A Bride Unveiled

by Jillian Hunter

  It wasn’t every day, after all, that a demure young lady eloped with a fencing master. And, the whisperers asked, wasn’t she engaged to the gentleman who owned the emporium where most of them shopped? Come to think of it, what had happened to Sir Godfrey Maitland?

  Christopher Fenton might be as handsome as sin, but he had a reputation for being an honorable man. He didn’t fight a duel at the drop of a glove. He could not have challenged Sir Godfrey without the sensation showing up in the papers.

  “We shall have to wait until Monday to read the news,” one lady remarked to her companion. “Maybe there will be a duel when we return to London.”

  “Would you look at that,” her companion replied. “I think he’s carrying her up the stairs. What a handsome couple they make.”

  Chapter 28

  Kit ignored the bystanders. He merely smiled and accepted their congratulations, Violet clasped firmly to him for the climb. Her skirts flowed behind them.

  “Everyone likes you,” Violet whispered. “I think I’m jealous.”

  He glanced up. Only one face in the crowd drew his attention. His pulse jumped in fury as he spotted Pierce pushing people aside to reach the stairs.

  “Not everyone likes me, darling.”

  “What is it?”

  Pierce advanced, his eyes moving past Kit to his wife. “She doesn’t have to leave on my account. Consider this my wedding present to you both.”

  Kit had lowered Violet to the floor of the main staircase and quickly stepped in front of her.

  “Find Wynfield or any of my pupils,” he ordered Violet. “Stay with them.

  “At dawn,” he said to Pierce, reaching to touch his sword, only to realize that he had not seen it since handing it to the duke.

  The man who called himself Pierce unsheathed his sword. “No, maestro. Now.”

  Kit sighed, shrugged out of his coat, and removed his vest. He glanced toward the stairs and spotted Wynfield waiting, Kit’s sword at his side.

  Kit nodded.

  The other guests drew back against the wall in silence as the duke strode across the hall. A cloud of uncertain anticipation had darkened their excited chatter.

  “Don’t be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen,” Wynfield said, his stride unhurried. “Your host has promised this will be a house party that no one will forget.” And under his breath, he said to Kit, “Do you think I can convince them this is part of the entertainment?”

  “You can try,” Kit said, reassured by the familiar weight of the weapon in his hand.

  He glanced around at his wife, whose eyes held his in understanding. He was glad he had warned her that this was not a game he wished her to witness. “Go with the others, darling. I’ll be with you again as soon as I can.”

  She nodded in obvious reluctance. “Don’t be long. And . . . be careful.”

  “Wynfield, do you mind moving the assembly into the great room and watching over Violet until I finish here?”

  “Not at all.”

  The duke cut across the hall, Violet at his side, and the instant they crossed out of view, Kit refocused his energy on the man who thought to challenge him. A long-planned revenge, indeed. Kit would fight to defend his father’s honor. At least he was not facing some hothead who hoped to prove his manhood and ended up making a mockery of the sword.

  Pierce had stripped down to his shirt in palpable anticipation. He stood in the middle of the hall like a conqueror. “Well?” he said, his dark eyes full of contempt. “Is the master going to defend his reputation or forfeit?”

  Voices rose from the far end of the hall. Kit could have laughed at his luck. From the shadows came another convention of guests, led by Eldbert and Ambrose, who had gotten into a dispute right after the wedding ceremony and were now arguing with each other over the top of Clarinda’s head.

  “I tell you again, Ambrose,” Eldbert said, “the fumes from unventilated pipes will kill you.”

  “This is a house party, for the love of heaven. Talk about something more pleasant than plumbing.”

  They broke off, gaping at Kit.

  He knew what they were thinking. He saw Eldbert’s arms wave up and down like an orchestra conductor to hold back the crowd. As if that weren’t distracting enough, he spotted the baroness and Ambrose’s mother bringing up the rear of the group. It crossed his mind that of all the ladies he wished could witness him wage the fight of his life, it would be Violet, and not her aunt.

