A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  Her eyes slid back to Hampden and a hot wave of agitation curled her stomach as she watched the violent display. His face was a picture of concentration. He fenced with a relentless determination that was both precise and utterly unforgiving.

  It was a guilty pleasure to watch him, the easy way he inhabited his body, all loose-limbed, fluid elegance. He looked like one of Canova’s marble statues brought to life. She could imagine him as the artist’s model for some Homeric hero. Achilles maybe, or Hector. She vividly recalled that body, up against hers as they’d waltzed. It had taken her ages to fall asleep last night.

  Sabine shook her head at the contradiction he presented. Hampden’s public persona was charming and erudite. He was affable to everyone—except her. But here he radiated barely repressed fury. He gave no quarter and expected none in return. He drove forward, pressing his advantage with the scrape of steel on steel. After a particularly brutal attack his opponent swiped a mop of golden hair from his eyes and backed away, arms raised in surrender.

  “Pax!” he panted. “That’s all I can take for today.”

  He turned to one of the chairs that stood at regular intervals along the side of the room and tugged his damp shirt over his head.

  Sabine gasped in horror. The man had stripes across his back that made her wince in sympathy. He’d been beaten—tortured—with what looked like a rope or leather whip. Or a chain. The skin was raised and puckered in permanent welts. Poor man, the pain he must have endured. Those were scars he would carry for life.

  Her in-drawn breath gave her away. Hampden turned and caught her watching. His face was flushed, two red slashes running high on his cheekbones, and his hair was damp with perspiration, curled and disordered in a way that made him even more attractive, curse him.

  Sabine stepped into the room. A bank of high windows took up one side, letting in the early morning light. Mirrors flanked the opposite wall, doubling the space. The effect was impressive, like the Galerie des Glaces her mother had once described, at Versailles.

  Hampden pierced her with his amber gaze, but addressed his companions. “That will be all for today, gentlemen.”

  Raven glanced over at her and grinned. The other man nodded politely, his blue eyes full of friendly speculation. Raven gave her a jaunty salute as they left. “Miss de la Tour. Enjoy your morning.”

  Hampden scooped up a towel from one of the chairs and used it to wipe his face, then draped it around his neck, holding one end in each hand as he advanced on her.

  Sabine swallowed. His shirt was open at the throat and he had a bead of sweat on his cheek. She wanted to reach up and wipe it away, to touch her fingertips to her lips, to taste the salt. He stopped directly in front of her and she caught his scent—not the unpleasant smell of stale body odor, but the clean, hot smell of man that made her light-headed with desire.

  He threw his towel onto the nearest chair and narrowed a glance at her attire. “Where the hell did you get those clothes?”

  She gave a mocking twirl. “Shirt and breeches. Same as you. Mr. Hodges was kind enough to borrow them from your night porter, Minton. He and I are much of a size. I couldn’t very well learn to fence in skirts, could I?”

  Hampden frowned, but thankfully didn’t argue. “So, fencing or boxing, which is it to be first?”

  “Fencing, if you please.”

  He inclined his head. “All right, let’s cover some basic terms.” He picked up one of the blades propped against the wall and handed it to her. “A foil is a blunt sword for practice.”

  He held the weapon in front of his face and Sabine mirrored the stance, angling her body to the side and placing one leg behind the other.

  “En garde is the position to take to prepare to fence.” He pressed his blade against her own so she felt the slight pressure in her wrist and forearm. “And this is to ‘engage.’ ”

  His lips curved. “According to the great Italian fencing master Morricone, engagement is ‘a firm but gentle sustained contact of the opponent’s blade in preparation for combat.’ ” His eyes creased at the corners and she knew he was about to say something wicked. “Is the contact of my blade firm enough for you, Miss de la Tour?”

  Sabine responded with a pressure of her own and bit back a smile at his provocative teasing. “Perfectly, thank you, Mr. Hampden.”

  He backed her toward the wall with a slow advance. “Fencing is elegant, deadly, refined. It’s like a courtship. A dance.”

  She pushed back against his blade.

