by Tuft, Karen
Her brow furrowed. “I—”
“Go,” he said, shooing her off before she had the chance to say what she’d intended. “I can hardly wait to observe your first lesson in being daring.”
“You are wicked,” she said as she started off toward the stairs, garments in tow.
“I hope not,” he murmured once she was out of earshot. And yet, what he was asking her to do was scandalous, were word of it to get out. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d decided to come here this afternoon with the items he’d brought, except that some inner voice had suggested that his idea was something she needed.
He would soon find out.
He’d spent enough time here with Lady Walmsley that he already knew where the ballroom was. Once there, he set his bag across the seats of two chairs set against the wall in a row of other chairs. Then he removed his jacket, waistcoat, and neckcloth and laid them out carefully on the chair next to the first two. Lady Walmsley’s townhouse was comfortably sized for someone living alone, and the ballroom wasn’t large—it was suitable for small assemblies and was also connected by doors that opened to her music room, making for a larger space when necessary. The single room would be large enough for his plans today.
He eventually opened the bag and removed the large case inside, then opened the case. Once he did, he heard a gasp.
“Foils?” he heard Lady Elizabeth say with a squeak.
He turned to reply, and all of his bravado about having seen her ankles and not swooning crumpled into a heap. She stood inside the door, one arm wrapped around her middle, the other arm across her chest, her hand clutching at his shirt. Several brooches had been employed to keep his shirt modestly closed and to help it fit closer to her own size. His breeches hung on her to just above her ankles, and she wore silk stockings and simple black dancing slippers.
It should have made for a ludicrous sight, and yet it wasn’t. Not in the least.
He swallowed.
Had he any idea that seeing her wearing his own clothing would make him feel so . . . protective, for want of a better word, he would never have brought them to the house. Good heavens, she’d been betrothed to his best friend, Alex, for as long as he’d known her, up until the time of Alex’s death! Her father had dueled with Alex’s brother, Anthony, and Kit had stood as Anthony’s second. But Kit had never allowed himself to think about her as . . . well, to put it bluntly, as a desirable woman. Beautiful, yes, like a painting or sculpture—appreciated from a distance with no other expectations attached. Although there had been that moment when he’d longed to kiss her while they’d been dancing at Marham Cross . . .
“I look ridiculous,” she said, obviously aware that he was staring at her like a halfwit. His shirt hung nearly to her knees. Her eyes were huge and vividly blue, the brooches holding his shirt closed glinting from the daylight that streamed through the windows. He watched her throat move as she, too, swallowed.
“Not at all,” he managed to choke out. This was foolishness of the most embarrassing sort, and he needed to collect himself and get on with the task at hand. “Foils, yes,” he quickly added. “I am going to teach you the basics of the sport of fencing this afternoon.”
“I once saw Ruby Chadwick, the Darling of Drury Lane, fence onstage at the theater, and I was impressed by her skill. I suppose such liberties are allowed actresses.”
“Are they?” he said. “I expect it took much boldness on Miss Chadwick’s part to do something, in a public setting, no less, that is considered by Society to be a gentleman’s sport and wholly unsuited to females. Boldness is the key, Lady Elizabeth. Daring.”
“You may stop with the ‘Lady Elizabeth’ business, Lord Cantwell,” she said. “I expect that someone who has seen me wearing his own clothing may address me less formally. You may call me Elizabeth.”
“Likewise,” he replied. “Although, as you know, I prefer Kit to Christopher.”
“Very well. Kit it is,” she said.
He removed the foils from the case and offered one of them to her; she carefully took the foil from him. “If I’m to learn the fundamentals of fencing, I guess we should begin,” she said.
“Excellent idea,” he said. It would keep his mind on the task at hand.
***
First, Kit showed Elizabeth the foil itself and pointed out its various parts: the grip and pommel, the guard that protected the fencer’s hand, and the blade itself.
