by Heather Snow
“Your ribbons, miss.”
Liliana turned her head in surprise toward the maid who’d appeared on her right. The girl stood looking at Liliana expectantly, brandishing a silver tray. Three lavender ribbons lay pooled on the shiny surface.
“My ribbons?” Liliana asked.
“Yes, well, I know they’re not the same color as your dress, but we didn’t have any ribbons that shade of blue.” The maid sniffed, then gave a little shrug. “His lordship picked these out for you special. Said they reminded him of your eyes.” The maid pushed the tray toward Liliana, who picked up the ribbons, still unsure what she was to do with them. But the girl flounced off before Liliana could question her further.
“Stratford is certainly taking this chivalry business a bit far,” came the pinched voice of the young lady sitting to Liliana’s left. Liliana glanced over at the pretty blonde, attired in a pale pink gown. She held three ribbons of a similar shade between her fingers.
What did she mean, this chivalry business? Not having attended the morning activities or nuncheon, Liliana felt at a distinct disadvantage.
“Yes,” answered a brunette dressed in yellow, holding three yellow ribbons. “Choosing the least acceptable woman here is too much.”
A sinking feeling overcame Liliana as her eyes traveled down the row. There were twelve women, including herself, each holding three ribbons. The other eleven were staring right back at her, some curiously, some disdainfully, and a couple downright angrily.
She turned her gaze back to the field. Bright red and blue and green pennants flapped in the wind, surrounding a field that was absurdly marked with streamers. A multicolored tent was staked beneath a large oak. Stratford and the other gentlemen had disappeared into it, presumably to ready themselves for the games.
Liliana looked behind her. Amongst the gathering crowd, several young ladies—Penelope included—stood near, ready to watch the sport. Yet they had no ribbons. An elderly matron not so discreetly pointed toward Liliana while others openly stared, appraising her before whispering behind their fans or open hands.
The clues clicked into place.
Drat Stratford! He’d made her the center of attention, choosing her to champion in some ridiculous farce of a tournament. And for what reason? To keep his eye on her or…
A strange melting sensation drizzled down Liliana’s middle.
Could he actually be interested in her? An improbable likelihood, but—
Several trumpets blared, signaling the start of the event. Liliana turned in her seat, her back straightening, trying to ignore the stares of the crowd. Drat, drat, drat Stratford!
As if curses called him to her, he emerged from the tent flap, his black hair shining almost blue in the sun. Liliana’s breath caught. She hadn’t noticed before how tightly the buckskin breeches molded to Stratford’s hips, clinging to his legs and accentuating his muscled movements. His chest was now covered in a scrap of leather, but her mind easily filled in what her eyes could no longer see, what her hands had felt beneath them last night in the library.
Though the other competitors looked somewhat plain out of their formal dress, this casual guise seemed to fit Stratford. Liliana shook her head. Fit was perhaps not the right word so much as…suit. As he strode across the expanse toward her, with the hint of a roguish smile tugging at one side of his mouth, he looked strangely…unburdened. Like he was truly comfortable for the first time in a long time.
Liliana huffed. How would she know that?
What she did know was that he eclipsed the other men, blotting them out with his sheer presence.
Some long-dormant female nerve shivered as he stopped before her, bowing low.
“M’lady,” he said, his voice swirling over her. He extended his hand, helping her to rise. His eyes caught hers, staring into them for a prolonged moment before giving a cluck of his tongue. He nodded at the ribbons she still held in her hand. “I had hoped the lavender would suit, but I can see now that no man-made shade of purple could ever compare to your eyes.”
Liliana felt a ridiculous urge to smile, but then firmed her jaw. What was he up to? “The ribbons are fine. Thank you, but—”
“I shall have to scour the garden for a natural shade to match them,” he interrupted. “Violets? No, too dark. Freesia, perhaps? Or sweet peas.” His eyes glinted. “I have it. Globe thistle.” He smiled, his teeth white behind the slow spread of his lips. “Prickly, yet passionately purple.”
Liliana stared at him, openmouthed, she feared. He was playing with her, but to what purpose? Her toes felt warm. In fact, heat was seeping into all kinds of unusual places.
“I—” Liliana swallowed around a dry throat. “Thank you…I think. But I must insist—”
A trumpet blare cut off her rebuttal.
Stratford removed his sword from its scabbard. “While I find my mother’s entertainments frivolous”—he gave Liliana a long-suffering look—“I am ever the dutiful son. Therefore, would you do me the honor of allowing me to wear your colors into battle, m’lady?” He held an oddly decorated sword out to her, hilt first, with an exaggerated flourish.
The other women in her row were dutifully tying their ribbons around the swords of the other competitors. Liliana looked behind her. Aunt Eliza raised her eyebrows in encouragement.
Liliana sighed, then took one of her ribbons and tied a neat clove hitch around the hilt.
He looked up at her in surprise.
Perhaps she should have tied a bow.
