His Unsuitable Viscountess
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.
Chapter Two
Ben stared at the sword where it lay. Disbelief swiftly followed by horror coursed through him. He went over the moves in his mind. It should have been impossible, but the evidence stared at him, quivering in the black bonnet. Mrs Blackwell had not boasted. He’d lost his sword.
He glanced at her, ready for tears or possibly hysterics at the loss of a bonnet. A small infectious bubble of laughter escaped from her covered mouth, swiftly followed by another larger one.
To Ben’s surprise, a laugh loud and long exploded from him in response to the joyous sound of Mrs Blackwell’s mirth. The sound made him pause. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spontaneously laughed with a woman. Probably before Alice died. He hadn’t laughed much since then, and certainly not this all-consuming belly laugh.
‘Oh, dear.’ She dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It couldn’t have happened to a nicer bonnet. You should have seen your expression when the sword flew out of your hand. Priceless.’
He sobered immediately. He’d misjudged her and over-estimated his own skill. He pulled his sword out of the now ruined bonnet. ‘I owe you a bonnet and an apology. I was insufferably rude and pompous. It was uncalled for.’
She shook her head. ‘The bonnet was far from my favourite, but it seemed appropriate to wear it. You owe me nothing and I thank you for the apology.’
‘Appropriate to wear?’ Ben eyed the hat. Rather funereal. The back of his neck prickled. What did Mrs Blackwell want to see Viv about?
‘One must look proper when one makes an important business call.’
Ben regarded her upturned face, flushed from their exertions. Her eyes sparkled and her lips shone the colour of port. Mrs Blackwell was far more attractive than he’d first considered. He should send her away right now. It was the correct thing to do. But she intrigued him. He wanted to learn her secret. Why was Mrs Blackwell desperate, and why was Viv the only person who could help her?
‘Viv remains, alas, unavailable. Can I assist you with this mysterious matter?’
Eleanor gulped. Lord Whittonstall’s words pounded through her brain—can I assist you? She wasn’t even going to think about confessing her predicament to Lord Whittonstall. Or asking for his help. She had nothing to offer him.
‘It must be Sir Vivian,’ Eleanor said, her stomach clenching. She hated the way she felt as if an opportunity had slipped past. ‘It has to be him and no other.’
‘You are doomed to disappointment.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Then we must agree to disagree.’
Eleanor bit her lip. She had said the wrong thing—reminding him about the meeting, about why she was here. That moment of camaraderie and laughter they had shared vanished. And she wanted it back. She had to find a way before he manoeuvred her out through the door and her chance to ask Sir Vivian slipped away for good.
‘Shall we fight again?’ she asked as brightly as she could. ‘Best out of three? Give you a chance to prove that it was luck on my part?’
‘I know when to admit my mistakes.’ He raised his rapier in a gesture of respect.
She returned the gesture, ending the bout. She searched her mind for another excuse to stay, but she seemed fresh out of ideas.
‘I must congratulate you, Mrs Blackwell. You are a worthy opponent. And your swords are far more than mere decoration for the well-dressed gentleman.’
He took a step closer to her. Her sword would have dropped to the ground if he had not taken it from her slack grasp. He placed it beside his.
‘We won’t need these.’
‘Yes. I believe I have proved my point.’ Her voice sounded husky to her ears.
He stood a few inches taller than she was, but not too tall. His eyes were not coal-black, as she’d originally supposed, but full of a thousand different colours from the deepest black to light grey and every colour in between.
Her heart pounded in her ears and she knew she was far too breathless, far too aware of him as a man rather than as an opponent.
‘You are a far better swordswoman than I considered possible.’ His voice held a new rich note that flowed over her, warming her to the tips of her toes.
‘Fancy that. You admitting defeat so easily.’ She attempted a little laugh but it came out far too high. She winced and studied the folds of his cravat. Intently.
‘I never hesitate to admit my mistakes. It is part of my charm.’
Charm? He was trying to flirt with her after she’d bested him? Eleanor struggled to get her breathing under control.