Elizabeth took the foil he held out to her by the grip and let herself get accustomed to its feel. The pommel added a counterweight to that of the blade and gave it balance. She cautiously slashed through the air with it. She rather appreciated that the weakest part of the blade, the part that was the nearest to the deadly point, was called a foible, for weren’t a person’s foibles, their weaknesses, what caused them trouble in life?
“This is how you attack with the blade,” he said and extended his arm as though threatening an opponent with the point of the blade. “Try it.”
She did, although even she knew it was rather too dainty a move to put an opponent—imaginary or otherwise—on the defensive. She waited for his criticism. She was used to criticism.
“Not bad for a first attempt,” he said, surprising her. “Let’s try again.” He demonstrated the move once more, and she tried again with a bit more energy . . . and mostly failed.
“I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a fencer,” she said, feeling embarrassed and completely out of her depth.
“I’m not sure that can be decided after only two attempts, Elizabeth. Besides, no one expects you to be a fencer,” he said. “Least of all me. This isn’t really about fencing at all. It’s about daring and boldness. Come now; let’s try it once more. Perhaps it might help if you visualized an opponent who has made you angry.”
She thought about that. Was she angry with anyone? She couldn’t think—
“Certainly you feel angry at your father,” Kit went on. “He left you and your mother to fend for yourselves.”
“That was my fault, not his,” Elizabeth said. She tried another attack and managed a bit more force this time.
“Nonsense,” Kit replied. “Now, I will show you how to defend yourself. Attack me.”
She did as he commanded, feeling a bit unsettled that he’d called her explanation “nonsense.”
He responded to her attack by deflecting her foil with his. “That is called a parry,” he said after pushing her foil to the side, which left her vulnerable for attack, she could tell. “And now, for a riposte,” he said, thrusting his foil forward in the attack she’d sensed coming, although he stopped short of touching her with the buttoned point of his foil. “Now, you try a parry and riposte. En garde. And allez.”
He attacked—without too much vigor, thank goodness, since she didn’t know what she was doing, of course, and her mind was currently brimming with fencing terms and her father and a nagging bit of irritation. Somehow, she managed to deflect the thrust of his foil with hers.
“Well done,” he said, swishing his foil in salute.
Had it been? It felt rather good to hear him say it.
“Let me show you a few more moves, and we shall practice them. And then we shall do battle.” He grinned at her.
He demonstrated a lunge, extending his front leg, which reminded her once again of a jungle cat: not the gentleman he was but strong and dangerous. He looked bold and daring, the very image of how he was trying to get her to act.
She slashed back and forth through the air with her foil and really let herself feel the graceful power of the weapon in her hand. Bold. Daring.
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “That’s exactly it!”
Her heart raced at his compliment, and with it came a rush of energy. She lunged, kicking her right leg out, as he’d demonstrated, bending her knee as her foot landed on the ballroom floor. She did it again and then a third time.
/>
“Well done, Lizzie, my girl!” he exclaimed, applauding her.
He showed her how to feint and a few other moves until she wasn’t sure she could keep them straight in her head. “One small engagement, and we’ll call it good for this afternoon, shall we?”
She nodded.
He smiled at her, his brown eyes twinkling. “En garde,” he said again, setting his feet and raising his foil, so she did likewise. “Êtes-vous prêts?” he asked.
It took a moment for her mind to translate what he’d said. “Ready,” she replied, bringing her foil up.
“Allez!” he said and attacked.
She managed to return his attack with a parry and a clumsy riposte.
They went back and forth, thrusting, parrying, their foils engaging and disengaging—slowly, so he could instruct her movements as they went along. Even so, the ballroom seemed to whirl around her, the sound of the foils clashing ringing in her ears and his instructions echoing through her mind. She moved instinctively—right or wrong—even though she tried to do what he said.
And then she actually made a hit, right above his heart, with the point of her foil.
“Touché,” he said, laughing. “I believe that’s enough for a first lesson, don’t you? Otherwise, you will beat me soundly, and you will decide it is worth it to spread word far and wide that you bested me with the foil.”
