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‘I never hesitate to admit my mistakes. It is part of my charm.’
Charm? He was trying to flirt with her after she’d bested him? Eleanor struggled to get her breathing under control.
‘Is it?’ she whispered through aching lips.
This had been all about proving that Lord Whittonstall had underestimated her rather than a prelude to flirtation. But right now all she could think about was him and the way his lips moved. All she had to do was move forward a pace and she’d be in his arms.
She lifted her eyes.
Their gaze locked. He lifted a hand and touched her forearm.
Somewhere a door banged, bringing her back to reality.
Eleanor jumped backwards. Shocked. She had nearly stepped straight into Lord Whittonstall’s arms and destroyed everything she held dear.
Her proposal to Sir Vivian needed to happen. It was her best chance of securing Moles’ future. Everything would be lost if she was discovered in this man’s arms. Her employees—the men who literally sweated over an open fire to make the swords—depended on her getting this right. Saving the company. This marriage was not about her; it was about giving them a future. Guilt washed over her. How could she have forgotten what was at stake for a single instant?
He stood staring at her, not moving a muscle.
She bent her head and pretended great interest in the hilt of the sword. Pointing to it, trying to get back to some semblance of normality, she said, ‘Lord Whittonstall, as you can see, I had the correct grip and the sword has stayed in my hand.’
‘Is fencing all you can think about?’
His voice sent a warm tingle coursing down her spine. She ruthlessly ignored it. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t interested in her. Men never were. If her stepfather were to be believed she possessed no sense of refinement and all the charm of a rogue bear.
‘It will do for now.’
‘And for later?’
She tried not to think about Lord Whittonstall drawing her into his arms and kissing her thoroughly. She’d accepted her fate a long time ago.
‘Are you seeking a rematch, Lord Whittonstall? A chance to prove you can learn from your mistakes?’ She lifted her head.
His dark gaze held hers. ‘When the time is right. I want to see if there is anything else I need to learn.’
She found it impossible to look away. He was going to kiss her. Every fibre of her being told her so. Against everything logical, he was going to do it. He was going to actually kiss her and she wanted him to.
‘Do you believe me now … about the grip?’ Her voice sounded far too breathless and reedy. ‘How that subtle change can transform your prospects of success?’
‘You have challenged a number of notions today. And I will accept your word on the swords. I had misjudged them.’
His hand smoothed a curl from her forehead before brushing her skin—a feather-light touch, but one that sent an unfamiliar jolt of heat through her. She wanted him to lean forward and … She flicked her tongue over her lips.
‘What is going on here?’ a high-pitched male voice asked, and she froze. ‘Why wasn’t I informed that there was swordplay in the library? My library?’
‘Nothing is injured, Viv. All things in moderation,’ Lord Whittonstall said, smoothly moving away from her.
‘Yes, but my Ormolu vases! My carpet! I might not read, but I like my books to look as if I do.’
Lord Whittonstall’s dark eyes shone with mischief. ‘Everything survived except for Mrs Blackwell’s bonnet—and that was her own fault.’
Lord Whittonstall retrieved his black velvet cut-away coat and put it on, becoming utterly correct again. The moment of intimacy slid away as if it had never been.
Eleanor struggled to fill her lungs. Saved from scandal. She was here for a purpose, a business transaction. Not some sort of tryst where she’d end up humiliated. Her hands shook slightly.
She should be relieved, but a stab of disappointment went through her. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t going to kiss her.
She shook her head. Desiring to be kissed had no part in her plans. All it did was make her look as ridiculous as her unlamented bonnet.
She grabbed her ruined bonnet and twisted it. One of the feathers snapped in two.
‘Is this what you mean by moderation in all things, Ben—duelling in my library?’
Eleanor half turned and saw her true quarry—Sir Vivian Clarence. Her heart sank. With reddened eyes and a sallow cast to its skin, his face showed distinct signs of hard living. An odour of stale wine hung about him—a stench that reminded her of her stepfather. Worse still were Sir Vivian’s voice, his mincing gestures with his hands, and the overly fussy way he wore his cravat. And he had the beginnings of a bald patch. He repulsed her. Utterly and completely repulsed her.
