Let lust rule his head and, talented fencer that she was, she’d insure he didn’t win so much as one kiss.
As they approached the hackney, Edmund Darnley walked up. “Thought I’d come lend my support.”
“Come along,” Aubrey said. “But if Jack does succeed in winning Belle, he’s promised me the first introduction.”
“Winning Belle?” Edmund echoed with a puzzled look.
“Just Aubrey leaping to unsupported conclusions, as usual,” Jack replied. “There’s no question of anything but a kiss—which, I may add, I’ve yet to win.”
“Then let us take our places so you have maximum time in which to determine how to do so,” Aubrey said.
The three friends piled into the coach. A short time later, they entered the fencing room to find it, as Aubrey had predicted, already crowded. Jack nodded to Montclare and several others, while Rupert gave Jack a glacial glance as he passed to take up a place along the left wall.
A short time later, master and pupil walked in. Belle, dressed again in breeches and shirt, her golden hair pulled tightly back, ignored the assembly, focusing instead on inspecting her sword and testing its balance.
Releasing the breath he’d not realized he’d been holding, Jack wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or vexed that this time he hadn’t drawn to himself that compelling, focus-shattering gaze. Though she did not deign to look at him, he was acutely aware of her every movement.
He mustn’t, he reminded himself, become distracted by the shapely derriere hugged by her doeskin breeches as she bent to adjust her foil or the arresting curves outlined beneath the shirt as she raised her arm, lest he be trounced as ignominiously as Wexley.
And Lord help him, he wanted that kiss.
That kiss and more.
Alarmed by the insidious observation that sprang, as powerful as it was unwanted, from somewhere deep within him, Jack turned his attention to the fencing master.
After a brisk review of stance and positioning, master and pupil assumed their places. During the lesson, Belle displayed the same quickness of foot and ingenuity of movement Jack had noted in her previous bout with Armaldi.
She maneuvered the foil as if it were a natural extension of her arm, her hands light and quick, her stance well balanced and her intense concentration evident in the swift countering moves with which she met each of Armaldi’s advances. Though this time she did not disarm him, the match concluded with neither scoring a decisive advantage.
“Buono, mia bella,” Armaldi said. “You fence again?”
“Perhaps not,” Belle said. “I am a bit winded today.”
Already stepping toward the fencing floor, Jack halted, surprised by the refusal. Quelling a ridiculously keen sense of disappointment, he had to compress his lips to keep from adding his objection to the shouts of protest.
“But you must accept a challenge,” Ansley cried, dropping on one knee before her. “You gave your word!”
“Besides, someone particular has pledged to meet you today.” Jack heard Aubrey’s voice and sighed. “A soldier and veteran of Waterloo. Surely you won’t deny this heroic defender of England a chance to win a victory far sweeter than the one he wrested from the brutal fields of battle?”
Belle’s gaze swept the room and found Jack. For a long moment those intense blue eyes focused on his, sending a wave of shivers over his skin.
“You,” she said at last.
Jack bowed. “Captain Jack Carrington, ma’am, at your service. And perhaps later, if you are skillful enough, at your mercy.”
Her lips twitched at that, but in the next moment a man from the gallery strode forward, stripped to his shirtsleeves and obviously intending his own challenge.
As Jack watched the other man approach, the unexpected and disturbingly intense conviction seized him that the chance to fence with her, best her—kiss her—belonged to him and him alone. He had to squelch a strong, primal desire to draw his sword and repel any other contenders.
The other man frowned at Jack. “’Tis not fair for Belle to be challenged by a military man, a professional!” he protested to Armaldi.
“Do you imply ’tis impossible she could match him, Waterfield?” Aubrey shot back. “That’s presumptuous as well as ungentlemanly!”
While Waterfield sputtered that he’d not meant to disparage Belle’s skill, Lord Rupert raised his voice above the clamor of disputing opinions. “Mr. Waterfield speaks the truth, Captain. You have, by your friend’s admission, fought recently and in deadly earnest. To challenge Lady Belle, who fences upon occasion and for sport, would be to take unfair advantage of the terms of Ansley’s wager. I must ask you to decline.”
“You only wish him to step down because you fear he might actually win,” Aubrey inserted hotly.
Rupert ignored him, his gaze fixed on Jack. “Lady Belle, unusual though she be, is still but a woman. Though she has achieved a remarkable level of proficiency, it is hardly possible for one of her sex to acquire the strength and skill necessary to best an accomplished gentleman.”
Belle had been looking into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the argument around her, but at that, she snapped her gaze back. “You think me so paltry an opponent, my lord? ’Tis time, then, that I faced someone of unquestioned skill. Captain, I accept your challenge.”
Exclamations erupted from around the gallery, some protesting against Belle meeting a soldier, some calling for the match to begin. His pulse having leapt in anticipation as soon as Belle accepted the challenge, Jack ignored them all, striding instead to an exuberant Aubrey, who stripped off his jacket and handed him his sword.
Lord Rupert followed, still arguing as Jack readied himself, until at last Armaldi waved his arms and stamped his feet to command the group to silence.
“The lady has spoken,” he pronounced. “So be it.”
After attempting without success to stare down Armaldi, Lord Rupert at last reluctantly took his seat. “We shall have a reckoning over this,” he muttered to Jack.
Every nerve tightened by excitement and the tantalizing prospect of victory, Jack did not reply.
A moment later, he bowed again to Belle. “As eager as these gentlemen are to watch, so am I to test your skill.”
Lady Belle fixed him with a look whose icy coldness surprised him. “I daresay you are. En guarde, Captain!”
SO CARRINGTON’S FIRST name was Jack, Belle thought as she slowly circled him, looking for the opportunity to strike. She’d spotted him immediately, watching her, disturbing her concentration during her lesson as he’d disturbed her during the play last night.
Good that he had challenged her. In her current angry, restless mood, she welcomed the opportunity to strike out with the full fury that raged within her, a fury she always held in check when fencing with Armaldi.
So he wanted to “test her skill”? She could just imagine what sort of expertise he wanted to plumb.
She’d show him the edge of her blade, drive him back…Better yet, she decided, she’d feign the amateur and lure him to a humiliating defeat. Then he would leave her in peace and she could put him and his unsettling effect on her out of mind for good.
But though she tried to play on the disdain she suspected he harbored for her skill, attempted with weak and clumsy thrusts to make him commit to a lunge that would allow her to deliver a blow that knocked him off balance and perhaps off his feet, he refused to comply.
With a dawning respect for his perspicacity, Belle discarded that tactic and reverted to fencing him properly. Within a very few minutes, she began to wonder wryly whether she’d truly wanted this demanding a challenge.