Layers to Peel

by Tilly Wallace

  The duke arched a greying eyebrow and laughed at his daughter, yet no humour lit his gaze. "I am seeking a husband, Isabel. You are not charged with some heinous crime. There is no right of combat in affairs of marriage."

  A titter swept through the crowd like the murmur of an ocean rushing toward the shore. The eligible bucks nudged each other, looking for courage amongst their peers, egging each other to step forward. Not a single one would seek her hand for the person she was—they saw only the dangling fat purse.

  Isabel steeled her spine and found what little dignity she could muster in the situation. "How exactly do you expect to lead me up the aisle? Will I be bound and gagged? Allow me to at least choose a husband who can hold a foil and I will acquiesce to your punishment."

  It was a small concession, surely? She dared not meet his gaze while he considered her proposal. Her heart pounded in her chest as she used the silence to consider another possibility: Was there a man among the crowd who could challenge her and breathe life into her dead world? She was the pinned butterfly kept immobile under glass, but was there a man who could shatter that glass and free her?

  Impossible, a small voice whispered from the dim recesses of her mind. To anyone observing from the outside, she appeared to have everything—the daughter of a wealthy and powerful man. Yet on the inside she was hollow and empty. Isabel bit her tongue to stop the tear that wanted to escape from the corner of her eye.

  Her father's eyebrows drew together now. "You will submit to the man who defeats you?"

  "Of course, Father." She kept her eyes downcast and nearly swallowed her tongue. Submit was the last thing she would ever do. Even if he played this farce out to the very last moment, she might walk up the aisle quiet as a lamb but her new husband would find her hiding a dagger on their wedding night. That was assuming the duke could even find a potential groom who could equal her skill in fencing. The men he sent her way all tended to fat and preferred their games laid out on a table. Even the men he had gathered tonight looked like they would bleed and then faint at the sight just like Lady Charlotte.

  A hollow beat thrummed through her body. If only she could find a man of action, one who would eschew the trappings of society and who would grab her by the hand and charge off into adventure. Someone who was her match in speed, cunning, and wit. One to whom she could submit without fear, knowing he was strong enough to protect her while she was vulnerable. A shiver ran down her spine. Such a man didn't exist, except in fanciful dreams or novels.

  Even the tea leaves had given up and could only suggest a dog. This was what it meant—the gathered men were the equivalent of spoiled lap dogs carried everywhere on velvet cushions. The choices before her amounted to poodle, terrier, or spaniel.

  "Very well. A duel to first blood, to determine who will win the hand of my lovely daughter. And of course there will be a rather large purse to the victor, to reward such bravery and daring." The duke clapped his hands and two footmen detached from the walls and glided through the crowd, each one carrying a foil.

  One man stopped next to the duke, while the other extended the blade he carried to Isabel, the foil laid over his outstretched arm. The footmen extended the blade with his gloved hand, with the grip and guard pointing to her.

  She took the weapon and studied the tip. Most foils were blunted so no one was hurt, but this one glinted in the candlelight.

  "These have sharpened tips," the duke said.

  She glanced at her father; she had never seen these weapons before. Had he planned for such an eventuality, or did he keep lethal blades handy for some other reason? In the dark recesses of her mind, questions swirled. Did she really know this man? A shiver ran down her spine, a whispered premonition that she had, perhaps, just stepped into a trap of her own making.

  A dandy strode forward in his polished shoes and silk stockings, and gave a deep bow and flourish with his hand. "I would challenge the lovely Lady Isabel."

  The footman handed him the foil. At least he knew how to hold it—that was one step better than her former opponent, Lady Charlotte, who grasped a blade like a knife.

  Unfortunately the dandy's grip was the extent of his expertise, and Isabel dispatched him while he fussed over the lace at his cuffs. A quick flick and she grazed his knuckles, and red stained the lace. Luckily he didn't faint, but he did gasp and jump back. The look of horror on his face suggested he would need a stiff drink to recover from the heinous injury to his clothing.

