Chapter 8 The Garden Party Disaster #3
Miss Thornton stood partially concealed behind a flowering shrub, her guard finally lowered now that she thought herself alone.
The sight made him pause. Her chestnut hair caught the sunlight, turning the loose strands into burnished copper, and for a moment he forgot to breathe.
She was attempting to fix the mess he’d inadvertently caused, her fingers working deftly.
But it was the pain in her expression that made his chest tighten unexpectedly.
She shifted her weight, a wince crossing her features.
The mask of competence and sharp wit she usually wore had slipped, revealing something raw and vulnerable underneath.
The realization that she’d rather suffer in silence than accept help—especially his help—stirred something in him.
“Stubborn woman,” he muttered under his breath, though the words held none of their usual mockery. Instead, he found himself admiring the steel in her spine, the way she squared her shoulders even when no one was watching. She was… magnificent, really.
He watched as she gathered herself, piece by piece, reconstructing her armor of wit and propriety. The transformation was fascinating. The way she schooled her features, adjusted her posture, tucked away any sign of discomfort. Yet now that he’d seen beneath the surface, he couldn’t unsee it.
Hereford backed away silently, the cufflink forgotten, before she could notice his presence. He had witnessed something that made it impossible to maintain his carefully cultivated indifference toward Miss Thornton.
Hereford made his way back to the party, his thoughts still uncomfortably tangled around the image of Miss Thornton’s vulnerability.
The gathering had grown more boisterous in his absence.
Charlotte had arranged for music, and couples were beginning to dance on the lawn.
He accepted a fresh glass of champagne, hoping it might dull the nagging sensation in his chest.
“There you are!” The Duchess of Rutland appeared at his elbow, fanning herself vigorously. “I’ve been looking everywhere. You promised to demonstrate that Italian thrust you learned in Florence.”
He forced himself to focus on her radiant smile, on the familiar dance of flirtation. This was safe territory. “Did I? How careless of me to keep a lady waiting.”
“Indeed.” She placed her hand on his arm. “I’ve been practicing what you showed me last week, though I fear I still haven’t quite mastered the proper form.”
As he followed her toward the cleared space where several guests had expressed interest in a fencing demonstration, he caught sight of Miss Thornton again.
She’d managed to repair her hair and was in conversation with the Duke of Lancaster, no doubt discussing something dreadfully serious.
But he noticed how her eyes occasionally flicked toward the impromptu fencing area with poorly concealed interest.
“Your Grace,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Why don’t we wait until we’re at the Swordsman’s Society? This is hardly the right place for serious instruction.”
“Oh, nonsense, Hereford. This is the perfect place. The lighting, music, audience…” the duchess said with a wink.
He gripped the cane a gentleman handed him with reluctance, aware of Miss Thornton’s attention even as he focused on the duchess.
The Italian style had always been his favorite when impressing females who feigned interest in fencing when all they really wanted was to admire his backside.
The Italian was all flourish and dramatic gestures, perfect for seduction.
Except he wasn’t feeling too seductive at the moment.
“Now,” he said, sounding as official as possible while moving behind the duchess stiffly to adjust her stance, “the key is in the positioning…”
He didn’t need to look to know Miss Thornton was watching. He could feel her disapproval from here.
“Come, Hereford. Why have you turned so stiff all of a sudden?” the duchess chided. “This lesson is a lot less interesting and instructive than I recall from Brooks.”
“My apologies, Your Grace. I rather feel uncomfortable about performing in front of an audience at the moment.”
The Duchess of Rutland whirled around in his arms, standing with her front flush with his. Hereford took a step backward. She narrowed her gaze.
“Have you taken another lover, Hereford?” she whispered so only he could hear.
“No.”
“Then it’s me you’re tired of.”
Hereford made the grave mistake of hesitating. Her eyes gaping wide open, the duchess shoved hard at his chest. “How dare you!”
“What? I said nothing!”
“That’s precisely the problem!” she shouted as she stomped away from him.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, staring after the duchess, when he heard a soft, silky voice.
“Looks like your skills seem to be waning, Lord Hereford.” Her voice cut through the noise in his head, sharp as any blade.
It came from near his ear, Miss Thornton having stood on her toes to reach it.
He felt the tiny tremors run through his body as her warm breath touched his skin.
He felt her withdraw quickly and he knew she had misunderstood his shudder as something undesirable. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but he wasn’t about to admit her proximity had aroused him.
He turned to face her hurt countenance and found her standing beyond his arm’s length.
