Only Scandal Will Do (18 page)

“But this is not the usual duel, is it, Lord Dalbury? I will not be offended if you do likewise and embrace Lord Trevor before we begin.” Her eyes were wide in false innocence.

Hah! He would not take that bait. “Shall we commence, my lady? To first blood?”

“To first blood, my lord.” She became quiet and grave. “I wish us both
bon chance
.”

Beauty, strength, integrity. The perfect woman. “I as well, my lady. You are ready?”

In response, Katarina raised her rapier into position and nodded her head. Duncan took a deep breath and raised his weapon to hers.

Chapter 16

The moment his sword came into position, Katarina attacked, moving in close, trying to come in underneath his guard. Retreating, he tried to shift the distance, but she kept pressing him, always staying so close he could not fully extend his arm. In effect, he could not reach her.

He emptied his mind and let his training take over. A duel was a chess game to him, a mental image that focused him whenever he fought, whether for pleasure or in earnest. Always grateful for this dispassionate objectivity, he welcomed it now that he was engaged in the fight of his life. Mentally, he stood back from Katarina, seeing her moves, counteracting them automatically. The problem was, she was very good. He’d told Tommy he would give her five minutes; he’d be lucky to find a way through her defenses in twice that time.

Her form, her movements, her cunningly executed parries bespoke her as one of the better opponents he had fought. Her technique was good, her footwork excellent. His sword slid past a parry to slash her upper left arm. Damn, they were just getting underway. Then elation hit. He’d won. She would marry him now.

He stepped back, breathing hard, only to find her advancing, fire still in her eye. “My lady!” He continued to parry, lest she skewer him in earnest. “We agreed to fight to first blood. You are wounded.”

She stopped, guard still up. Between gulps of air she said, “I am not wounded, my lord.”

Duncan grew still. “I wounded you in the arm.” He believed her too honorable to renege on the terms. What was she about?

“I think not. But if Dr. Pritchett will verify?”

He motioned Pritchett over as Katarina began to unbutton her jacket. Her movements drew his attention to the fact that his opponent had chosen to fight with her coat on. Most men preferred the freedom of the loose shirt alone, but perhaps Katarina had thought it would be too revealing of her breasts. Though she certainly had no qualms about showing off other parts of her body.

The final buttons undone, Pritchett drew the garment off her and began inspecting for tell-tale signs of blood. There was none. Her white shirt remained pristine and intact.

“I told you so, my lord,” Katarina said, gloating. “I felt no sting to indicate a wound and I have been wounded in practice before. I know what it feels like.”

So did he. “I beg your pardon, but I felt my sword slice into your jacket.”

“Indeed, you may have done. But it did not go through to draw blood.”

Shaking his head, he extended his hand. “May I see the jacket, please?”

Matthews appeared at Katarina’s side in an instant. “Are you disputing the lady’s word, my lord?”

“I do not dispute her word, though I believe you overstep your boundary in this matter. I merely wish to inspect the cloth, to see if I did indeed cut it.”

Tense lines around Matthews’s mouth indicated his resentment of the request, but Duncan knew he was within his rights. The Runner nodded and withdrew outside of the outline.

Pritchett handed the jacket over.

The garment was of good quality worsted, the color a little faded, with definite signs of wear–as if someone had worn it often, but taken good care of it. It seemed bulkier as well, as though several thickness of material had been used instead of the usual two, which was surprising. He found the cut his rapier made and his mouth tightened in annoyance. The slashed edges revealed five layers of thickness between the outer worsted and the inner lining of muslin. A substantial barrier between his blade and that one necessary drop of blood. “This is your usual fencing costume, my lady?”

She nodded, innocent eyes on him. “Yes indeed, my lord. My father agreed to allow me to use a sword if I was well protected. Whenever I practice I wear that jacket or another just like it. It gives good protection against cuts. My breeches are reinforced in a like manner. You can understand a father wanting to keep his daughter safe from
all
harm, can you not?”

Duncan closed his eyes and sighed. His task had just become many times more difficult, for in order to cut through all the layers of cloth he must thrust with greater force, thus risking a deeper cut to Katarina. “I believe I understand such a wish, although it hardly seems necessary in your case, my lady.” He met her steely blue gaze. “When you are ready, we will continue.”

Katarina donned her jacket, her cheeks flaming scarlet. The jacket, while protective, likely acted as quite good insulation. Between the strenuous exercise and the heat building up inside the jacket, she must be uncomfortable. This pause in the duel and removal of the jacket had given her a respite, perhaps allowing her a second wind. Duncan shook his head and began to revise his strategy.

Fully attired, Katarina raised her rapier, nodded to him, and again launched herself in attack. Meeting her blow for blow, he now pressed an attack of his own. She fell back a step before binding his weapon to the ground. He ducked as her blade whistled through the space his head had occupied mere seconds before. He retaliated with renewed vigor and their swords flowed like quicksilver through air that rang with the discordant sounds. Katarina’s blade danced dangerously close to Duncan’s face; the next instant her sword went spinning through the air and landed a mere foot from Tommy Redmond’s still sleeping form.

Katarina’s look of shock did not amuse Duncan in the least, for he assumed his own face bore a similar expression. The disarm had been instinctual, summoned from the long hours of grueling training with Signor Fucile last year. Had he never gone to Italy, this outcome might have been very different.

He straightened, rapier still
en garde
. His completely vulnerable opponent recovered her composure, however, and stood with face schooled into haughty disdain. Her chest heaved as she sucked in deep breaths. Fire in her eyes as she returned his stare dared him to complete his office.

Duncan moved slowly toward her. As he stepped to her side she did not deign to turn her head toward him, although she tracked him with her eyes. Manning and Matthews had advanced to the edges of the dueling space, but did not breech the barrier.