  Number two lasted only a little longer. He over-reached and Isabel scratched the back of his calf and sliced his stocking. By the time potential suitor number three stepped forward, bets were being taken in her favour and the duke looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  The third proved no match for her speed; for this one she spared his clothing and nicked his cheek. Her thrust was calculated not to go too deep, so he wouldn't scar. He slunk back to his comrades as chatter rose and bounced off the walls. Confidence flowed through Isabel. The last strike would scare off any potential noble bridegrooms. While the scratch wouldn't be permanent, no one wanted to risk marring their face in a society where appearance was everything. Imagine if she tripped and gouged out someone's eye. The horror.

  She stood back, the tip of the foil pointed to the floor as she rested one hand on her hip and surveyed the crowd. "Does no one else dare?"

  The duke also stared into the crowd, his keen gaze sweeping back and forth as though trying to locate someone. Did he know somebody who would step forward and take the challenge? A hand rose at the back of the room but just as promptly, it dropped down again as a scuffle broke out. Some men crashed through the doors and tumbled outside, but a large brutish specimen stepped forward.

  "I'll match blades with you, lass," said an enormous man with a soft Scottish burr.

  The Duke of Balcairn frowned and rose on his toes as he swept the crowd, searching but not finding whatever he had misplaced. Nobody else moved, nor made themselves known as a contender. Some men even shuffled behind women to protect them from being singled out.

  Isabel took a step back from the challenger in his muted green uniform. The colour of his jacket made her think of the cool greens of a deep forest. The man towered over her and was as tall and broad as a door. A white scar licked down over his face from brow to lip and when he grinned, it pulled one side of his mouth up tight. His riot of auburn hair was tied back loosely at his nape and was far longer than fashionable, unless he was a pirate or some lowborn cut-throat. Or, looking at him, he could have been a lowborn cut-throat pirate.

  Her throat went dry as she swallowed. What type of brute was her father admitting to his soirees? She didn't recognise the regiment the uniform belonged to, but from the stripes on his sleeve he wasn't even an officer but a mere sergeant. Plus he looked like an escapee from a bare-knuckle fight, or worse, a madman escaped from Bedlam.

  From the way the duke scowled at the man, he didn't know where he had crawled from either. Perhaps he was an ogre who lived under a bridge and had been attracted by the brightly lit mansion and music?

  The footman stepped forward with a visible shake in his arm as he held out the weapon. The soldier took the delicate blade in his large hand.

  "To first blood," Isabel said, before her courage deserted her.

  The Highlander nodded, swung the foil, and then cursed under his breath.

  Good. He wasn't happy. He undoubtedly had strength and brute force to his advantage but fencing relied on speed and agility. She relaxed as her confidence returned; she would dispatch him just as easily as the others, despite his fierce appearance. In fact, he would probably take the humiliation all the worse for his larger size.

  They saluted each other and began. Isabel kept her skirts looped over one arm, to aid her movement and adding to the scandal by flashing her ankles. She danced away from his first thrust and grinned, envisioning an easy victory. There was only one question in her mind, where to draw blood?

  She couldn't slice his face; that seemed wron
g, given the scar he already bore. His shoulder perhaps? It would have to be a deep cut to penetrate the wool of his jacket and the blood might not show over the muted green. His thigh? A red bloom to stain his pale grey trousers seemed the best option, plus it would be a nice contrast to the tartan stripe running down the outside seam.

  He growled and lunged as she side-stepped. It was like toying with a charging bull. Even with her skirts, it took little effort to evade him.

  "Stop playing with her, Alick!" someone yelled from the crowd.

  "Then give me a proper sword, not this blasted pin," he replied.

  It really did look ridiculously small in his hand. Perhaps he should consider a spot of needlework?

  Their blades clashed fleetingly. She made her parry and leapt away, only to find her feet didn't touch the floor and the air fled her lungs with a whoosh. As she passed, the brute had tossed his foil and grabbed her. Isabel spun in his grasp and then crashed against his chest as he held her tight around the waist. His other hand encircled her wrist, stopping her weapon from lashing out.

