling from his nerveless fingers.

As the room flickered and dissolved into black, he realized that he wasn’t going to win that kiss after all.