by Lily Reynard
At the Buckingham Stairs, the boatman Kit had hired looked surprised when Kit directed him back to Cranbourne House.
He said in a low voice as Kit stepped down, "Lost yer nerve, did you? Are you still goin' to pay me them two guineas you promised?"
Kit glanced at Antonia, but she appeared not to have overheard. "Aye, but keep quiet. I'll deduct a shilling for every word more."
Back at Cranbourne House, Antonia bade Kit to wait in the parlor for her.
He sat on an old-fashioned walnut settle, uncomfortably aware of his flimsy garments and bared arms, and sifted through the evening's events.
He would have to tell Julian of his change of heart.
But first, he would fetch Margaret and return both the horse and the traveling monies advanced to him.
Luckily, the reward for capturing the highwayman Jack Starling had arrived a few days ago, and Kit's purse finally held money of his own again. He would even have something left after he reimbursed his brother and paid coach fare to London.
It was a good feeling to have a roof over his head, work for his hands, and coins to fill his pouch.
And it was all due to his beautiful, his wonderful countess. Kit touched his mouth, still amazed that she had permitted him to kiss her, and hoped she would never learn of his aborted scheme.
As if summoned by his thoughts, she chose that moment to return. She had changed out of her Greek costume into a simple gown of printed cotton, and she was carrying a long cloth-wrapped bundle that looked suspiciously like a sword.
Kit's heart leaped when he saw that she was alone, Mall having evidently been ordered to remain upstairs.
She proffered the bundle to him with a shy smile. "It was my husband's. I thought that since you were fighting tomorrow..."
Kit immediately began to unwrap the layers of oiled cloth. A red Morocco-leather scabbard appeared, with a gilded handle and guard.
Kit drew the sword, and a rapier's slender blade emerged into the candlelight. It was beautifully made, the blade engraved with an elaborate pattern of vines and curlicues.
He assumed a fencing stance and made a couple of experimental thrusts, mindful of the furniture. The rapier was beautifully balanced, longer, lighter, and narrower than his schiavona.
"It's a wonderful sword! Thank you, my lady." He grinned, swept her a bow, and spread his arms exuberantly.
She took a nervous step away, and he halted, letting his arms drop.
"Have I offended you?" he asked, suddenly uncertain. "Should I beg pardon for my liberties with your person?"
"Liberties?" The giddy joy that had sustained her since his kiss, vanished. "Is that all that happened? A private corner and a countess in your arms?"
"No—not that. Never that." He flinched as if she had slapped him. "But I've let my affection for you cloud my judgment. You know as well as I that this cannot be. I am not worthy of you. Believe me, I am not. "
"That doesn't matter to me," she said, miserably.
"But it should. You have a reputation as a virtuous woman. I wouldn't want—" he stopped, uncertain of how to continue discouraging her when what he really wanted to do was sink down with her on the soft carpet and lose himself in her velvety flesh. "Come, my lady. It's late. We should both sleep, if we're to rise at dawn."
"Antonia," she whispered, her hands twisting themselves in her skirts. "Call me Antonia."
His arms slipped around her in a gentle embrace. The top of her head fit neatly under his chin, and he rested his lips against her hair.
* * *
Antonia knew what she wanted to do, but did she dare?
Would taking Kit as her lover be worth the loss of her reputation and the resulting scandal?
Torn between her desire and a lifetime of resolute virtue, she stiffened momentarily, then relaxed.
His forearm nestled snugly in the small of her back, his hand and wrist curving around to rest comfortably on the swell of skirts over her hip, while his other arm encircled her shoulders and his hand gently stroked her hair.
She released a pent-up breath, and leaned shyly against his chest, resting her head on his shoulder. She felt the reassuring solid feel of his bare, muscled shoulder supporting her, and underneath it all, the intimate sound of his heart beating in a rapid rhythm.
"I think I must bid you good night now, my lady," he murmured at last.
"Good night, Kit," she said, and raised her hand to touch his cheek. "Sleep well."
He grinned wickedly. "I doubt I shall, but thank you anyway."
Warmed by the compliment, she returned the grin, then, reluctantly, went into her bedchamber.
Alone.