“On the contrary,” he said in a lighthearted tone to cover up both of their embarrassment. “That was precisely the effect I had wished for.” He stood erect and folded his hands behind his back. “One does begin to wish for a variety in female company, if you understand my meaning.”
A scowl replaced her hurt expression. “Unfortunately, I do.”
Hereford straightened his shoulders in false confidence. “Is there something I can help you with, Miss?”
“Teach me.”
He went still. “Teach you? You don’t mean… Teach you what?”
“Teach me to fence.” She lifted her chin. “You’re clearly qualified although I’d prefer the straightforward method, not the one you have reserved for your… mistresses.”
“This is absurd.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ignore the flush at her décolletage. “Ladies don’t fence.”
“Yet you teach the duchess.”
“That’s different. She’s… She’s…”
“Your lover?” she whispered as she stepped toward him. Her tone became teasing and seductive, making the hair on his neck tingle. “Willing to let you press against her while adjusting her grip?” Hereford closed his eyes briefly, letting her voice wash over his sensitized skin.
He opened his eyes, then let his gaze drift down to her mouth. “A friend, Miss Thornton. And careful. One might think you were jealous.”
“One might think you were afraid to teach me.” She took a step closer, close enough that he could smell her soap. “What are you afraid of?”
He studied her for a long moment—the way she refused to let her injury define her limitations. It was admirable, damn it all. And dangerous.
“No,” he said finally, his voice firmer than he felt. “Find another hobby. Watercolors, perhaps.”
“Watercolors,” she gritted out. “How delightfully conventional of you.”
He exhaled, frustration evident in its tone. “Miss Thornton, while your enthusiasm is admirable, fencing requires certain physical demands.”
“Tell me, my lord, are all women incapable of meeting the physical demands or specifically the crippled ones?” Her voice was sharp enough to wound, and her lips pressed into a thin line.
“If you get hurt, I may lose credibility. Not only that, you will not do other women any favors.”
Her eyes flashed emerald with fury as she stepped closer, voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Do not pretend to care about women’s aspirations. You have no intention of teaching us anything beyond the path to your bedchamber. That’s where you prefer us, isn’t it? Silent and submissive?”
The muscle in his jaw ticked. “I take offense at your insinuation, Miss Thornton.” His lips curved into a smile. “I rather enjoy when women are vocal in my bed.”
Amelia recoiled, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly before she found her voice. “How perfectly characteristic.”
“You don’t know me at all,” he said softly, crowding her space until she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Not even slightly.”
“Wonderful.” She lifted her chin, refusing to step back despite his looming presence. “Let us remain thus, shall we?”
“Let’s think practically for a moment.” He stepped back and walked in a small circle, regaining his composure before stopping to face her again. “How do you propose to lunge with a lethal weapon when you can barely maintain your balance on level ground?”
“I do not struggle with balance!” Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “Only on uneven terrain might I occasionally, but I always catch myself!”
“That is precisely my point! I won’t teach someone who presents a danger to herself and others during lessons.”
“We’ll be wearing protective gear!”
“Which may fail if you fall. The fact is, you need absolute control, but you’re at a constant disadvantage. Any misstep could—”
“I do not misstep!” She stamped her foot, immediately proving his point as she had to shift to maintain her balance. “I have not fallen, and I never shall!”
“Think with logic rather than pride, woman!” His voice rose with exasperation. “Fencing requires agility—bouncing, skipping, lunging, quick sidesteps—”
“I shall adapt! I always have. Just teach me the basics, and I’ll master the rest myself.”
“Why? Why are you so desperate to learn?”
She paused, schooling her features to one of vapid interest. “It’s exercise, which I need. It’s practical. It’s beautiful—like a dance with weapons. When I watch it, I feel… connected.”
His expression softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. “And it’s forbidden to women. Isn’t that the real appeal? Or is this some publicity stunt for your newspaper?”
One would have thought he had slapped her by the way ice replaced the fire in her eyes.
Amelia straightened her spine before speaking calmly.
“Do explain to your student, the Duchess of Rutland, why some women are worthy of instruction while others are not.” She turned away, each word precise and cutting.
He watched her walk away, her gait measured despite her obvious fury. Guilt and self-loathing warred in his chest.
“Confound it,” he muttered, rubbing the stubble beginning to appear on his chin. The woman was impossible, an infuriating, illegitimate commoner. And completely wrong for him.
He was going to be glad to have refused her. He just didn’t know why yet.