Page 35 of Some Like It Wild
Connor slammed the door in both their faces, cutting off their fawning bows in mid-motion.
He was still slumped against the door, savoring a precious moment of peace, when a footman’s brisk voice informed him that the hatter had arrived.
It turned out the tailor was only the first in a long parade of London merchants eager to use their wares to transform him into an elegant gentleman worthy of his title. Connor was forced to look at so many different incarnations of the beaver hat he decided it would almost be easier to wear an actual beaver on his head. The hatter was followed by a haberdasher with a dizzying array of handkerchiefs, stockings and ivory-handled walking sticks, a stationer with reams of expensive parchment and vellum, and a jeweler with a gleaming display of crested rings and silver snuff boxes.
By the time another footman arrived to inform Connor that his fencing master was waiting for him in the ballroom, he was more than ready to run someone through with a sword, preferably himself.
Eagerly excusing himself from the crestfallen young man appointed to help him pick out the perfect toothpick case, he hurried down the stairs, thinking a little swordplay might be the very thing to soothe his temper.
“Bloody hell, man, you don’t honestly expect me to fight with that thing, do you?”
As that familiar roar reached Pamela’s ears, she froze in the middle of the deserted corridor, cocking her head to listen.
“I might be able to darn my stockings with it, but it’s not good for much else. Unless, of course, you’d like me to shove it up your arrogant—”
As that threat met with a virulent outpouring in fluent French, Pamela lifted the hem of her gown and took off at a dead run, following the clash of those raised voices. She didn’t have to lift her hem much since it was already four inches too short. Having exhausted her own supply of suitable frocks, she’d been reduced to commandeering Sophie’s favorite morning gown—an act that had left her sister weeping piteously into her pillow and muttering unkind remarks about strained seams and overstuffed sausages.
Remarks which seemed only fitting with the bodice stays of the gown digging deep into Pamela’s ribcage, making each step a misery. By the time she flung open the tall double doors at the end of the corridor, she was gasping for breath and dangerously close to swooning—a condition that was only aggravated by the sight that greeted her.
Connor stood at the center of the cavernous ballroom, facing a slender, effete Frenchman who had a long, thin sword in his hand and a murderous gleam in his eye. The man was still spewing out a torrent of French, most of it, mercifully, incomprehensible to Pamela’s untrained ears.
Connor might have been unarmed, but he still towered over the sputtering Frenchman by half a foot. He was dressed as simply as a highwayman posing as a gentleman could be—in black trousers and a white lawn shirt with full sleeves and flared cuffs. He wore no waistcoat and his cravat was knotted in a simple loop at his throat. A black satin queue secured his gleaming hair at the nape.
It should have been illegal for a man to look so good without even trying, Pamela thought, biting her lip in consternation. Or at least immoral.
The enraged fencing master spotted her first. He spread his arms in a dramatic appeal, the waxed ends of his thin black mustache quivering with indignation. “Do you hear the words of this barbarian, mam’selle? He dares to insult the size of my sword!”
As he brandished the long, thin blade of the delicate epee at her, Pamela had to choke back a snort of laughter. It wasn’t that difficult to imagine Connor darning his stockings with it.
“Thatis not a sword.” Glowering at them both, Connor marched over to the wall and swept down one of the massive broadswords displayed next to an empty suit of armor. He strode back to the fencing master, wielding the enormous blade with one hand. “Thisis a sword!”
“Ha!” the Frenchman barked, dismissing the weapon with a flick of his hand. “Only if one has no skill! No grace! No honor! That blade is fit only for digging your grave after a French foil pierces your cowardly heart.”
“Oh, really?” Connor took a step forward, the menacing gesture wiping the sneer right off the Frenchman’s face. “Then perhaps you’d like to match your blade against mine and we’ll just see whose grave we’ll be digging come sunset.”
As the fencing master lowered his sword and went skittering backward in alarm, Pamela boldly stepped between the two men.
She flattened her palm against Connor’s chest, giving him a beseeching look. “Now, darling, you know I faint at the mere mention of blood, much less its sight. There’s really no need for such posturing. I’m sure that everyone, including Monsieur…” She gave the fencing master a questioning look.
“Chevalier,” the Frenchman offered with a toss of his head and a sulky flare of his nostrils.
“I’m sure that everyone, including Monsieur Chevalier, would agree that your blade is superior.” She drew even closer to Connor, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “As well asmuchlarger.”
Connor gazed down at her, his scowl slowly melting to an expression that was even more dangerous. At least to her.
He covered her small hand with his, binding them together so she could feel every powerful beat of his heart beneath the thin lawn of his shirt. “If you’re so convinced my blade issuperior, lass, then why don’t you give me the chance to prove it?”
In that moment the fencing master was forgotten. The two of them might have been all alone in the ballroom, engaged in their own private dance. A dance he had started last night, but she had not had the courage to finish.
She drew in a shaky breath rich with his scent, which now included the enticing aroma of bayberry soap. “As Monsieur Chevalier has just reminded us, one careless blow can destroy even the most steadfast of hearts.”
“But just how cowardly is the heart that won’t even risk that blow?”
Before Pamela could respond to the blatant challenge in Connor’s eyes, the temperamental fencing master blew out a disgusted “Pfft!” and sheathed his sword in the scabbard at his belt. “It’s obvious my talents are being wasted here. Please give the duke my regrets.” He tossed Connor one last sneer. “And my condolences.”
Snatching up the rest of his equipment, he went storming toward the French windows along the west wall of the ballroom that had been propped open to welcome in the afternoon sunshine and balmy spring breezes. Only then did Pamela realize they’d never been truly alone. They’d had an audience all along.
Crispin was lounging against the wall between two windows, lazily swishing the graceful epee in his hand back and forth. As the fencing master marched past him and disappeared into the garden, he ducked his head and offered Connor a sly grin. “Hello, cuz. You seem to have lost your fencing partner. Mind if I step in?”