“Yes, that’s enough for today,” she said, realizing she was out of breath.
He led her to a chair, and she sank into it, running her hand across her brow. Her forehead was beaded with perspiration. What would Mama say if she were to see her right now—dressed in men’s clothes and sweating from exertion doing a man’s sport?
She knew what Mama would say.
Kit took her foil and placed it in its case, along with his own, and then he sat next to her. “You did very well, you know,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” she managed to say, her breathing still a bit labored. “I admire that actress Ruby Chadwick even more now that I know how difficult fencing is to learn and, undoubtedly, to master. I can tell you’re skilled at it.”
“It goes without saying that I’ve had years of practice,” he said. “I also had a brother who was as eager to practice with me growing up as I was with him. But I meant what I said—you did well today.”
“You are kind to say so,” she said politely and looked away, busying herself with straightening her clothing.
He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, forcing her to stop what she was doing and turn to look at him. He didn’t kiss her hand; he held it just short of his lips until his eyes had caught hers. There was no twinkle in them now; they were dark and serious, his brown-gold hair damp with perspiration at the edges of his scalp. Her breathing came short and fast again, waiting, unsure as to what he would do next, unsure of what she wanted to have happen, dreading, hoping . . .
“This was never about fencing, remember,” he said. “This was about being daring, to do something you’d never considered attempting before. And in that regard, you did well. In fact, you exceeded my expectations.”
He kissed her hand then, and Elizabeth felt her eyes well up. She swallowed and blinked the tears back, not allowing a single one to fall.
“Now, I shall go make myself presentable, and you shall change out of the terrible clothes some dastardly fellow insisted you wear,” he said.
She rose from her chair and hurried from the room, her tears falling despite her best attempts to control them.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Sally said when Elizabeth reached the safe confines of her dressing room.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, fumbling with the brooch nearest her neck.
“Here, let me help you with that,” Sally said, rushing over to assist. Somewhere, she came up with a handkerchief, too, and handed it to Elizabeth. “Here you are, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said again, burying her eyes in the handkerchief, blocking the tears and the tumult of her emotions. She must find control. She must.
She’d been daring. She’d dressed in a man’s clothing, and she’d fenced. She could hardly believe she’d done it.
And Kit had called her Lizzie.
***
After Elizabeth changed her clothes and Sally tidied her hair for her, she set out to once again join Kit.
Kit. The nickname shouldn’t suit him, yet it did. His title, the Earl of Cantwell, had a definite gravitas about it, and he wore it well. Even his Christian name of Christopher had a respectable depth to it that others in Society would recognize intuitively, were they allowed to refer to him by that name. The nickname Kit, however, did not—not in the same way. It was abrupt-sounding—percussive—and lacking a similar resonance.
But by that same reasoning, it was also concise and straightforward, and Elizabeth recognized those very characteristics in the gentleman who’d had the temerity to encourage her to fence.
She found him waiting in the entry hall. “Ah, the lady returns,” he said.
Elizabeth wondered if his words held a double meaning—did he mean “the lady returns” or “the lady returns” or both? “Here are your articles of clothing,” she said and attempted to hand him the folded bundle in her arms. “I should offer to have them laundered first before returning them to you, but I believe the sooner you have them back, the better.”
“Worried about leaving evidence of your deeds behind?” he asked.
“Not at all!” Elizabeth could feel her face heat up. “They belong to you, so I am returning them.”
“And yet, the lady would have them returned before they can be properly laundered. Tsk tsk, my lady. At any rate, I wish for you to keep them.”
She felt breathless again, and it wasn’t because of exertion this time. “Why?” she asked, even though she was afraid to hear his answer.
“Why, Lizzie? Because today is only the first of many bold and daring feats Lady Elizabeth Spaulding will be attempting over the next few weeks. And it would cause speculation were you to have breeches and a shirt ordered from a modiste. That’s why.”