* * *
Mall unfastened all the hooks in Antonia's gown that Antonia could not reach herself, and unlaced Antonia's corset, yawning all the while. Antonia took pity on her and dismissed her back to her cot in the dressing room.
"I can finish undressing myself," she said when Mall tried to protest.
She slipped off her gown and petticoats. Clad only in her chemise, she sat at her dressing table. She could still feel Kit's mouth against hers, and the brush of his fingers against her skin.
Antonia wiped off the powder and rouge with a wet cloth. Then she leaned forward to scrutinize the ruin of her face in her mirror. The deeply pitted scars no longer looked as raw, but then again, it might have been a trick of the candlelight.
How could she have been foolish enough to become infatuated with Kit? Tall, strong, beautiful Kit?
No, she told herself. Now was not the time for self-deception, not with that cratered complexion looking back at her from the mirror.
She was in love with him. There was nothing of judgment or discretion in it, and everything else was put out of order thereby.
Antonia pressed her fingers against the lips he had so recently kissed, and wept silently, the taste of salt as bitter as aloes.
Chapter Fourteen
There is no doubt but that the Honorable exercise of the Weapon is made right perfect by means of two things, to wit: Judgment and Force. Because by the one, we know the manner and time to handle the weapon...And by the other we have the power to execute therewith, in due time with advantage.
—Giacomo DiGrassi, The True Art of Defense, 1594 trans.
A servant came to wake Kit at quarter to four in the morning. Sunrise was still an hour away, and he hoped to finish the duel before the city awoke.
He dressed by candlelight: shirt, breeches, jacket, and a concealing cloak. He belted on the rapier, and noticed how much lighter it rode against his hip than his schiavona.
The servant had left a tray with a pewter tankard of milk, several slices of cold roasted meat, and bread.
Kit ate and drank swiftly, then drew the rapier and loosened his limbs with a set of drills. The exercise chased away the last of his sleepiness, and accustomed his hand to the new weapon.
When he left his room, still chewing the last of the bread, he found Antonia, dressed but sleepy-eyed, waiting in the hall.
"I'm coming," she said, firmly. "You are risking yourself on my behalf, after all."
Kit took her hand, and pressed a tender kiss on the back of it.
Her skin was warm against his mouth, and he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until they both ended up in a tangle of bedclothes in his rooms.
With an effort, he stepped back. "I cannot forbid you, but it will cause a scandal if you're seen at the duel. And-" he hit on inspiration. "It will distract me, to know that you were so close. Go back to bed and finish your sleep, my lady—Antonia. I'll return in time for the footmen's fencing lessons."
"Promise?" But her expression was reluctant. "Good luck. Try not to hurt Chelmsford...too much."
Already halfway down the grand staircase, he flung a grin over his shoulder.
* * *
The earl's coach was waiting in front of Cranbourne House when Kit emerged into the predawn darkness. The sharp chill made him grateful for his cloak.
; He exchanged greetings with Cranbourne, then settled back against the cold leather cushions as the vehicle rattled away towards Lincoln's Inn Fields.
Cranbourne clutched the hilt of his sword and stared out the window.
Kit saw the muscle in the corner of the other man's jaw jumping, and wondered what sort of swordsman the earl was.
An inexperienced one, Kit guessed, but he could find no tactful way to ask.
They rode in silence, the horse's hooves and iron-rimmed carriage wheels echoing loudly off the houses lining the streets.
The sky was beginning to pale by the time they reached the sparsely-settled suburbs that stretched along Oxford Road.
Finally, they reached the hedgerows and trees that marked Lincoln's Inn Fields. As they left the road and turned into a narrow, rutted path, Kit saw the dark bulk of another coach up ahead, and two cloaked figures standing next to it.
Kit indicated the awaiting men, and the earl rapped sharply on the roof of the coach. The vehicle lurched to a halt, and Kit followed the earl out into the predawn air.
When they had closed the distance between them and their opponents, Kit bowed in the general direction of the waiting figures.
"My lord Chelmsford, have we come in time enough?"
"Time enough, my lord Cranbourne, Mr. Fitzgeorge," said the taller of the two men. Kit recognized Julian's drawl.
