“You are absolutely right about that,” Lucian assured him. David drew his weapon from its scabbard and handed it over to Lucian. It was beautifully balanced, with a fine silver hilt.
“However, my opponent is not one of the Crowes.” David frowned. “Who is he? Surely not Bloomfield!”
“No, nor is my opponent a he. She is Angel Winter.”
“You are joking.”
“I wish I were,” Lucian said fervently.
“Great God in heaven, I cannot believe it!” Lucian nodded. “My sentiments exactly.”
* * *
When Lucian reached the long gallery, it was, to his intense relief, unoccupied. He wanted no witnesses to this ridiculous caprice of Angel’s.
Who the devil ever heard of a man duelling with his bride on their wedding day?
Or, for that matter, of duelling any female? Women were to be coddled and protected, for God’s sake. The only kind of match he wanted with a female was in bed, not on the field of honour.
But Angel had been so insulted and so determined. He smiled to himself at the memory. He would, however, put a quick end to her notion that she could duel him. He would disarm her within fifteen seconds.
No, that would be a mistake. It would hurt her pride terribly if he were to do that.
Remembering how stubbornly determined she had been to defend her honour, he smiled tolerantly to himself. Instead of vanquishing her immediately, he would indulge her for a few minutes in a little harmless swordplay and let her think that she really could duel him. Then he would disarm her, and they would proceed to their wedding.
He looked around the gallery. In the harsh light of day, empty of the elegantly dressed crowds of people swirling about in satins and brocades and glittering jewels, it seemed cold and cavernous. Lucian’s footsteps echoed on the polished floor.
The servants had already cleaned away all evidence of the previous night’s ball. The oak floor had been re-polished, the burned-down candles in the chandeliers and wall sconces had been replaced with fresh ones, and the gilt chairs had been lined neatly against the wall.
Through the long windows, all trace of the earlier storm had vanished, leaving the sky blue with an occasional puffy white cloud.
Angel came into the gallery. She had changed into the ruffled white shirt and black breeches that he had seen in her room.
Lucian’s breath caught at the enticing sight that she made. Her breasts were high and full, and a jolt of desire shot through him at the memory of how her nipple had responded to his touch. Her waist was so tiny he could easily span it with his hands, and her derriere looked delectable in those tight breeches.
He felt his own body harden at such charming provocation.
Her long, curly chocolate hair had been pulled back from her face and tied at the neck with a white ribbon. He had an overwhelming impulse to untie it and run his hands through her thick, glossy locks.
She looked so small and weak and defenceless that the idea of his duelling her was preposterous. God’s oath, what if he accidentally hurt her? He would never forgive himself.
“Please, forget this nonsense,” he begged. “Withdraw your challenge.”
Her brilliant blue eyes, the shade of the sky beyond the windows, widened. “Why? Are you afraid of me?”
“No, but someone could get hurt.” He tactfully refrained from saying that someone would be her.
“I must defend my honour,” she said stubbornly.
Lucian thought sourly that it was just such obstinate, misplaced faith that right would win out over might that had cost many an innocent young idealist his life when he was pitted against a older, wilier, more ruthless opponent, who was guilty as hell.
Although Lucian had fought more than his share of duels and won them, he had never considered them a just way of settling disputes or of defending one’s honour. It was only one more excuse for might to masquerade as right.
He also knew it would accomplish nothing for him to tell his innocent, naive Angel that.
Lucian looked down at her face glowing with excitement. The vitality that had been drained from her earlier was replenished now. A few wisps of hair had escaped from the ribbon she had used to tie back the shimmering waves, and they curled beguilingly about her innocent face. Her hair, like Angel herself, seemed to have a mind of its own.
He could not help smiling at her. She was such a delightful little elf. It was all he could do to keep from kissing her sweet, inviting little mouth.
Bloody hell, the only sword he wanted to use on her was making a very large nuisance of itself at this very moment. It was, he thought wryly, the very first time he had ever had an erection for his opponent on the field of honour.
Angel, looking at David’s sword that Lucian was carrying, held out her hand for it, and he gave it to her.
She admired its silver hilt, then tested its edge and balance. To his surprise, she appeared to know exactly what she was doing.
“A fine sword,” she said approvingly.
After they removed their shoes and were in their stocking feet, they saluted.
“On guard.”
Lucian allowed Angel the first thrust, quickly parrying it. She seized the offensive, and he let her.
Blade clanged against blade as she attacked and he parried.
She feinted in seconde, then thrust in tierce, penetrating his guard, but he recovered with a coup d’arrêt.
Seldom had Lucian seen such intense concentration in an opponent as he did now in Angel. As his renown as a swordsman had grown, so had the nervousness of his opponents. But Angel, who clearly had no idea of his reputation with a sword, suffered from neither nerves nor fear.
It was not as easy as he had thought it would be to frustrate her offensive. This match that he had expected to be child’s play was demanding far more skill and effort than he had anticipated. He found himself retreating along the polished floor of the gallery.
Angel was remarkably quick on her feet. So fast, in fact, that Lucian soon found himself sweating profusely.
No lazy match with a sadly inferior opponent was this.
