My Pleasure (26 page)

Self-preservation leapt into play. She must not be seduced by him. It meant too much to her. She could not be simply an afternoon interlude to him.

“Are you all right?” he asked gruffly, and she came to with a jolt, realizing she’d stopped laughing and was staring up at him. “Because you stopped laughing all of a sudden, and now you look deuced strange. Is something hurt, after all?”

“No, no,” she mumbled, smoothing her skirts down over her legs. He reached down, and she put her hands in his, allowing him to lift her to her feet. She began feeling a bit uncomfortable at his continued unreadable expression.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have dropped you like that.” He looked a little angry, grudging, and those were expressions alien to Ramsey Munro’s devilishly clever, handsome face.

“I suppose there was some provocation,” she admitted. “Shall we call a truce?”

“A truce. Yes.”

She tilted her head. He really was behaving most strangely. “And can we continue the lesson?”

“Yes. Of course.” He shifted his shoulders as if his shirt was binding. Which, given the way the white material stretched across his broad shoulders, may well have been the case. But he hadn’t seemed physically uncomfortable earlier. Then he squared them, much like he was facing the same firing squad he’d accused her of confronting earlier.

“First, the grip.” He picked up the smallsword that had fallen to the floor and brought it to her, holding his hand out and showing her how to hold the hilt.

“This,” he pointed to the flexible tip of the smallsword, “is the foible. It is the weakest part of the blade, but also the most flexible.”

“This,” he tapped the bottom of the blade, near the hilt, “is the forte, the strongest part of the blade.”

“I see.”

“Your goal is not to duel,” he told her, now fully a teacher, impersonal and informative. “Your goal is to protect yourself. The concepts of point of line and right of way are immaterial.”

“We shall focus on footwork, the parry—” At her questioning look he explained, “The parry is the blocking of an opponent’s blow. The feint is attacking in one direction with the intention of switching to another. And finally you shall learn to lunge, to pierce another man’s body with a sword.”

He watched her closely, gauging her reaction. “You do understand that, when all is said and done, that is what dueling is about, that is why one learns to fence? So one can stick the tip of a piece of steel into another living being and take his life?”

She felt the blood drain from her face but nodded gamely. With a sudden grimace he threw up his hand.

“This is ridiculous! You don’t want to hurt anyone. Look at you! You’re a lady, not some vicious bit of Haymarket wares. Why on earth would you need to know this?”

“I told you. Lord DeMarc—”

“Lord DeMarc is a pompous prig who probably reacted poorly when you showed no interest in him. He may even have expressed himself in a manner that seemed menacing, but as to being an actual threat—” He shook his head. “You were frightened. You still are. You have probably never dealt with a man with such conceit, who reacted so strongly to being rebuffed. But believe me, Miss Nash, though it might be rare amongst gentlemen, it is not rare amongst men.

“You have had an unfortunate experience. But you do not need to arm yourself in order to—”

“To what?” she interrupted him. She stood very straight. “To be free to go where I desire when I desire to go there?”

“Yes.”

“You are wrong,” she said in a low voice. “You think because a man wears his cravat in a certain way or pays his gambling debts or drinks without getting drunk, or because he rides well or fences well, that he abides by all of a gentleman’s codes of conduct. And for the most part, you would be right. Men are mostly what they appear to be. A scoundrel is a scoundrel, a gentleman is a gentleman. But not all of them are.

“You do not know Lord Forrester DeMarc, Mr. Munro. You have never seen his expression when he looks at me, heard the frantic tenor of his voice when he speaks to me. I have. But because I challenge what you think you know of him, you suspect my judgment rather than his character.”

He returned her gaze with a shadowed one, neither embarrassed nor convinced. She could hardly blame him. In his situation, she might well have felt the same. She still scarce believed it herself.

“Perhaps all that is needed is for me to confront DeMarc?” he finally said. “Suggest that his interest is unappreciated and unreciprocated—”

“No!”

“But why?” he asked.

“Because DeMarc would go to Lady Tilpot at once. If she thought I had caused any of her guests embarrassment, she would dismiss me from her service.”

“And would that be so onerous? I am sure your sister and her new husband would welcome you in their home.”

“I am certain they would, too,” she answered tightly. “But as you know, they are on the Continent, and I would not like to have to travel to join them.”