  A hiss of steel in the air captured his attention. His rival’s blade whispered below his left ear, not close enough for a piercing but close enough that his anger spiked, and instinctively he engaged, and sliced a crimson slash down Pierce’s wrist.

  Pierce blinked. “Well, that’s better. You do have it in you.”

  “Yes. And I was hoping to save it for my wedding night.”

  “My name is Pascal de Soubise.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something? Or are you letting me know how you want your epitaph inscribed on your grave?”

  The tang of blood.

  The ring of metal.

  It was better to think of it as a game. Better to pretend that a girl being held for ransom was watching him from her window. Or that he was fighting to prove his worth to Captain Fenton. Pascal beat at him again and again, his mouth a taut line as Kit dodged every attack.

  Kit pivoted, jumping over a tray that a terrified footman had dropped when the duel began. It might have indeed been a tombstone. He might have been trying to impress his friends with bravado and ballocks as he had in the past. He danced in a semicircle, remembering how much his father had taught him when he was arrogant and thought he knew it all.

  Weave a web of steel around him, Kit. Economy of movement.

  I’m running away, old man.

  The doors are locked.

  Locked doors never stopped me. I could scale the garden wall and be halfway through the woods before you’d notice.

  Perhaps, Kit.

  Why should I study? You said yourself I’m a born swordsman, the best you’ve ever seen.

  In Monk’s Huntley. That isn’t saying much.

  “Reviewing the code?” Pascal taunted, beating at Kit until his boot heels touched the tiles of the white marble fireplace. “Hit to the breast,” he added, and kicked the ornamental fire basket in Kit’s face. “Some skills can’t be taught in school, master.”

  “I know,” Kit said with all sincerity, deflecting the basket with his free arm.

  “How do you know, you who follow every rule and stay inside the circle?”

  “Let me show you,” said the master to his challenger. “Extend your damned leg and deliver.”

  Pascal laughed. “Give me an elegant kill and get it over with.”

  “You’re as slow as a grandfather clock.”

  “You’re as slow as my grandfather’s cock,” Pascal shot back, drawing a gasp of shock from the audience as he swooped down with his left hand for the poker lying on the hearth.

  He swung it at Kit’s head.

  Kit ducked, frowning in irritation. He had just married the woman of his dreams, and he had no intention of being carried incapacitated to his wedding bed. Still, he had a reputation to maintain, and the partygoers, who he hoped thought that this was a staged duel, expected to see it fought to the end.

  “No padded vests!” Pascal taunted. “No rules! No romantic performance for the faint of heart!” He slashed at Kit’s knees, the swish of steel a whisper in the silence.

  Kit executed a volte, a half turn to escape the blade before he thrust in quarte. Pascal slashed again. Where was his weakness?

  Wait for another attack. Control. Provoke a response. Pascal made a feint. Kit answered with a circle in prime.

  “I should have guessed,” he said with a disdainful smile. “You’re too impatient to perfect an attack.”

  “Perfection won’t matter much when you’re dead.”

  “True.” Kit shot a glance at the awestruck spectators. “Ladies, my regrets. P
upils of the academy, pay attention. You will not see a lesson like this again in a very long time.”

  Sweat glistened on Pascal’s forehead. “At least my father died fighting—despite the fact that yours had crippled him.”

  “The chevalier instigated the duel. He wouldn’t leave the serving girl who worked for my father alone. He demeaned her in front of witnesses.”

  “And in front of witnesses, I am taking the revenge I promised him.” He spit at Kit’s feet. “Fenton was a half-mad drunk.”

  “Who died with honor.”

  Unhittable, Kit began to score hits, thrusting and circling, remaining beyond the other sword’s reach until the time was right to attack. There. An opening.

  He slid into a lunge, crossing his blade hard and fast against the hilt of Pascal’s sword. He jerked hard. The other sword flew into the air. Kit caught it by the grip in his free hand and backed Pascal into the fireplace.