Suddenly she lunged, and he had barely time to parry. She immediately riposted. He parried again, then counter-riposted, thinking to catch her off-balance, but she danced away from him.
Bloody hell, it was like trying to fence with a whirling dervish.
His breath was coming hard now.
It was time to end this nonsense by disarming her, but Lucian quickly discovered this was not nearly so easy as he had thought it would be.
He had the advantage of strength, but he could not remember a quicker, more agile opponent.
Lucian realized in amazement and chagrin that she was as good as any man he had ever faced.
Angel dived forward in a flèche, her blade so low that it threatened to unman him. He managed to twist sideways and leap aside as the sword’s blade whistled a mere fraction of an inch from a highly prized part of his anatomy.
“God’s oath,” he exploded, “you damned near rendered our marriage meaningless with that manoeuvre.”
She blinked up at him in surprise and confusion.
He took advantage of her momentary hesitation to launch an attack of his own. Caught off guard, she tried to parry, but he used his superior strength to deliver, forte on forte, a numbing blow against her sword that sent it flying from her hand.
It crashed loudly to the floor. Hastily Lucian snatched it up before Angel could recover it.
“I have disarmed you, and that makes me the winner,” he said, unable to take any pride in it. There had been no finesse in his final blow, merely brute strength.
He looked down at her flushed face. Like him, she was panting from her exertion. More wayward chocolate curls had escaped from the white ribbon and curled damply about her face.
He could not help admiring her spirit and reckless courage. Nor could he remember when he had last had a male opponent who had been as daring and skilled.
Lucian
looked at Angel as though seeing her for the first time. God’s oath, she was magnificent.
Her eyes blinked hard and rapidly. He realized that she was fighting back tears. He wondered in consternation whether he had hurt her without realizing it? “What is it, Angel?”
Swallowing hard, she wailed, “I failed to defend my honour. Now, you will always believe that I was in league with my horrid step-relatives.”
He was so relieved that she was not hurt that he said more sharply than he intended, “I believe nothing of the sort.”
She looked at him sceptically.
“I was very wrong to think that you would have any truck with those scoundrels.”
Her face brightened.
He pulled her close to him and stroked the damp curls away from her face. “I apologize sincerely for doubting you. I think you are the most honourable woman I have ever met, Angel.”
And that was the truth.
The idea of having her as his wife was no longer repugnant to Lucian. He smiled to himself. Whatever else marriage to Angel would be, it would not be dull. Surely he must be the only man on earth who had ever had to duel his own bride for her hand in matrimony.
Still holding her to him with one arm, he used his other hand to tilt her face toward his. “Now, it is time to pay the piper, Angel. We will be married shortly.”
Her expression dissolved into panic. “No!”
“You agreed that if I won our duel, you would marry me,” he reminded her.
“But——”
“Your honour is at stake,” he told her solemnly, knowing that- as important as her honour was to her, this would settle the issue. “Furthermore, you promised that you would marry me without further objection.”
At this reminder, she ceased arguing, but she looked so miserable that Lucian was insulted.
“God’s oath, do you find me that repulsive?”
She stammered. “Well, you are ... very . . . large.”
He remembered how huge and frightened Angel’s eyes had been when she caught sight of his erection. He knew that it had terrified her. How the devil could he make marriage to him more palatable to her?
“Little one, what do you want most in the world? If I had the power to give you whatever you wanted, what would you ask me for?”
“Belle Haven,” she said without hesitation.
He caught her face between his hands. “Then you shall have it. If you get nothing else from this marriage, you will get Belle Haven. I swear to you that I will recover it for you.”
Somehow Lucian would find a way to keep this vow. If he could not locate the missing will, he would find another way to restore the estate to her.
His promise elicited such a glowing smile from her that his breath caught, but then the smile faded and she looked dejected.
“What is it, Angel? Is there something more that you want from me?”
“Aye,” she said forlornly, “your love.”
For a moment, he was too surprised to speak. He should have known she would be a silly little romantic who believed in such nonsense. Well, he did not! Nor was he going to lie to her about it.
“Angel, now you are asking me for more than I can give you,” he said gently. “I cannot force myself to love you—that is beyond my control. But what I will give you is my care and protection. I promise you, little one, that I will take very, very good care of you.”
She looked as though he had struck her. “But that is not enough!”
“It will be enough, Angel.” It would have to be.
Her expression was anguished. “Do you not care whether your wife loves you? Is that not important to you?”
“No, it is not,” he said sharply, his patience fraying. “What is important to me is obedience. I want a wife who will obey me and be faithful to me.”
“But Papa said one should only marry a person he loves and respects.”
Lucian was incredulous. “The scientific earl said that? I cannot credit it!”
“Why not?”
“Because love has nothing to do with marriage.” Lucian decided to put a quick end to this discussion, and he knew just how to do it: appeal to her honour. It worked every time.
“What is most important to me is a wife who is honourable enough to keep her promises. And you promised if I won our duel, you would marry me. Do you mean to break it?”
Angel bowed her head in defeat. “No.”
Chapter 10
Angel had just finished changing out of her breeches when Lady Bloomfield came to her door, her arms piled with clothes.
