‘But you do realise, don’t you,’ said Sir Leo, ‘that I’d have to fall on my sword anyway, if I lost to a
woman?
Think of my disgrace.’
‘I’m glad to see you’re not taking this too seriously, Sir Leo,’ Phoebe said, walking towards the staircase. ‘The fall will be even more rewarding.’
But she was jerked back unexpectedly hard by his hand beneath her arm, swinging her round, off-balance, to face him, pressing her bodice close against his ruffled shirt. ‘Oh, I’m taking it seriously all right, mistress, believe me. And you had better do the same because I warn you now—there’ll be no concessions for a maid in contest with a man. You have agreed the terms before witnesses, and I’ll not have you default on your word, once the contest is won. You have this last chance to back out now, or go through with it. Choose.’
She had waited a long time for revenge, yet it would have been so much easier to fall quietly upon his breast, to say nothing, to let him win without a fight and sort out the consequences, whatever they were. Their heated quarrel in the Orangery, however, had brought back the raw nagging ache to her wounds; the sight and nearness of him seared her heart and demanded some recompense for both the past and the empty future. He had been the only man she had ever wanted, the only one who had not, apparently, wanted her, and she could not forgive him for telling the world of it.
Until this moment, when he demanded that she choose, once and for all, whether to go ahead with this contest or back out, it had been sheer force of temper that had carried her through, blindly riding upon Elizabeth’s ridiculous solution of physical combat. The Duke himself had not thought it such a bad idea, but Phoebe’s boast about her three years’ training had not impressed him and she knew in her heart that she stood no chance whatever of a victory, even before Sir Leo’s assurance that he was not about to hand it to her for any chivalrous reason. There was too much at stake for that.
What, then? What was in it for her, after she lost? An ill-fated marriage to a man who had offered her no comfort except to keep uncouth guests at bay? Marriage to a man who’d shown her only coolness and disapproval and a heart made of stone? Well, she could make him fall in love with her. Yes, she could do that. She could make him feel the same despair she’d felt for years, the same yearning. With one taste of her loving, one small taste, she could bring him to her, begging for her warmth, a kind word, a soft touch, a gentle look. She could turn the experience to her advantage, and he would hunger for her the way she hungered for him. No, she had no illusions about winning this contest, for in marriage to him, she could make his life hell. And she would.
Twisting, she freed herself, hoping he would be cowed by the fire in her eyes. ‘I
have
chosen,’ she said, hoarsely. ‘Go and say your prayers, sir.’
But it was admiration, not fear, that she saw in his expression. ‘That’s my lass,’ he whispered so that only she could hear. ‘You’ll be a tigress of a mother for our bairns.’
She might have asked herself why Sir Leo was so eager to accept the unusual terms that Elizabeth had so blithely suggested in her excitement, but there was little need. She was wealthy, and there were few men on the lookout for a wife who would refuse a chance to get their hands on her inheritance for so little effort. In that, she told herself, Sir Leo would be no different from the rest.
The Duchess touched her hand. ‘Go and change then, dear, if you really must do this, while we move the billiard table out of the way. The long gallery is much too dark for this kind of thing, and there’s rush matting on the floor.’
Phoebe glanced at the two sisters, still wondering how Elizabeth had discovered about her fencing lessons, and bitterly disappointed that Signor Verdi had betrayed her confidence. Court life was full of such juicy revelations, and these two young ladies had nothing else to do but lap them up and pass them on, having no concerns about the consequences.
They stood close together, clinging anxiously, gazing first at their mother and then at Sir Leo, wide-eyed, perturbed by the change in the man who had laughed with them that morning, courteously teasing. This was an aspect of him they could not have foreseen, showing a physical masculine intensity towards a woman that allowed him to grab her by the arm and pull her to him, to speak to her with blunt authority, to dominate her with his eyes, both angry and applauding. Disturbed, excited and fearful, they saw Mistress Laker pick up her skirts and run towards the staircase, disappearing round the bend, and when at last they drew the gaze of Sir Leo, expecting the usual charming smile, his look passed through them as if they were not there. Then they knew that this was not the stuff of romantic dreams, but the brutal and dark side of the kind of passion already lurking in their own unconsciousness.
