Love's Guardian (2 page)
“No, my lord. Rapiers. Now.”
He stopped laughing. She was serious. His gaze dropped to the weapon at her side. That’s why she’d brought her rapier with her. There were no other women of his acquaintance who preferred a rapier to feminine wiles. “Lady Lochsdale, most
men
wouldn’t consider challenging me. What could you possibly hope to gain?”
“My freedom. If I win, I want to live my life, without interference. I can run my estates. I don’t need supervision. You’ll return to London, and leave us alone.” Her small chin tilted up, reminding him of the stubborn child he’d known. “So what will it be, my lord?”
“And what do I get if I win?”
“I suppose...I mean...well, I’ll follow your orders, provided the request is reasonable.”
He had to admire her confidence. She truly hadn’t considered he might win, or she would have been prepared with a response that gave him less control.
“Done. And the rules of this contest?”
“The first one to disarm his opponent wins.” Alex gave him a smug smile. “I wouldn’t want to run the risk of killing you. The crown would only find someone else to take your place.”
Declan glanced toward the wall. All manner of fencing equipment was on display. If he had to do this, she’d wear protective gear. He’d never forgive himself if she got hurt. “I have a request.”
“Name it.”
“I want you to wear protective padding.”
“Are you that concerned about your skills? You do know how to fence, don’t you?”
She hadn’t lost her ability to anger him. He had so hoped she’d outgrown that. He folded his arms and waited.
“Oh, all right. But if I have to wear it, so do you.”
He suspected he’d be sorry for agreeing to this. He really didn’t have to take her challenge. The law required Alex to obey him, but he wouldn’t point that out, not if winning this little contest would make her more tractable.
They moved the furniture to the perimeter of the room and rolled up the oriental carpet. He shrugged off his riding coat and cravat, then crossed to the display of weapons on the wall next to the fireplace.
He’d left his rapier upstairs with his belongings, but Alex seemed hell-bent to do this now, so he selected a blade and padding from the collection on the library wall. He waited for her to do the same.
The rapier he’d chosen felt well balanced, though its ornate hilt appeared worn. Lord Lochsdale had been an expert with weapons. Declan smiled at the memory of the hours of practice he’d shared with Alex’s grandfather. He doubted his old instructor would have approved of this duel.
Declan rolled up his sleeves, made a few test thrusts, then turned toward his ward. She was watching him with a determined expression in her deep green eyes. If crossing blades with her would make her easier to handle, he’d do it. His old friend would just have to forgive him.
After all, she didn’t stand a chance.
The blades clanged, then slid along each other in an age-old dance of parry and thrust. Declan began to suspect he was wrong, very wrong, to think this would be an easy contest. When had she developed such finesse?
Alex tried to slip under his guard, her speed incredible. Declan was hard pressed to keep up. What Alex lacked in strength, she more than made up for in agility. Perspiration filmed her brow and dampened her curls as she turned each of his thrusts, trying to force him off balance.
Someone rapped on the door. Declan could hear people shouting, but their voices seemed distant, compared to the labored breathing in the room and the pounding of his heart.
The cacophony of frantic cries and banging outside the library continued to escalate, until it distracted him for an instant. Alex took the opportunity to cross over his blade, catching his upper arm. He heard the fabric tear and felt a slight sting. He’d been grazed by a blade more times than he could count. No matter, the injury was a nuisance, nothing more.
They worked their way in front of the banks of curtained windows. His sweat slicked the hilt of his weapon, making his grasp tenuous. He was glad they’d moved the furniture. With Alex’s aggressiveness, he couldn’t afford a misstep. Her skill showed in every parry, but her movements had slowed. Declan noticed her eyes seemed drawn to his arm. He felt the blood dampening his shirt and saw her stance relax slightly as she focused on his injury.
With a lightning thrust, he slipped his blade under hers, then caught her weapon near its hilt. Surprise crossed her features as he forced her rapier upward. Alex’s hold faltered. Her weapon clattered to the floor, sliding across the polished wood.
Declan placed the tip of his blade at the base of her throat. For what seemed like an eternity, he gazed into emerald eyes, black flecks swirling in their depths, the tension rife between them.