  He smiled. “Your favorite, Molière, says ‘the essence of fencing is to give, but by no means to receive.’ Do you prefer to give, Miss de la Tour? Or to receive?”

  Sabine ignored the flush that warmed her skin. “I’ve found one rarely experiences one without the other.”

  Fencing, it turned out, was a sport fraught with innuendo, full of touches and thrusts, flicks and glides. Hampden took perverse pleasure in rolling his tongue around the various phrases, as if he knew precisely the images he was conjuring up in her feverish mind.

  He showed her how to assault and parry, the passe avant and passe arrière—passing steps forward and backward. The prise du fer, to trap the opponent’s blade. He demonstrated each with an animal grace that made it hard to concentrate.

  The tiny, almost inconsequential touches he gave her as he corrected her stance or touched her with his blade muddled her senses. They had a cumulative effect, a slow build, like a banked fire. She knew precisely where he was at any given moment.

  After twenty minutes, he stepped back and set down his blade.

  “As fun as this is, it’s unlikely you’ll ever need to fight with swords. If you’re serious about self-defense, you need to know how to use your fists.”

  Sabine nodded. “I know how to fight. A friend taught me.”

  “A male friend?” His eyes narrowed, but not before she saw a flash of some primal, fierce emotion, swiftly checked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he need to teach you? What happened?”

  Ah, he was too perceptive. Sabine shrugged. “Paris, like London, has areas that are not so safe. I had to learn to fend for myself. That was before I got my little pistol, of course.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then shot her a cheeky glance. “Bare knuckles, bare chests? I’m game if you are.”

  She scowled at him.

  He shook his head and sighed. “It was worth a try. All right, show me what you’ve got.”

  Sabine swung at him. He dodged the blow in a lightning-fast reflex and caught her fist in his. She tried to pull back, but he merely uncurled her fingers and repositioned them with her thumb on the outside.

  “I doubt Tom Cribb or Tom Belcher are quaking in their boots just yet,” he said dryly. “Bend your body toward me. Head and shoulders forward, fists up, knees slightly bent.”

  Sabine did so.

  “Use your arms to defend your face and body. Keep your elbows in and your fists up near eye level to block side attacks.” He aimed a few light taps at her head so she could practice blocking. “A hit isn’t effective unless you judge the distance correctly. Too close and you won’t have any power behind it.” He demonstrated, then stepped back. “You’re at a disadvantage because of your size, so you’ll need to find other ways of bringing down your opponent.”

  “Like what?”

  “Pull his ears, or better still, bite them. Jab his eyes. Punch his throat; if he can’t breathe, he can’t fight.”

  Sabine nodded earnestly.

  “If you can grab his nose, snap it to the side. It’ll bleed like the devil. Stamp on the top of his foot. Or bend his fingers back—you might break a few bones that way.”

  Sabine shuddered.

  “And use your elbows and knees in close quarters. They’re hard for an opponent to grab, and they pack a lot of force. Knees are easy to break if you kick them hard enough. And a foot in the groin is especially effective. Kick like you’re kicking down a door.”

  �
�I have never felt the slightest inclination to kick down a door.”

  “Use the bottom of your foot. A solid kick can incapacitate your attacker long enough for you to get away.”

  She twisted her lips. “I’d have thought someone like you would consider these underhand tactics rather ungentlemanly.”

  He shook his head, his eyes serious. “No. You win. By whatever means possible.” He circled her, throwing out punches to keep her on her guard. “Use whatever you have to hand as a weapon. Rocks, bottles, anything. If you’re grounded, pick up a handful of dirt and throw it in your attacker’s eyes.”

  Quick as a flash he stepped close, hooked one of his legs behind hers, and twisted her over backward. Sabine found herself arched over his thigh, suspended awkwardly above the floor, completely at his mercy. Only his arm around her neck and his thigh behind hers prevented her from falling. She grabbed the front of his shirt.

  His face hovered above her, inches from her own. Sabine’s heart was hammering against her ribs, but she shot him her most devastating smile.

  He narrowed his eyes in immediate suspicion.

