A Bride Unveiled

by Jillian Hunter

  “I’ll cut off your head if you touch her!” Kit bellowed with a grin.

  “And I’ll help him do it!” Eldbert shouted.

  “Not fair,” Ambrose protested, bending to draw a breath. “You’re on my side today. I can’t fight Kit by myself. He knows too many tricks, and he runs like a fox. He isn’t civilized at all.”

  Violet barely broke through the boundary of the yew trees before Kit caught up with her. “He’s right, you know,” she whispered, staring past Kit to the broken lych-gate at which Ambrose had apparently surrendered. “You have to let him win once in a while.”

  “Why should I?”

  “It’s the decent thing to do.”

  “I . . . don’t care about being decent.”

  “Then I won’t stay.”

  “Fine.” Shadows gathered in his eyes. “I’ll let Little Lord Lost Pants win. On another day.”

  But he never did.

  At times he might allow Ambrose to think he had a chance. Violet and Eldbert would wait, certain of the outcome, which typically meant that Kit would slide into a backward lunge and toss Ambrose’s sword somewhere amid the broken tombs. Then Kit would clamber through the remnants of gargoyles and flying buttresses and rise up to declare that he had won the bout. And despite the pang of sympathy she felt for Ambrose, she would return home in a blissful mood for hours.

  After leaving Monk’s Huntley she hadn’t felt that blissful since she had seen Kit again at the ball. She’d forgotten that she could feel that unadulterated abandon.

  “Violet?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Violet—why are you smiling like that?”

  “What?” She shook herself, her aunt’s voice intruding on her daydream. “Why am I what?”

  “You were smiling, dear.”

  “Was I?”

  “Yes. I suppose it is amusing.”

  “What? The fencing match?”

  “That man appears to be toying with Godfrey,” Aunt Francesca said with a keen air of discernment.

  “Lower your tone.”

  “No one can hear me over all the cheering and shouting. That young man is like a beast wearing out its prey before settling down to eat it.”

  “I doubt that Master Fenton will be dining on Godfrey today. Besides, I think that Godfrey fences well.”

  “To the uneducated eye. It isn’t that he fences like a schoolboy; it is that compared to his teacher . . . Oh, let us be honest: Few men could compare.”

  Violet could not disagree.

  From the nursemaids and students to the members of the nobility who had drifted together to watch, Violet’s aunt had merely voiced a collective observation.

  “You must have enjoyed his performance at the benefit,” her aunt said after a reflective pause.

  “I missed Godfrey’s scene.”

  “I know.”

  Aunt Francesca turned her head, meeting Violet’s eyes. She couldn’t possibly know about Kit, Violet thought. She couldn’t have realized the truth after all these years. Her aunt had seen him for only a few moments, if at all, from the door, the day Violet had fallen ill and he had carried her home.

  “Godfrey is showing off,” Aunt Francesca said in the forthright manner she had developed since her husband’s death. “I suppose most gentlemen try to do so in front of one another. I do not recall that he expressed an interest in fencing when you met him.”

  “He had been studying for only a few months at the time. I understand that there has been a revival of chivalry in society. I am drawn to the notion myself.”

  “So am I, but not when it is mere costume display. Watch that other swordsman closely.”

  Violet’s lips firmed. She’d been struggling to do the very opposite. She wasn’t sure what her aunt meant to suggest. Perhaps nothing at all. “He looks efficient, I would say.”

  “Efficient?” A note of disbelief quavered in her aunt’s echo. “I think he looks absolutely lethal. I should have paid more attention to your dance with him at the party. He moves like no other young man I have seen.”

  “I cannot believe my ears, Aunt Francesca. You are going to embarrass yourself if you are overheard. All this talk of movement and—”

  “See how well he lunges. Study the position of his lower body.”

  “I will do no such thing. You should be ashamed of yourself, a woman of your age, for even suggesting it.”

  “He has a natural instinct for the blade. He does remind me of someone, and I thought so the night of the ball. For the life of me I cannot remember who. He draws the eye.”