She met his questioning gaze blandly. One corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile as he spun away, strode out onto the field and took his spot across from an opponent.
Liliana cast a glance over her shoulder. Sneaking away was out of the question—nor realistically possible given her highly visible position. She dropped onto the chair. She could still feel more than one glare coming from her left.
Irritation burned. How had she ended up here? Not only were these foolish games keeping her from her search, but she’d now attracted the attention of a pack of jealous harpies.
She took a steadying breath, willing her feet to stop fidgeting. She couldn’t change that now, at least not where this afternoon was concerned. If she were fortunate enough that Stratford did not suspect her, she needed to make the most of this debacle.
She would do her level best to annoy him so badly that he would run the next time he caught even a glimpse of her. But how to do that? Liliana thought about all of the things she detested most about her own sex. Simpering? Crying? Batting of the eyelashes while acting weak and helpless?
She snorted. No. While she did hate those things, she’d never be able to carry it off. She wasn’t an actress, after all.
She’d be herself—well, sort of. She’d share her mind. She’d be opinionated and flaunt her intelligence. And, of course, she’d criticize his every move, and then tell him how he could have done it better.
Men hated that.
Stratford would be begging to see the last of her by the time this afternoon was through.
Chapter Six
G
eoffrey flicked his wrist, testing the weight of his sword. His wooden sword.
“Hell’s bells,” he muttered.
“What’s that?” asked the man across from him. The newly belted Viscount Holbrook stood eyeing his own “sword” dubiously.
“Only a woman would organize this foolishness,” Geoffrey grumbled, looking over the assembly. It looked like a damned medieval fair. Guests sat on one side of the marked field looking jovial and relaxed, while servants crowded the opposite end, like the nobles and peasants of old. Twelve women sat apart in places of honor, ready to cheer on their champions. All that was missing were juggling jesters. Ridiculous.
Thank God Holbrook was the only political sort who’d come up so far. The rest weren’t due to arrive until week’s end.
Geoffrey tugged at the leather breastplate that served as armor. So much for dazzling Liliana Claremont with this disp
lay. By God, he felt like a bloody stage actor. “Why the devil are you playing in this farce?” Geoffrey asked the younger man.
“For sport, of course. Besides, I’ve need of a bride, same as you,” Holbrook said as he shifted on his feet, limbering up for the competition. “You’ve certainly invited the crème to this little party. Thought I’d try my hand at impressing one or two.” Holbrook flexed his shoulders. “Rotten luck drawing you as challenger. While the bragging rights of having bested Wellington’s darling would be well worth it, you’re sure to give me quite a drubbing.” Holbrook smiled good-naturedly. “S’pose I’ll just have to count on finding m’self a sympathetic young chit to tend my wounded pride.”
Geoffrey laughed, twisting to loosen his knotted left hip. “Even newly returned from the continent, I’ve heard of your reputation with a blade,” he said. Indeed, which was why Geoffrey had switched his opponent to the very skilled Holbrook.
Mother had originally paired Geoffrey against some poor milksop, no doubt to make him look better by comparison. Geoffrey scanned the field, shaking his head. She must really think he needed help. A man in the pair nearest them had no idea how to even hold a sword properly, and his partner looked to be in his dotage, swallowed by the armor, with his balding pate sticking up like the head of a wizened old tortoise.
At least Holbrook would be fair competition. “I expect we shall make a good show of it,” Geoffrey stated as he squared himself to Holbrook.
“Ah, Stratford, that is what the ladies want, is it not?”
Geoffrey snorted. His gaze immediately flew to Liliana Claremont. He’d intended to throw the match, just to thwart his mother, but no more. Liliana sat coolly in the warm afternoon sun, not laughing and smiling like the other girls around her, but with a regal air. She reminded him of a master’s painting of a dark-haired queen.
Only her rapidly tapping foot belied her sense of calm. Clearly, she wished to be anywhere but here.
That made two of them.
“En garde.”
Geoffrey turned his attention back to Holbrook, whose easy smile had vanished. At the blast of a trumpet, the matches commenced.
Thwack.
The sound jarred Geoffrey. Wood certainly differed from the clanging of metal upon metal, but after only a couple of passes he fell easily into the familiar moves of combat. In his periphery he noted the clumsy attempts of those around them.
Holbrook’s were anything but.
Geoffrey dodged Holbrook’s thrust, which shot pain through his lower back. He sucked in a breath. Damn. The last time he’d done any hand-to-hand fighting, he’d taken a bayonet through his side. He was considerably slower on his feet these days.
He adjusted his stance to accommodate and swung his stick in a swift upward arc, catching Holbrook’s side.
“Point,” Holbrook acknowledged with a nod. The game was to ten. The men faced each other again and Geoffrey led with a thrust toward Holbrook’s middle.
Fifteen minutes and several points later, only the two of them remained. Geoffrey led nine points to eight, but his back burned and he struggled to hide his limp. He didn’t want to show Holbrook his weakness so close to the finish.
