His Favorite Mistress Read online

  One-two-three, their swords beat against each other.

  Four-five-six, he waited for an opening in her defenses, quickly darting inside to tap her harmlessly on the hip and again on the shoulder.

  Moving his sword out of harm’s way, he stepped back. “Better?” he questioned.

  Breath panted between her lips, her pretty eyes wider than usual. “Much.”

  “So? Do you wish to continue?” He waited, expecting her to concede defeat.

  “Yes.” Collecting herself, despite clearly having been shaken by the previous set, she lifted her rapier again.

  On a nod, he moved again into place. “En garde,” he declared.

  Instead of assuming an aggressive tack by immediately engaging him, Tony noticed that she let him set the pace while she tried to study and anticipate each of his moves so she might have some hope of countering. The outcome was predetermined, of course, and took him scarcely longer than the first, but she held her own far more effectively than he might ever have expected.

  “Not bad,” he told her, genuinely meaning the words. Not only was she brave, he decided, she had talent—raw and in need of refining, but talent nonetheless. Mayhap that was the reason her first teacher, Monsieur Montague, had taken the effort to indulge her whims and teach a girl the rudiments of the art.

  “Had enough?” he asked.

  With a stubborn shake of her head, she moved into place once more. “Again,” she ordered.

  Having obviously been paying attention, she was able to hold him at bay for a few additional seconds before he once again slipped through her guard. “How do you do that?” she demanded the instant they disengaged.

  “By waiting for you to leave me an opening. You drop your arm on the follow-through every time. Keep a tighter rein on yourself before you attempt a lunge, and don’t make the move unless you know I cannot counter it.”

  “But you always counter it!”

  “That’s because you also need to be quicker.” He tossed her a smile. “And you need to relax. Your stance is too tight.”

  Delicate, adorable little lines settled between her brows. “I don’t feel as if it’s too tight.”

  “Well, it is. Stop worrying and let your muscles do the work.”

  “That’s what I thought I was doing.”

  “Only in half-measures. Your technique is a little rusty, but you know your form. Use it and have confidence, and stop overthinking matters. So, how are the kittens?”

  She blinked, obviously nonplussed at his new query. “The kittens are fine—excellent, in fact.”

  “Playing well? Eating well?”

  “Very well. They zip around like furry little balls of energy.”

  “No difficulties with the sleeping arrangements then?”

  A sunny smile came over her lips. “Not a bit, if you don’t count the dead mice Aggie brings me and the sandy paw prints Mama and babies are leaving on the carpet. The maids have been complaining about the mess, and since the weather has grown warmer, I’ve agreed to move the whole family down to a cozy spot in the stillroom tomorrow. That way they’ll be able to run in and out of the garden at will.”

  “A most excellent plan.” Suddenly he raised his sword. “En garde, Gabriella. Let’s see what you can do.”

  Giving her only enough time to set her rapier in place, he came forward. This set she met him stroke for stroke, taking and repelling each of his moves. And when he dipped his blade in hopes of luring her into his usual trap, she held firm, maintaining her defenses like a seasoned warrior. Of course he won the point regardless, but unlike their earlier rounds, he had to actually work a little to achieve success.

  “Well done!” he cheered once they broke off combat. “Wonderful improvement. Could you feel the difference? The control you gained by trusting yourself and relaxing?”

  “I did!” she said with excitement. “I let my instincts lead me, just as you said. And I was careful not to drop my arm at the wrong moment. I held you off for a short while, anyway.”

  He grinned. “That you did.”

  Hurrying to resume the appropriate stance, she waited for him to do the same.

  “Unfortunately,” he continued, lowering his blade toward the floor, “I believe our ten minutes has expired.”

  Her sword dipped with disappointment. “No, we cannot quit now!” she protested. “Not when I’m just getting into the thick of it. Surely you cannot be so cruel.”

  “Is that what I’m being?” he queried, his tone rife with amusement. “Cruel?”

  “Yes. Only an ogre would stop without giving me the opportunity to score at least a single point.”