  It took her long moments to regain her breath. He was heated behind her, like having her back pressed to a sun-warmed stone wall.

  "Put me down," she said between gritted teeth.

  Bit by bit, he eased her down his body, until her feet touched the floor, but he still held her tight. She wriggled and squirmed and tried to use her elbows but nothing made an impact on his bulk. The crowd fell silent, waiting to see what would happen next.

  She was imprisoned by a stone statue and no matter how she fought and thrashed she couldn't dislodge his grip or slip through his arms.

  "All done?" he whispered against her ear, once she stopped struggling and realised the futility of trying to fight his superior size.

  "Yes. But you seem to have forgotten the rules. To first blood, remember?" Silly man. He could not win now, not without a blade. She simply had to turn hers and victory would be won, and this charade would be over.

  "Aye. I remember." He lifted his right hand, the one that held hers captive. Like a marionette having its string pulled from above, her limb, and the sword she held, obeyed his command.

  "No." Awareness shot through her mind, as she realised his plan. She stiffened her arm, willing her muscles to become rigid and fight his command, but to no avail.

  He chuckled, a low deep rumble that vibrated through her captive torso and threw her senses off balance. "Does the kitten have claws?"

  She hissed and spat as, inch by inch, he lifted her hand higher. His fingers enclosed her fist and directed the sharp tip of her blade. Candlelight hit the metal and it seemed to wink, mocking her.

  Still she fought him every fraction of the way. "I have claws that will scratch your eyes out. Then you can thank me, for you will no longer have to see your hideous face in the mirror when you shave."

  "Ouch, lass. You've quite a sharp tongue in that head." Still he directed her hand and her muscles were forced to obey.

  Isabel gritted her teeth and concentrated as he waved the foil and turned it in her grasp. Then the soldier jerked his wrist. For a split second, as it flicked up toward his head, Isabel thought he would poke out his own eye with the foil. Hope burst into her heart and was dashed as a sharp sting rasped over her skin.

  The crowd gasped and this time Isabel swore. The sharpened tip had grazed her exposed collarbone. Applause broke out around the room.

  "First blood!" the duke yelled and the crowd roared. "My daughter has chosen her bridegroom."

  Her mind chanted no, no, no. Her father pushed his game too far. This was too cruel to inflict upon her.

  "Hear that, kitten? We're engaged. We might need to discuss filing down your nails—and your tongue." The Scottish brute's head dipped and his arm tightened around her.

  She could scarcely breathe, but as his tongue licked along the small scratch, Isabel's world exploded and the floor dropped away from under her feet. She pressed harder into him for support as the room spun. Her nerve endings were set on fire as he lapped at her skin and a bolt raced through her torso to her core. She bit off a moan that fought to be free, but not before he heard it.

  He chuckled again and then unwound his arm. As though reluctant to let her go, he moved away inch by inch. Only when she stood steady on her legs did he drop his arms to his side.

  "Your game is over, Father, and I have learned my lesson." She touched her shoulder, still damp from the man's kiss. When she stared at her fingertips, there was no sign of blood. He must have made the tiniest scratch on her skin, with only a droplet or two to verify the strike.

  "This is no game, Isabel." Her father's gaze was cold. "Your name, sir?"

  "Alick Ferguson, your grace." His light blue gaze never left Isabel's face and another shiver ran through her body at the intensity it contained.

  It was the gaze of a predator who had caught sight of its prey. He had tasted blood and would soon consume the entire meal.

  I see a wolf.

  The duke pointed to the stairs. "Well, Mr. Ferguson, if you would accompany me to my study. We must finalise the details of our transaction before the ceremony on Sunday."

  Alick bowed to her, a deep frown marring his forehead as he followed her father from the ballroom. Chatter erupted in their wake; tonight gave those in attendance much to gossip about. But no one approached her. No one enquired if she was all right. The tears heated her eyes and she rushed to the wide-open doors, lest she compound her humiliation by crying before the vultures.

