Guarded Heart (6 page)

“Naturally,” Maurelle murmured.

“You begrudge me?” the singer inquired with the lift of a brow. “You want him all for yourself? But
chère,
he is so fascinating with the quickness of his mind that advances, parries and ripostes like the flashing of his sword. I listen with my mouth catching flies. And the subtlety of his insults, like the cut that only begins to bleed long after it is made. So droll he is, too, at times, yet he has such pain inside him.”

Ariadne looked up, her expression openly skeptical, or so she feared. “Pain?”

“He has not had an easy time of it, but then who among us has? We all have a crying child trapped inside us, one we must feed chocolate to stop its tears.” She held out her cup for a refill, her green gaze wry even as she lifted a shoulder. “Or give the poor dear something even more delicious as she grows up, like love.”

“Oh, love.” Maurelle was politely amused.

“But yes,” the diva answered, her eyes sparkling. “We are none of us
jeunes filles
here, lacking the experience to understand that physical love can soothe more than a mere itch.”

Maurelle chuckled. Ariadne mustered a smile but could not see that the sally required comment. “It appears you are in the gentleman's confidence.”

“A little, perhaps,” the diva allowed. “People talk to me, you see. I don't know why it is, but there you are.”

“Merde,”
the parrot muttered with his eyes on his meringue.

It was probably the lady's abundant interest and tolerance, Ariadne thought while watching the bird's antics, and perhaps her profession that was not known for its respectability. She might receive adulation, be feted for her achievements, but, rather like the sword masters, would never be accepted into the rigid ranks of aristocratic French Creole society. The prohibition might make her willing to overlook things that would shock those within the select and protected circle. Ariadne felt herself drawn to the diva, though what she really wanted of her was some indication of weakness in the gentleman they discussed, something that might be forged into a weapon.

“Handsome, healthy, of good family in England,” she said with a twist of her lips, “what could possibly plague Monsieur Blackford?”

The diva gave her a clear look. “As with so many others, his family connections rob him of peace. A mother whom he seldom saw as a child, a statesman father who was almost never in England, a grandfather who reared him but despised his preference for books and the sword instead of hunting and guns. Then there was his older brother, the heir apparent, intent on stepping into their grandfather's shoes and titles, after their father, so he aped the old gentleman in all things. They fought, of course, as brothers do, but particularly when one is intent on making the other feel inferior. As the heir was seven years older, it was an uneven contest, with the younger of the two getting the worst of it. Except when it was a war of words. It was in these, I'm sure, that he learned the uses of biting wit allied to circumlocution.”

Ariadne could easily imagine it, the two boys facing off against each other, the smaller one tearing the character of the older to shreds with lilting phrases, the older frowning, bull-like in his lack of understanding, unable to answer the high-flown invective except with his fists. Afterward, the younger boy lying bruised and bloodied, but grimly satisfied that the last word had been his.

Abruptly, she shook her head. She didn't want to think of it, didn't want to envision Gavin Blackford's sorrows and defeats or to be forced to feel sympathy because of them. What had happened to him as a child had nothing to do with his conduct as a man. At some point every person had to discard the past and all the grim things that had happened, to pick up the threads of their lives and weave them into a different pattern, one nearer the ideal they carried in their mind. Events of long ago could not be used as an excuse for whatever occurred, all the things people allowed because they could not, or would not, summon the will to make it otherwise.

For a stark instant, she was reminded of the grief she had known and how it haunted her still. But she was doing something to put it from her, was she not? She had left Paris, the comfort of her husband's home and the supervision of his relatives, to come here. She was attempting to make what had taken place more bearable. She wasn't wallowing in her misfortune or lying supine with a cloth soaked in cologne on her forehead while others dealt with the details of living. No, not even if her husband's family would have preferred it.

Jean Marc's brother had offered his hand in marriage. She was still astounded by that bit of hypocrisy since she well knew the purpose was to keep the fortune she had inherited in the family. His sisters had pleaded with her to accept the proposal, had wept and sworn they could not bear to be parted with her. Perhaps she had grown hard and cynical, but she could not think there was a word of truth in anything they said.

Remaining with them would have meant lingering in a past made dreary by grief and remembrance. She had to move forward, to break free so she could live again.

“Chère?”

It was Maurelle who spoke, putting out a hand to gain her attention by touching her arm. Ariadne gave her a wan smile. “A thousand pardons, my thoughts were elsewhere. You were saying?”