Alex lowered her gaze first. Only then did he remove the point from her neck. “Now do we understand one another?”
“Yes.” Her hands fisted at her sides, the knuckles white with strain. “Is there anything else, my lord?”
“Not at the moment.” Declan tried not to let his satisfaction show. Being her guardian might be easier than he thought.
Alex made a quick turn and stumbled over the rolled carpet. She almost fell, but he grabbed her arm and drew her to him so that her cheek rested below his shoulder.
He’d only meant to steady her, but surprised himself when his arms came around her in an embrace. She felt soft and warm from their recent exertion. The air surrounding her was musky with a hint of vanilla. Declan breathed deeply. He liked the smell and the way her body fit to his.
For a moment, Alex relaxed against him, and he had the strangest urge to comfort her. When he attempted to bring her closer, she stiffened and backed away.
“Don’t.” Her posture ramrod straight, she turned and crossed to the corner of the room.
He tried not to notice her backside as she bent to collect her rapier. Male attire suited her, clinging in all the right places. Perhaps that was the reason for his uncharacteristic behavior. He’d have to find some way to get her in a dress.
Alex turned toward him. She checked her weapon for damage, then lovingly ran her hand over the intricate design on the hilt. When she raised her gaze to his, Declan saw dignity and pride in her eyes. “I’ll obey you because I have to. You’ve won my cooperation. Nothing more.”
She unlocked the door and opened it. With her chin held high, Alex faced the staff. Silence descended as they cleared a path for her. With graceful movements, she passed through them and ascended the stairs.
Declan unrolled the sleeves of his shirt, while trying to decide what to say to the onlookers. He couldn’t tell them the truth. Even if he were believed, there was her reputation to consider. He shrugged into his coat, favoring his injured arm, and headed to the door. The astonished gathering watched him expectantly.
Damn.
He’d thought Alex a menace as a child, but the woman promised to be much worse.
“I hope you don’t have any more
accidents,
my lord.”
Declan eased out of his coat and laid it over the back of a chair. “I’ll try to avoid them in future.” Which might prove difficult, now that he was dealing with Alex.
Richards’s eyes widened when he beheld the blood-soaked fabric, a frown of disapproval on his pale, thin face. “This shirt is beyond repair.” The servant crossed to the mahogany wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom, then returned with fresh clothing.
Declan tensed as his valet briskly removed his shirt with no care for his wound. Obviously Richards felt a little pain was proper penance for destroying a fine garment. Declan sank onto the big poster bed to allow the servant to take off his boots.
A blond strand of hair escaped from under his valet’s powdered wig. Richards was becoming lax, after less than twenty-four hours in the country. It was an edifying sign. In London, his servant never allowed anything on his person to be out of place.
He understood why his aunt had insisted he hire Richards. The man was a gem of the first water when it came to his position as a valet. But he could have done without a servant who felt an earl needed to be dressed appropriately at all times. Testing his mobility, Declan rotated his shoulder, then stretched. His injury ached now that the shirt had been removed and the wound was bleeding again. “Have a maid bring up something to clean and bind this scratch.”
“When I heard you’d had an accident, I took the liberty of doing so, my lord.”
“Perhaps you should see what’s keeping her.” He gave his servant a small smile. “We wouldn’t want me to bleed all over another shirt, would we?” Declan reached for the clean garment that had been laid out on the bed. Richards grabbed it and hurried from the room.
At any other time, he might have laughed. Threatening to damage clothing was a sure way to get Richards to move quickly.
Declan laid back on the bed. He would be slightly stiff in the morning, the wound sore, but in his twenty-eight years, he’d had much worse. The greatest injury was to his pride.
Members of the Ton would have months of entertainment, at his expense, if they ever found out he’d been wounded while fencing with his ward. He rubbed his sword arm, loosening the muscles, and closed his eyes.
Morgan, his glib-tongued friend, would be more amused by the fact that Alexandra didn’t seem to be enthralled by Declan’s looks or wealth. He’d probably say it would do Declan good, “teach him a bit o’ patience”—if he ever stopped laughing.
The big Irishman could be a trial, but there was no one he’d rather have at his back in a fight. Just to play it safe, he wouldn’t mention the little fencing incident when he returned to London.