‘Is it?’ she whispered through aching lips.
This had been all about proving that Lord Whittonstall had underestimated her rather than a prelude to flirtation. But right now all she could think about was him and the way his lips moved. All she had to do was move forward a pace and she’d be in his arms.
She lifted her eyes.
Their gaze locked. He lifted a hand and touched her forearm.
Somewhere a door banged, bringing her back to reality.
Eleanor jumped backwards. Shocked. She had nearly stepped straight into Lord Whittonstall’s arms and destroyed everything she held dear.
Her proposal to Sir Vivian needed to happen. It was her best chance of securing Moles’ future. Everything would be lost if she was discovered in this man’s arms. Her employees—the men who literally sweated over an open fire to make the swords—depended on her getting this right. Saving the company. This marriage was not about her; it was about giving them a future. Guilt washed over her. How could she have forgotten what was at stake for a single instant?
He stood staring at her, not moving a muscle.
She bent her head and pretended great interest in the hilt of the sword. Pointing to it, trying to get back to some semblance of normality, she said, ‘Lord Whittonstall, as you can see, I had the correct grip and the sword has stayed in my hand.’
‘Is fencing all you can think about?’
His voice sent a warm tingle coursing down her spine. She ruthlessly ignored it. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t interested in her. Men never were. If her stepfather were to be believed she possessed no sense of refinement and all the charm of a rogue bear.
‘It will do for now.’
‘And for later?’
She tried not to think about Lord Whittonstall drawing her into his arms and kissing her thoroughly. She’d accepted her fate a long time ago.
‘Are you seeking a rematch, Lord Whittonstall? A chance to prove you can learn from your mistakes?’ She lifted her head.
His dark gaze held hers. ‘When the time is right. I want to see if there is anything else I need to learn.’
She found it impossible to look away. He was going to kiss her. Every fibre of her being told her so. Against everything logical, he was going to do it. He was going to actually kiss her and she wanted him to.
‘Do you believe me now … about the grip?’ Her voice sounded far too breathless and reedy. ‘How that subtle change can transform your prospects of success?’
‘You have challenged a number of notions today. And I will accept your word on the swords. I had misjudged them.’
His hand smoothed a curl from her forehead before brushing her skin—a feather-light touch, but one that sent an unfamiliar jolt of heat through her. She wanted him to lean forward and … She flicked her tongue over her lips.
‘What is going on here?’ a high-pitched male voice asked, and she froze. ‘Why wasn’t I informed that there was swordplay in the library? My library?’
‘Nothing is injured, Viv. All things in moderation,’ Lord Whittonstall said, smoothly moving away from her.
‘Yes, but my Ormolu vases! My carpet! I might not read, but I like my books to look as if I do.’
Lord Whittonstall’s dark eyes shone with mischief. ‘Everything survived except for Mrs Blackwell’s bonnet—and that was her own fault.’
Lord Whittonstall retrieved his black velvet cut-away coat and put it on, becoming utterly correct again. The moment of intimacy slid away as if it had never been.
Eleanor struggled to fill her lungs. Saved from scandal. She was here for a purpose, a business transaction. Not some sort of tryst where she’d end up humiliated. Her hands shook slightly.
She should be relieved, but a stab of disappointment went through her. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t going to kiss her.
She shook her head. Desiring to be kissed had no part in her plans. All it did was make her look as ridiculous as her unlamented bonnet.
She grabbed her ruined bonnet and twisted it. One of the feathers snapped in two.
‘Is this what you mean by moderation in all things, Ben—duelling in my library?’
Eleanor half turned and saw her true quarry—Sir Vivian Clarence. Her heart sank. With reddened eyes and a sallow cast to its skin, his face showed distinct signs of hard living. An odour of stale wine hung about him—a stench that reminded her of her stepfather. Worse still were Sir Vivian’s voice, his mincing gestures with his hands, and the overly fussy way he wore his cravat. And he had the beginnings of a bald patch. He repulsed her. Utterly and completely repulsed her.