Chapter Three
A
t this point, the Duchess might have proposed what any other mother would certainly have done and sent her daughters off in pursuit of something more profitable than to witness such an unusual contest. The lady’s only command, however, was to go and sit in that corner and not to move, and certainly not to cry out. She then recalled something and, whispering into Elizabeth’s ear, sent her off on an errand, urging her to be quick about it.
The family were assembled and waiting by the time Phoebe descended the great staircase and, if they were too discreet to gasp, there was not one of them prepared for what they saw. Her slender and exquisitely graceful figure was clad in white shirt and brown doeskin knee-length breeches below which were white stockings, muffling her entrance and adding to the air of silent unreality in the hall. Over her shirt, she wore a black velvet sleeveless vest with gold buttons, its neckline touched by her mop of shining ringlets, and although such an unorthodox outfit might in some women have disguised their femininity, in Phoebe it did the opposite.
Restraining, for once, the bawdy remark that sprang unhelpfully to his lips, the Duke came to lead her towards the footman who held an open case of rapiers across his arms. With hands spread over hips, Sir Leo stood next to him, stripped down to his shirt and breeches, shoeless, like her. Watching him closely, the two sisters saw his eyes narrow as he appeared to pull himself up by an extra half-inch.
‘Sir Leo and Mistress Laker, understand this,’ said the Duke, scowling at them, ‘that this is to be a contest, not a duel. There will be no dealing of death blows, whatever you may wish, mistress. I have to keep his Majesty’s respect, and duelling in my house is something I cannot permit. A contest of skill is different, so I shall declare the first one to score two hits to be the winner.’ He placed the flat of his hand horizontally across Sir Leo’s chin. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘and here,’ moving it down to his waist, ‘is where your hits should be aimed, including the arms, and nowhere else. Now, I need your assurance that there is nothing concealed about your persons that may cause any additional damage. Mistress Laker?’
‘Nothing, your Grace,’ said Phoebe.
‘Nothing, your Grace,’ said Sir Leo.
‘Then choose your weapons and begin.’
The rapiers were long narrow things of tempered steel, burnished and deadly, with quillons and counterguards lightly curved, the points unprotected. Phoebe took the one nearest her and turned away quickly to weigh it in her hand, to make it her friend. She felt the cool smooth floor through her silken hose, remembering how Signor Luigi had made her wear heavy shoes, at first, to strengthen her legs and teach her to be nimble, and now there were times when she would give him a good run for his money.
Yet having been repeatedly cautioned to keep her anger under control, the rage that had been building up inside her since her arrival at Ham House, which had exploded scarce an hour ago, still seethed and churned, coupled with the fear of losing and a desperation to win. This man was amongst the best in the country and would not allow her the smallest error when his reputation was at stake. Her heart hammered into her throat as she tried in vain to subdue the furies that had ranted and roared since their row in the Orangery, the pain as she had spoken of her losses, and the wound to her pride that still lingered after his well-publicized criticism of her. Well, she would show him just how easy she was. She would make him work harder than he’d ever worked in his life if he wanted her money to pay for those fancy buttons and bows, the prancing stallions, the brocade suits and golden spurs. She turned to face him. Yes, she would make him eat his words, whatever it cost her.
Sir Leo was courteous and in no particular hurry, but too soon,
much
too soon, Phoebe launched herself at her opponent, partly hoping to take him off guard and partly because her anger was not as under control as she would have liked. Sir Leo easily parried her first wild
imbroccata,
his steel wrist warding her off while recognising the temper that lay behind the charging blow. He pushed her back, hard. ‘Steady!’ he told her, quietly. ‘Calm down.’
Taking a deep breath, she began again, body upright, feet dancing, sword arm extended like an antenna, feeling, touching, every move focused, every muscle disciplined, her wrist and arm shocked by his inflexible parries. High, low and wide, he was there before her every time, testing her with an unexpected thrust followed by a quick riposte in which she was forced backwards to the staircase end of the hall. She knew the shallow step of the dais would trip her if she did not take care, so she took it in her stride, glorying in the few extra inches of height until, circling, she pushed him back towards the fireplace in a whirling, flickering, shimmer of steel too fast for the onlookers to see. Her arm began to ache with the jarring of clashing blades, and after only a few minutes she could feel the shirt sticking to her with sweat. Signor Luigi would have allowed her to take a rest, to sip water, to wipe her forehead after a short bout, but this man was not even breathing hard and would see no reason to let her recover.