Richards reappeared with a pretty little blonde in tow. Declan grimaced as he sat up, then waited for the woman to clean his wound. She stood there, her basin of water in hand, staring at his naked chest as though she’d never seen one before. Richards gave her a nudge, and she stepped forward to begin her task.
The cool water stung like hell. Declan clenched his teeth and focused on keeping his breathing even. In very short order, she bound the wound and rinsed the cloth, then using slow, sensuous stokes, she cleansed the dried blood that had trickled down his chest.
“My lord, I was to tell you dinner will be ready at six.” The maid dropped the rag in the water and caressed his upper body with her damp hands as if checking for other injuries. She stopped, palms flat, at the base of his neck. “There now, I’m thinking they’ll be hardly any scar. If you’ll be needing anything, anything at all, just ask for Molly. I’m more than willing, day or night.” She picked up her basin and gave him a saucy smile.
“Thank you, Molly, I’ll remember that.” Declan returned her smile, and she missed the door as she backed out of the room. Blushing a pretty pink, she turned and exited.
Declan shook his head. Ever since he was sixteen, every woman he’d met had acted like that around him. Every woman, that is, but Alex.
The memory of her bold challenge wove itself into his thoughts. He probably shouldn’t find her brashness amusing, but he did. No other woman had tried to injure him, at least physically. She was direct, he’d give her that, but what to do with her?
“May I suggest the black velvet coat with gold embroidery for dinner, my lord?”
“Mmm?”
“The black coat, my lord?”
“Oh, yes.” He would have preferred just his waistcoat. He suspected Alex wouldn’t care, but Eleanor was another matter. “The black is fine.”
“Perhaps a little powder for your hair, just for propriety’s sake?
“No.”
“But, my lord.”
“You’re well aware I hate powder.” Declan adjusted his cravat in the mirror. He didn’t dare let Richards do it, or he wouldn’t be able to breathe for the rest of the evening. Richards felt a knot just wasn’t proper unless it choked the life out of you. “Try to remember, I’m not comfortable with frills.”
“I try to make allowances, my lord.”
“I know you do.” Declan tugged at his wide cuffs as he headed for the door. “Oh, and Richards, I’ll be riding very early in the morning. You won’t be required.”
“But, my lord—”
Declan turned and held up his hand. “I’m more than capable of dressing myself.” With a sour look, his valet nodded and turned away.
Amused, Declan headed toward the dining room. Richards could be difficult, but at least he knew when to back down. Declan doubted the same could be said for Alex. From what he remembered, “giving up” wasn’t in her vocabulary.
Alex slammed her brush against the polished wood of her dressing table, causing several crystal perfume bottles to dance. One flower-etched vial teetered on the edge, then crashed to the floor and shattered into a myriad of pieces.
Hell and damnation, was nothing going right today?
She bent to gather the larger pieces, trying to avoid the sharp edges. At least it hadn’t been the special vanilla fragrance she favored. She straightened and searched for a place to put the shards of glass.
Her cousin Eleanor burst into the bedroom. “What have you done?” The peach gown on her willowy form hung askew, her panniers having slipped off center. Small wisps of golden hair escaped the normally tidy bun.
Alex gave her childhood friend a rueful smile. “I knocked a bottle off my dresser. I’m afraid my room is going to smell like roses for the next week.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Eleanor let out a long breath as she tried to straighten her panniers. “How could you? The household is in chaos. There’s no telling what Lord Worthington will do now. You promised to at least sit down and discuss matters with him.”
“Talking wouldn’t have done any good.” Alex placed the broken pieces on her dressing table, then searched her wardrobe for rags to mop up the mess. She found several, closed the door, and leaned back against the solid wood. “Lord Worthington’s given name is Declan Deveraux.”
Eleanor stopped her attempt to right her clothing and looked up. “Not
your
Declan.”
“Yes.” Alex knelt by the spill and selected a rag from the pile, then laid the others aside. Mindful that there might be glass remnants, she vigorously scrubbed the spot where the oil had soaked into the moss colored carpet.
“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said softly. “Did your grandfather know how you felt about the man?”