Читать книгу His Unsuitable Viscountess - Michelle Styles, Michelle Styles - Страница 7

May 1811, Durham County

What were the precise words you used when proposing marriage to a rake? Not necessarily the polite ones, but the words guaranteed to get results?

Miss Eleanor Blackwell paced Sir Vivian Clarence’s library, banging the newly forged rapier against her palm.

Proposing to Sir Vivian had seemed straightforward back at the foundry. In fact the ideal solution to her current dilemma. She needed a husband and Sir Vivian had debts to clear. But as she waited for Sir Vivian to appear doubts warred with desperation and she fought against a rising sense of panic.

Even if she did succeed in her proposal, was Sir Vivian the sort of man she wanted to be married to?

Eleanor glanced up at a particularly lewd painting of a woman reclining on a bower of flowers while two men fought over her with swords. She rolled her eyes and made a disgusted noise. The painter had made a mistake with the swords. No one would ever be able to fight with their bodies contorted in that fashion. Physically impossible.

Staring at the painting did nothing for her already jangled nerves. She needed to sort her speech out. Once she’d heard the words out loud she’d know if they were right or if they needed to be altered.

‘Sir Vivian,’ she began, turning her back on the painting. ‘Our previous acquaintance has been confined to business matters, but unfortunately my stepfather has died.’

Eleanor paused. There was nothing unfortunate about the manner of his death, brought on by eating far too many eels in direct defiance of the doctor’s orders. The world was a better place without his selfish ranting and fits of extreme temper.

The unfortunate part was the wording of the will—a will she could not challenge as being unenforceable without causing hardship to people she loved and rewarding her stepfather’s odious nephew, Algernon Forecastle. What was worse, she’d discovered that her stepfather had left instructions for Algernon on how to challenge Eleanor’s marriage should the unthinkable occur.

Even thinking about the clause and what failure would mean to so many hard-working people made a hard knot grow in her throat, and she found it impossible to continue with her speech.

Eleanor clenched her teeth. This was far from good. In order to propose marriage she had to be able to speak.

She tightened her grip on the sword. A new start with far less potential for emotional outbursts from her was needed. With the specifics about what she wanted and why. Facts and not feelings. This marriage was to be a business transaction without pretence to sentiment.

‘My great-great-grandfather founded Moles Swords. Sword-making is in my blood. I have made Moles Swords into what is today. However, my mother remarried in haste, without a proper settlement, and under English law all her possessions belonged to her new husband. At my mother’s deathbed my stepfather promised I would eventually inherit Moles. But my stepfather’s will declares that unless I marry within four weeks I will lose everything. Being a man of honour…’

Her eyes were drawn back to the painting. This time she noticed where the woman’s hands were. A profound sense of shock shot through her and her cheeks flamed.

What sort of man gave that sort of painting prominence?

Even the porcelain vases seemed more appropriate for a brothel than a gentleman’s residence. Did men of honour display such things in public rooms?

A severe pain pounded behind Eleanor’s eyes. She was doing the right thing, coming here and demanding he honour his word. The note she’d found yesterday stated: Name your price for your latest rapier and I will happily pay it, dear lady. She would hold him to it. Her price was marriage.

The marriage made sense. He had debts. She had money. She would ensure a proper settlement which would allow her to control the business. It could be done in time. Just.

All she needed was the courage to put the proposal in a way that Sir Vivian would accept.

Eleanor thrust forward with the sword. Death to all doubts!

‘Sir Vivian, it is imperative that I see you today. There is a matter which cannot wait.’

‘Alas, Sir Vivian is unavailable, Mrs Blackwell,’ a deep voice said. ‘I’m his cousin, Lord Whittonstall. Please accept my regrets for any inconvenience.’

She gaped at the man who strode into the library. With his curly black hair, olive-toned skin and hooded eyes, he was one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen. More a Greek statue come to life than an actual human being. The only flaw she could see was a tiny scar under his right eye.

‘Unavailable?’ she whispered, and her heart plummeted. Panic threatened to engulf her. How much had Lord Whittonstall overheard? It had to be very little or she’d sink to the ground in shame. Eleanor thrust the sword forward. ‘He has to be available. He simply must be.’

At Lord Whittonstall’s surprised expression she brought her hand down abruptly. The sword arced out of her hand, flew through the air and narrowly missed a particularly ugly Ormolu vase, landing with a clatter on the threadbare Turkish carpet. Eleanor stared at it in disbelief, biting the knuckle of her left thumb.

How could that happen to her today? Of all days?