  “That is the point,” Violet said in a neutral voice, “of putting on a show.”

  “I would argue that his talent goes beyond showmanship.”

  “I believe he studied fencing abroad for years.”

  “Where does he come from?” her aunt asked, her silver brows knitting in thought.

  Violet dropped her gaze. “I couldn’t tell you with any certainty. From what I’ve gathered he appears to be English.” And thank heavens that much Violet could say in complete honesty. As far as she knew, Kit’s origins remained a mystery; if he had uncovered any information about his family, he hadn’t shared it with her.

  Who could have given him away? she wondered. It had been painful enough for her to grow up without even a memory of her mother’s face for comfort, but at least she had known that her parents had cared for her and who they were. But then, Kit had never been the sort to feel sorry for himself.

  “You dance by instinct, Violet,” her aunt said unexpectedly. “It is a gift, that grace of yours.”

  “I would have been a graceless spinning top without the years of instruction that you and Uncle Henry gave me,” Violet replied. “My gift needed a guiding hand.”

  “But it lifted our hearts to watch you dance. Yes, in the beginning, you twirled around like a March wind, over the lawns, into the sofa, across the freshly polished floors. It often took Twyford an hour to catch you.”

  “I know,” Violet said, and the old sense of committing other unnamed sins, of a guilt she did not understand, welled inside her. “I know I was a strain. I understand how much you both sacrificed to care for me. And yet—”

  “You were the light of our lives,” Aunt Francesca said, straightening her slight shoulders. “It is not always desirable, I have decided, to imprison a will-o’-the-wisp. Some creatures lose their desire to shine when they are captured.”

  Violet wondered if this was her aunt’s way of trying to apologize for the strictness of her upbringing. She knew her aunt and uncle had loved her. They had done their best to raise a girl who had proven unruly.

  “I wasn’t a magical creature. I danced because I could not bear to hold still. I heard music playing in my mind, and it made me want to dance.”

  “You were delightful.”

  “I was difficult,” Violet admitted. “I always disturbed Uncle Henry when he was reading or entertaining a guest.”

  “Difficult?” Francesca’s face crumpled, and she seemed to be on the verge of confessing a secret that Violet was not sure she wanted to know. Perhaps she’d prefer to stay in the dark indefinitely.

  Before her aunt could continue, Violet returned her attention to the match. “We’re going to miss Godfrey’s grand moment if we don’t stop chattering, and we shall never hear the end of it.”

  Chapter 13

  Godfrey failed to break through Kit’s guard to score a single hit to the breast. Kit controlled not only his foil but the tempo of their sparring. He thwarted Godfrey at every angle of attack and kept his body in perfect alignment. Shoulder, hip, heel. He could end the match with a flick of his wrist.

  In truth, he could have fallen asleep and countered Godfrey’s predictable attacks. This was not sword fighting. It was the art of fencing with air.

  But deciding whether to humble a pupil was a complex issue. He knew why Godfrey needed to win and whose favor he hoped to gain. Godfrey meant to impress a lady named Violet.

 
The trouble was that Kit shared the same male impulse, and, damn it to hell, his swordplay had spawned Violet’s interest in Kit before either of them knew Sir Godfrey Maitland existed. Dark temptation threatened Kit’s thoughts. A tidy bit of footwork and he could force Godfrey to perform an impromptu sword dance straight into the Serpentine.

  Never mind that with one thrust of an actual small-sword, he could topple Godfrey into an early grave. No one would be entertained by such an easy act of aggression, however, least of all Kit. Murdering a paying student was anything but an honorable goal.

  It would not only be illegal. It would also be immoral and offensive to the woman whom Godfrey intended to marry. Although Kit had not looked at her again since the match began, he could feel her presence as keenly he had when she’d watched him from her window.

  But now, instead of fighting invisible enemies to prove his prowess, he was fighting against a rival who was all too real—one Violet had chosen to wed, which meant that there had to be some good in the man, even if Kit couldn’t see it.