“Nor would I like that,” he murmured, frowning.

“And I can’t very well ask the Weltons if I can share Charlotte’s room!” Her shoulders suddenly drooped, weighed down by his suspicions and her uncertainty. “Believe me, Mr. Munro. I have given my situation a great deal of thought. I believe I am doing the best that I can.” She smiled wanly. “So please, shall we start with the parry?”

DISARM:

forcing your opponent to release his grip on his weapon

“MERCIFUL HEAVENS!” Jolly Milar, her eyes fixed on Lady Tilpot’s ballroom door, started frantically fanning herself. Helena, sent by her employer to keep the scapegrace from sneaking off with one of the young bucks attending the gala ball, turned as a hush fell over Lady Tilpot’s three hundred guests.

Standing in the corridor outside the wide-flung double doors, calmly handing his walking stick and hat to the wide-eyed footman, was the marquis of Cottrell, Ignatio Farr. And beside him, looking around with elegant detachment, stood Ramsey Munro.

He carried himself with that aura of superiority and casual easiness that so many men emulated and so few managed to achieve. Dressed all in midnight blue, the only ornament on his person was the gold rose pin securing his cravat.

Helena’s breath caught. What was he doing here? Lady Tilpot would never have invited him to her home, regardless of his newly acquired status.

“Poor Tilpot.” Helena looked around to find Mrs. Winebarger smiling knowingly. “One could almost feel sorry for her. Look at her, trying frantically to think what to do with this unlikely and unwanted pair! Where to seat them at dinner? Should she seat them at all?” Mrs. Winebarger laughed lightly. “What a pickle.”

Helena followed her gaze. Lady Tilpot sat frozen in her chair, her lips a little slack, her eyes darting nervously, gauging the reactions of her nearest companions. Standing behind her, Reverend Tawster looked nearly as taken aback as his benefactress, but where Lady Tilpot wore an expression of confusion, he wore one of rapt amazement.

On one side of Lady Tilpot, Mrs. Barnes sat with pursed lips and an expression of speculative delight. She was center stage at what might well prove the juiciest on dit of a rather lackluster season. On Lady Tilpot’s other side, Flora, a vision in diamante spangled lace, looked around, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere but having no idea what had caused it.

“Alas for The Tilpot,” Mrs. Winebarger continued in a low voice, “she is between the proverbial rock and hard place. Her friends expect her to cut the audacious Mr. Munro directly, but she is not so stupid as that. His grandfather, the marquis, is a powerful man. A very powerful man, you know.”

Helena didn’t. Not for the first time, it occurred to her that the Prussian lady was extremely knowledgeable for a relative newcomer to these shores. Then she forgot all about Mrs. Winebarger as Ramsey’s unhurried perusal of the room moved to her. He checked and inclined his head, the movement rife with amused irony. And with that she knew: Ram’s appearance here was his concession that she might have a better understanding of DeMarc than he did. He had come to see for himself her situation.

It might seem a small thing, yet she did not know another man who would have given her opinion such weight. And was it a small thing? Certainly if the evidence of the murmured conversations erupting behind quivering fans all over the room was any indication, it might prove more than he’d bargained for. He had exposed himself to embarrassment and possible humiliation.

For her sake.

Her heart jumped in her chest. Emotions crowded her thoughts, vying for expression. But she knew that was absurd, she was absurd, mistaking gratitude for…She refused to countenance such nonsense, and so she tamped down her unruly heart and turned to look for DeMarc, whom she had been avoiding all afternoon.

She saw him at once, his blond head trained like a hound toward the door, his figure tense as he stared at Ramsey. Then, following Ramsey’s gaze, his own dark gaze turned toward her. The animosity she saw there took her aback.

With a little thrill, she looked at Ramsey. He must have seen DeMarc’s livid face, his curled lips and black gaze.

But Ramsey wasn’t looking at her anymore. He’d bent his head toward his grandfather, listening to whatever the old man was saying as they entered the room, and now made his unhurried progress through the crowd. Startled heads turned, chests puffed out indignantly, and plump, overdressed matrons scattered before him as he moved through their midst very like a sleek young tomcat through a dovecote, heedless of the clucking, unconcerned by the ripples of hysteria he caused.

It was grandly amusing.

