His Favorite Mistress (10 page)

Marriage!
He’d never even considered such a notion, not in Gabriella’s case. Still, he supposed he was being naïve, since girls her age married all the time. But why did he care? It wasn’t as if he had any designs upon her himself. Even if she was one of the loveliest, most vivacious and charming young women he’d ever had the occasion to meet.

Lord, I need to return to London soon,
he decided. Luckily, only three days remained and the house party would be over.

“…which is why I’m hoping I can count on you,” Rafe was saying when Tony’s attention returned to his friend.

“Count on me how?”

“To keep a vigilant eye on her, of course. Despite her worldliness on many matters, she is still an innocent and lacks in experience with men. In spite of her illegitimacy—or perhaps because of it—I fear there may be a few unscrupulous bounders hoping to take advantage. I want to make sure none of them has the chance.”

“They won’t,” Tony promised, one of his hands curling into a fist at his side. “I’ll be on the lookout to turn them away.”

“Again, I owe you my thanks.” Rafe smiled.

Reaching the house, they stepped inside the main hallway. As Tony walked upstairs to change clothes for nuncheon, he reviewed his conversation with Rafe, vowing again to follow through on his promise. But as he let himself into his guest bedroom suite, he found himself pondering a far more dangerous question.

While I am busy protecting Gabriella from other men,
he wondered,
who will be protecting her from me?

Chapter Six

T
WO MORNINGS LATER,
Gabriella tossed down her watercolor brush, then shoved the paper aside. “Faugh, what a mess! I give up.”

“Oh, now, don’t say that,” Julianna told her. Glancing up, she paused in her efforts to re-create the magnificent flower arrangement she had set out in the morning room so that all the ladies could enjoy doing some artwork. “I am sure your painting is far better than you believe.”

“No,” Gabriella declared with a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s not. Here, see for yourself.” Lifting her painting, she turned it around to reveal a mass of disjointed blobs—runny pink and yellow ones that were supposed to be flowers, and a huge grayish-white splash that looked like a deformed rain cloud rather than a gorgeous Meissen vase. Even the sheep on the vase were unrecognizable.

Julianna stared, plainly searching for an encouraging response. The other women peered around their own paintings, their eyes widening before they gave her pitying little smiles and returned to their own work.

“It’s a fine effort,” Julianna stated in a bolstering tone. “You can’t expect too much on your first attempt, you know.”

“This isn’t an attempt, it’s a disaster. You are very kind, but the sad truth is I am no artist and never will be.”

“Keep practicing. You’ll improve.”

“In fifty or sixty years, if I’m very lucky.” She sighed and reached for a cloth to clean a few paint smudges from her hands. “I think it safest to quit now, and save myself and countless others innumerable hours of pain.”

“Well, as you prefer.” Julianna glanced toward the clock, the hands reading half past nine. “I had envisioned us painting until nuncheon, but we can stop now and do something else.”

“No, no, pray do not stop on my account. I won’t hear of it.”

“But we do not want you to be alone, dear,” Mrs. Mayhew said, the older woman showering her with a concerned smile.

Lily, Maris, and Beatrix nodded their agreement.

“I shall be perfectly fine on my own for a couple of hours.” Gabriella rose to her feet. “So none of you are to worry. Besides, there is a book I found in the library that I have been longing to read. This will give me just the chance.”

Julianna’s brows drew together on her lovely face. “Well, if you are sure. We can always put this away and find something else to do.”

“No. Please keep painting, or else I shall feel horribly guilty for ruining your fun. Go on, and I will see you all at nuncheon.”

“Very well, but do not forget our outing this afternoon,” Julianna reminded. “We’re driving to the village to shop for new trimmings and such. I hear the millinery has a fresh selection of Brussels lace in stock.”

“I cannot wait.” With a small wave, Gabriella let herself from the room. Once in the hallway, however, a sense of being at loose ends came upon her, for despite her assurances, she wasn’t really in the mood to read. She could always take a walk, she supposed, since the weather was holding fair. Of course, that would require a trip to her bedchamber to retrieve her cloak, but what else had she to do? Strolling down the hallway, she made her way toward the stairs.

As she did, the Marquis of Vessey came striding out from one of the hallways in the rear of the house. Around his neck was draped a small towel that he was using to wipe perspiration from his flushed skin, his linen shirt sticking to his chest in a few places. He stopped when he spied her, a friendly smile coming to his handsome, blond-haired visage. “Miss St. George, how do you do? Please forgive my current state of undress, but I have just been enjoying a bout of fencing.”

“Oh, swordplay! That sounds fun. So you did not ride out to view the home farms with my uncle, then? Julianna mentioned that he is giving the gentlemen a tour this morning.”

He shook his head. “Impressive as Rafe’s farms indisputably are, I have seen them countless times before. Tony has, too. That’s why he and I decided to beg off and get a bit of exercise with the rapiers. I’ve just now come from the armory.”

She paused at the information, her flagging spirits abruptly revived. “Ah, so the duke is here.”

“That he is. Well, I had best be getting to my rooms. Have you seen my wife this morning? She said she planned to do some watercolor painting with the ladies.”

“I saw the marchioness at that very endeavor not five minutes past. They’re gathered in the morning room, by the way.”

His smile widened, delight shining in his gaze at mention of his bride. “My thanks. Maybe if I make myself presentable, they’ll let me in to see their progress.”

She laughed. “Oh, I expect they might be persuaded.”

“Until later, then,” he said in a good-natured tone before turning away.

Murmuring a good-bye, she watched for a moment as he hurried up the stairs. As soon as he disappeared, so did her thoughts of him, instantly replaced by thoughts of Wyvern.
Is he still in the armory?
she wondered.
Dare I go find out?
Without giving herself time to debate the issue, she set off for that section of the house. After all, if she didn’t hurry, he would most definitely be gone.