She could not imagine why she had ever thought he might be a suitable candidate.
How could she have forgotten his voice and his mannerisms? Why had she focused solely on his offer?
She could not even imagine asking him to escort her across the road, let alone become her husband and all that entailed.
It simply showed what a foolhardy scheme it had been in the first place. It should make her feel better, but somehow it didn’t. Her problem remained. She needed a husband desperately—but not that desperately. She wasn’t going to suffer her mother’s fate.
Eleanor gave Lord Whittonstall a panicked look. What if she begged him to marry her? He was a widower. They would have kissed if Sir Vivian hadn’t come in.
Instantly she rejected the idea—why would he accept her, or her proposition? And to be turned down would be far too humiliating. She had little desire to know if that moment when she’d thought he was about to kiss her had been real or not.
Neat footwork was required here. There was no way she could put her proposition to either of them. There had to be another way to find a bridegroom. Giving up and allowing her stepfather and Algernon Forecastle to win was not an option.
It was there on the edge of her brain, just waiting. She kept her eyes on the stone floor and concentrated, but her mind remained frustratingly blank. All she could think about was how Lord Whittonstall’s breath had fanned her cheek. She needed to return to being the sensible businesslike Mrs Blackwell this instant.
‘I was merely attempting to see what was so wonderful about Moles swords. Mrs Blackwell has made me a convert.’
She glanced up, startled. Lord Whittonstall made a bow and held out the sword. His eyes challenged her. The time to deliver the sword had arrived. She had to explain why she’d been so insistent that the interview take place.
Eleanor put her hand to her throat but no words came out.
‘The sword is a gift from you, cousin?’ Sir Vivian’s cheeks became tinged with pink. ‘You should have said, Ben. I thought you only wanted to berate me for spending my money like water and you’ve bought me a top-drawer sword. We will have that talk—the one I have been avoiding. I need to do you the courtesy of listening.’
‘Not from me,’ Lord Whittonstall said, inclining his head. ‘From Mrs Blackwell. But her purpose in giving it remains a mystery. She insists on speaking to you and only you. The mystery has me flummoxed.’
‘From Moles … for your birthday,’ Eleanor said quickly, before she gave in to her impulse to flee. This whole thing had turned into a nightmare. How could had she have blocked Sir Vivian’s voice from her memory? She should have remembered it from their previous meetings. And the fact he drank port to excess!
‘But you were duelling in my library!’ Sir Vivian squeaked, turning a strange shade of puce.
‘Lord Whittonstall believed that Moles’ swords were mere flash.’ Eleanor kept her voice steady. If she skated around the reason why she was even here at Broomhaugh Hall she might be able to think up an acceptable excuse, something she could believe in. Anything but the unvarnished truth. ‘I sought to change his view. I regret that you were caused even a moment’s discomfort about the contents of your library.’
Sir Vivian pursed his lips. ‘And did you succeed in changing his view? My cousin’s views are notoriously steadfast.’
‘I relieved him of his sword. It became embedded in my bonnet.’ She held up her bonnet and wiggled her fingers through the gash.
‘Ben lost his sword?’ Sir Vivian shook his head. ‘Impossible. You are seeking to make fun of me.’
‘But true,’ Lord Whittonstall commented. ‘Mrs Blackwell accomplished it, proving the value of her sword design and the defects of my sword grip. I humbly apologise, Viv, for thinking your choice of sword was more to do with fashion than function.’
A warm glow filled Eleanor at Lord Whittonstall’s unexpected words.
Sir Vivian raised his quizzing glass. ‘Ben is the best swordsman I know. Equal to the great Henry Angelo. The last time you lost a sword was at Eton, Ben.’
‘Just afterwards. In Bath. Exaggeration does no one credit, Viv.’