“Zoe asked if you wished to attend a soirée tomorrow evening, and offered tickets to her benefit later in the week.”

The diva gave a decided nod that was echoed by the parrot. “The manager sponsors this soirée, you perceive, to introduce the opera company here as the season comes into its own. The food and wine will be excellent and the company the best.” She kissed her fingertips in an extravagant gesture. “Her benefit is, well, beneficial to my purse.”

“The last sounds lovely but I must miss the party. I have another engagement.”

“Do you? And what might it be?” Zoe gave her a droll smile. “Perhaps I may prefer to do something other than smile and smile and be obliged to sing before the night is done.”

“Nothing of great interest.” The fewer who knew of her appointments with a fencing master, Ariadne thought, the better it would be.

“You may as well tell her,
chère.
”

“Indeed?”

“Being in and out of the house so often she is sure to stumble onto the truth.”

“Mais jamais!”
the parrot screamed.

It was again astonishingly apropos, almost as if the parrot understood the conversation, though it might also be on account of his having eaten the last of his meringue. With a small shrug, she said, “I am to have another fencing lesson. Maurelle has been kind enough to allow the use of a room for the exercise.”

“But how brave of you!”

“Not at all. More patience than courage was required at our last lesson.” She drank the last of her cooling chocolate, trying to appear blasé.

“Our lesson?” Zoe watched her, her eyes bright and a little too knowing for comfort. “You have a fencing master for instruction then. Which, if I may ask?”

“Monsieur Blackford. You see the reason for my interest in his past.”

“Oh,
ma chère,
I could almost envy you. These bouts are private, yes? To be closeted with the Englishman, to face him as he is stripped for action—
là,
my heart runs away with me to think of it.” The diva put a hand to her ample chest, her eyes bright with exaggerated humor.

“It is nothing so very exciting.” Ariadne was conscious of the warmth in her face even as she made the protest.

“Don't tell me it is all mere thrust and parry! I shall not believe it, don't want to believe it. No, no, it is all of the most romantic, I'm sure. I shall do myself the honor of attending on Maurelle the morning after, just to see how you progress.”

“Vache!”
the parrot said.

Ariadne, politely smiling, could only agree. Holy cow, indeed. The last thing she had intended was to draw more attention to her meetings with Monsieur Blackford. At the rate things were going, she might as well nail announcements to the lampposts and charge admission.

She must learn what she needed to know, then end this affair. The sooner, the better.

“P
ractical, most practical,” Gavin said as he turned with the lazy lift of a brow to observe the ensemble Ariadne had chosen to wear for their second fencing session. “Also provocative. Is it meant to show your dedication or as a distraction?”

“The idea was simply to be able to move with more ease. And you did suggest fewer petticoats.”

She closed the door of the long
garçonnière
chamber and came forward, much more aware than she wanted to be of the plain muslin
canezou
blouse she wore this evening which pulled over the head through an opening that plunged deep unless the overlapping ends at its front were securely fastened beneath the belt at her waistline. She had rolled the shirred sleeves to her elbows to free her gloved hands, in imitation of the
maître d'armes,
then used the pull cords running through the skirts of
tan d'or
twill—ordinarily used to lift the hem of the walking costume to avoid mud puddles—to raise it above her ankles in their soft leather half-boots. She had left off her heaviest petticoat with its stiffening of woven horsehair, or
crin,
retaining only a single underskirt for modesty. If Monsieur Blackford thought the resulting display of wrist and ankle provocative, she could hardly wait to see his reaction to the ensemble she had ordered yesterday morning.

Not that it mattered what he thought, of course. It was only that how he saw her, what he thought of her, might be useful.

Nevertheless, the heat she noted in the dark blue depths of his eyes made her so self-conscious it was difficult to move with any kind of grace. She was too closely reminded that no corset confined her waist and only the clever seaming in her camisole supported her breasts so they moved as she walked forward, brushing against the fabric with a tingling sensation in their sensitive peaks. That she and the sword master were alone once more, isolated by any number of rooms from Maurelle and her guests for the evening, was not lost on her either.

She should have insisted that the maid, Adele, attend them. The idea had crossed her mind only to be dismissed. It was pride that made her reluctant to have anyone as witness, at least in part. She was a novice at this sport, after all, and must naturally be somewhat inept. Then she was not some young girl requiring constant supervision, and it seemed best not to set a precedent. The time might come when she would prefer to have no witnesses.