Kit removed his cloak, and folding it, placed it neatly on the ground. The other men followed suit, and for a long moment, the four of them stood shivering in the brisk morning air.
Someone has to be the first to speak. Kit tried to remember everything he had heard about dueling etiquette, and said, "My lord Chelmsford, these gentlemen—" he indicated their seconds—"shall have nothing to do. This quarrel is between us."
"I will take my share!" Julian protested, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"And I will take part in Mr. Fitzgeorge's dance, as well," said Cranbourne, removing his jacket.
Chelmsford drew his sword and rushed forward with a wild swing. Kit parried, blade scraping loudly against blade, and felt the impact push through his injured shoulder like a lash of fire.
A pox on all Turks, will it never heal?
In the periphery of his vision, Kit saw Julian close on Cranbourne.
Kit thrust, and felt his blade catch Chelmsford's arm. He withdrew and sidestepped Chelmsford's next wild swing.
Chelmsford's upper arm began to blossom red around the torn fabric of his jacket.
"My lord, you are wounded," Kit said, as Chelmsford drew back his sword for another strike.
Chelmsford stopped in mid-swing. "I am?"
He glanced down incredulously, and saw the cut. "Oh. But that was so quick—"
Panting, he let the point of his sword drop. "Mr. Fitzgeorge, I declare myself satisfied."
The brief fight over, Kit allowed himself to hitch his sore shoulder.
The clash of blades nearby caught his attention. Julian, his swordsmanship as smooth and skilled as his manners, was swiftly overpowering Cranbourne's clumsy parries.
As Kit watched, Cranbourne deflected Julian's blade yet again, like a man batting away an insect. By ill chance, Julian's slender blade diverted downward and through Cranbourne's shoe.
Cranbourne cried out, and in an instant, Julian disarmed him, sending the earl's blade skidding through the dew-laden grass. Then he raised his sword to Cranbourne's throat.
Kit felt an uneasy prickle as he saw the blind exultation on his brother's face.
Would Julian honor the agreement to carry the duel only as far as the first blood?
Julian held the blade against the lace at Cranbourne's neck for a long moment, as if savoring the other man's helpless position, then stepped back, and gave an insolent bow.
"My lord Cranbourne, I advise you let the chirurgeon bind your foot."
Kit let out a silent breath of relief. He turned to Chelmsford, and said, very quietly, "My lord, will you present yourself to Lady Cranbourne with an apology?"
"Do you think she will condescend to receive me?" Chelmsford asked. "I was much gone with drink at the ball, and wish to redeem myself in her eyes, if possible."
Kit nodded. "If you like, I can ask her for you."
"I would be most grateful."
Followed by Chelmsford, Kit walked over to the Cranbourne coach, where the chirurgeon was beginning to bandage the earl's bloodied foot.
Cranbourne was sitting on the step of the coach, Julian standing at his side, now looking solicitous and exchanging cordial banter with his erstwhile opponent.
"How does your wound, my lord?" asked Kit.
"Well enough, Mr. Fitzgeorge." As if to prove his point, the earl grasped the frame of the coach door and pulled himself up.
Kit pretended not to notice Cranbourne's wince as he put weight on his injured foot.
Chelmsford bowed to Cranbourne with a sweep of lace and ribbon. "My lords Cranbourne and Thornsby, Mr. Fitzgeorge, let me buy you all breakfast at the Queen's Arms. They have a splendid kidney pie and good ale."
"I suppose a hearty meal and civilized discourse might be just the thing, now we've finished trying to maim each other," said Cranbourne, ironically.
He was very pale, and sweating a little. Kit thought that some meat and a hearty drink might help restore him from the shock of his injury.
"Let your man drive you, Cranbourne," urged Julian. "And if you please, I shall accompany you in your coach, and we shall all meet up again at the Queen's Arms."
Thus agreed, they parted ways.
As the coach drove off in a spatter of mud, Chelmsford and Kit walked across the mist-shrouded fields arm-in-arm, having sent Chelmsford's coach on ahead. The first flare of sun appeared on the horizon.