She wanted the floor to swallow her. Or more preferably to be any place but here. But she knew she had to remain here and endure the humiliation. Without a successful marriage proposal her life would be worthless.

Lord Whittonstall briskly crossed the library and reached the sword before she had a chance to retrieve it.

‘It is a Moles rapier. The latest model,’ she said at his questioning glance. ‘My grip must have been off. I had something else on my mind. It has never happened before.’

‘I know the type of sword you make, Mrs Blackwell. Your reputation precedes you.’

His hooded gaze held hers. Dark with a guarded quality. It would be possible to drown in those eyes.

‘Which is?’ Eleanor asked. Her shoulders relaxed slightly. Everything would be fine. Lord Whittonstall knew who she was, had even used the courtesy title of Mrs, and no doubt held the swords her company made in the highest regard. She gulped a welcome breath of air.

‘Swords for the sort of gentleman who wants his sword to be noticed rather than used in combat. For someone who is more concerned about style than the actual substance of the thing. I have seen your advertisements—”a sword for the truly refined”. Nowhere do you mention its practicality.’

All thoughts of drowning in his eyes vanished. Eleanor struggled to retain a leash on her temper. He made it sound as if her swords were mere playthings. Didn’t he understand how hard everyone had worked to make them? What good was a sword if you couldn’t use it?

‘Moles are the sword of choice in seven regiments,’ she said, with crushing dignity. ‘They combine practicality with aesthetic beauty. And perhaps a little fun. A Moles gentleman is someone who enjoys novelty.’

His thin lips turned up into an arrogant smile. ‘They are your creation. You shape them, forge them from your own hands, and are therefore blind to their faults.’

‘I don’t actually make the swords,’ Eleanor explained, aware that her cheeks flamed. She could count on one hand the number of women who were successful in a business such as hers. ‘It is a common misconception.’

‘Indeed. My mistake. You are the figurehead.’

‘I run the business,’ Eleanor said firmly. ‘I know every inch of it. Each sword is the result of many men’s labours, from the humblest coal-picker to the master cutler sharpening the sword. Each design goes through rigorous testing and modification. A sword which is merely for show has no purpose. Everything needs to have a purpose. A good sword can save your life, whatever amusement it might provide at other times. Now, may I see your cousin, please? I have an appointment.’

‘With regret, my cousin remains unavailable. Your purpose must wait for another time.’

He obviously expected her to make her apologies and go. If she went Eleanor knew she’d never work up the courage to return. And the will specified her marriage had to take place within four weeks of its reading. That was in twenty-six days’ time. The settlement would take time to finalise. It was today or never.

Eleanor dug into her embroidered reticule, searching desperately for Sir Vivian’s note. ‘I have an appointment with Sir Vivian. It was confirmed in writing. Yesterday.’

She shoved the crumpled note towards him and willed him to relent.

‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but alas that is my cousin. Wonderful company but the attention span of a gnat.’

‘But …’ Eleanor looked at Lord Whittonstall in dismay. Tears of frustration pricked at her eyelids. After all her careful planning, it came down to Sir Vivian forgetting? All her plans for the future? Everything? Gone?

Her throat worked up and down but no sound came out.

‘You may leave a note for him,’ Lord Whittonstall said in a slow voice, as if he were speaking to a child. ‘I will personally ensure he receives it on his return.’

‘I need to see him in person.’ Eleanor 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 particular grip can make the slightest difference. Perhaps it is all in the pressure. Is that what you are attempting to say, 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 parried and then paused. Her long lashes swept down over her eyes, making dark smudges on her bright pink cheeks. The exertion of the match had transformed Mrs Blackwell from a colourless mouse into a vibrant creature.

He missed a step and barely recovered before he was forced to retreat backwards. He glanced over his shoulder as the table dug into his thighs. But he used it to propel himself forward and forced her on to the back foot. This time it was her sword which missed.

‘You appear to be losing. Do you wish to ask for quarter?’ he asked.

‘Never!’

Ben stared at Mrs Blackwell. A series of ringlets had formed about her forehead, making her appear far more womanly than he’d first considered. She might have the advantage now, but he would regain it. It was a matter of concentrating on the sword rather than on her parted lips or her grey eyes. No more distractions.

‘As you wish … I believe the time has come to end our bout.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

She lunged forward, twisting the sword and performing a perfect moulinet.

Ben moved his arm to block it a heartbeat too late. His grip shifted. He clung on—barely.

With a twist of her sword and the faintest hint of a smile she completed the move.

His sword arched out of his hand, landing embedded in her hideous coal scuttle of a bonnet.