A Bride Unveiled (7 page)

To think she had been instantly attracted to that gorgeous and graceful man. How shocking of her. Virtuous Miss Violet Knowlton should never have even contemplated such a romance.

It was better to consider this a case of infatuation at first sight. Did she believe such a thing was possible? But how else could she explain the strange connection she had felt to him, as if she had known the alluring Fenton all her life?

There was a simple explanation.

She had fallen in love with a romantic hero, as had so many ladies in the audience.

Christopher Fenton.

The name wasn’t familiar.

He took three bows to thunderous applause.

And then quickly disappeared from the stage.

V
iolet noticed that she wasn’t the only member of the audience mesmerized by the performance. Several guests remained in their seats, staring at the deserted stage. Even the gentlemen could be overheard lavishing praise on the dramatic spectacle.

“Yes, yes,” one said. “I know it was nothing but an illusion. Well, illusion and skill and hard practice. But with the world as disillusioned as it is, what is wrong with a night of forgetting what one may face tomorrow? We need to be uplifted to carry on.”

Violet silently agreed. Illusion. Yes, knightly tales and gentlemen fighting off street ruffians made for good drama.

“He
is
magnificent,” a woman whispered in the shadows somewhere behind Violet. “I vow he’s seduced the entire house. It isn’t fair. I spotted him first. Now every lady in town knows who he is.”

“Be quiet,” her companion said with an embarrassed laugh. “He might still be backstage and listening.”

“Good. Then I can make him an offer. It’s said that his sword can be bought.”

Violet rose to her feet in indignation. How dared this vulgar woman ruin all the lovely feelings that his performance had awakened?

She turned. She knew better than to venture an unsolicited opinion, but before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Isn’t he known for his chivalry?”

The two ladies stared at her in annoyance. The first, flawless in a costly cream silk gown, smiled. “Would you like me to let you know when I find out?”

The other woman sighed. “There’s no need to taunt her. She looks as fresh as a May queen.”

Violet lowered her gaze, surprised at her outburst.
She’s wrong
, she thought as the ladies exited the theater, laughing all the way.
He can’t be bought. Not like that
. At least, she hoped he couldn’t.

“I’m not fresh, either,” she muttered, turning again without looking where she was going.

“Excuse me, miss.”

She blushed. Not only had she walked into a footman, but it was the same one she had lost earlier in the night. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s quite all right, miss.”

In fact, she was so flustered that she started when she felt a firm hand turn her by the elbow toward the door. She wasn’t quite ready to join the rest of the party. She needed a moment more for her daze of emotions to settle. She wanted to linger just a little longer in a world where a happy ending was assured.

The magic would wear off by morning. It might be gone before she reached the carriage and returned home. Except . . . there was still a ball to attend, and dancing always brightened her spirits.

She cast a wistful look at the empty chair in the second row and looked up into Sir Godfrey Maitland’s smug face. “Well, what did you think?”

“What a wonderful entertainment.”

He was still wearing his sword and theatrical garb, glancing about every few seconds to acknowledge a compliment from guests who recognized him as one of the players. “And my act?”

“I missed your performance,” she said quickly. “But I saw you at the end.”

“You did what?”

“After Aunt Francesca took unwell, I didn’t know—I went the wrong way and—”

“You missed
my
performance?”

She nodded slowly. She wasn’t ready to tell him about the interlude in the hallway with his fencing instructor. In hindsight it was fortunate that she hadn’t given her name or engaged in any flirtatious gestures that could have been carried back to Godfrey.

“Well, you wouldn’t have wanted for anything to happen to my aunt for the sake of a little sword fight. And the marchioness was so kind—”

“The marchioness?” He drew her away from the crowd of chattering guests that spilled out into one of three halls. “You spoke to her in person?”

“Yes, Godfrey. She took Aunt Francesca upstairs into—” A small group of ladies and gentlemen broke between them, tossing back apologies as an afterthought. “I did mention that my uncle befriended Lady Sedgecroft’s father in Falmouth years ago.”

