Jo Beverley (9 page)

“Ashart cannot compete?”

Miss Smith stiffened. “I’m sure he can.”

Ashart entered the oval next, partnered with Mr. Stanton. It was soon obvious that Ashart
could
compete, and might even be as good as his cousin. When the bout about lasted the full time, Damaris suspected an act of kindness. Even so, laughing and breathing hard, Mr. Stanton bowed out of the contest.

Fitzroger and Osborne were next. Damaris was disappointed that neither showed the skill of the other fencers. Perhaps a soldier’s life didn’t leave space for ornamental fighting.

Nor, she remembered, was swordplay always ornamental. Not long ago Lord Rothgar had killed a man with this deadly art, and it almost seemed that Osborne would have liked to kill his opponent. He lost in the end, and shot her a thwarted, angry glance before stalking out of the circle to stand waiting for another contest.

The burden of her wealth weighed on her—that men might kill for it.

The air seemed full of tension now, and when Ashart returned to match Lord Bryght, she saw that both men’s shirts clung to their bodies. Even these short bursts of violent power had summoned sweat.

Perhaps something of the feud between the Mallorens and the Trayces sparked to life, for Damaris sensed an extra edge to Ashart’s intensity, an extra power to his drive. Lord Bryght was soon grinning, clearly finding it great fun, but Damaris had her hands clasped tight as she prayed that no one be hurt.

“Time!” called Sir Rolo, and both fencers stepped back, sucking in breath.

Damaris, too, was breathing deeply, and part of it was because of the beautiful contours hinted at by damp, clinging lawn. She glanced at Miss Smith and saw a similar reaction, but perhaps also a similar fear. Why in heaven’s name did men think this amusement?

Rothgar and Osborne fought next, and the young man looked nervous before they started, which showed some sense. Though Damaris knew nothing of the art of the sword, she suspected that the three minutes that followed were an exhibition of mastery that gave Osborne no chance of scoring while bringing the bout to a courteous draw. It was, she assumed, a gentle suggestion that he bow out as Mr. Stanton had, and he took it, though not without another thwarted glance at her. It might have been flattering if she thought he cared for anything but her fortune.

“So,” said Miss Smith, perhaps to herself, “the main four are left.” She turned to Damaris. “Who do you think will win?”

Damaris didn’t want to be unkind, but she said, “Rothgar.”

Miss Smith nodded, frowning. “I hope Ashart doesn’t mind too much.”

Murmurs around the room suggested others were speculating. Two men slapped hands, which probably indicated a wager. If she had the chance, would she place money on Rothgar? She wanted to wager on Fitzroger, but when he came out with Lord Bryght, she anticipated only defeat.

But then everything changed. Perhaps Lord Bryght had intended to stage an entertaining bout before ending it, but in moments his relaxed good humor fled. His eyes became intent, and his movements increasingly desperate.

Damaris couldn’t imagine how the quick wrists and supple legs kept both men out of danger, but the bout went the full three minutes. When Sir Rolo called, “Time!” both fencers bent to breathe, running sweat.

Men handed them cloths to wipe their faces, and they straightened to do so, chests still heaving. Fitzroger pulled the ribbon from his hair, which had mostly escaped to plaster around his face. His sudden grin at Lord Bryght, fully returned, hit Damaris, shocking as lightning on a pitch-dark night.

Joy. He’d enjoyed that. Why was she sure his life was short of such pure joy? How foolish to want to shower it upon him like sunlight, like diamonds. She realized she was applauding, that everyone was. There’d be money laid on Fitzroger now, and she felt fiercely proud of that.

Rothgar came out, smiling, even if there seemed something wolfish about it. “This becomes more interesting than I expected, I admit. So Bryght has completed his matches with a score of a loss and two draws.”

“What did I tell you?” Lord Bryght said amiably. “I’ll fight Fitzroger again for the pure pleasure of it, though.”

“Another time,” his brother said. “Ashart, myself, and Fitzroger have a win and a draw each. Ashart and I should match off next, being rested, but then Fitzroger would have two bouts in a row. Therefore if you agree, gentlemen, I will fight to retain the trinket. Against you first, Ashart?”

Ashart stepped forward, then halted. “That gives you two bouts in a row, cousin. If you will allow him a short rest, I designate Fitzroger my champion.”

“By all means. As long as the champion receives the prize.”

Ashart agreed, and Rothgar turned to Fitzroger, who was still mopping sweat. “I welcome an opportunity to test blades with you, sir. Where have you learned?” The two men fell into a discussion about fencing that Damaris couldn’t hear, especially with chatter rising all around.

Ashart strolled over to Miss Smith. “I hope you don’t regret the necklace, Genni. I’ll buy you a better.”

Damaris looked elsewhere, thinking,
So much for economy.
But she couldn’t help overhearing the couple.

“Of course not,” Miss Smith said. “A match between you might not have been wise.”

“But interesting. Fitz against Rothgar will be equally so, I think.”

Damaris looked at Fitzroger, who seemed recovered now except that his shirt still clung and his hair still rioted. He brushed some back from his face, and the movement emphasized his long, lean body. He was more lightly built than the other men, but there was clearly nothing weaker about him.

She felt as breathless as the fencers, and almost as hot. It was a strictly physical reaction, but something she’d never experienced before, not even during their quite astonishing kisses.

It was animal, she recognized. Base, but powerful, throbbing between her thighs and urging her to embarrass herself again here. To rise and go to him, touch him, wind herself around him…

She inhaled and tore her eyes away to see that she wasn’t the only woman ogling him. She looked to Ashart, similarly undressed and damp, and so close she could smell his sweat. He had no special effect on her.

Fitzroger announced that he was ready. Ashart sat on the floor at Genova’s feet. “Pray for victory, love.”