The air rang with the clacking of wood and with the cheers and enthusiastic groans of the spectators. Geoffrey drew a deep breath—he could almost smell the victory to come as blood pulsed through his veins. He hadn’t felt this alive in more than a year. He’d been a fool to think he could have thrown the match any more than he could just roll over and marry whomever his mother wanted him to.
His eyes darted once again to Liliana, sure that now he’d see at least appreciation on her face.
He couldn’t see her face at all. In fact, she wasn’t even watching! Instead, she focused on her lap…What was she doing? It looked as though she was scribbling something—
Pain exploded through his left side.
The crowd roared.
Geoffrey hobbled backward, catching himself before his weak side crumpled.
“Point!” Holbrook shouted, exuberant.
Damn it. He’d let himself be distracted by a woman who by all appearances could not care less about him.
Geoffrey glanced back at Liliana. She hadn’t looked up from her doodling even to see what the roar was about.
He shook his head. Well, appearances could be wrong.
The two men squared off for the final sparring. As Geoffrey circled Holbrook, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Liliana wasn’t like the other women here. Ever since she’d been dragged across the lawn by her aunt this afternoon, he’d noticed her discomfort. He’d swear it was the social situation that made her so. And when he’d called his mother’s games frivolous, Liliana didn’t prettily demure. Though she hadn’t said as much, he was certain she’d agreed with him. In fact—
Crack. Geoffrey barely blocked Holbrook’s thrust. Holbrook grunted, then danced away from him.
Geoffrey’s thigh throbbed and his lower back knotted. He thrust Liliana Claremont from his thoughts. He needed to end this. He planted his feet, knowing that moving was beyond him at this point. He shifted as much weight to his right as he could and tightened both hands around the hilt of his sword as he waited for Holbrook to come to him. If Geoffrey were to win now, it would have to be with strength and cunning rather than agility.
Holbrook advanced, his face alight—he, too, anticipating victory. Geoffrey brought his stick down, blocking Holbrook’s quick swipe. Holbrook shifted to his own left, quickly striking again. Geoffrey had to twist hard to his right to fend off Holbrook’s blow.
He saw the moment Holbrook realized his advantage. The blond man’s eyes narrowed and one corner of his mouth rose in a triumphant smile. He moved even farther to Geoffrey’s right and raised his sword high to deliver the final strike.
Geoffrey crouched, his lower body screaming as he moved into the unnatural position. He shifted his sword into his right hand, then passed it behind his back to his left, a move he’d never have been able to make with the weight of a true sword.
Holbrook’s swing missed high.
Geoffrey arced his sword up and around with his left arm, catching Holbrook in the side. As the crowd erupted around them, Geoffrey’s leg crumpled and he dropped to his knees.
“Damnation, Stratford,” Holbrook exclaimed, grinning as he reached down to help Geoffrey up. “Thought for certain I had you there.”
“As did I,” Geoffrey grunted, regaining his feet and nodding thanks. He straightened, ignoring the agony, and turned toward the spectators. His eyes sought only one.
Liliana had risen along with the rest of the crowd, and while she didn’t clap like the others, she did at least have a smile on her face—albeit a cool one.
A servant came running onto the field from Geoffrey’s left, bearing a bouquet. Mother had intended the victor to present his lady with roses. Geoffrey hoped his valet had had time to fulfill his earlier request.
Geoffrey straightened, dusting himself off a bit as he anticipated presenting Liliana with her flowers. It hadn’t been pretty, but he had won the contest and he was absurdly proud of the accomplishment. Now he would be rewarded with the praise of a beautiful woman. He accepted the wrapped bouquet from the servant and smiled. Perfect.
He turned toward Liliana, his eyes drawn to her shimmering hair, which was swept up in a loose chignon. Stray curls escaped as though they couldn’t bear to be away from her captivating face for even a moment. He couldn’t blame them—she was enchanting.
As he advanced toward her, she shifted. It was a slight movement—she caught herself and stilled quickly—but he noticed. Her eyes darted to either side. He sensed that she didn’t like everyone watching her, that she was out of her element.
Empathy swelled within him—along with confidence that he’d chosen the safest debutante to champion. If she were trying to win him, he’d expect her to be beaming as he approached. Proud of her position as his “fair maiden,” at least for the day, smiling coquettishly, rea
dy to gush and coo over him.
Instead, she straightened her spine and pasted a false smile on her face.
He stopped before her. As foolish as he’d felt when the games began, he now found himself tight with anticipation.
“For you, m’lady,” he said, presenting her with the bouquet.
Liliana accepted the flowers and looked down. Her smile changed for a moment, softening. He felt it deep in his gut.
Her violet eyes rose to him. “Prickly, yet passionately purple,” she murmured, her voice low. Her tone rolled over him with waves of sensuality that drifted low, causing a slow burn. He’d have to reward his valet for finding globe thistle on short notice. Her pleasure at the gesture had been well worth it.