“Thoughtful, possibly, but not simple,” he said as he watched her approach. “Still, if you don't mind the draft, I don't mind the view.”

Her lips tightened. Let him look, for what good it might do him. She would even return the favor so he might see her lack of concern. He had made his preparations again in the manner she had copied, and stood now in his shirt sleeves with the candlelight gleaming in the dark gold waves of his hair and creating leaping flames in his eyes. The only change was that he wore trousers this evening instead of pantaloons, with straps that fastened under boots of supple leather that had thin soles which would doubtless slip more easily over the fencing strip.

“Shall we begin?” she asked, then cleared her throat of its unaccountable huskiness. “I'm sure you will be glad to have done with this task so you may enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Now there you are wrong. This evening is my
raison d'être
and only solace. Prolonging it is my object. Do you doubt it?”

“Frankly, yes,” she said. “Or will you leave me armed for more than an instant?”

“You are still annoyed over that, like the brick-mason's helper reprimanded for sloth who had only two naps all day, each four hours in duration. Passion without politesse does not a fencer make. You must control your emotions, madame, or they will defeat you.”

A hard knot formed in her chest as she absorbed his meaning. Was there another message in the words? It seemed possible; he was not a stupid man. Oh, but surely not. He could know nothing of her real purpose.

“I shall endeavor to remember,” she said finally.

“Cry peace and hosanna but no quarter, and let us arm ourselves.”

He turned to where chest pads and masks lay ready next to the case of foils on the long side table. Handing the smaller of the two pads to her, one shorter at the lower front than his own, he showed her how to manipulate the buckles, also how to pull the wire-grid mask on over her face. Then he stepped back, leaving her to it while he donned his own protection.

The concealment made him seem a different man, she thought, watching covertly even as she struggled with the metal fastenings of the chest pad. It removed personality and identity, concealed the changes of expression that might indicate imminent attack or vulnerability, exultation or pain. His eyes were only a blue glimmer, a bright hint of mockery that might have been for her but could also be for the arrangement, or even for himself.

He was as much aware of her as she was of him, for he swept off his mask and strode back to her, removing his gloves and tucking them under one arm. “Allow me,” he said, and reached to brush her hands aside, fastening the buckle that had stymied her with quick, competent movements.

“Thank you.” The words were uneven. He was so close, much too close. His scent of starched linen, night freshness and warm maleness enveloped her.

“Reluctant gratitude,” he said mildly, “is often worse than none. Breathe.”

It was a frowning instant before she realized he wanted to check the fit of her padding. It was, she saw as she lowered her gaze, down-filled and white, no doubt the better to show blood if sliced by an accidental blow. She filled her lungs with air to show that she could, in fact, breathe without unusual effort.

The movement lifted the padded vest. He reached to catch the front edges, tugging them into place. His gloved knuckles grazed her abdomen in shockingly intimate contact. She inhaled more deeply, a soft sound in the quiet, while something warm and tenuous swirled inside her before settling heavily in her lower belly.

He met her eyes, the dark sapphire depths of his own rich with contemplation and something more that hovered, tightly restrained, behind it. The moment stretched, marked only by the flutter of a candle flame and the distant clip-clop of passing carriage horses in the street beyond the windows. She was almost painfully aware of his virility and inherent power. She wanted to step away but could not move, could find nothing to say even in protest.

His gaze flickered downward, lingered. Following it, she saw that his adjustment of the padding had pulled the opening of her
canezou
blouse lower, exposing the upper curves of her breasts. Something she saw in his face caused the heat in her midsection to leap higher, flushing her throat, scalding her face. Yet she would not acknowledge it, would not call attention to her exposure by attempting to cover herself.

He released her abruptly and turned away, ducking his head as he pulled on his mask again. Reaching for his gloves, he drew them firmly into place then picked up his foil from the nearby table as he stepped to the strip.

She followed more slowly while pressing the leather of her own gloves tighter between her spread fingers. She had thought they would protect her from any chance contact, but she had been in error. The question that occupied her mind was just how intentional the sword master's aid just now had been, how unavoidable. She had the distinct impression that he did nothing without a reason. What possible purpose could he have for touching her except, possibly, to unsettle her?