“Lord Cant—Kit”—she was feeling flustered, so she drew upon the imperiousness a daughter of a duke had been trained to have and took a deep breath—“today was interesting, I’ll grant you—even invigorating, in a way. And I thank you for the experience. But I cannot do it again, or anything like it. And that is an end to it.” She pushed the bundle of clothes into his hands and stepped back, clasping her hands behind her.
“I see,” Kit said, and Elizabeth breathed a bit.
He studied her carefully for a few long moments, and Elizabeth wondered what he was seeing—or, perhaps, searching for. She lifted her chin to drive home the point.
He nodded and then patted the bundle in his hands and set it on a nearby table. “The clothes are my gift to you. You may keep them, for we will have further adventures, you and I, or you may burn them.” He came closer to her—she held completely still—until his lips were next to her ear and she could feel his breath on her skin. “But we will have further adventures, you and I; that you may rely on.”
He stepped away and bowed deeply. “Adieu for now, Lady Elizabeth,” he said formally. “I have enjoyed your company immensely this afternoon. I hope I may call upon you again.” He turned and left without waiting for her reply.
Elizabeth hastily snatched up the clothes before Foster or any of the other servants could see them and took them to her room, where Sally was busying herself with some mending.
“I thought you were giving them back to Lord Cantwell,” Sally said, looking up from her work.
“He says they’re a gift.”
“I should have liked to sneak down and watch you,” Sally said as she made a knot and snipped the thread. “Fencing, of all things!”
“I can barely believe it
myself,” Elizabeth muttered, setting Kit’s clothes on the corner of her bed. “I’m not sure what to do with these. Burn them, I suppose.”
“Oh, no! You must keep them. Leave them here, and I’ll work on them a bit so they fit you better.”
“I’m not planning to wear them again,” Elizabeth said. “It would be a wasted effort on your part.”
“I’m going to fix these clothes anyway. It will give me something unusual to show when I look for a seamstress position. But how did it feel to wear them and hold a foil and slash it in the air facing such a dashing gentleman?” Sally sighed as she rethreaded the needle she was using. “It’s romantic in a way, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth thought about his agile movements and obvious strength, her racing heart, and his warm breath on her cheek as he whispered to her before he left. “I’m not sure,” she said. She’d only ever been courted—if one could call it that—by Alex, and he’d treated her more like an indulged pet than anything else.
She left the clothes with Sally and returned to the parlor, where her own needlework awaited her, and she was still there, making stitches and reflecting on her experience with Kit, when Lady Walmsley finally returned home.
“Oh, here you are, just where I left you a few hours ago. And what have you been doing to keep yourself busy while I’ve been gone? I hope you haven’t been overly bored,” Lady Walmsley said.
“How is your friend Lady Iverson today? Well, I hope?” Elizabeth said, avoiding answering her question directly.
“Her memory was a bit better today, thank you for asking.” Lady Walmsley studied Elizabeth closely. Too closely. “Her son was there for a brief time while we were visiting. Such a doting son and kind young man. Sadly, his children are ill with something or other—one of those illnesses that seems to plague the very young—so his wife stayed at home to oversee their care. He didn’t stay long—Alice’s son, that is. Had a meeting with Aylesham . . . or was it Castlereagh? I wasn’t paying enough attention, I suppose. I was mostly intent on making sure dear Alice didn’t spill her tea all over herself; although, why he would be meeting with the foreign secretary, I have no idea. It was probably Aylesham, then. A pity the duke hasn’t managed to find himself a wife yet. Such a handsome gentleman. I knew his great-uncle rather well, you know. The former Duke of Aylesham. He and Walmsley were trusted advisors of King George back in the day—you may not have known that. Years back, it was, before the king—well, I don’t need to explain to you about the king, now, do I? That’s why the crown prince is acting as regent, isn’t it? The loss of one’s mind . . . such a dreadful situation.” She stopped speaking abruptly. “I believe I’ll order some tea,” she added as an afterthought, looking as though she’d aged several years in the span of their brief conversation.