She could not imagine why she had ever thought he might be a suitable candidate.
How could she have forgotten his voice and his mannerisms? Why had she focused solely on his offer?
She could not even imagine asking him to escort her across the road, let alone become her husband and all that entailed.
It simply showed what a foolhardy scheme it had been in the first place. It should make her feel better, but somehow it didn’t. Her problem remained. She needed a husband desperately—but not that desperately. She wasn’t going to suffer her mother’s fate.
Eleanor gave Lord Whittonstall a panicked look. What if she begged him to marry her? He was a widower. They would have kissed if Sir Vivian hadn’t come in.
Instantly she rejected the idea—why would he accept her, or her proposition? And to be turned down would be far too humiliating. She had little desire to know if that moment when she’d thought he was about to kiss her had been real or not.
Neat footwork was required here. There was no way she could put her proposition to either of them. There had to be another way to find a bridegroom. Giving up and allowing her stepfather and Algernon Forecastle to win was not an option.
It was there on the edge of her brain, just waiting. She kept her eyes on the stone floor and concentrated, but her mind remained frustratingly blank. All she could think about was how Lord Whittonstall’s breath had fanned her cheek. She needed to return to being the sensible businesslike Mrs Blackwell this instant.
‘I was merely attempting to see what was so wonderful about Moles swords. Mrs Blackwell has made me a convert.’
She glanced up, startled. Lord Whittonstall made a bow and held out the sword. His eyes challenged her. The time to deliver the sword had arrived. She had to explain why she’d been so insistent that the interview take place.
Eleanor put her hand to her throat but no words came out.
‘The sword is a gift from you, cousin?’ Sir Vivian’s cheeks became tinged with pink. ‘You should have said, Ben. I thought you only wanted to berate me for spending my money like water and you’ve bought me a top-drawer sword. We will have that talk—the one I have been avoiding. I need to do you the courtesy of listening.’
‘Not from me,’ Lord Whittonstall said, inclining his head. ‘From Mrs Blackwell. But her purpose in giving it remains a mystery. She insists on speaking to you and only you. The mystery has me flummoxed.’
‘From Moles … for your birthday,’ Eleanor said quickly, before she gave in to her impulse to flee. This whole thing had turned into a nightmare. How could had she have blocked Sir Vivian’s voice from her memory? She should have remembered it from their previous meetings. And the fact he drank port to excess!
‘But you were duelling in my library!’ Sir Vivian squeaked, turning a strange shade of puce.
‘Lord Whittonstall believed that Moles’ swords were mere flash.’ Eleanor kept her voice steady. If she skated around the reason why she was even here at Broomhaugh Hall she might be able to think up an acceptable excuse, something she could believe in. Anything but the unvarnished truth. ‘I sought to change his view. I regret that you were caused even a moment’s discomfort about the contents of your library.’
Sir Vivian pursed his lips. ‘And did you succeed in changing his view? My cousin’s views are notoriously steadfast.’
‘I relieved him of his sword. It became embedded in my bonnet.’ She held up her bonnet and wiggled her fingers through the gash.
‘Ben lost his sword?’ Sir Vivian shook his head. ‘Impossible. You are seeking to make fun of me.’
‘But true,’ Lord Whittonstall commented. ‘Mrs Blackwell accomplished it, proving the value of her sword design and the defects of my sword grip. I humbly apologise, Viv, for thinking your choice of sword was more to do with fashion than function.’
A warm glow filled Eleanor at Lord Whittonstall’s unexpected words.
Sir Vivian raised his quizzing glass. ‘Ben is the best swordsman I know. Equal to the great Henry Angelo. The last time you lost a sword was at Eton, Ben.’
‘Just afterwards. In Bath. Exaggeration does no one credit, Viv.’
Lord Whittonstall made a bow while his eyes danced. Eleanor wondered why she had thought them cold and lifeless. Or lacking in passion.
‘Mrs Blackwell will tell you that I made elemental mistakes with my grip and anyone who knew could exploit the weakness. Mrs Blackwell does possess more than a modicum of skill.’