Lord Whittonstall made a bow while his eyes danced. Eleanor wondered why she had thought them cold and lifeless. Or lacking in passion.
‘Mrs Blackwell will tell you that I made elemental mistakes with my grip and anyone who knew could exploit the weakness. Mrs Blackwell does possess more than a modicum of skill.’
‘I saw an opportunity and took it. Luck.’ Eleanor shrugged. ‘Once you correct your grip you will be a formidable opponent.’
‘Luck had nothing to do with it. It will be the sword.’ Sir Vivian rubbed his hands together. ‘Will I have a chance of beating my cousin as well?’
‘It is Moles’ latest design,’ Eleanor said, suddenly knowing what she had to say—and why. ‘It combines practicality with a certain flair for the discerning gentleman, such as yourself.’
‘Why give it to me for my birthday now? My birthday isn’t for another two months.’
Eleanor winced. That long? ‘I know what … what an influential figure you are. How people look up to you and admire your taste. I hope you will help spread the word about our new design, and I wanted to take the opportunity of your thirtieth birthday to ask for your assistance … with the matter. Personally. While you are still up here in the north. Rather than sending a note which might get mislaid when you are in London.’
‘You want me to use this sword and give your creation the exposure it needs? Like the great Beau does for his tailors?’
‘Yes, precisely.’ Eleanor kept her head up as sweat started to trickle down the back of her neck. He’d accepted her explanation. There was no need to linger. She could go and never see Lord Whittonstall again. Never know if he would have kissed her or if it had been a figment of her imagination. ‘I know how much influence you have with those who really matter. A number of people have mentioned your name when they have purchased one of our swords.’
She breathed slightly easier. Not exactly a lie, but not the whole truth either. Sir Vivian had been influential in getting some custom in.
Sir Vivian turned the sword over in his hands. His cheeks went quite pink. ‘You best be on guard, Ben. I shall beat you every time now. No one will believe a harridan like Mrs Blackwell gave me a sword! But she has, and she has entrusted me to spread the word.’
Lord Whittonstall coughed. Pointedly.
Sir Vivian hung his head. ‘Sometimes my poor tongue gets ahead of my brain, my dear Mrs Blackwell. Far too much port last night. You could never be a harridan. It is simply your reputation that is quite fearsome. It is not every day one encounters a woman sword-maker—a woman who forges swords with a delicate hand.’
Eleanor forced a smile. So she had a reputation as a harridan? At least she’d been saved from suffering the biggest humiliation of her life. All she wanted to do now was slink off and lick her wounded pride. Tomorrow she’d puzzle out some suitable man to marry her. ‘Now that I have said my little piece, I should go.’
Lord Whittonstall’s large hand clamped about her elbow, pinning her to her spot. ‘And this is all you came to say?’
‘Yes. As Sir Vivian has quite clearly said, he would not have believed it if I left the sword. I had to have his agreement, and now I have it.’
His gaze became more hooded and a muscle jumped in his jaw. Eleanor had the uncomfortable feeling that he saw through her tale. That he’d heard her rehearsing her proposal when she’d thought she was alone.
‘And you will show me the move that bested my cousin?’ Sir Vivian asked. ‘Before you depart?’
‘I can show you that,’ Lord Whittonstall said. ‘We have undoubtedly delayed Mrs Blackwell for far too long.’
‘I do have a business to run.’ Eleanor paused in the doorway. ‘Good day to you both.’
‘Mrs Blackwell, there will be a rematch. I have my reputation to think of.’
Eleanor ignored the tremor of excitement. Fencing with Lord Whittonstall was off the agenda. It would only lead to heartache. She had other more important things to think about. And she would never forget her quest again.
Ben watched Viv march around the terrace, making various lunges at unsuspecting bushes.
‘Would you mind telling me what is going on? You avoided my questions all over luncheon. Fobbing me off with nonsensical answers.’