  “Strike like lightning,” Kit said, passing both swords to the first gentleman in the hall who approached him—not surprisingly Eldbert. “Honor is met.”

  Pascal exhaled, his face pale, and bowed. “I would rather that you had killed me.”

  “Well, it is my wedding day, and I want my wife to have only good memories of it.”

  He glanced around. The pupils of his academy had formed an inescapable semicircle around the man who had betrayed their code.

  “Let the authorities deal with him,” Kit said, pulling down his sleeves.

  Violet had slipped outside from the great room into the garden when the duke wasn’t looking and had reentered the house. She thought Wynfield was chasing her, but by the time she had jostled through the knot of onlookers to reach her aunt, there wasn’t much he could do to stop her without causing another scene. Not that anyone would have paid attention.

  The hall was as tightly packed as the zoological exhibition of tigers at the Tower of London. Except that one of the beasts on display was her husband, and if he had to heed his instincts, then so did she.

  As a girl, she had often watched him fight, sometimes over her and sometimes over nothing. But this was different. This was danger. Swords crossed. Steel flashed. And it was not a game. Honor meant everything to the man she had married.

  “Stop them,” she heard Clarinda say to Ambrose. “Do something to make them stop or go outside before they put a hole in the wall. I thought we had agreed they should either perform on the terrace or inside the ballroom when it is clear.”

  Ambrose shook his head slowly. “Leave them be. And, dear, do be quiet. He’ll never forgive us if we interfere.”

  “Lord Charnwood is quite right,” the baroness remarked to no one in particular, but in a softer voice she said to Violet, “I told you that Master Fenton had a way with the sword.”

  He had a way with Violet, too, and he would be having his way with her right now if his vengeful pupil had not chosen this inopportune moment to challenge him. But she understood what he had to do.

  She grasped her aunt by the arm to steady her, or perhaps they steadied each other, allied at last in truth and their support for the man who was their honorable protector.

  Chapter 29

  She stood by the window in her wedding gown, waiting. It seemed that she had waited for Kit all her life. But when he entered the room she was caught by surprise. And when, casually, he began to remove his neck cloth, shirt, and finally his trousers, she was rendered speechless. It was twilight, and the fading light that filtered through the leaded casement windows burnished the contours of his face and form. But he was hers, and from the glimpses she stole, she decided that there wasn’t a tamed inch on his beautiful body. She was eager to test his wildness for herself.

  “Boys with their swords,” she said with a rueful sigh, rousing herself from her trance to approach him. “Are you all right?”

  “Are you?” he asked, his smile so explicit that her heart began to race.

  She nodded, and the next thing she knew she was trapped in his arms, her hand looped around his neck. His erection rose thick and rampant through the folds of her gown. “I couldn’t leave you.”

  “I know.”

  “Did I distract you very much?”

  “Not as much as you do now.”

  He drew back briefly and dropped his clothes on the carpet. “Let me help you out of that dress.”

  “Why did you take so long?”

  “Just making sure that no one else needs me tonight. I don’t want to be interrupted.”

  She shivered as she felt his hands slide down her back in blatant ownership. “I need you,” she whispered. “This is the first time we haven’t met in secret, and . . . that you’ve held still long enough for me to get a proper look at you.”

  “Fair play,” he said, and slipped back another step, lifting his hands in what appeared to be surrender—only to reach for her before she could absorb the full impact of his naked perfection.

  He unfastened the buttons at the back of her gown. He untied the small bows at each of her shoulders and the big silk bow at her back. The skirts of satin and tulle fell open like petals. Moments later he took off her stays and muslin chemise, her garters, stockings, and slippers, until at last her beauty was unveiled, exposed for his pleasure alone.

  His gaze dropped from her face to her bare feet. “I don’t think we’re going to spend much time at the party.”

  “We’ll be missed,” she whispered. “There’s a treasure hunt planned for the morning.”

  His eyes studied her with a promise to possess. “I’d rather play with you.”