‘I saw an opportunity and took it. Luck.’ Eleanor shrugged. ‘Once you correct your grip you will be a formidable opponent.’
‘Luck had nothing to do with it. It will be the sword.’ Sir Vivian rubbed his hands together. ‘Will I have a chance of beating my cousin as well?’
‘It is Moles’ latest design,’ Eleanor said, suddenly knowing what she had to say—and why. ‘It combines practicality with a certain flair for the discerning gentleman, such as yourself.’
‘Why give it to me for my birthday now? My birthday isn’t for another two months.’
Eleanor winced. That long? ‘I know what … what an influential figure you are. How people look up to you and admire your taste. I hope you will help spread the word about our new design, and I wanted to take the opportunity of your thirtieth birthday to ask for your assistance … with the matter. Personally. While you are still up here in the north. Rather than sending a note which might get mislaid when you are in London.’
‘You want me to use this sword and give your creation the exposure it needs? Like the great Beau does for his tailors?’
‘Yes, precisely.’ Eleanor kept her head up as sweat started to trickle down the back of her neck. He’d accepted her explanation. There was no need to linger. She could go and never see Lord Whittonstall again. Never know if he would have kissed her or if it had been a figment of her imagination. ‘I know how much influence you have with those who really matter. A number of people have mentioned your name when they have purchased one of our swords.’
She breathed slightly easier. Not exactly a lie, but not the whole truth either. Sir Vivian had been influential in getting some custom in.
Sir Vivian turned the sword over in his hands. His cheeks went quite pink. ‘You best be on guard, Ben. I shall beat you every time now. No one will believe a harridan like Mrs Blackwell gave me a sword! But she has, and she has entrusted me to spread the word.’
Lord Whittonstall coughed. Pointedly.
Sir Vivian hung his head. ‘Sometimes my poor tongue gets ahead of my brain, my dear Mrs Blackwell. Far too much port last night. You could never be a harridan. It is simply your reputation that is quite fearsome. It is not every day one encounters a woman sword-maker—a woman who forges swords with a delicate hand.’
Eleanor forced a smile. So she had a reputation as a harridan? At least she’d been saved from suffering the biggest humiliation of her life. All she wanted to do now was slink off and lick her wounded pride. Tomorrow she’d puzzle out some suitable man to marry her. ‘Now that I have said my little piece, I should go.’
Lord Whittonstall’s large hand clamped about her elbow, pinning her to her spot. ‘And this is all you came to say?’
‘Yes. As Sir Vivian has quite clearly said, he would not have believed it if I left the sword. I had to have his agreement, and now I have it.’
His gaze became more hooded and a muscle jumped in his jaw. Eleanor had the uncomfortable feeling that he saw through her tale. That he’d heard her rehearsing her proposal when she’d thought she was alone.
‘And you will show me the move that bested my cousin?’ Sir Vivian asked. ‘Before you depart?’
‘I can show you that,’ Lord Whittonstall said. ‘We have undoubtedly delayed Mrs Blackwell for far too long.’
‘I do have a business to run.’ Eleanor paused in the doorway. ‘Good day to you both.’
‘Mrs Blackwell, there will be a rematch. I have my reputation to think of.’
Eleanor ignored the tremor of excitement. Fencing with Lord Whittonstall was off the agenda. It would only lead to heartache. She had other more important things to think about. And she would never forget her quest again.
Ben watched Viv march around the terrace, making various lunges at unsuspecting bushes.
‘Would you mind telling me what is going on? You avoided my questions all over luncheon. Fobbing me off with nonsensical answers.’
Viv completed his lunge. ‘I am sure it is as Mrs Blackwell indicated. She has seen how much business I have sent her way and wants me to help her.’
‘You may drop the pretence. How bad are your finances?’
Viv made a disgusted noise. ‘We don’t all have your financial acumen, Ben. If you weren’t my cousin I’d hate you. What with your title, your fortune and your excellent looks. Plus a reputation for lively and intelligent conversation.’