“Look! He’s going to pay his respects to Lady Tilpot!” Jolly breathed. As they watched, Lady Tilpot leaned over to Flora and hissed something in her ear. The girl popped up at once, bobbed a quick curtsey, and darted away.

“Oh, dear. This does not bode well for Mr. Munro’s social ambitions. The Tilpot will not have him know Miss Tilpot,” Mrs. Winebarger said with a sigh. Helena watched a little crowd gather behind Lady Tilpot like a flock of sheep at the pasture gate, each jockeying to be close enough to hear the upcoming exchange, yet not so close as to appear indiscreet.

“I think it will be all right. The man has extraordinary élan!” Reverend Tawster whispered excitedly from beside her. She hadn’t heard him approach. She regarded him now in surprise, and with newfound respect. Though clearly interested, the vicar had ceded his front-row seat to those with more prurient interests.

“Up to the nines on all counts!” Jolly agreed enthusiastically, her fan fluttering above her bosom.

“Smart lad,” Mrs. Winebarger murmured as Ram waited unconcernedly while his grandfather crossed with stately deliberation to Lady Tilpot’s side. He did not make a leg. He canted forward sharply at the waist, raised her plump hand to within a few inches of his lips, and stared directly into her rounded eyes as he murmured something.

Every fan in the vicinity ceased moving as their owners strained to hear what he said. They were thwarted. Whatever he murmured caused Lady Tilpot to squirm and then, with a sniff, make an imperious motion for Ramsey to draw near.

With a look of mild and utterly unconvincing surprise, Ramsey stepped forward and executed a perfect bow, one that quite shone down his grandsire’s. “Lady Tilpot,” he said clearly. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Welcome to my home, Mr. Munro,” Lady Tilpot said loudly, and then, shooting a nervous glance at the marquis, added even more loudly, “My niece is presently occupied, but she will return shortly. I must make her known to you.”

A little thrill of conversation rippled through the masses at this. Ramsey replied politely that he would be honored, and with that Lady Tilpot ceased to look as though she expected him to rip off his clothes and run amuck through her ballroom. He bowed again and joined his waiting grandsire. The crowd shifted and dispersed.

“And thus Ramsey Munro enters Society,” the vicar said in an odd tone.

“You look disappointed, Reverend,” Mrs. Winebarger said.

“Perhaps I am, a little,” the vicar admitted. “There is something so romantic about a rogue aristocrat, don’t you think? Still, I am sure this is all for the best.” And with a small, self-deprecating smile, he excused himself.

The rest of the evening passed more or less uneventfully. Helena had not expected Ramsey, as the heir to a marquisate, to be introduced to her in such a large throng, nor was he. There were plenty of others vying for that honor who stood well above her, innumerable young ladies and fashionable misses with mothers dutifully pushing their progeny forward, daughters of knights and those bearing old, illustrious surnames. Now that Lady Tilpot had stamped Ram with approval, going so far as to publicly introduce him to her only niece, universally acknowledged to be one of the ton’s most well-guarded heiresses, that portion of society that lived to care for their reputations and appearances, followed suit.

And Helena was jealous. For the first time in years she wished that she had a beautiful gown. Something exquisite, gossamer-light and shimmery, something that flowed down her body like the Grecian-styled, high-waisted gowns the other young ladies wore.

Not that there was anything wrong with her dress. It was in keeping with her station, fashioned from coral-colored batiste that tied beneath her breasts with a silk bow, short puffed sleeves, and a modest lace-trimmed neckline. Her hair, coiled atop her head, claimed no ornaments.

While she received many admiring glances, no one asked her to dance. Least of all Ramsey. But then, neither did he dance with any other lady, seemingly content to lounge with the young bucks and older military men at the far side of the room, making himself as pleasant a guest as one could want. He treated the giggling and tittering young women who sauntered by him to respectful nods and admiring looks, he listened attentively to the gout-riddled old general who stomped over and bellowed in his ear, and he performed a pretty bit of nonsense with an ancient baroness’s handkerchief, which the coy old cat had flung at his feet.

Indeed, with each passing hour Lady Tilpot’s demeanor grew more and more triumphant, until by ten o’clock Ramsey Munro’s presence in her home had been magically transformed from potential disaster into Lady Tilpot’s personal social coup of the season.