  “Not to boast too highly of my own prowess, but we could be here a very long while if that is your criterion. Mayhap we might resume another day.”

  “But there won’t be another day, not like this one. Please, Wyvern, three more tries. Just three and then I’ll stop no matter the outcome.”

  Meeting her gaze, he saw the passionate entreaty shining within her eyes, strong emotion deepening their lush hue to an even more improbable shade of violet. The strength of her will hit him like a golden beam of sun-light, his resolve melting beneath the power of her youthful, heartfelt appeal.

  “All right, three,” he said in a voice that sounded as low and rough as gravel. “Then, win or lose, you’ll cease without further complaint.”

  She held up a hand. “You have my most solemn word of honor.”

  The promise surprised him, since women didn’t generally swear on their honor—that being the purview of men in their society. Yet somehow with Gabriella, the statement seemed fitting, both in light of the circumstances and of the girl herself.

  His swordsmanship was such that he knew he could put a quick end to the entire matter in only a couple of minutes. Just the right maneuver and she would win the point, never realizing he’d lowered his guard deliberately in order to let her take it. But considering the earnest nature of her efforts, doing so seemed akin to cheating. He wouldn’t battle her with every ounce of his skill, but neither would he intentionally let her win. If she took one of the three points, it would be due to her own skill and effort. Lifting his sword, he waited for their next engagement to commence.

  Her first attempt rapidly proved to be a failure, lasting no more than the length of a few brief parries and counter-parries, his glancing riposte landing near her left shoulder for a strike. Acknowledging his win, she huffed out a breath, her disappointment clear as she disengaged. Yet she was undaunted, resuming the appropriate stance with a graceful swirl of her striped skirts, her determination unbowed, her sportsmanship impeccable—more admirable than that of a great many men he knew.

  Giving her the right-of-way, he let her lead off. For many long, taut seconds, she gauged him, once more studying his technique in search of some visible weakness. Suddenly she lunged, her arm appearing to move upward only to reverse an instant later as she made a downward feint that she obviously hoped would outwit his skill. Reading her counter in time, he brought his sword down, the blades colliding in an echoing ring of steel-on-steel. His defense successful, they broke apart. At his ease again, he waited while she regrouped, her eyes alive with energetic intensity. They circled, her bare feet making quiet slaps against the polished wooden floor as she tried another feint, his shoes giving a few subtle squeaks as he parried her moves. Keeping up her attack, she increased her speed, searching for even the smallest of advantages, but in the course of their clash, he deflected her blade and moved around, and in, to score a touch and once more take the point.

  “Ooh,” she exclaimed in plain frustration. “I nearly had you that time.”

  He gave her a sympathetic smile. “Unfortunately, nearly only counts in horseshoes and means naught on the dueling field. Shall we proceed to your third and final attempt?”

  “Yes, and you needn’t look so insufferably pleased about it.”

  “You mistake the matter, my dear. I am not at all pleased. Or would you rather I had taken
it easy on you, after all, and let you have your victory?”

  Her lips tightened, plainly insulted. “No, I want no false wins nor pitying gestures of gallantry.”

  “Just as I supposed.”

  Once more, she took her place. “Prepare to be beaten, Your Grace.”

  Smothering an indulgent smile, he made ready.

  Gabriella extended her rapier at arms’ length and began circling him. He circled back, the two of them watching each other like a pair of wary hawks battling over the same bit of prey.

  “So tell me, Wyvern,” she ventured in an even tone. “Do you have you any cats?”

  “Cats?” He raised an eyebrow at her verbal sally. “Only of the barn variety. Why do you ask?”

  “Just satisfying my curiosity, considering your earlier inquiry about the kittens.”

  “Ah,” he drawled.

  Their blades met, clashing in leisurely parries of three. One, two, three—disengage. One, two, three—regroup and circle.

  “They’ll be in need of good homes soon,” she continued. “You should take one.”

  Her rapier struck his, his answering parry unleashing a cacophonous screech. “What? Take a kitten? Oh no.”