“Can he win?” Miss Smith asked, putting a hand on his broad shoulder.

He covered it with his own. “There’s a chance, at least, a better one than I would have had. You haven’t seen either of them fence his best yet.”

Rothgar could be more brilliant? Damaris’s heart sank.

The bout began with surprising gentleness. Both men seemed to be tapping and trying, a secret dialogue that she couldn’t understand. Little movements of the blade, countered in a certain way. The step back, the return. The new test. The response.

Then, abruptly, Fitzroger fired into action, driving Rothgar back in a flurry of attack almost into the watchers sitting at one end. But Rothgar evaded in a twist that clashed bodies for a moment, and the positions were reversed. It was the first physical contact of the day, and showed a different level of intent. This, she suspected, came closer to fighting to the death.

They fought fast and furiously now, but with moves, twists, and turns she’d not seen before. Sometimes she thought one or other attempted to flick the sword out of the other man’s hand. She knew it mostly by the shared grin that followed.

Then Sir Rolo bellowed, “Time!”

Both men stepped back, breathing deeply, running with sweat. Both nodded, and plunged back into battle. Damaris put a hand over her mouth. Did they mean to kill each another?

She gasped when Fitzroger went down on one knee, but then his foil shot up toward the heart. Rothgar spun and knocked the blade aside, and almost skewered Fitzroger from above, but Fitzroger was already rolling to his feet in one action, lithe as a cat, his weapon flicking toward the exposed flank. It was parried and they were off again.

Damaris had to remind herself that the flexible, buttoned blades couldn’t do much damage except to an eye, and these skillful men never let the blades get close to the face. All the same, her mouth was dry as paper, her heart pounded, and she wanted this over—over before someone was hurt.

And she wanted Fitzroger to win.

With burning ferocity, she wanted her hero to win!

It was stopped in the end by pure exhaustion. As if spoken and agreed, both men stepped back and bent over, fighting for breath. They were swarmed by excited men as they wiped their faces and necks, both grinning and radiating extreme delight.

Clearly, this bout would be talked about in manly circles for years to come. Looking around, Damaris could see that many women would remember it, too.

“Men!” Genova Smith said, and Damaris saw Ashart had joined the throng.

Damaris wasn’t used to men and didn’t understand their ways, but she knew exactly what Miss Smith meant. Mysterious, exasperating, but breathtakingly wonderful men. And she had just witnessed their true delight.

She recognized the spirit that had sent her father sailing the seas. Perhaps the fortunes won had been incidental to the thrill of the challenge. And her mother had expected him to settle in Worksop.

Fitzroger slipped out of the crowd and came toward her, the necklace in his hand. Her heart began to pound again, so hard that she feared she might faint.

He dropped to one knee, holding out the prize. “I believe I’m supposed to present this to my fair lady.”

The casual tone could be offensive, but his eyes were bright and his skin glowed, making him impossible to resist. Besides, they were watched by everyone.

She took the pretty piece in which tiny stones and pearls made a circlet of flowers on the chain. “I believe,” she said in the same tone, “I’m supposed to say something like, ‘My hero!’”

His eyes lit with amusement. “No, no, dear lady. You are supposed to reward me with a kiss.”

People chuckled, but a kiss seemed too intimate, too dangerous here, where she could feel the heat of his body and smell his sweat—a smell, she realized, entirely different from Ashart’s. Unique. Identifiable. Arousing in and of itself.

He took her hand and placed it on his shoulder, his hot, damp shoulder. His bright eyes challenged her. In response, she wanted to grab his hair as she had earlier and ravish him. But instead she leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss upon his lips. “My hero.”

He rose with a subtle power that could slay her all on its own, managing somehow to draw her to her feet at the same time and to turn her. Then his hands were brushing her neck as he put the necklace around it, as he fastened the clasp.

His fingers stroked the nape of her neck for a moment, sending shivers down her spine. She could do nothing but try to stay calm when she wanted to turn and press herself to his body, to inhale, to encircle.

Then he was gone. When she did turn, he was leaving to dress.

“How pretty,” Miss Smith said.

Damaris fingered the necklace, dazed.

Lady Bryght came over, petite, red-haired, and smiling. “Congratulations, Miss Myddleton.”

“I did nothing for it.”

“No, no!” Lady Bryght said, laughing. “Never think like that. A lady inspires a gentleman’s greatest achievements and thus can take credit for them all.”

Lady Arradale joined them. “That’s why we delight in capturing the best specimens.”

Lady Bryght eyed her. “Are we going to fight over who is best, Diana?”

“Only with pistols.” Lady Arradale smiled at Damaris. “I’m an excellent shot. Do you know how to use a pistol, Miss Myddleton?”

“No.” Damaris remembered her foolish attempt to take out the carriage pistol, and Fitzroger’s strong hand over hers.

“You shall learn. I’m delighted you’re to be an even closer part of our family as Rothgar’s ward. I shall call you Damaris, and you must call me Diana.”

“Thank you, my lady. Diana.”

Damaris felt overwhelmed, but was relieved to talk to the ladies for a while rather than having to mingle. She suspected it was an intentional kindness.

Then Diana said, “May I presume upon you as I would with a sister, Damaris, and ask you to sing for us? The men need to change their clothes, I fear, to be suited to polite company. A song from you would pass the time delightfully.”

Nerves tightened Damaris’s throat, but she was confident in this one thing, at least. And when Lady Bryght said, “Oh, yes, please do!” she could not refuse.

Diana clapped her hands and announced the treat, and everyone settled to listen. Damaris collected herself, wondering what song would best suit the moment. A playful piece came to mind that seemed daring, but it should confirm her carefree disposition, and seemed relevant to the moment.

She smiled around to everyone and began.