  She leaned upward, closer, closer. So close she could feel the exhale of his breath. In the instant before her mouth made contact with his, she turned her head and touched her lips to his jaw. His breath hissed out. His skin was smooth and rough at the same time. Heat flashed through her body. “Do you want to kiss me, Richard Hampden?” she whispered in his ear.

  He stilled. “You know the—”

  She bit him on the ear. Hard.

  He thrust her away like a sack of hot coals. “What the—! You devil!”

  He clapped his hand to the side of his head and scowled at her. Sabine skipped back, well out of reach, and shot him a taunting grin.

  “I’m a fast learner.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I should spank you for that.”

  Her heart leaped in alarm at the threat—or was it a promise?—but she managed to send him a saucy, provocative look.

  “Perhaps some other time, my lord. I’m afraid I need the rest of the day to get ready for Lady Carstairs’s ball. You did say how important it was for me to look my best, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint you. I’ll see you this evening…”

  She practically ran from the room.

  —

  Richard hissed out a long, frustrated breath and counted to twenty in Greek. It did absolutely nothing to quell the pounding lust racking his body.

  He couldn’t believe he’d become so distracted that he’d actually let her gain the advantage. Cheeky little baggage! She really did deserve a spanking. Unfortunately, the thought of turning her over his knee, skirts thrown up, soft, rounded bottom wriggling under his palm, had him taking a deep breath and counting to twenty in Latin too. That didn’t work either.

  His blood throbbed in his veins; his heart pumped furiously. He’d trained hard against Kit and Raven, but instead of feeling tired, he felt energized. He was aroused, like after sex—all sweaty and flushed and panting. Pleasantly aching in every muscle. Only, unlike after sex, he was still unsatisfied.

  That woman was a bloody menace.

  Chapter 31

  The dress Hampden had chosen for her was astonishing. Sabine stared at herself in the mirror in silent disbelief. This, surely, was the ultimate counterfeit; she looked like a well-bred lady of the ton.

  The color of it hovered between deep azure and the inky blue-black of indigo. It made her pale skin seem luminous, her eyes huge, her hair darker. The stiff silk had a silvery sheen, like the touch of moonlight, and it rustled mysteriously when she moved.

  It was breathtaking in its simplicity. There were no frills, no bows or lace. Just some subtle pleating at the scandalously low neckline. It draped across her chest to a line of ribbon beneath her breasts, then dropped straight over her hips to the floor. Sabine had never worn anything so sophisticated in her life.

  The corset was tight. The hard whalebone spines dug into her ribs. She felt like a sheet of paper being squashed in a printing press, but the effect was worth the discomfort. Madame ’Ortense was a genius.

  Heloise and Therese had come over to help her get ready—no doubt under orders from Hampden to make her look presentable, but Sabine was still warmed by their kindness. She stood obediently while her hair was curled and pinned in an intricate coil and Heloise lent her a string of pearls to thread through the dark strands.

  It didn’t matter what she looked like, however. The evening was sure to be a disaster. The polite, fashionable world was not for her. Its rules were as restrictive as her corset. She turned to Heloise and made one last appeal.

  “I tell you, this is a bad idea. I’m not used to polite society. And I’m certainly not good with rules. Just ask your brother. I’ll break one every minute, quite without knowing it.”

  Heloise shot her a reassuring grin and handed her a pair of elbow-length gloves. “You’ll be fine, I promise. Raven and I will be there to help you. And so will Maman.” She turned and went over to a side table. “Oh, I almost forgot! Richard told me to give you this.” She handed Sabine a flat jeweler’s box.

  Sabine gasped at the contents.

  Heloise leaned over to see and let out a low whistle of appreciation. “Now that is spectacular.”

  Sabine could only nod in agreement. The necklace was fit for a princess. Three huge teardrop-shaped sapphires hung suspended from a necklace of graduated diamonds. A pair of matching earrings, oval sapphires surrounded by a ring of brilliant diamonds, completed the set.

  There was no doubt that the stones were real. Still, Sabine couldn’t prevent herself from making doubly sure. She brought the necklace to her mouth, huffed on it, then quickly inspected the diamonds.

