by Darcy Burke
He expertly parried her action.
She’d learned years before to always knot her waist-length hair tightly and securely under her mask—or face the consequences. Namely, male opponents treating her like a weak female as opposed to the accomplished sportswoman she was. Thirteen years of daily fencing lessons would turn any girl into a fierce competitor—either that, or break their spirit. Luci allowed no one and nothing to bring her down, especially not her father’s relentless need to best his children at the one sport he could muster any talent for.
Very advantageous for her father that business was not considered a sport.
Regrettably for Lord Camden, Luci, his eldest child, had mastered the art of fencing by the young age of fourteen.
After a year of lost matches, Luci’s father refused to spar with her and had instead purchased her membership at Bentley’s.
The buzz of her opponent’s foil sounded close to her ear as he advanced, forcing her to back step or risk injury. His skill was something she hadn’t witnessed at Bentley’s before, nor did she recognize the man’s voice.
She needs must keep her head on the match—not on her father’s scandalous activities or their rough past as father and daughter.
And most positively not on attempting to identify her opponent.
Concentrating on the set of her feet, she knew a match could be won—or just as easily lost—because of footwork.
Luci cross-stepped, bringing her farther from his dominant hand, but he was too quick and had anticipated the novice move, bringing his foil around. She was forced into a passata sotto, twisting and lowering herself under his weapon and holding herself balanced with her free hand upon the ground. She moved to attempt an upward thrust with her own foil, hoping to catch her opponent off guard; however, he’d deftly accomplished a riposte and outmaneuvered her point.
He was a worthy opponent, indeed.
Recovering quickly, she prepared her next move.
It had been many months since she’d located a fencer with half the skill she possessed.
But his retreat gave her ample time to reset and contemplate her next move.
She must think two steps ahead. She quickly advanced with a straight extension, knowing any decent opponent would parry, and she’d be forced to disengage, twisting her foil. But she expertly changed tactic to an expulsion, successfully opening the man’s defenses. Before he knew her course, the tip of her foil was aimed directly at his heart. Victory surged through her. The thrashing of her heart as she allowed herself several deep inhales and exhales, echoed through her head.
She expected him to enact some practiced maneuver, removing the tip from his breast, but instead, he chuckled and flipped up his mask.
Luci was not fool enough to think her opponent had no other moves planned, and she kept her tip trained on him until he lowered his foil in surrender.
She had the oddest sense it was not a move of defeat but one of promise for another time.
She narrowed her glare on him, her irritation only growing. The man had not shown her his true capabilities on the strip, but had only seen the match as spirited fun. Luci did not have the same opinion, and she wished to slash her foil before his face to remove his smug grin.
“To whom do I owe the honor of my first loss in too many years to count?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling. A nagging sensation of recognition filled her. He completely removed his mask, revealing hair of the darkest black—so deep, Luci thought she saw hints of blue. It was a shade darker than hers, which Luci hadn’t thought possible. His locks were midnight obsidian, while his eyes were as clear as the blue sea. “Come now, lad. You are certainly skilled and deserve to be commended.”
She studied the set of his jaw, his extreme height, and commanding presence. Where had she seen the man before?
Her rule was to never, ever remove her mask while on the strip. Never reveal that she was a lady. And, under no circumstances, allow any man the opportunity to go soft on her during a match based on her femininity. She entered Bentley’s prepared to fence and only removed her mask when she’d once again gained the safety of her carriage. Bentley’s proprietor had never betrayed her confidence, which she suspected had more to do with her father’s money as opposed to any loyalty to Luci.
However, a piece of her needed to show the arrogant man that a mere woman had bested him. Longed to show the haughty lord that no matter his superior demeanor, he was no competition for her…
Slowly, she pushed her mask up and completely off her head. A tumble of dark waves cascaded down her back and over her shoulders. Luci flipped her head as she tucked her gear under her arm, sending her long tresses out of her face.
His mouth gaped, and his brow rose in question.
Luci knew well the sight he beheld: ebony waves of hair, piercing, intense green eyes, and sun-kissed skin. She was tall in stature, and every inch the lady many women envied—just as every woman had envied Luci’s mother in her day. This man now took in her regal stare and supple curves in her masculine garb—though it was tailored to hug every inch of her body.
From the lust in his open stare, he had noted every womanly curve he’d only moments ago attributed to the form of a young lad.
It was Luci’s turn to smirk.
And smile she did. “You may show proper honor to my skill by collecting your senses and closing your gaping mouth, or I will think you find it offensive to be bested by a woman.” Luci outright grinned, pride swelling inside her to finally have the nerve to expose her face to one of her defeated opponents. “You may issue your accolades whenever you are ready…and it is my lady, not my lord.”
He stalled for a moment before speaking. “I must say, the only thing to overshadow your skill with a foil is your beauty, my lady.” He bowed slowly, his eyes traveling the length of her as he did.
Luci could feel the heat of his stare as it took in her form for the second time.