The leather-wrapped hilt of the foil and its metal guard felt cold as she took it up, and the blunted blade was weightier than she recalled. However, she would not show it, but moved to her place on the piste with as much impassivity as the man who joined her there. Even as she stepped on the canvas strip, a troublesome doubt unfurled inside her. Was it possible she had miscalculated?

Ariadne turned to face the sword master. He swept up his blade in salute and down again, his eyes a watchful flicker behind his mask. She followed suit, then waited with her foil tip resting on the strip for what might come next.

“We will begin,” he said, “with a series of taps at the tips of our two blades, taps as soft as a lover's sigh, as tentative as a first kiss. It will be a gentle exploration of intentions and desires, no kind of assault. You understand?”

“I believe so.”

“Good,” he replied, his voice like warm honey; then he continued without change,
“En garde.”

She reached out to cross his foil tip with hers. Scarcely had they touched when he gave the office to begin. They exchanged the beats he had described for several seconds, their blades chiming together in measured rhythm as polite and steady as a metronome. Abruptly, he launched into an advance that pushed her blade aside, sliding past it to immediately touch her chest padding. It was a careful nudge, one that barely curved his blade, but she did not make the mistake of believing it was not rigorously planned.

“Touché,” she said, her gaze level.

“Excellent,” he said with a nod. “To acknowledge a touch is always a matter of honor. A fencer should never call out his own claim to a touch made upon his opponent for that's vainglory. Nor should he inquire about one that has not been acknowledged. If you should happen to concede a touch I don't believe is valid, I will decline credit for it by saying
pas de touché,
not a touch.”

“I understand.”

“We begin again. This time,
you
will advance.”

She did as he directed, but her small foray was instantly flicked aside so she defended once more. Again and yet again they went through the movements while their blades chimed and clanked until, abruptly, he swirled into a riposte and she felt the thud of his buttoned point against her padding again.

“Touché.” She had to unclench her teeth to make the acknowledgement.

“Just so. Again.” He waited only until she had raised her foil before he continued. “Fencing, you should realize, can be like a silent conversation, one in which you come to know your opponent. You sense the strength of his wrist, the power of his will, the extent of his training, his physical condition, whether he views himself as invincible or merely competent. These things can all affect the end of a
phrase d'armes.
”

“Yes, I see.” Insofar as she could tell his strength was unyielding and his physical condition superb if the disturbingly well-oiled flexing of the muscles in his shoulders and thighs was any indication. She was no judge of his training but thought he most certainly had no doubt of his invincibility. The almost negligent ease with which he controlled the passage between them was beyond annoying, well beyond.

“Or consider it in the light of a flirtation,” he went on, his voice lilting above the measured tap and clack of the blades. “Just as you would not reveal your every feeling to a suitor, it's bad strategy to permit that advantage to an opponent. Hold something of yourself in reserve so he is left guessing. Allow him to wonder, to doubt, to feel that he has no chance.”

The image he conjured up was disturbing, while some tender current within the deep timbre of his voice sent a shiver along her arm. It seemed best to put an end to that. “And if he becomes importunate?”

He gave a short laugh. “Then you are allowed a slap to remind him of his place.”

“This is the method you use to teach young men to defend themselves?”

“By no means. Instruction is much more direct in their case.”

“Why make an exception for me?”

“You suspect condescension? Or is it the comparison to flirtation that offends?”

She would give much to see his face. It was frustrating to be unable to guess whether he was flirting in all truth or merely goading her. “Neither,” she answered. “I only seek the true value of the lesson.”

“Done,” he said, his voice even. An instant later, he touched her again, a gentle probe of his sword point that landed squarely on her padded nipple. He stepped back, surveyed her for a long moment, gave a nod.

They began again.

Now his comments were an unending dissertation on the advance, the parry, the riposte. He called corrections for her form and how she moved, and as regularly as a ticking clock, he invaded her defenses for a light, expert touch.

It was maddening.

Her right arm felt on fire. Her lungs worked like a bellows and the fog of her breath slicked the inside of her mask. She wanted to cry quits but stubborn pride would not allow it. And she hated the man who faced her with a fierce heat that was the only thing that allowed her to lift her foil again and again.

“So you would be a Boadicea with your enemy lying dead at your feet,” he said after a small interval of silent combat. “What has this man done to make you long to shed his blood?”

“That is no concern of yours.” It was all she could do to rap out the words as her heartbeat thundered in her ears and she struggled to draw enough air into her lungs.

“Even if I forge the weapon of his doom?”