  “What are you doing?” Heloise sounded half amused, half horrified.

  “Testing the diamonds.”

  “You think Richard would give you paste?” Heloise sounded almost comically insulted on her brother’s behalf.

  Sabine shrugged, even though she knew the answer. Of course he wouldn’t. Hampden would never accept anything but the best. He’d never settle for a pale, cheap imitation.

  “Diamonds dissipate heat very quickly. If you breathe on a real diamond there will be no hint of moisture, no condensation. Breathe on glass or paste and it will stay fogged up for a long time.”

  “Those aren’t foggy,” Heloise said smugly. She bent to read the name on the silk-lined lid. “Rundell, Bridge & Rundell. They’re jewelers to the king. I’ll say this for Richard: he never does things by halves.”

  Sabine closed her eyes. He certainly didn’t. Her hands trembled as she fastened the necklace around her throat and the stones warmed to her skin. The central sapphire was a precise match for her dress, for her eyes. It nestled between the top curves of her breasts, where they were pushed together by her corset. Her heart fluttered. This set was worth a fortune. What was Hampden thinking, to give her such a thing? Was it a test? Was he waiting to see if she would run off with it in the night?

  Heloise gave a low chuckle. “He said to tell you it’s only a loan for tonight, so you won’t embarrass him in public.”

  Sabine gave an unladylike snort. Arrogant ass.

  Heloise gave her hand a brief squeeze of encouragement. “Don’t worry about tonight. Believe me, I know what it’s like to be a stranger in a foreign land. You’ll be fine, I promise.” She glanced at the clock. “Now, let’s go down to the carriage. I’m coming with you and Maman—Richard and Raven had a meeting with Castlereagh this afternoon. They said they’d meet us there.”

  Sabine fought a little twinge of disappointment. Richard was the only reason she was going to this infernal party, and he’d abandoned her. She tossed her head. Well, she’d faced worse than a room full of bored, inbred aristocrats. She didn’t need his support.

  —

  Sabine paused at the entrance to Lady Carstairs’s ballroom as terror vied with excitement. She quelled the impulse to turn on her heel and run. This was a mista
ke. She would never fit in. These people weren’t fools; they would see past her fine clothes and jewels to the fraud underneath. They would know that her pristine white gloves concealed ink-stained fingers, divine the criminal core hidden beneath the thin veneer of respectability. She’d rather face Savary and Fouché together, and General Malet, too, than these harridans who would shred her with their tongues.

  Sabine straightened her spine. Non. She’d duped Napoleon himself. She would feign confidence until it came to her. Besides, she had as much right to be here as anyone. The de la Tours had an ancient, noble lineage. Her mother might have been a governess, but she’d been the daughter of a gentleman, too.

  Her favorite Oriental text on warfare had clearly grasped the fine art of faking it. “Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.” Now was not the time to appear weak. She would exude confidence, pretend to be on the inside what she appeared to be on the outside—poised and utterly delighted to be here in this room full of bright, inquisitive eyes and brittle smiles.

  She raised her chin. Bah! What did she care for their opinion? They knew nothing of danger, of excitement. They led such boring lives. She pitied them.

  She’d spent half her life skulking in the grim alleys of Paris, but here it was nothing but flirtation and frivolity. Hundreds of candles glimmered from the crystal chandeliers and glinted off silver punch bowls and fruit-filled centerpieces. There were at least twenty attendants, all dressed in blue liveries trimmed with lace. Without her lorgnette, the room blurred into a great, dizzying sweep of diamond-studded heels, flittering fans, and feather-plumed turbans.

  Sabine’s tension dissipated. This wasn’t real. It was a fairy tale. She would enjoy it as a wonderful dream. With or without Richard Hampden.

  She descended the steps and allowed Heloise to introduce her to a nearby group. She smiled until her cheeks ached, laughed at the gentlemen, nodded at the women. Much of the gossip centered around the upcoming royal wedding: the prince regent’s daughter, Princess Charlotte, was marrying the impoverished but handsome Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. The general consensus was that it was a famous romance—a flighty, headstrong, impulsive girl tamed by a steady, dashing foreign prince.