“Yes, but I didn’t realize she would go out of her way to return the favor,” Godfrey said. “This might end up being the best thing that has ever happened to us.” He gripped her arm and pulled them back into the flow of traffic. “I don’t mean that Francesca is unwell, of course, but that you’ve strengthened your connection to Sedgecroft’s wife and I have been invited to a private party—”

Violet looked past him, her attention diverted. A commotion had erupted at the end of the hall; a surge of energy swept through the air, and she felt herself caught up in its undercurrents. Some excitement had attracted all the young ladies to the masterful figures posed on various steps of the marble staircase.

“It’s Fenton and his players,” Godfrey remarked in surprise. “They’re being interviewed, and I’m supposed to be part of it. You don’t really mind, do you, Violet, if I leave you alone with Francesca for an hour? I’ve been invited upstairs.”

“How pleasant for you, Godfrey.”

“It’s an exclusive affair for the gentlemen who performed or contributed heavily to the benefit.”

She widened her eyes. “So there won’t be any actresses or wives?”

“As if a woman of your beauty and virtue had reason to be jealous of another.”

“Just remember these are business connections,” she said under her fan.

“I’ll do my best,” he said softly against her cheek. “And you remember that we’re going to another fencing competition at Hyde Park the day after tomorrow.
This
time you
will
watch my performance. I shall see you shortly at the ball. Don’t forget to be agreeable to anyone you meet.

“If anyone should ask where I am on your way out,” he added, “tell them I am attending a private party with Sedgecroft and Fenton.”

Against her will Violet glanced over the crowd to the figure who had turned to mount the double staircase. He was dressed simply, in a white linen shirt and tight black pantaloons. She couldn’t see whether he was wearing a sword or not, but as the other players were, she thought he might be. He was attractive, nonetheless.

Fenton. He shook his head when a gentleman offered him a champagne flute. He appeared to be searching the crowd for someone. She assumed that this time it wasn’t a lost child.

Perhaps he’d been in an unguarded mood when she’d met him earlier. He didn’t look as playful or approachable now. But then, he was caught in a crowd, and everyone seemed to be vying for his attention. Any other man would have been exhausted after his strenuous performance.

He still exuded enough vitality to charge the room. Was it possible that he was looking for a way to escape, or for her? No. She was a ninny for letting the thought cross her mind. How many times had her aunt told her that one lady was never enough for a rogue?

“Do you want to meet him?” Godfrey asked her unexpectedly. He must have noticed the direction of her gaze. Then, before she could answer, he lifted his arms over his head. “Fenton! Over here, by the door!”

Fenton turned in Violet’s direction.

And Violet caught a tantalizing glimpse of his face before he noticed Godfrey waving his arms like a windmill, and glanced the other way.

Whomever he was looking for, it wasn’t Godfrey. In fact, Violet felt embarrassed on her fiancé’s account. He acted at times with a sense of entitlement that tempted her to pretend she didn’t know him.

He had seemed pleasant during their short courtship. A well-mannered gentleman who would make a faithful husband. But little by little she had seen glimpses of a callous heart behind what she feared was superficial charm.

The sword master’s gaze met hers for a moment as he looked back toward them. As his eyes brushed over her, a peculiar awareness coursed through her blood, as if she had been turned upside down and set back on her feet.

“Who is he again?” she asked in a hesitant voice, knowing what the answer would be.

“What?” Godfrey swung around, lowering his arms to stare at her. “Fenton. Christopher Fenton. I have mentioned him countless times. He’s performed in private for the prince regent.”

“Has he?” Violet asked, hoping she looked properly impressed, and not like a lady who had been invited to participate in one of Fenton’s performances.

“Do let me go now, darling. The other gentlemen have already gone upstairs to the gallery. It’s like a private club, you know.”

“For scoundrels.”

“Honestly, Violet. What a remark to make. I hope you will refrain from expressing comments like that to anyone else. It isn’t typical of you at all. I suggest you stay away from the champagne. It must be more potent than it tasted.”