Then he did something that infuriated her for, after a follow-through in a lightning-quick exchange, the point of his rapier cut the top button of her vest free and sent it flying through the air like a golden coin. She ought not to have allowed it to disturb her, she knew, but the insolence of his action only served to remind her of his dazzling superiority, as if she needed it, and the Duke’s warning that this man could cut her into collops began to take on a new meaning.
‘A hit!’ The Duke’s voice echoed round the room. ‘First to Sir Leo.’
As if this clever trick had been intended to concentrate her energies into working harder, Phoebe beat fast on his blade time after time, pushing it aside and pressing it down to open a way for a lunge that would reach his shirt, as his had reached hers. Finally, she was rewarded with a prick to his arm with the tip of her blade. ‘A hit,’ called the Duke, ‘first to Mistress Laker. Are you hurt, Sir Leo?’
‘No, my lord, but the lady will now have at least one shirt to mend.’
‘Then carry on.’
Breathing became more painful, and Sir Leo gave her a moment to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand and then, defiantly, to unbutton her vest and fling it into a corner while reflecting that, with one more hit like the last, his esteem would be tainted for ever. Meanwhile, she would taunt him by showing him a little more of what he would never truly own.
Summoning all her strength, feet sliding and dancing in and out of their combined sword-length, blades clicking and squealing, rarely apart, Phoebe used every trick she had learnt both to defend herself from his relentless attacks and to make some impression on his phenomenal stamina. Recoiling, feeling the waves of exhaustion ready to overwhelm her, she heard her rasping breaths being forced out in gasps, betraying her sheer desperation. Reminded of what she stood to lose and win, she fought on with grim resolution. From the corner of her eye she could see portraits of the Dysart ancestors looking down on their descendants, whose hands covered their mouths, the black-and-white chequered floor blurring into grey, the impassive expression of her opponent, remorseless in his pursuit of victory, sparing her nothing. His lithe body was like a taut bow, perfectly toned and balanced, smooth and agile, trained to fight since he was nine years old. She knew he could continue to fence for hours, and that she could not.
Without mercy, his next attack drove her across the room, allowing her to do the same to him on purpose to tire her, to jolt and jar her arm still more until the pain almost blinded her. Confusion returned as her three years of training began to slip away, her beautiful balletic sword-play to coarsen into clumsiness, her rapier weighing as heavy as a pole-axe. Her legs trembled and sweat dripped into her eyes as his charge beat her back, sliding and slithering until, unable to hold her rapier up to him a moment longer, she was stopped by the discarded billiard table at her back.
‘Drop your sword,’ he commanded.
Shapes swam before her eyes, her lungs sucked at the air, noisily, stinging her with the effort. ‘No,’ she croaked.
‘D’ye want me to mark ye, then?’ he snapped. ‘I said
drop
it!’
She felt the prick of his sword under her chin, and it occurred to her then that she had better obey him. But there was still another raging voice that denied what was obvious to everyone else, a voice that came through the years of seeking revenge. As her fingers relaxed their grip on the pommel, the clatter of steel on the floor accompanied her breathless howls of fury and despair. ‘No…no…no! I will
not!’
Holding his rapier to one side to prevent anyone’s approach, Sir Leo circled her waist with his free arm, pushing her head on to his shoulder with his own while effectively silencing her cries that filtered through the whispers of the crowd.
‘The contest is awarded to Sir Leo Hawkynne,’ called the Duke, though neither of the contestants heard him. Nor did they need to. For Phoebe, defeat was in Sir Leo’s hard possessive kiss, his arm across her aching shoulders, the heat of him through the fine linen of her shirt, the firm pressure of his thighs against her body. Defeat was in her arms hanging like lead weights and her legs, numbed and boneless. Defeat was in her capture before the shocked I-told-you-so audience, and the sudden lift into his arms as he scooped her useless feet off the floor and carried her through the hall to the stairs.