  The intensity of the competition, the foils engaging in a blur of speed, increased without warning. Aunt Francesca took Violet’s arm, drawing her a few steps closer to the match. Violet loved her aunt with all her being. She would do anything to protect her. But if Aunt Francesca kept asking questions about Kit, Violet was bound to let something slip. And if her aunt realized that he was the same boy Violet had befriended, there would be merry hell to pay.

  But suddenly they both fell silent. It had become impossible to look away or utter a word. Her aunt was right: He was deflecting poor Godfrey like a fly. He executed every response with intuitive precision, his footwork as intricate as the steps of any cotillion Violet had ever danced.

  He was right, too.

  There was no difference. The dynamics of a duel and of a dance derived from the same passion and purpose. Confront, conquer . . . or concede. It was all engagement and deception. Bending one’s arm to elude or, if necessary, to entice. That was when nonresistance came into play. Weaving around one’s partner allowed the control to attack. But you had to leave a space through which to escape.

  Kit was going to lose the match.

  She felt it in her bones. It infuriated her.

  She bit her tongue to keep from crying out that he should win. He loved to fight. Yet she sensed that his sudden hesitation to retreat was deliberate. She sensed that he was about to sacrifice his pride to boost Godfrey’s image. Of course she could not interfere. Godfrey had paid for Kit’s services to impress her. Both men would be disgusted with her if she distracted them with an outburst of hysterics.

  Little boys and their swords. Their pride.

  Kit would survive. Violet knew he had survived much worse, and it was wrong of her to wish Godfrey ill because . . . because her secret friend was a rogue whom her fiancé aspired to imitate. What would Godfrey think if he had seen Kit’s earliest fencing duels, raw and unrestrained, his wild dashes about broken gravestones?

  What would Godfrey think if he had seen his betrothed dashing about in Kit’s shadow? She sighed. Violet knew exactly how much Godfrey would frown upon the improper activities. But she could not undo those times, for all it might end up costing her. She would not undo them even if it were possible to change what had passed before.

  Kit allowed his ungraceful opponent to score a hit that he could have parried with his tallywag. He ignored the groans of chagrin that rose from the happenstance observers. At the charity ball he had surpassed the expectations of strangers. Today he let them down. He shrugged as Sir Godfrey threw the crowd a victory grin, flushed with as much surprise and relief as spent effort.

  Kit put more effort into not looking at Violet again to read her reaction than he had into the duel. He turned instead to his other pupils, encouraging them to dissect the bout. He had learned from witnessing other swordsmen’s mistakes. He was still learning, it would seem.

  Not until this moment, however, did he realize that all his years of practice, the wounds he had suffered and inflicted on others, the sum of studying under greater duelists than he, had been in the hope that one day Violet would see how accomplished he had become. And that she would cheer for him as she had when he had been outcast and alone.

  He had not foreseen the day when he would throw a match to another man to prove his skill. But there it was. He sold his sword for a living. It could have been worse. And it could have been better, if she had been able to champion him again.

  Violet froze in midstep as she realized that Godfrey had broken through the circle that surrounded Kit and was gesturing toward her. Surely he wasn’t trying to bring Kit to her to gloat. What was she supposed to do? She could take deception only so far. Aunt Francesca might detect the strain between her and Kit, even if Godfrey did not.

  “We ought to go back to the carriage and let you rest,” she said, turning quickly to the track. “We have been standing on our feet too long.”

  Aunt Francesca brushed off the suggestion. “Nonsense.”

  “I’m not sure that watching a fight is beneficial to a lady who practically collapsed two days ago,” Violet said, managing to keep Francesca from shaking off her hand.

  “Fight? It was anything but a true contest. That young swordsman could have carved the alphabet in Godfrey’s forehead had he chosen.”

  “Well, thank goodness for Godfrey’s mask.”

  “I would like to meet the swordsman.” Aunt Francesca gave her a wistful look. “Allow an old lady her indulgence.”