  “But you must.” She flashed him a smile. “You cannot claim not to have the room. From what I hear, your country home is immense, and would provide a most excellent abode for a resident cat, or even two. They could keep each other company.”

  Adopt two kittens? Surely she is just trying to throw me off my stride with such talk, he told himself. “I have dogs,” he retorted aloud. “Max and Digger would be most put out if I took in a pair of feline interlopers.”

  “Kittens are very adaptable and fit in anywhere. I am sure they would have your dogs wrapped around their tiny paws in no time at all. They aren’t yet weaned, but you can pick out a pair before you leave. I’ll make sure they’re reserved exclusively for you.”

  A laugh escaped his lips at her outrageousness. The moment it did, she flew at him, beating her sword against his own in a violent flurry of movement. Definitely taken off guard, he struggled in order to counter, managing just barely to meet her parries and thrusts. With nimble footing, he leapt backward out of range as the tip of her rapier sliced downward in a move that would surely have struck him had he been a second slower.

  Sensing his disadvantage, she continued pressing her attack. Once again, he took a defensive leap, but she followed, racing toward him with a huge pair of lunges as she thrust out her sword. Abruptly, a ripping noise split the air, her expressive eyes going wide as she stumbled forward and let out a cry of alarm.

  Realizing that her feet must have tangled in the hem of her gown, he rushed toward her, hauling her tightly against his chest before she could tumble headlong to the floor. Cradling her close, he let her know by his touch that she was safe. On a shiver, she sagged against him, her rapier clattering harmlessly to the floor.

  He dropped his sword as well, then brought his other arm up to enfold her more securely in his embrace. “Gabriella, are you all right?”

  Tipping back her head, she met his gaze. “Yes. At least I think I am.”

  “Does anything hurt? Your ankle? Your toes?”

  “No, nothing. I believe I am quiet well. But heavens, if you hadn’t caught me—”

  “Don’t think about that now. You’re safe.”

  “Thanks to you, Your Grace.”

  “Wyvern,” he reminded, his gaze skimming over her face—her translucent skin flushed with color, her petal-soft lips parted as her breath soughed in and out. In that instant, he could not look away, mesmerized by her artless beauty and the sensation of her lithe feminine curves pressed snuggly against his body. Without full awareness, his arms tightened, his head dipping to breathe in more of the rich, honeyed fragrance of her skin, the scent wholly her own with no need of perfumed embellishments.

  “Wyvern,” she repeated, the sound of his name drifting over him in a seductive slide. Desire rose within him like some unstoppable tide. But even as he bent to claim her lips, he stopped himself.

  No, he chided, I can’t. She’s out of bounds, remember. Way, way, out of bounds. But just as he was gathering the strength to set her from him, she undid all his good intentions by laying one delicate palm against the side of his face.

  “Tony,” she whispered, heartfelt longing plain in her eyes.

  A deep tremor coursed through him as he fought his need. When she smoothed her fingertips along his temple and over his cheekbone, he knew he was lost. On a muffled curse, he took her lips with his own.

  He felt her yield without an ounce of hesitation, accepting his kiss with an intensity that was both sweet and savage. Despite being pressed breast to chest and hip to hip, she wound her arms around his neck as if she needed to be even closer. Setting his hands at her waist, he lifted her up and placed her bare feet atop his shoes, taking her slender weight onto his own with a kind of sublime delight. Pleasure beat a crazy tattoo in his blood, a dull roar crashing inside his ears with a sound very like the quiet rush of the ocean inside a seashell. Coaxing open her mouth, he delved inside, plundering the hot, wet velvet of her lips and tongue. The taste and touch of her was intoxicating, more potent than the finest bottle of brandy he’d ever imbibed, her very essence leaving him drunk and a bit crazy.

  Doubtless, that’s exactly what he was—crazy, her touch driving him mad in a way he couldn’t remember feeling for a very, very long time; not even as a youth in his first flush of passion, when he’d been a boy not so very much younger than Gabriella was herself.