  5

  Isabel

  * * *

  Isabel held herself erect as she walked across the patterned floor as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. It wouldn't do to burst into tears, pull her hair and throw herself out the open doors. Her performance already gave those gathered enough of a spectacle to gossip over; no need to fuel their tongues any further. Now was the time to quietly slip away and rage against her father far from the house and out of earshot.

  She passed from ballroom to balcony, and the garden beyond beckoned with its moonlight-washed familiarity. The yew maze called to her, and she needed to lose herself in the verdant enclosure. Like the embrace of a mother, it would take her in and soothe her anguish at the laughter that chased her footsteps. No one would ever see the cracks in her façade. Only in the dark and seclusion could she break down and let the tears free.

  This was some cruel joke of her father's, designed to teach her a lesson in humility. He would never go through with it, because to do so would damage his reputation as much as hers. Imagine marrying off the daughter of the foremost peer in England to some boorish commoner. Ridiculous.

  After a lifetime of running through the maze's tall borders she didn't need to look to find her way to the centre. While her feet moved automatically, she mentally flung all the barbs at her father that she could never voice. She blamed him for a lifetime of being treated callously. For turning his back on her mother, and denying her a maternal presence. Lastly she vented at the man who had held her tight and kissed her shoulder. How dare he! By instinct, she lifted a hand and touched the graze. Under her fingertips it seemed heated—or was it just the memory of his lips on her skin?

  It wasn't as though she had never been kissed. She had, on numerous occasions. When a suitor was particularly emboldened, they had pressed their lips to hers. At best she could describe the experience as satisfactory; at worst, like kissing a gasping wet fish straight from the ocean. But no touch had ever burned like this before. Probably because this Ferguson fellow was common and full of lice. Perhaps his fleas had bitten her, making the spot itch and demand to be scratched.

  The centre of the maze held little of interest because the duke wasn't a big believer in a hidden rendezvous point for lovers. Or even somewhere to sit. On a tall plinth sat a useless astroglobe. The gilded arrow pointed to the southwest corner of the neat square of hedge surrounding it. Isabel flung herself to the grass at the plinth's base. She didn't give a fig if the silk of he
r gown was ruined by the damp earth, not when her life had just been destroyed. Then, with her arms wrapped around her knees, she let the tears fall.

  Life was unfair and cruel. All she wanted was adventure, to see the world, and to have someone love her. Was that so much to ask for? Her father threw useless nobles in her path, expecting her to pick one as a partner through life when none challenged her. None wanted to ride a camel across the desert. None could best her in a duel. None made her pulse thrum through her body when their lips touched her skin.

  Her old nanny had once cautioned her to be careful what she wished for, for life just might grant it. Less than half an hour ago, as she had stood in the circle of spectators, she’d held one wish deep in her heart. She had wished for a man of action—one who eschewed the trappings of society for adventure. One who was her match in speed, cunning, and wit.

  Was the only man in Oxfordshire who met that definition an oafish Scotsman with a terrifying visage? She shuddered. Life heaped ridicule upon her father's cruelty if this was the answer to her wish and the only man in England who was her equal. She would rather die a lonely spinster than listen to him belch over every meal or watch him scratch his naked hairy bottom. At least, she imagined it would be hairy; ogres generally were.

  Many years ago, an ogre had lived in a local swamp. Stories told of its enormous size and foulness of breath. The people of Oxfordshire had given its spot of damp earth a wide berth due to its all-over horrid personality. She imagined that ogre might have been some distant relative of Mr. Ferguson, as what she remembered from the stories matched him quite well.

  She drew a deep breath and dried her tears on the hem of her skirt. The pressure in her chest lessened and turned into a hollow, empty ache. This was her life—the fool dancing to entertain the people but desperately wanting the attention of the king. Over breakfast, the duke would give her a stern look and intone, Have you learned your lesson, Isabel?