Mary Nichols - The Viscount's Unconventional Bride

The field was crowded, but they made way for her and some cheered. ‘Go to it, young shaver. Show the bully he can’t walk all over you.’ Others laughed, calling her a bratling who wouldn’t have the strength to lift a sword, let along wield it. The gibes hardened her resolve; she put her chin in the air and made her way to where an arena had been roped off. Mr Linton and his second, together with the innkeeper, who was acting as referee, stood waiting. Mr Linton was in breeches and shirt sleeves and she became uncomfortably aware of his powerful physique, his masculinity, so very different from her own slim figure and lack of muscle. But here she was and there was no going back.

Jonathan watched as she drew her sword from its scabbard and tested its blade with her thumb. And then Joe was helping her off with her coat and cravat and she was obeying the beckoning hand of the innkeeper and joining him in the middle of the arena. Jonathan was a bag of nerves himself, but only on the boy’s behalf. He must not hurt him, he told himself, remembering that other duel so many years before, when he had dealt that fatal blow for which he had never forgiven himself.

The formalities were gone through and then they were alone, facing each other, the flat of their swords held point up against their lips in salute before taking their stance. They were given the command and the duel began.

They sparred a little, feinting, moving backwards and forwards and once Smith lunged and nearly had him. He parried with a riposte, which the boy easily avoided, and suddenly Jonathan realised the lad did know what he was doing and really could put on a good show. He began to be a little less diffident and made one or two real moves, which his opponent answered with moves of his own.

Louise found herself enjoying the cut and thrust and was annoyed when she realised he was holding back. She renewed her attack, making him defend himself. They danced back and forth, lunged and parried while the crowd cheered. Wanting to finish it quickly, Jonathan lunged a little wildly and the boy came back with a high outside riposte that nicked his upper arm, drawing a pinpoint of blood.

If she had been the challenger, Louise could have said she was satisfied with first blood and put an end to it there and then, but as she was the one who had been challenged, it was left to her opponent to admit defeat. The crowd roared their appreciation; they were in no mood to agree that honour had been satisfied. The duel went on, though Jonathan had to use all his skill to defend himself, let alone try not to hurt his adversary. It was this that made him momentarily lose his concentration. His weapon was suddenly knocked from his grasp. Louise stood back and waited for him to pick it up.

He hesitated. Where was this all going to end? He was a man of the law, the Society required him to uphold it at all times and what was he doing breaking it? Having a game? Did Louis Smith think it was a game? He had to end it, but not in this ignominious way. He bent to pick up his sword.

It was then, as he straightened up, he noticed her gently heaving breasts from which the binding had slipped and was confronted with the fact that he had been crossing swords with a woman. What a fool he had been! Why had he not seen it before? Those magnificent eyes, the unruly hair, the sensitive hands with their neatly manicured nails, the delicate colour in her cheeks, all proclaimed he was facing a member of the gentler sex. Why had he not realised it before? The signs had all been there. What did she think she was playing at? He could not fight a woman. His sword arm dropped.

She noted his reluctance and wondered at it; he was a long way from defeat. ‘You hesitate,’ she said, pointing her sword at him. ‘Do you concede?’

The crowd roared their disapproval. ‘Fight on,’ they shouted. ‘You can’t let a stripling like that best you.’

They saluted each other formally and began again. He danced about her, parrying her advances and watching for his opportunity to bring it to an end without betraying her for what she was.

She was beginning to tire chasing after an illusive target, who seemed not to abide by the usual rules, but kept moving back. His defensive tactics did not please the crowd, who began cheering the boy. Jonathan saw his chance, knocked her sword aside and went in to the chest, his blade hovering half an inch from the material of her shirt. He pricked it just enough to put a tiny tear in the cloth, but not enough to pierce her skin. A sharp downward stroke would have had the shirt off her back. He saw her eyes widen in horror. ‘Give in?’ he murmured, knowing she would never risk being exposed.

She dropped her sword, all the fight gone out of her. The crowd turned away, a few of them muttering with disappointment that the youth had given in when none of his blood had been spilled, but most praising him for the show he had put on. It had been a fair fight between skilled opponents and most had no complaints. Louise turned to Jonathan, who was dabbing at the cut on his arm. ‘Are you hurt, Mr Linton?’

‘A scratch, nothing more. You fight well, Mr Smith.’ Did she imagine it or did he put unusual emphasis on her name?

‘Thank you, Mr Linton. So do you.’

They walked side by side, the tall muscular man and the slight, effeminate youth, to where their seconds held their coats. Betty had joined Joe and was watching them approach, her eyes alive with excitement. As Jonathan reached out to take his coat from Joe, his arm accidentally knocked against Louise who was reaching out for her own garment. Already more than a little shaken by her ordeal, it took her off balance and she would have gone down if he had not reached out and grabbed her.

The contact of his hands on her shoulders was only momentary, but it was enough for him to feel the soft feminine flesh beneath his hands and for her to shudder at the sensation his touch caused. She felt so weak with the shock of it, she was afraid her knees would give way. This man was so strong, so masculine, so…so physical. The feeling was different from anything she had experienced before. Her brothers often grabbed hold of her, especially when she was younger and joining in their rough and tumble; her father sometimes took her shoulders in his hands to emphasise some point to her, but it had not felt like this. This made her tremble all over.

Pulling herself together, she stepped away from him. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘My pleasure.’ Her masculine attire was off-putting and alluring at the same time and made him feel ill at ease. He could not smile at her as a man would smile at a woman, he could not take her hand, certainly he could not kiss her, which he had been very tempted to do as they stood so close, facing each other.

Betty came forwards to help her on with her coat. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she whispered. ‘You shouldn’t hev took your coat off. The binding’s slipped.’

‘I could not have fought in a coat, could I?’ Resisting the temptation to put her hand to her breasts, she hurriedly did up the buttons, picked up her sword and strolled off arm in arm with Betty, as casually as she could manage.

Jonathan watched them go. Here was the missing Miss Louise Vail, he was sure of it, though why she was not miles ahead he had no idea. She had not been abducted and as far as he could see, no crime had been committed. She was simply a spoiled young lady looking for adventure. It annoyed him to think he had been sent on a wild goose chase. The Piccadilly Gentleman’s Club was never founded to investigate such a paltry affair. He would return to Barnet and make his report to her parents and then wash his hands of her. But could he leave her where she was, prey to whoever decided to have some sport with her? Besides, the memory of those lustrous eyes, appealing to him not to tear her shirt off, could not be cast aside. And had not Mrs Vail entreated him to see no harm came to her? And had he not promised to do his best to return her to the bosom of her family?