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Authors: Eileen Putman

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Strange
how feminine strength could be so stimulating. Simon allowed himself to
contemplate how her strength might complement his in a moment of physical
intimacy. Then — ruthlessly — he willed the image gone.

"Your
ankle is not broken," he said, rather more harshly than he intended.
"I will send for the doctor in the morning. He will probably instruct you
to keep off it. In the meantime, I will wrap it in a light bandage."

She
eyed him in surprise.

"I
have bandaged enough injuries in my time. You may depend on my skills."

"Yes.
Of course," she murmured.

Jeffers
was quickly summoned, with his kit of bandages and salves. Simon worked
rapidly, and his finished work was pronounced quite excellent by the batman and
Miss Biddle. He was pleased to see that his patient had not descended into
hysterics; though her ankle obviously pained her, she bore it well. She said
very little but continued to regard him steadily from those dark brown eyes.

As
Simon was congratulating himself on his handiwork, his gaze wandered from the
bandaged ankle to her calves, which had been unavoidably exposed for the
procedure.

It
was past time to retire, he decided quickly, turning to bid Miss Biddle good
night and taking comfort in the knowledge that tomorrow the mission of courting
his bride would go forward. Miss Biddle possessed everything he required — youth,
beauty, breeding, education, and almost certain fertility.

Nothing
would stop him from securing his target — certainly not some uncivilized urge.
He had long ago mastered the art of control.

***

"Has
it occurred to you how often a member of Lord Sommersby's family has rescued
us?"

"What?"
Felicity peered up from Mr. Wordsworth's latest volume of poems. Her brow
cleared. "I collect that you refer to the earl's appearance last night and
Mr. Thornton's timely intervention at that inn." Adjusting her spectacles,
she smiled. "The Thornton men are certainly reliable, are they not? It is
comforting to be in such capable hands."

Not
comforting, Amanda thought, recalling Lord Sommersby's hands as they ministered
to her ankle and Mr. Thornton's unreadable countenance as he effortlessly
tossed their intruder over his shoulder at the inn.

Disturbing
.

"What
did you think of the earl?" she asked.

Felicity
considered the matter. "He is handsome in a rugged sort of way, as befits
a warrior." She blushed. "I cannot say, however, that I have ever
seen a man so...exposed."

Remembering
how it felt to be held against that naked chest, Amanda swallowed hard.
"Nor I," she agreed.

"He
is quite large, is he not? I shall have to strain my neck to look up at him,
but I daresay we shall manage."

"I
daresay," Amanda murmured, wondering whether her young cousin was up to
the challenge of a husband as fierce as Lord Sommersby.

Amanda
could not imagine what primitive appetites a man like Lord Sommersby possessed,
but she wondered whether Felicity would find them acceptable. Had Lady Biddle
prepared her for the marriage bed? How would her sweet, romantic cousin manage
a man of such raw power who looked as if he could easily bend a woman to his
will?

Amanda
closed her eyes as that mortifying night at Vauxhall came to mind with Julian
LeFevre's sensual, mocking face. He had possessed that power, and it had taught
her that it was the woman who suffered when lust ruled. Nothing in her life had
been so shameful as being caught by her kindly uncle in such a disgraceful,
compromising situation.

Julian
had given her no spirits, no powder to rob her of her sense of propriety. Nor
had he plied her with promises or flowery terms of endearment. She had simply
been no match for a handsome libertine's cunning ways. He had sought her out
all Season, and Amanda had allowed herself to believe his flattering attentions
indicated he cared for her. Little had she realized that he was merely setting
a trap. Young and naive, she had been unaware that a man's sensual nature could
be so overwhelming. He had taken her to a dark path, professed his undying
affection, and taken astonishing liberties with her person on the bench that nearly
had been her undoing.

Worse,
she had loved every scandalous moment. Every common-sense thought, every
scruple, every sense of what is proper had vanished in the heady fog of
sensuality. She wanted — nay, needed with every fiber of her being — to go
wherever he was taking her.

Amanda
had vowed never again to be so witless. In eight years, she had seen no reason
to break that vow.

Until
last night.

Felicity's
fanciful imagination must be catching. Lord Sommersby might be an impressive
figure of a man, but nothing could make her abandon the practical resolve she
had achieved in the years since Julian had made her tremble in desire and
shame. There was no reason to feel the stab of longing that had, for a few
magic moments last night, held her in its thrall.

In
any case, he was to be Felicity's husband.

***

"It
is worse than we thought. Both of them are incorrigibly practical."

"Not
incorrigibly so, my dear. Not with your genius."

"But
there is not a practical bone in my body, Mortimer. I wonder if I know how to
proceed."

"There
are no bones at all in your body, Isabella. No body either, for that
matter."

"This
is not the time for levity, Mortimer. That young man and woman are headed for
dull lives if they do not come together. Everyone is entitled to a little
passion in his time, do you not think?"

"Ah,
passion. Now there is a subject in which you possess a true genius."

"Do
you really think so, Mortimer?"

"I
should know, my dear. Your charms proved my undoing."

"Yes,
well, you always were a bit faint of heart."

"Not
at all. I have always followed your lead. With a woman like you, Isabella, it
is that or die."

"But
you died anyway."

"Because
your son's dastardly soldiers ripped me from your bed."

"Oh,
Mortimer. I am so glad we have eternity together — just the two of us."

"And
Edward."

"Oh,
yes. And Edward."

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

 

Simon
enjoyed fencing. The rules were defined, the targets clear. It was a civilized
contest, nothing like warfare.