Helpless with exhaustion, Phoebe kept her eyes closed, vaguely aware of each turn of the staircase and of the scent of Sir Leo’s exertions, and she knew with increasing humiliation that if ever he were to tell her how difficult the contest had been for him, he would be lying to lessen her pain. But she would bring his pride crashing down, she would force that apology from him, and she would cost him dear in misery before she would give herself willingly. Of kisses like that, he might be able to count on one hand, if he were lucky. Nevertheless, she was bound to acknowledge a twinge of regret in the process, for that kiss had been as memorable as his swordsmanship, and she’d had enough experience to know how to compare. Even in her fatigue, a nagging curiosity had been satisfied about what it would be like to be held in his arms, while another more unforgiving voice warned her to keep herself aloof from it. She could not. It was not the kind of experience one could keep aloof from. It was the beginning of an addiction, and that kiss was enough to take hold of her, to change all her intentions, and to make of her a walking contradiction. It had happened in the space of a few moments, while she was still at her weakest.
Once inside her sunny bedroom, Sir Leo seemed intent on reinforcing that token of mastery with another more potent one, more private and unforgettable which she, in a daze of half-expectations, took to be an attempted preamble to his victory celebrations, whatever form they might take. No sooner had he shouldered the door closed and tipped her on to her feet, than his supporting arm pulled her close into the hard bend of his body and, even before she could guess what he was about, began a kiss that for sheer skill excelled even the previous one.
With one smooth, stealthy hand he explored the soft contours of her body over the thin damp shirt and doeskin breeches, lifting her arm to his shoulder while sliding the caress downwards, missing nothing, capturing her breast before moving on over her hips and the mounds of her buttocks, tantalising, shocking, venturing where no other man had dared. She could have stopped it, but pretended a shameful, shameless lack of ability, and the craving was fed, turning her resolutions upside-down. She would have done anything for it to continue. Anything.
It was Sir Leo himself who brought her down to earth by taking her arm from his shoulder and, with the last touch of his lips on hers, held her firmly by the waist, easing her backwards until the yellow silk counterpane buckled her legs and made her sit, suddenly, still intoxicated by his audacity and the urgency of her responses. It was too late for her to pretend otherwise.
But the pause in his lovemaking, which had offered her the chance to pull herself together, did exactly the opposite. What he was about to do now, she told herself, was inevitable. She would blame him later for losing control of his desires and for taking advantage of an exhausted, helpless woman. With a moan, she lay back upon the bed and closed her eyes to wait for the warmth of him to cover her, still hardly able to believe her own treacherous change of heart.
‘I’ll send for your maid,’ he said, from a distance.
Phoebe opened her eyes. ‘What?’ she said, sleepily.
Relaxed, he was leaning against the bed-curtain, shaking the fat tassel like a bell, watching her in open admiration. ‘Your maid?’ he repeated. ‘Well, you know how they’ll be jumping to conclusions if we don’t appear after half an hour, fully washed and changed. We don’t want that, do we? Unless, of course, you want to keep your lad’s clothes on, just for effect. Oh, and by the way, mistress, you’re quite free now.’
Slowly, struggling to understand him like a sleepwalker awakening, Phoebe sat up. ‘Free of what?’
‘Free of me. Of the conditions. Marriage. Well, it does seem a mite unfair, doesn’t it? You were not allowed to run me through, which I’m
sure
you would have done, so I cannot in all fairness stake my claim to you, can I? Besides, there was all that hootin’ and hollerin’ down there about not wanting it, and protests by the mile. No man in his senses would inflict himself on a woman who’s in
that
frame of mind. You have to admit, it’s hardly the way to begin married life, is it? Nay, dinna look at me like that, lass. Is this not to your liking, after all?’
Like a rush of blood returning painfully to numbed fingers, the truth bore in upon her, leaving a gaping void where her plans had been a few moments before. Not content with winning the contest, he had seen her game and was refusing to play it. ‘So what was the meaning of
that?’
she whispered, nodding to the space where they’d just been. ‘To prove to yourself how easy I am? Easy to make love to when I’m utterly exhausted? Easy to beat at fencing? Easy to accept the stupid suggestion of a moon-struck seventeen-year-old? It’s a wonder you bother to get out of bed in a morning, Sir Leo, with life so well laid out for you.’ With a leap that totally belied her fatigue, she was halfway across the room before his laconic reply reached her, maddening her still more.