  Why? Violet wondered crossly. She had been discouraged from indulging her own inappropriate ways. But then, she had indulged in secret. She held her tongue. She stood, fettered by bonds of duty to her aunt and of affection, and bittersweet attachment to the man who sauntered closer, taking his time because he understood the power of timing. Kit also understood more about her than the gentleman to whom she would dedicate the rest of her life.

  She glanced across the park at a game of pell-mell in progress, all the while aware of Kit. Kit hung his head; he appeared to be listening to whatever Godfrey was saying. Her heart leaped at the danger inherent in his approach.

  She knew he was full of the devil—neither the workhouse nor his father nor his sword masters had broken his will. They had only tempered it like steel. That was it. He had grown stronger. Perhaps she hadn’t. Perhaps she had grown submissive.

  Mischief brightened his eyes for the quick interlude that they held hers. He placed his right hand to his heart, his mask dangling from his fingertips, and bowed low. “Ladies,” he said in a deep voice that disarrayed her senses. “I trust you enjoyed the match and that none of its actions offended you.”

  “It was invigorating,” Aunt Francesca said, and straightened as if to say that age entitled her to speak her opinion.

  Kit studied Violet in curiosity. “But Miss Knowlton appears a little pale, as if—well, forgive the expression—as if she had seen a ghost.”

  “I assure you,” Violet said in an unwavering voice, “I would not have stayed had I felt the slightest discomfort. And if I had seen—”

  “I understand,” Aunt Francesca broke in, “that it is not uncommon these days for ladies to take fencing lessons.”

  He blinked in surprise, and although Violet was annoyed at her aunt, she took Kit’s reaction to mean he had conceded a point.

  “It’s absolutely true,” he said, sliding his mask back onto his forefinger from the verge of descent. “In most cases it is an actress who seeks instruction to allow her a greater range of roles. I have given private lessons to noblewomen of independent natures.”

  “Miss Knowlton is no actress in the making, I assure you,” Godfrey said, frowning at Kit.

  “No.” His light eyes flickered over her. “I wouldn’t have thought so for a moment.”

  “What an interesting notion,” Aunt Francesca mused.

  He was quite an actor himself, Violet concluded, tempted to applaud him. But then, hadn’t she hoped he would throw
off the scent of anyone who suspected their secret history?

  He folded a glove meticulously into his mask. “Certain accommodations are recommended, but in my experience, a few lessons broaden the feminine education.” He gave Violet a piercing glance. “If either of you ladies is interested in light instruction, I shall be happy to leave my card.”

  She felt her breath catch in her throat. Offer her sword fighting lessons, would he? She wished she could remind him of the ignominious duels he had waged whirling a farmer’s hoe over his attractive head. Still, even then, he had quickened the air and raised more than few drowsing spirits.

  “It’s terribly kind of you to offer, Mr. Fenton, but I doubt that either of us will find it necessary to fight any duels in the near future.”

  His mouth thinned in a fleeting smile that served to remind her he could kiss as skillfully as he fenced. “If you change her mind, you have only to ask your fiancé for a card. He has dozens of the things lying about his shop.”

  Sir Godfrey stared at him, aghast. “In a hundred years I could not imagine Violet wielding a sword.”

  “I also give command performances,” Kit added, as if Godfrey hadn’t spoken.

  “How much do you charge?” Aunt Francesca inquired.

  “No doubt more than we can afford,” Violet said in an undertone.

  Kit shook his head. “Didn’t I mention that my fees were negotiable?”

  Heaven help her. And him. One more remark like that and she would swat the audacious rascal to a fare-thee-well with her fan. She had a firm grasp on it today. But the next time she got him alone . . . Would there be a next time? Could she in good conscience accompany the marchioness on another mission?

  Kit stared at her in a silence deep enough to herald the end of the world. Do not say anything else, she implored him with her eyes. Not another word. Don’t even think it.

  She could sense the counterattack that he ached to deliver. At length he nodded at Godfrey, dismissing the matter with a cavalier smile. “You, of course, know the lady better than I do, sir. I envy you, but such is life.”