"They say a man is not truly a man until he has fought four duels, Mr. Fitzgeorge," Chelmsford said, cheerfully. His arm had stopped bleeding. "How many duels have you fought?"
"Very few," Kit answered, cautiously. "But I am—was—a soldier, and soldiers are not allowed to duel. It’s considered bad for discipline. How many duels have you fought?"
"Today was my first," Chelmsford said proudly, confirming Kit's guess.
Kit sighed. "If I might advise you, my lord, you ought to find a master of the sword to better prepare you for your next duel. You do not lack courage, but you swing wide with your cuts, and leave yourself open to a counter-thrust."
"Mr. Fitzgeorge, I wonder if perhaps you might condescend to show me the proper stance after breakfast...?"
* * *
It was nearly noon before Kit returned to Cranbourne House.
Antonia was pacing in the parlor when he and Lord Chelmsford were announced.
A messenger had arrived earlier to inform her of the duel's favorable outcome, as well as the earl's injury, but she was still in a fever of anticipation to hear the story from Kit's own lips.
With an effort, she unknotted her hands from her skirts, now sadly wrinkled from the hours of waiting, and ordered wine.
She was surprised to see Kit enter the parlor arm-in-arm with the young Marquess of Chelmsford, who wore a large white bandage tied flamboyantly around his upper arm.
A quick scan assured her that Kit was indeed uninjured, as the messenger had reported. He looked tall and proud in his worn boots and blue jacket, moving with easy confidence. His gaze flew to meet hers as he came through the door.
Her heart soaring, she rose as both men made their bows.
Kit approached her first, the red-leather scabbard of her husband's rapier laid across his outstretched palms. "My lady, I thank you for the loan, and am pleased to report that the injury to your honor has been avenged. My lord Chelmsford begs a word."
"Mr. Fitzgeorge," she acknowledged, as warmly as she dared, and took the sword from him.
There was a brief flash of sensation at their fingers touched. He stepped back, respectfully, but his eyes were hot.
The scabbard was still warm from his hands. "I thank you for
your good care of me," she said, then turned to Chelmsford.
"Ah, my lady Cranbourne!" Chelmsford choked out. A red flush rose from the lace at his throat to the fringe of his periwig. "I'm most heartily sorry—that is, will you accept my deepest apologies for—for—the insult that I gave you yester-eve?"
Antonia hesitated. The rules of etiquette obliged her to accept the young man's apology, and he seemed sincere, but she remembered last night's humiliation, and her heart began pounding with rage. If she said yes, then all would be forgotten...to everyone but her.
Did she really want to absolve Chelmsford of responsibility for his assault?
"...please?" asked the young man, plaintively, his flush deepening to pomegranate. He blinked large brown eyes, and gulped. "I really am sorry!"
Antonia felt herself relent. Sober, Chelmsford seemed painfully sincere. Perhaps his behavior had just been an aberration of drink.
She caught sight of Kit, whose expression had turned watchful. Only give the word, and I will kill him for you.
She shivered, and said hastily, "I accept your apology, my lord Chelmsford. Will you stay for dinner?"
"It would be my honor!"
After they had enjoyed a fine midday meal of capon stuffed with apples and currants, Antonia gracefully dispatched Chelmsford back to his lodgings.
Alone at last, she and Kit returned to the parlor. Her heart was singing with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness.
As soon as Antonia closed the door, Kit took her by the shoulders and gently turned her to face him.
"I'm so glad you weren't injured," she said, breathlessly.
Will he kiss me again? She wanted him to, quite desperately.
He grinned. "What, against that young puppy?"
Then his expression turned suddenly serious. "Now, I'd be worried about fighting Jul—er, my lord Thornsby. He's a dangerous man, my lady. I think he would just as cheerfully have killed Lord Cranbourne as stop with a single wound. I've known men like him before, to whom death and destruction are like strong drink."
Antonia digested this. "And Chelmsford?"
"Harmless. Wants me to teach him proper use of the sword, which he badly needs. He's offered to pay me twelve shillings per lesson, if you'll permit it. My lord Cranbourne also requested that I instruct him." Kit's eyes were shining. He took a breath, and she saw him deliberately suppress his excitement. "My first duty is, of course, to you."