Duchess By Night (Desperate Duchesses #3)

Duchess By Night (Desperate Duchesses #3) Page 31

Harriet groaned inwardly. The beef she could manage, barely, but she truly disliked the beer.

This time the fencing lesson went much better. Without saying a word, Strange put caps on the rapiers, which made Harriet feel more comfortable. She managed to keep a hand on her blade and even parried a pass in tierce.

“I’ll teach you the prise de fer next,” Strange said.

He walked behind her and reached around her body to hold her sword. “Look,” he said, “tilt your wrist like this, put your right foot at an angle.” He nudged her leg to get it into the right position.

Surely he didn’t have to have his arms around her to demonstrate this move? His hand brushed Harriet’s breast. Of course, her breasts were firmly wrapped in bandages, so there was nothing feminine for him to discover.

Still, she jumped away and turned, rapier on the ready. The truth was that every time he touched her, Harriet felt heat rushing up and down her body.

Eugenia sat behind a glass cabinet and called out instructions. Harriet couldn’t help turning around and smiling at her, for all Strange insisted that she keep her attention on the rapier.

Eugenia was a strange little girl, with a huge mop of undisciplined hair and an old-fashioned quality about her. To all appearances, she had never played with a child her own age, and it showed. She spoke with all the quaint rhythm of the plays she loved to read.

Just when Harriet started to get tired, Strange said that they should try a match again. She leaned against the cabinet next to her and tried to catch her breath. “Are you sure, sir?” she asked. “You are injured from yesterday.”

“Sir?” he said. “You drew blood yesterday; I think we might as well be on intimate terms. I like to be called Jem.”

“And your given name is?”

“Buried in the mists of time,” he said promptly. “What’s your given name?”

“Harry,” Harriet said. Suddenly this was all making her nervous. Strange—or Jem—kept coming up behind her, pulling her arms into the right angles. It made her knees weak. Having his lean, muscular body, clad only in thin breeches and a white shirt, touch hers made her skin flare. She kept beating back an all-over body blush.

This was so dangerous.

Strange—or Jem—strode into position in the middle of the room.

“Eugenia, you stay behind the case.”

“Yes, Papa,” Eugenia said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to cheer for Harry.”

“Not at all,” Strange said, shifting his rapier from hand to hand. Harriet couldn’t help it. She looked at the muscles in his legs and nearly groaned—and it wasn’t all her sore muscles this time. “Come on, Harry. Feeling a touch of fear?”

She walked forward and fell into a defensive position. Strange began circling her, his eyes fixed on her face, a little smile curling the corner of his lips.

“Down with him, Harry!” Eugenia called excitedly. “Down with him, down with him!”

“I only know one attack,” Harriet complained. “This isn’t really fair.”

Strange tensed his shoulder, and Harriet raised her rapier to blunt his attack. Unfortunately he spun in a circle and came in from the opposite direction. His blade stopped a hair’s breadth from her shoulder.

“Not fair,” she grumbled, falling back a step. “You’ve never described such a move.”

“You did watch my shoulder,” he said, starting to circle again. “You’re not a total loss.”

“I think you must have some sort of hunter’s obsession,” she said, turning to keep always in front of him. “Are you one of those men who spend hours loping through the woods with dead creatures slung over your shoulder?”

“Why, Harry,” he said softly, “you’re surprising me again. I thought you were an avid hunter. I’m sure you told me so.”

“Humph,” Harriet said. Her arm was tired, and the rapier felt as if it weighed at least three stone. It was taking everything she had just to keep it to waist level. She had to try to attack. So without thinking about it very much she just stabbed forward.

His sword blocked hers instantly, moving so fast that she didn’t even see it. The shock of the two swords coming together went right through her shoulder.

“To him again,” called Eugenia. “Cut him in the leg, Harry!”

“Be quiet, you bloodthirsty child,” Strange said. He had turned his head to Eugenia, so Harriet took advantage and raised her rapier to his throat, stopping an inch from his skin.

“Ha!” she said.

He turned his head to look at her. “Foul play, Harry?”

There was something in his eyes…she let the rapier fall. Could Isidore be right? Could it be that Strange was interested in her—as a man? “I’m finished for today,” she said, turning around to sheath her rapier.

When she straightened, she glanced back at Strange to find that he was staring at her bottom.

A little shiver ran through her. This was not good. It was one thing for Kitty to be leaning up against her, and another for a man like Strange to be thinking…whatever he was thinking.

“I think you should just aim that sword a little lower and stab him in the leg,” Eugenia said, running up to her.

“You are bloodthirsty,” Harriet said. “That’s your father you’re making into my pincushion.”

“Do you have another letter for me?” Strange asked.

She handed it over and he ripped it open, waving it in the air.

“I don’t suppose you could ask my secret correspondent to be a little less generous with her perfume?”

“No,” Harriet said. She’d used Isidore’s best French perfume.

“My music’s in the night,” Strange read aloud, “So is the nightingale’s. Nice. Brief yet evocative. And it rhymes with yesterday’s delight and night.”

Harriet shot Strange a look. “Your letters are hardly suitable reading for a young girl.”

He ignored that entirely. “So, Harry, do you have any sense what my mystery correspondent wants from me?”

Harriet frowned at him. “I have no idea,” she said, thinking his question as unsuitable for Eugenia’s ears as was the poem.

“She wants your company, Papa,” Eugenia said.

Strange grinned at her. “I agree.”

“It’s a love poem,” she continued.

“Or something along those lines,” Strange agreed.

“I think she wants to meet you at night,” Eugenia persisted.

“Well,” Harriet said brightly, “I suppose you’ll have to wait until the poem is complete to find out precisely what the poetess requests.”

“Love,” Eugenia said flatly. “My governess was in love with Papa for a long time, but she finally gave up. He’s not easy to catch. Do you want to see the calculations I did last night, Harry? I stayed up til really late but I figured out all the angles on my dollhouse roof.”

“How late?” Harriet said, before she thought.

“You’re pitiful,” Strange said. “I can hear your mother speaking every time you open your mouth. It may be impossible to turn you into a man, Harry, if you don’t mind me pointing it out. Eugenia is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”