She’d never had occasion to overthink her preferred fencing attire, that of her male counterparts, to be scandalous or revealing in any overt manner. But his intense scrutiny scorched her from her face, down to her toes, and back up again. It was not hard to imagine her face blossoming with heat, as well. She would give him due credit for his eyes only lingered at her bosom—barely noticeable under her tightly bound cloth wrap—a brief moment before returning to her face.
However, his inspection gave her time to look closer at him. He was as tall as she’d suspected, and just as broad, his fencing attire not adding to his size as hers did. His hair hung nearly to his shoulders in a way far less gentlemanly than was preferred in London’s premier ballrooms. But it was his eyes that attracted her notice most. Their blue depths held something she couldn’t quite place her finger on. Hurt? Anger? Betrayal?
What could this lordly arrogant man know of these things?
His examination of her person sent a shiver down Luci’s spine, and all her defenses, bred through years of dealing with her father and competing in fencing, jumped into action. She should pivot, turn and flee Bentley’s immediately; instead, she asked, “Your name, kind lord? I wish to add it to my extensive list of conquests.”
She would never allow him to know of his appeal. When a man was given the upper hand in any situation, it was Luci’s experience that they used it to exploit others and gain exactly what they searched for. Though there couldn’t be anything the dark-haired lord sought from Luci. Only a moment before, he’d had no notion whom he sparred against, let alone that she was the eldest daughter of the Marquis of Camden.
His grin only widened when he snorted with laughter.
Was the man overly familiar with such blasé commentary from the women he associated with?
Luci was in the presence of a rogue—a taker of the innocent, a philanderer with no moral compass, a charlatan in lord’s attire. The set of his crooked, self-assured grin, and his open appraisal of her was something Luci had witnessed on at least a dozen occasions.
She knew the type we
ll, had lived under the roof of such a man her entire life—and called him father.
“What is so amusing?” she asked when he continued to grin at her after this laughter had ceased—likely due to her penetrating stare and uplifted chin. “Do you think it luck that handed me the win today?”
“Oh, certainly not, my lady.” He moved and set his mask and foil on the bench against the far wall and then proceeded to remove his gloves, his back to her. “For a lad, your skill was at an expert level, but for a woman?” He shook his head and turned back to face her. “It was complete mastery—a practiced prowess many men never achieve in all their years at the sport.”
Her face flushed—from the compliment or the overt use of the word prowess, she was uncertain. “I am overjoyed to see that we are in agreement of my skill, and furthermore, your need to study the sport more thoroughly before our next match.” She rocked back on her heels, not attempting to hide her smugness over her victory and her mastery of their back and forth banter.
As he paced back toward her, he tapped his bottom lip with his forefinger. “And what, my lady, makes you think I would agree to another match only to be bested soundly once more?”
It was Luci’s turn to laugh. Her deep chuckle filled the room, empty except for her and the jet-black-haired man before her. His shoulders stiffened when she expressed her own merriment with the situation. “Are you saying you would turn down another round of sparring?”
“I said nothing of the sort; however”—he halted several feet from her—“I am not in the routine of agreeing to things if there is no chance of them working in my favor.
“Well, I never offer if I do not know I will win.” Luci tilted her chin up a notch.
“Your name, my lady?” he requested again, his stare returning to its former intensity and never leaving hers. He was not appreciating her womanly curves nor waxing poetic prose about her silky hair and vibrant green eyes. It appeared he truly wished to learn her given name. “My lady?” His brow arched in question.
She should not give her name, but there was something about the man that pulled the words from her. It could be his sincerity, his forthright nature, or possibly his confidence in being bested by a woman at a predominately male sport. “Lady Lucianna Constantine, my lord.”
“Your Grace.”
“Pardon?”
“It is Your Grace.” His smirk returned as he seemed to go from intense to playful with each breath he took. “The Duke of Montrose, but you may call me Roderick—you have bested me with a foil, after all.”
All thoughts of her own coy nature disappeared quickly with the one damning name.
As she’d suspected, he was a rogue, a rakehell, and a debauched man.
And the very first lord she’d taken down with the Mayfair Confidential.
The exhilaration from her victory on the strip dissipated.
Chapter 3
Roderick whistled as he stepped through his townhouse door just as the sun was setting on the day. The shock on his butler’s face was evident; however, he was still wholly focused on the nimble beauty that was Lady Lucianna. He’d attended Bentley’s for several years now and had never crossed paths with the woman. Or had he? Would he have known a woman resided under her fencing attire?
Their time together had ended quickly when he’d given his name, as she’d no doubt recognized him from the scandal two months prior, when he’d been falsely accused of being unfaithful to Lady Daphne—his betrothed. But the gossip sheets had gotten it all wrong.
Unfortunately, Lady Lucianna hadn’t given him the time to explain anything. Bloody hell, he wasn’t even certain that was the reason her entire demeanor had changed and she had hurried off.
Blast it all, but he couldn’t resist thinking of her tightly clad legs that had seemingly gone on forever. No skirting with petticoats and underpinnings to hide the muscular curves of her calves or the toned expanses of her thighs.