That
was fortunate for Jeffers, who never managed to look anything but resigned to
his doom when he faced his employer at foil. Invariably the batman chose the
longest blade to compensate for his short arms. No matter that Simon repeatedly
warned him that the extra inch of reach came at the expense of precision,
Jeffers stubbornly insisted on wielding a weapon that left him at a
disadvantage in balance and control.

In
a ritual as familiar to him as breathing, Simon extended the tip of the foil
toward the floor. Jeffers followed suit. Simon brought the blade up to his
chin, then pointed it at his opponent. The salute exchanged, Simon gracefully
moved his front foot forward and cocked his left hand behind his head at a
precise right angle.

"
En
garde
."

Sighing,
Jeffers did likewise.

A
civilized sport for civilized men.

Yet
Simon did not feel civilized tonight. His first day spent with the ladies as
Lord Sommersby had brought only frustration. The doctor had been summoned,
examined Miss Fitzhugh, and decided that while the ankle was not broken, it
must be rested — with the result that Miss Fitzhugh had not come downstairs all
day. Miss Biddle, after greeting him cordially over breakfast, declared herself
unable to think of leaving her cousin's bedside. Thus Simon had spent most of
the day with Sir Thomas, discussing the latest agricultural methods and the
baronet's breeding plans for his new chestnut stallion.

It
had been a day that made Simon itch to be back in the battlefield, testing his
stamina, using his strength for a purpose instead of stewing helplessly in a
moldy castle awaiting a young lady's pleasure.

Not
that he enjoyed war. It had claimed too many friends and ruined too many lives.
Action — that was what he missed. The sudden surge in his veins that pitted his
life force against the unknown, against any enemy fate might throw his way. The
knowledge that his destiny was in his own hands. The raw thrill of sensing that
existence boiled down to standing in a cornfield face-to-face with a tyrant
demented enough to think he could rule the world. And knowing, deep in his
bones, that he, Major Simon Hannibal Thornton, would prevail.

Not
the Earl of Sommersby, not a lord with a fancy title and a king's wealth. He
wanted no useless trappings of nobility. He wanted the contest, the battle, the
confirmation that he was alive — when so many, alas, were not.

Perhaps
that desire was the source of his restless need to test his strength, against
even so ineffective an opponent as Jeffers.

Simon
had never cared for protective devices like the padded jacket and cumbersome
wire cage Jeffers insisted on wearing. Simon preferred to keep his skills
sharp, primed, as if every contest were the real thing. Speed and alertness
served a man better than padding — which is why he now had Jeffers in retreat.
The batman had dropped his forward shoulder during an ill-advised lunge,
leaving himself open to attack.

Deftly,
Simon took advantage of the open line. Jeffers's weak parry brought their
blades together, a useless maneuver that set up Simon's disengage.

In
one smooth, continuous motion, Simon whipped the point of his foil under
Jeffers's blade and lunged in to score on his opponent's shoulder. Like steel
lightening, the foil proved quick and true. Triumph was his.

There
was no blood. Jeffers had nary a scratch. In a true battle, however, the wound
would have been mortal.

"My
lord," Jeffers gasped, leaning against the wall in the narrow portrait
gallery that served as their field of play, "you have killed me five times
over. Surely it is time to leave off for the night?"

Peeling
off his leather glove, Simon absently stroked the tempered blade. Cold steel
could not assuage his restlessness, but its sure, steady strength had provided
a brief respite.

For
a few moments, his destiny had been in his control again. Major Simon Hannibal
Thornton had prevailed.

Unfortunately,
the man who minutes later strode from the picture gallery was once more the
Earl of Sommersby.

***

The
crutches Jeffers brought her made Amanda want to kiss the little batman. She
had no desire to spend two weeks in Sommersby Castle in bed with something as
silly as a sprained ankle. Felicity needed a chaperon, and she needed to get
out of her gloomy room with its images of death and war. Hobbling downstairs
for the first time since her accident two days ago, Amanda's spirits rose.

Until
she encountered Lord Sommersby, who was showing Felicity a particularly
vicious-looking instrument that looked capable of tearing a man to shreds.

"An
old Italian war hammer," the earl was saying. "Few men could master
it, but those who did possessed a nearly invincible weapon with the power to
rip open plate armor."

"How
delightful," Amanda muttered dryly. Her cousin turned, then smiled in
delight.

"Amanda!"
Felicity moved to her side. "I did not know you meant to come down
today." Her brow furrowed. "Are you certain you are not rushing
things?"

"Not
at all." Recalling that she had been in her nightgown the last time she
met the earl, Amanda could not prevent a blush at the unbidden image of him
ministering intimately to her bare ankle. "I am not certain that the topic
of lethal weaponry is one that a young lady needs to study so
extensively," she said quickly, to cover her embarrassment, then belatedly
added, "Good morning, my lord."

Lord
Sommersby bowed. Today he was attired in all that was proper — dark green coat,
kerseymere waistcoat, buff trousers, burnished Hussars. "I am pleased to
see you about, Miss Fitzhugh. I regret that you do not approve of the subject
Miss Biddle and I were discussing."

Was
that a cool tone she detected? Amanda wanted to curse her bluntness. She had
meant to set him at a distance, not to alienate him. A man who thought nothing
of displaying instruments of bloodshed on the walls would undoubtedly find her
squeamish attitude off-putting.

"Years
ago, you know, a woman required fighting skills," he said. “Often she was
the only one at home to defend herself and her children from marauding
invaders."

Amanda
eyed the massive instrument he held so easily. "I am certain I could never
wield that hammer, my lord, even in self-defense. It looks far too heavy."

BOOK: The Perfect Bride
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