But she need not have worried, she discovered a minute later, when she found the duke still inside the spacious, wood-paneled room. The scent of beeswax polish, oiled metal, and a hint of clean, male perspiration drifted on the air. Breathing in the warm aromas, she moved to stand just inside the doorway.

Unaware that he was being observed, Wyvern continued his dancelike movements, wielding his rapier with an agile grace that was very nearly poetic. With each maneuver, his sword gave out a subtle hiss, the sharp blade cutting through the air like a shark through a calm sea. The room itself bore the stamp of lethal masculinity, the walls decorated with a collection of weaponry whose origins ranged from ancient to modern. There were rapiers, sabers, and short swords; broadswords, battle axes, jeweled daggers, and a few spike-studded maces. Several heavy pieces of chain mail hung in one display, while a suit of armor topped by a fearsome-looking helmet stood as if on guard duty in the far corner.

For a moment Gabriella imagined Wyvern dressed in the medieval steel suit, a mighty broadsword clutched in one of his fists as he prepared to protect his people and castle from invading marauders. She supposed his ancestors had done exactly that, having learned the other day from Beatrix Nevill that the first Duke of Wyvern had fought alongside William the Conqueror himself. As a reward for his loyalty and bravery, Édouard Black had been granted a dukedom, an immense duchy in the north of Bedfordshire. Since that time, the family had held the land against all trespassers.

She wondered if Wyvern had a room similar to this one at his own estate—guessing he did, since the Black family must have collected great numbers of weapons that had been handed down over the centuries. Yet in spite of the beguiling notion of Wyvern as a knight of old, she found she much preferred him as he was, with no need to conceal his powerful male physique and urbane grace in anything heavier than a thin white linen shirt and tightly fitting fawn breeches. She couldn’t help but admire the sight of him. Not only was his fencing form excellent, his tall, powerful body was as well.

She must have made some small noise—an appreciative sigh, perhaps—since abruptly he ceased his movements and swung his head her way.

His deep blue eyes collided with her own. Barely winded despite his activity, he lowered his rapier to his side. “Gabriella.”

She sent him a smile, her hands tucked against the folds of her white-and-caramel-striped day dress. “Hallo.”

“I didn’t see you before. Have you been there long?”

“Not very,” she said. Rallying her nerve, she strolled farther into the room. “I happened upon Lord Vessey in the hallway and he mentioned you were here.”

“Did he?” Crossing to a long table that stood against one wall, he laid down his sword, then reached for a small towel resting on a nearby chair. Using it first to wipe his hands, he then applied it to the hilt of his sword to remove any perspiration he might have left behind. Done, he turned back to her. “I thought you were occupied with the ladies this morning. Painting, was it not?”

“Yes, but a morning of water coloring has taught me a very valuable lesson.”

One of his elegant dark eyebrows rose in inquiry. “And that would be?”

“That I am an utterly dreadful artist.”

A smile broke over his face, eyes twinkling as a chuckle reverberated in his chest. “Surely, you’re not that bad.”

“No, I’m worse, believe me. And although Julianna tried her best to convince me not to give up, I know a hopeless cause when I see one. No, art will never be one of my finer accomplishments.”

He set a fist on his hip. “Not to worry. You have myriad other talents, many of them quite exceptional.”

“Though perhaps not always in the usual realm of ladies. My prowess with archery and firearms, for example. And I know how to fence as well.”

“Really? And where did you happen by that ability?” Before she could answer, he held up a hand. “No, wait, don’t tell me, another one of your circus performer friends.”

Thrusting out her lower lip, she made a face at him. “Not at all.” Ambling toward the table, she reached over and took his practice sword in hand, taking a few steps backward so she could safely slash the blade through the air. “I was taught by the sword master for our theater company, Monsieur Montague, who could slice a branch of candles in half and leave them all standing exactly as they were.”

“Your Monsieur Montague sounds quite skilled.”

“Indeed, yes. He was a French émigré who lost his home and family during the Terror. He never gave details, but we all believe he was the younger son of an aristocrat who watched his loved ones perish at the hands of the Committee and Madame Guillotine. He had an occasional habit of drowning himself in a few too many bottles of wine. Otherwise, he was an exceptional swordsman.”

“And he taught you, did he?”

Another smile curved her mouth as she played the blade of the sword in a slow circle. Raising her left arm into the air behind her head, she assumed a fencer’s stance. “En garde,” she dared.

Managing a thrust in spite of her long skirts, she lunged forward three steps and set the blunted tip of the weapon against his chest. “Surrender, Your Grace!” she cried in a dramatic voice. “I have you at my mercy.”

He cast a brief glance down to where the blade rested with innocent intent against his shirt. “So it would appear,” he observed in a familiar drawl. “Though I must say this reminds me of another time we found ourselves in a similar situation.”

The study in London,
she thought. A small shiver rippled just beneath her skin, particularly when she recalled what had transpired between them that night after he had taken her gun. Without knowing she meant to, the edge of her tongue darted out and slid across her lower lip.

At the movement, she saw his gaze dip and hold, a dark gleam flashing inside his eyes. But an instant later, the look had disappeared, the only discernable expression on his face one of agreeable amusement.

“As I recall,” she observed, “you tricked me that night.”

“With good reason.”

“Agreed. But that doesn’t mean my pride wasn’t wounded. A sporting man would give me the opportunity to repair it.”

“By dueling with you?”

She nodded.

“Most of the sporting men I know would categorically refuse to fight a lady.”

“But luckily you are not most men, are you, Your Grace?”

“Wyvern,” he corrected. “And stop trying to appeal to the unconventional side of my nature. Besides, how can I accept when I stand here at your mercy—you in possession of my sword, as it were?”