“Lord Vayle told me that you have relented and agreed to marry him. I am glad. Under the circumstances you can do nothing else.”
She dropped the garments she was carrying on the green silk coverlet of the bed.
“I have been searching frantically for something suitable for you to wear for your wedding,” Lady Bloomfield said, holding up one of the garments.
It was a frilly white confection of ruffles and lace that Kitty had worn when she was about twelve. At the time, Angel had secretly coveted it, thinking it the prettiest dress she had ever seen.
“This is the best I could come up with,” Kitty’s mother said apologetically. “You are about the same size that Kitty was when she wore this. I found it in a trunk in the attic. Try it on.”
Kitty’s mother laid the gown back on the bed and began to help Angel out of her shabby black dress.
“We must hurry,” Lady Bloomfield said. “Vicar Thompson of St. Stephen’s in Bourton is already here. Your stepfather wasted no time in getting him here to marry you to Vayle.”
“But I want the Reverend Throckmorton to marry me. He is such a dear man. Papa and I were both very fond of him.”
Angel refrained from adding that neither she nor her father had liked Thompson very much. He was always so obsequious that Angel was uncomfortable with him. Papa had said it was because he, as earl, controlled the living Thompson held. But Papa had also controlled Throckmorton’s, and that gentle, kind man had never toadied to her father and her as Thompson did.
“It is too late now. Vicar Thompson is already here,” Lady Bloomfield said.
Angel pulled on the gown of ruffles and lace. “I wonder why Sir Rupert sent to Bourton when Lower Hocking, where the Reverend Throckmorton lives, is much closer?”
“Now that Crowe controls your father’s estate, he also controls the livings. He can be certain that Thompson will go along with whatever he wants rather than jeopardize his position,” Lady Bloomfield said bluntly. Her nimble fingers were already at work fastening Kitty’s old gown. “The Reverend Throckmorton would not be so accommodating, particularly if he thought you were not willingly marrying Vayle.”
No, the Reverend Throckmorton would not. He had even had the courage to remonstrate with the Crowes over their sorry treatment of Belle Haven’s dependents.
Lady Bloomfield stepped away from Angel. “Let me see how the gown looks.” After a moment’s scrutiny, she said dubiously, “It fits tolerably well.”
Angel went over to a long looking glass by the door to examine herself. When she saw her image, she had to struggle to hide her disappointment. The gown did fit her petite figure, except that it was too tight across the chest. It was as pretty as she remembered it, but it was a dress a child would wear. She looked like a little girl instead of a bride on her wedding day.
Lady Bloomfield pointed toward the pile of clothes that she had left on the bed. “I found some other things in the attic that Kitty has outgrown, and I brought them for you.”
Angel, who realized now how shabby her wardrobe was, thanked her hostess for her thoughtfulness and generosity.
Lady Bloomfield pulled a filmy garment from the pile on the bed. “I brought you this, too, for your wedding night.” She held up a pale pink night rail of sheerest silk, embroidered with delicate roses.
Angel had never had such a pretty nightgown. Unfortunately, however, it reminded her of the night ahead of her—and of th
at bulge in Lord Vayle’s breeches. “Often when a woman lies with a man for the first time, the experience is agonizing for her.” Angel swallowed hard, her apprehension rising.
“What is it, dear child? Why are you suddenly so pale?”
Angel said frankly, “I am afraid of tonight when I must sleep with Lord Vayle.”
Lady Bloomfield patted her arm comfortingly. “But you already experienced the worst this morning.”
“No, I did not,” Angel confessed. “You see nothing happened between Lord Vayle and me this morning.”
Lady Bloomfield looked dazed. “But you told me—”
“I was wrong.”
“Wrong! How could you have been wrong about that?”
“I did not understand what you were asking me. When you wanted to know whether I lay with him, I thought you meant had I lain down on the same bed with him, which is all that I did.”
“Dear God,” her hostess breathed.
“Lord Vayle kindly explained to me what more must happen for me to lie with him in the way you meant, and I swear to you that it did not happen.” Angel paused, then in a small, desolate voice, cried, “I have made such a mull of things. Poor Lord Vayle is more victim than I am. He is convinced that Maude helped Sir Rupert drug both him and me and that is why neither of us knew how I got into his bed.”
“That would explain why she disappeared!”
“The Crowes were plotting to prevent Lord Vayle from wedding Kitty so that Horace could marry her instead. You know that he is obsessed with her.”
“That little snake will never marry my daughter! I will not permit it. Nor will her father. Not that Kitty would have him, She despises him as much as I do.” She frowned. “Are you saying that what happened in Vayle’s bedroom this morning was nothing more than a snare set by the Crowes?”
Angel nodded. “But Lord Vayle says no one will believe that now.”
“Unfortunately, he is right.” Lady Bloomfield’s face tightened into grim lines. “No wonder Vayle was beside himself with rage! I cannot blame him. Under the circumstances I am astonished he has agreed to marry you. It is surely the last thing that he wants.”
Her hostess’s assessment, undoubtedly a correct one,. only increased Angel’s anxiety. “I do not want to marry a man who neither wants nor loves me!”
Devil’s Angel Page 10