 

 

Kit studied the clock in the corner of the candlelit gallery. The private chamber was known for the high-society seductions that had been sparked within its walls. He knew he should consider it an honor to be invited to mingle with the chosen few whom it pleased his host and patron to bring together for a brief interlude before the ball, but there wasn’t a woman in the room who drew Kit’s interest. He avoided looking at the viscountess in cream silk who half reclined in shameless invitation on the brocade sofa. She made it obvious what she wanted. Her eyes had been undressing him all evening.

He felt like stripping off a shirt and striking a pose with the other Roman statues against the wall. He wondered how attractive she’d find him if she knew the truth about his past.

The shame of it had discouraged him from any lasting relationships with the gentlewomen he’d met.

“She’s a bit obvious,” an amused voice said over his shoulder. “Why don’t you put her out of her misery and arrange a liaison with her for later in the night?”

He turned to Sir Godfrey with a wan smile. “She happens to have a husband.”

“And you aren’t eager to put your dueling skills to the test?”

“Not without a better reason. Besides, sir, you’ve taken lessons long enough to know that I counsel self-control.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

Not since petitioning to earn his diploma as a
maître d’armes
in France with his adoptive father’s influence had Kit allowed himself to be provoked into a genuine match. It would take an unthinkable insult for a master to issue a rash challenge. It would be a disgrace to kill someone unskilled. He’d decided years ago that he would rather peddle dreams to adventurous students than murder another man to prove his superiority.

On occasion, though, a challenge arose that could not be ignored. Some brash fool needed to show the world how exceptional he was.

He dealt with these unfortunates once or twice a year. The match usually involved a prodigious quantity of spirits and a woman who looked prettier through a pair of drunken eyes than she did the next morning. But Kit had seen too much sin in his life to find adultery the least bit appealing.

Of course, as a maestro, he was not above a friendly crossing of the blades when challenged, for a few extra pounds. It never hurt to pad one’s pockets.

Sir Godfrey took a deep swallow from his goblet. “You won the crowd tonight. I believe you could have your choice of nearly any woman in London as your bed partner after that rousing performance.”

“Now, that is an exaggeration,” Kit said with a laugh. Even if it were true, there was only one woman who came to mind. He didn’t know her name. He hadn’t had the wits to ask, but he knew that she wasn’t in this room and that she hadn’t been the type to fall for a scoundrel’s flirtation in an empty corridor. Nor had she accepted his invitation to take a seat of dubious honor in the audience.

He couldn’t explain why he’d felt drawn to her, as if he could talk to her as a friend.

Sweetness, sensual appeal, and an instant sense of compatibility in the same woman. Kit didn’t meet many ladies like her. His lovers and friends tended to fall into distinctly separate groups. He had to wonder what she was doing at a party like this. She seemed over her head.

But then again, Kit didn’t belong here, either. He gave lessons to gentlemen. He wasn’t one of them. Tonight he had entertained the ton on a grand scale. For all their accolades, he remained a commoner who depended on men like Sir Godfrey to earn his living.

“You executed the cloak-and-lantern episode without a flaw,” he said, resisting the urge to look at the clock again. “Not one hesitant move. I daresay a thief would think twice about assaulting you.”

“A pity that the lady I wanted to impress missed my performance. All because of her doddering old aunt.”

Kit pretended to appear sympathetic. The truth was that he liked Sir Godfrey a little less every time they talked. He had a double-sided nature that included demeaning the aristocrats he envied and the lower classes he employed in his business affairs as a merchant. He saw sword fighting as a means to impress others, not as an art. An intelligent man, but not a particularly kind one.

Godfrey gestured with his goblet to the far wall. “Do you have any notion how much those Roman statues cost?”

Kit liked new objets d’art when he could afford them. But then he wasn’t an aristocrat. He couldn’t sit on his arse all day admiring ruins. He had to work for his bread.