He shook the image of said thighs wrapped tightly around his waist from his mind as he handed his overcoat to the waiting servant.
He’d thought of her well-trimmed, slender frame—while she’d been plotting her escape.
“Your Grace, Lucian awaits you in your study.” The butler dipped his head and hurried off.
Lucian had returned already?
Roderick had expected the servant to rest and return to the Gazette on the morrow, or by earliest that night.
“Inform him I will see him now.” His words echoed in the empty foyer; his butler having departed for parts unknown. “I suppose I can inform him myself,” he mumbled, starting down the hall toward his study.
The man’s news could only serve to further brighten his day after so many months—nay, years—of desolation caused by his father’s reckless investments, and then that bloody column.
The tides were turning.
They had to at some point, and the closer he came to the study the more hope surged.
Roderick could practically feel the weight being lifted from his shoulders. Not that knowing the identity of the Mayfair Confidential authoress would solve all his financial—and social—problems; however, it would be a start; a way to gain some semblance of control over his life, which had been spinning endlessly out of his control for some time.
He strode into the study, pushing the door closed behind him, and smiled at Lucian. “I hadn’t expected to see you for a few days.”
Lucian stood from his chair before Roderick’s desk, wringing his hat in his hands once again. Roderick needs must remember to explain to the servant that the nervous gesture did not invoke a sense of confidence. If Lucian ever expected to gain employment with Bow Street as a runner, he need hold his head high and meet every man’s eye, regardless of their station and status.
“I have news, Your Grace.” Lucian’s head dipped.
“You have secured her identity?” Roderick still found it hard to believe a woman—a gently bred lady at that—was behind the atrocious column that had stolen his future. Though, after his morning at Bentley’s, Roderick now understood women sometimes exceeded what men thought of them. Their roles not so specifically fitting into the neat square society and generations of teaching had created for them.
“I have, Your Grace.” For the first time since agreeing to take on the assignment, Lucian smiled. He’d successfully completed a task Roderick had assigned to him. “The authoress is none other than Lady Lucianna Constantine, eldest daughter of the Marquis of Camden.”
Roderick felt like he’d been punched in the gut…and pushed off a cliff. The name dispelled any light that had begun to peek through the gloomy haze that had settled over his life.
“Are you certain?” He half expected the servant to laugh, slap him on the back, and jest about the look of horror that’d crossed Roderick’s face before informing him that he’d seen him leave Bentley’s earlier in the day.
However, that was not to happen.
“Yes.” Lucian nodded severely, completely sober. “I sketched the crest on the carriage door a few nights ago and I finally found another servant—in Lord Esquire’s employ—who knew the family name. It did not take long to locate the Camden townhouse in Mayfair, and I saw Lady Lucianna return home at midday.”
The irony of her townhouse location and the name of her column was not lost on Roderick.
“Does the marquis have other children, perchance?”
“Yes, Your Grace, but I have been told they are all still in the schoolroom.”
She’d known all along whom he was at Bentley’s. Her coy, playful manner was all a jest at his expense. The entire time, he’d been mooning over her skill and beauty, she’d known full well he was the man she’d ruined with her fallacious ramblings in the London Daily Gazette.
Breathing deeply, Roderick attempted to suppress his anger.
He’d enjoyed almost an entire day without the need to slam his fist into a wall or throw a door closed until it fell from its hinges.
He’d been a fool to think a
ny weight had been lifted or that his days living under a cloud of scandal were to be dispelled so easily. All so simply vanquished by learning the identity of one alluring, captivating, and utterly enchanting beauty.
The back of his throat soured at the thought.
The woman would pay for the havoc she’d caused in his life.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“I left her at the Earl of Shaftesbury’s townhouse,” Lucian said. “She arrived in a fine blue gown with her mother. I suspect they will be there until the end of the evening. I asked a coachman, and he said they were gathering for Lady Edith Pelton and Lord Torrington’s betrothal ball.”
“Wonderful,” Roderick seethed. She’d ruined his life, made a fool of him at Bentley’s, and now she planned to spend her evening twirling about a dance floor and drinking spiced sherry? Oh, no. “You are dismissed.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” The servant turned on his heels and stalked from the room, a rare moment of confidence infusing his long stride.
Unfortunately, every ounce of the confidence born and bred into Roderick as the heir to a Dukedom had fled the moment Lucian had uttered Lady Lucianna’s name. He’d scrutinized her with longing not long before—had thought of future matches between them. All impossible now as he’d misjudged her interested in him.
Roderick would not cower. He would not hide his head in shame. He had done nothing wrong by escorting the widow Cavendish to the opera. They were friends—the former Duke of Montrose being close to the widow’s late husband.
Blast it all, but he was a duke…and no mere slip of a debutante would be the cause of his thorough ruination.
Not without severe consequences.
He’d been debating whether to accept an invitation to a soirée or garden party that very morning. It was long past time Roderick donned his ballroom finery—and attended a betrothal celebration…with or without a proper invitation.