  Perhaps it was the startling remembrance of her age, or maybe the echo of a door closing somewhere in the house, but suddenly his reasoning brain switched back on. Breaking their kiss, he stared down at her for a moment, her eyes closed as if she were caught in a dream, her lips glistening and parted and clearly eager for more.

  Christ, he cursed inside his head. As gently as he could, he moved to set her away, but the instant he did, her eyes popped open, her hands reaching out to grip his shirt-sleeves and hold him in place. “Tony?”

  He cleared his throat, his voice so rough he had to try twice before he could form more than a croak. “We need to stop.”

  “I’d rather you kiss me again instead.”

  Hmm, well so would I, he thought, an image of him dragging her to the floor while he worked open the buttons of her dress flashing in his head. Instead, he willed himself to be strong and sensible. “Can’t,” he said. “Our time’s up.”

  “But I…”

  “But nothing. Everyone will be readying themselves for nuncheon soon and it won’t do for you and I to be found here together alone.” Especially not looking as she did, with a rip in the seam that ran just beneath the bodice of her gown and her lips swollen, their color a violent pink as if she’d just received a very thorough kissing. Which anyone with a pair of eyes could see that she had!

  “Go on now,” he said as if giving instructions to a child. “Put on your stockings and shoes, then hurry along upstairs.”

  “Perhaps I don’t want to.”

  “You haven’t any choice.” When she made no move, he realized she needed further coaxing. “Gabriella, this was just a…” He circled a hand in the air as he collected his thoughts. “A kiss, and despite the pleasure of it, the act means nothing.” At her slightly crestfallen expression, he continued. “Whatever you may think you are feeling now, I assure you it is nothing more than simple infatuation and shall fade away directly. Now, do as I say and dress yourself. We shall pretend this never occurred.”

  “Twice,” she piped, a suddenly mutinous gleam in her eye.

  “What?”

  “We shall pretend this never happened twice, or did you forget our other kiss?”

  If only I could, he thought.

  “I must confess I had rather put it from my mind,” he said in a casual tone, striving to make the lie believable. “But not to worry, the memory shall fade soon enough for you as well.”

>   Her lower lip trembled before she released her hold upon him and turned away.

  Leaning down after a moment, he picked up the swords and carried them over to be cleaned and stored. He didn’t look around when he heard her feet pad across the floor not long after, nor turn to watch her as she slipped from the room.

  Impulse and infatuation, he repeated to himself. Simple desire that could easily be put aside, that’s all this has been. Still, perhaps it might be wise if he left the house party early. No point continuing to set himself in temptation’s path if he didn’t have to. Besides, once he was back in London, among his old haunts and activities, he really would forget all about this unwanted desire he had for the luscious Gabriella St. George. By the time they met during the Season, he would see her as nothing more than Rafe’s niece, just another pretty girl among many other pretty girls. He and Gabriella would each be occupied with their own circle of friends—happily separate, exactly as it ought to be.

  Hurrying up the stairs as fast as her feet would carry her, Gabriella rushed through the house, grateful not to encounter so much as a junior housemaid as she made her way to her bedchamber. Shutting the door with a faint slam, she flung herself face-first across her bed and drew a deep, quavering breath as she strove to calm her pounding heart.

  So my kisses mean nothing to him, do they? she railed. So I am easily forgotten? How could he say such things? How could he claim near boredom after the embrace they had just shared? The man had to be made of stone not to have felt even half of the delight she had experienced. And she knew he had enjoyed it too, pressed against his body as she’d been. Which could mean only one thing—he must have been lying.

  She paused at the idea, replaying each one of his hot, hungry kisses, recalling the passion that had radiated from him like a blazing summer sun. Suddenly, she knew she was right. But why? Why would he turn dismissive and cold, then attempt to drive her away?

  Because he doesn’t want to find me desirable, came the answer. Because he’s a rake trying to do the honorable thing. But why should he care? Why would he quibble when she clearly welcomed his touch? His friendship with my uncle! What other explanation could there be?