He continued to circle her until he stood directly behind her. Where could he wound her with minimum damage? Curse her, for putting him in this position! “My lady, do you yield?” he asked.

Motionless, except for the still labored breathing, she replied, “Our agreement was to first blood, Lord Dalbury. If you do not take it, I claim the forfeit.”

Duncan closed his eyes in exasperation and said, “Very well, then, my lady.” The padded jacket precluded a wound to arms or torso. Breeches did likewise to the lower body and thighs. He could wound the calf, but she wore knitted stockings that might bind the blade and make a ragged, nasty wound. Her hands were encased in leather gloves. And he would be damned if he would mark her face. He was going to live with that face for many, many years and would not curse himself every time he looked at her because he had marred her beauty. What did that leave?

He continued to circle her, searching for a glimpse of skin that would allow him a small wound. It need only be one drop of blood, for Christ’s sake.

Her coat and shirt were both collarless. She had loosely tied one of her brother’s cravats around her neck, but it was now askew from the ferocity of the fight, baring part of her neck. He moved behind her again. She tensed, likely in apprehension, not knowing from what direction the blade would come.

Duncan tossed his rapier to Lord Trevor, and quietly stepped so close to Katarina that his breath stirred the hair at her neck. He moved his head even closer, until his mouth was poised beside her left ear. Her breathing quickened.

“My lady,” he whispered, “you have given me little choice in this matter. I would not wound you, but I will not forfeit the match. Your protection has also tied my hands in the matter of where to wound you. So I must take where I may find.”

She began to tremble at his words.
If it were done
...

He turned his head and sought the delicate flesh at the nape of her neck, the one place on her not protected.

She went still, sucked in a breath and held it, as he worked at the tender spot open mouthed. With the tip of his tongue, he massaged the warm skin of her neck, salty from her exertions against him. A low moan, akin to the one she had given him in the garden two nights ago, escaped her before a shiver chased down her body. Then he nipped the skin, breaking it, drawing the precious drop that claimed her as his. She gasped, and he whispered again in her ear, “You did not stipulate, Lady Katarina, that the blood must be drawn with the sword. I therefore claim victory in the duel. Will you honor the forfeit?”

“Of course I will hold to my word,” came the answer, her voice low and breathless.

He turned her toward him then, until he stared down into the depths of her frank blue eyes. Cupping her face, he gently rubbed her stubborn jaw with his thumbs. “Then will you name our wedding day, my lady?”

She laughed and stepped back from him, seeming to shake herself. After a moment, she took a deep breath, raised her chin and said, “That is for you to decide, Lord Dalbury. Any date I name will certainly be at least a hundred years hence.”

Duncan smiled at that. God, she was worth everything. All the trouble and pain, all the guilt. For he did feel guilt over his treatment of Katarina. First for trying to ravish her, now for all but forcing her to marry him. But he was not sorry. Not a bit. And one day, pray God, she would not be either. “Then I would see the matter done today, my lady.”

Her lips fought against a smirk. “I knew I should have wagered on that special license. May I have time to return home and change? Or will you wed me in these?”

She gestured toward her jacket and breeches. The clergyman would bolt out the door after being asked to marry what appeared to be two men. He shook his head. “I would marry you if you were dressed in absolutely nothing, Lady Katarina.” Duncan paused to enjoy her blush, then continued, “But I will take pity on the Reverend Hayes and send you home to change into your finery. Manning.” He turned to his soon to be brother-in-law, who was still scowling. “Will you see your sister home to change and back for the wedding at six o’clock this evening?”

“I suppose I will have to, Dalbury, though I think your treatment of her just now crossed the line. Drawing blood with a sword is an honorable act. Biting her neck was...indecent.” Manning fumed, but would recover.

He fixed the man with an unblinking eye. “As I told your sister, she gave me little choice. Very well. If there is anyone you wish to attend, Manning, tell them to come along. I don’t want to make this a spectacle, but if there are family or friends?”

“No, well, Aunt Harriet. Damn.” The earl frowned. “Let me send a message to her at least. She doesn’t get out much and this may be too sudden for her to attempt.”

“Send my footman, just give him the direction. I’ll meet you in my office shortly to discuss the marriage settlements.”

Manning nodded, then hurried from the room, and Duncan turned again to his bride. Her hand lay in Matthews’s and they talked earnestly not five feet from where he stood.

Relative or not, this was too much to endure. “What is the meaning of this, sir?” He had reached them in two strides. “I am fully capable of meeting you this morning as well.”

“It is nothing, my lord,” Katarina assured him, when Matthews interrupted.

“I was telling Lady Katarina that she did not have to marry you, Lord Dalbury.” Matthews ignored her hissed entreaty and stared him in the eyes. “I told her she could marry me instead.”

Chapter 17

“Your seconds, sir?” Dalbury’s grim countenance showed him in deadly earnest. The marquess had not paused before issuing the challenge, further proof that she had no choice but to wed the man.

If she tried any other sort of escape, someone would end up dead. And the duel she’d just fought proved that the corpse would not be Dalbury’s. She’d suspected the man would be a fine swordsman, but not the brilliant master who’d outclassed her from the first. To have held her own as long as she did gave her great satisfaction. But Dalbury had not pressed her, hadn’t wanted to harm his prize. If Reginald or Jack, however, fought the marquess to the death, there would be no contest. Dalbury would walk away, possibly without a scratch.

“Sir Preston Hubble, my lord. And Lord Marbury. Shall we say pistols at dawn this time?”

The men continued their conversation much as if they were agreeing to meet for a morning’s gallop in the park.

She put a hand on her cousin’s arm, restraining him. “And I tell you, Reginald, I will marry Lord Dalbury this evening.”