  He saw softness everywhere. He studied her curved shoulders and her full breasts with the blushing peaks. He wrapped his hand around her waist and slowly drew her against him. Flesh to flesh. Man and wife. She felt as vulnerable, as virginal, as she appeared.

  He felt hard and hungry, and no doubt looked it.

  Violet stared up into his eyes. She felt indecent and desired. But she refused to cover herself from her husband’s scrutiny. Her breasts tingled with a warm arousal that was spreading down to her ankles. A flush of excitement flooded her entire body. Her smile invited him to look his fill.

  He led her across the room and lowered her beneath him onto the bed. He was a man who lived by instinct, her husband. He had known her for a long time. He knew what she needed now.

  “I love you,” she said, swallowing over the knot of emotion in her throat. She smiled up at him. “I love you so much.”

  “I know,” he said, and kissed her, his mouth branding hers in heated anticipation, his muscular arms imprisoning her on either side. “I love you, too, but your mouth is too sultry. You should smile like that only at me.”

  She moaned; the hard pressure of his body heightened her arousal. His kisses inflamed her blood. He settled beside her, pinioning her wrists with one hand to the pillow. She felt herself grow warm and damp for desire of him. His mouth strayed down her throat, past her shoulder, and lingered at her breasts. She arched her back as he drew an aching nipple between his teeth.

  “Kit—” Her belly contracted at the wrench of pleasure that took her without warning. As if he sensed and sought to increase her desire, he plunged his fingers deep inside her sex at the same instant that he drew hardest on the tender peak. As he suckled, the indecent sensation inside her intensified.

  She lost her focus, shattering into fragments, sobbing as she gave herself to the primal force he had unleashed. Even then, even before she could recover, he wanted more.

  “I’ve waited so long for you. I can’t wait another moment.”

  “Neither can I,” she whispered. “Master me. Fully engage. And . . . let me move. Let me touch you.”

  “Wrap your legs around me, sweetheart. I’ll be your sword and your shield.”

  He released her wrists, his mouth tightening as she ran her fingers down his back. Her naked flesh looked like sensuality incarnate against the bedcover, a scarlet that matched the deep hue of her mouth and the nipples he had k
issed into swollen tenderness. His.

  His gaze strayed lower, to the tempting cleft between her thighs. He stroked his knuckles against her flesh in carnal enticement. She raised one knee, following her intuition. Her eyes flickered to his, encouraging him to take his pleasure. He was Kit, and he was something more, infinitely capable of taking her prisoner with whatever game he wanted to play.

  He knew that, too.

  He placed his hands under her hips, pulled her upward, and impaled her with a swift determination that bolted her to the bed. “Sweet,” he murmured soothingly, withdrawing and slamming back inside her before she could take a breath.

  She arched her back, her tissue breached and stretching to take the thickness of him.

  He drove into her, unrestrained, possessed by only one need—to make her his own, to seal their pact. He penetrated and pushed as deeply as she could take and then pushed deeper still. He moved against her, sensation building, insatiable.

  She whimpered, but he couldn’t hold back. He thrust harder, the unstoppable, perfect thrusts that he had dreamed of. He filled her and overflowed her so that she was bound to him alone for all time.

  Kit lay content in the gathering shadows, his bride in his arms. There was supposed to be a champagne supper at midnight in the park to informally open the party. Right now, however, he could hear laughter from the gardens, children fighting and getting scolded by their governesses. In a few years he might be chasing his own offspring across Monk’s Huntley.

  Anything was possible, he mused.

  It wasn’t even Friday, when the house party officially began, and he had married the love of his life, patched up a feud with an old friend, and fought a duel against a young fool.

  Who could predict what the future held?

  “Kit?” she whispered, as moonlight spilled into the room. The fire had burned to embers. She slid her hand down his side and between his thighs; a few hours of pleasure had made her more comfortable communicating in this manner.

  He nudged his knee between hers and sank his hard shaft deep into her swollen depths. “I’ll have to be gentle with you this time,” he said softly, undulating his hips. “You’re going to ache at the dance tomorrow night.”