Viv completed his lunge. ‘I am sure it is as Mrs Blackwell indicated. She has seen how much business I have sent her way and wants me to help her.’
‘You may drop the pretence. How bad are your finances?’
Viv made a disgusted noise. ‘We don’t all have your financial acumen, Ben. If you weren’t my cousin I’d hate you. What with your title, your fortune and your excellent looks. Plus a reputation for lively and intelligent conversation.’
‘That would be the side of me the public sees. My father died before I was born and my pregnant wife in a tragic accident. My fortune was squandered by rapacious financiers that my mother mistakenly trusted. I worked hard to rescue it.’
Viv dropped his gaze. ‘My debts will be paid some time. I have never not paid a debt of honour. Temporary cash problem.’
‘Is it that bad, Viv?’
‘My luck has changed, Ben.’ Viv poured two glasses of port and held one out to him.
Ben shook his head. Viv downed both of them in quick succession.
‘Mrs Blackwell came here for another purpose,’ Ben said, tapping his fingers together. ‘Her pretty speech about you being a rival to the great Beau was concocted on the spot. Nobody could take that assertion seriously. Before she knew I was there I overheard her practising a speech to be directed at you. And when I tried to send her on her way she insisted it was imperative she see you today. She thought that wearing a coal scuttle bonnet was appropriate for her task.’
‘The sword was obviously for me.’ Viv held it out. ‘See—on the blade she has had my name engraved. You must have misheard her.’
Ben turned the blade over and saw the engraved name. He had dismissed it earlier as fancy scrollwork. Eleanor Blackwell had planned to give this sword to Viv, but it didn’t make him believe the explanation she’d given—her colour had been too high and her manner too abrupt. Everything about her had been too much at odds with her desperation before they’d fought. Was she in some sort of trouble? Why did she need Viv’s help in particular? And, more importantly, what had changed her mind?
He handed the sword back to Viv.
‘Mrs Blackwell did intend to give it to you. But your birthday is not for another few months. She could have come back any day. But it had to be today that she saw you. Why?’
‘You have far too cautious a mind, cousin. I’m London-bound at Mrs Blackwell’s specific request. Going to meet my destiny.’ Viv rubbed a hand along his stubble and belched. ‘And while we are there you can introduce me to all the heiresses that your dear mama has lined up for you. She possesses a certain flair for discovering heiresses. Don’t deny it! My mother constantly writes of the despair you cause your mother.’
Ben knew precisely what Viv meant. Every season since Alice’s death his mother had made it her mission to sniff out a possible replacement. She liked to pretend that the way Alice had died had no bearing. A tragic accident, best forgotten.
No matter where he went in London she arranged for accidental meetings with women she deemed suitable. While all the while remaining deaf to his arguments that he wanted to choose his own bride in his own time, or indeed that he had a good enough heir in Viv. Every time he rejected one of her protégées she’d sigh and remind him how his father would want him to do his duty if he were alive, and how as his mother all she wanted was the best for him.
The truth was, none of the debutantes excited him. And what was the point in indulging in a meaningless affair with some piece of Haymarket ware? He knew what he’d shared with Alice. He also knew that it was in spite of his mother rather than because of his mother that he’d fallen for Alice. And he’d vowed that any bride of his would not have to suffer what he’d inadvertently caused Alice to suffer. Never again. He could not make it up to Alice, but he could prevent it from reoccurring.
There had been a spark, a flash of chemistry between him and Mrs Blackwell. And he could have murdered Viv for interrupting him. He’d wanted to see if it was real. If her lips did taste as sweet as he’d imagined.
‘Is there a Mr Blackwell?’
‘I’m speaking of the bright lights of London and pretty heiresses and you want to discuss Mrs Blackwell?’ Viv gave him a quick indulgent smile. ‘Well, I believe she is an ape-leading spinster. Her father’s name was Blackwell. He was alive when Papa bought me my first sword. Now, enough of the woman. I’m much more interested in strategy. Do I wear my plum waistcoat or my emerald-green with the sword?’
