Chapter 10
“Anything I can?” Jasper repeated.
The claim was quite ridiculous, of course.
Not merely because she was of the gentler sex—though society certainly made much of that distinction—but because the notion itself was absurd.
Even Jasper’s own freedoms were hardly absolute.
A man might boast of liberty, but he was still bound by expectation, by debt, by family, by class.
The world allowed very few people to step beyond their appointed place without consequence.
Still, while it was true that the world imposed limits upon every man and woman alive, it was equally true that some men managed those limits with considerably greater success than others, which made Miss Tolliver’s declaration not merely bold, but faintly absurd.
When it came to skill, Jasper had very little cause for complaint.
He rode better than most men, shot straighter than nearly all of them, and fenced with sufficient proficiency that few gentlemen were inclined to test the matter twice.
He had been taught, thoroughly and well, how to excel; and, in most respects, he did.
(Now, dearest reader, you must forgive our hero this small indulgence of masculine pride.
Mr Deverell is, at present, a gentleman who thinks exceedingly well of his own intelligence and abilities—though, as you may already have observed, such confidence rests upon a foundation rather more fragile than he would ever care to admit.
Beneath it lies a most inconvenient degree of vulnerability, which he disguises with considerable skill.
It is an affliction not uncommon amongst men, and it will not last. In due course, he shall be brought very low indeed—quite possibly to the humiliating position of pleading his case before the very lady he now presumes to instruct.)
It was therefore a little astonishing to Jasper that her next remark was—“Perhaps more.”
Jasper blinked at her, before a laugh escaped him. “You think you might do more than I? That is a rather lofty claim, Miss Tolliver.”
She turned to him fully, her posture no longer languid, but very straight. “I do not say it to be provocative, Mr Deverell,” she said coolly, “nor to be contrary.”
His laughter faltered and disappeared entirely beneath the severity of her expression.
“I have watched gentlemen all my life striding about the world as though it were theirs by divine right, without hesitation or consequences,” she continued.
“Dress me in a gentleman’s coat and boots, Mr Deverell, and I should put half of you to shame before luncheon.
For I cannot help but observe that the only thing most of you possess that I do not is a cock.
And the liberty to behave as though that fact alone confers authority. ”
He regarded her with new attention. “You do me a disservice, Miss Tolliver, if you imagine I doubt your capability. But I confess I have seldom heard a lady declare her ambitions in quite such… formidable terms.”
“Oh no,” she said, voice light once more, “I do not believe you doubt me. I believe you admire my ambitions. I believe you find it vastly amusing—until, of course, I best you.”
His smile returned. “Best me at what, precisely?”
“Anything that might wound your gentlemanly pride,” she said evenly. “I have no doubt I should best you in the approved feminine accomplishments—embroidery, watercolours, the pianoforte, arranging roses in aesthetically pleasing formations.”
“I am already quaking.”
She ignored the jest. “What I should best you in, Mr Deverell, are the pursuits your sex guards so jealously: riding, fencing, cards and pistols. All the little games you play in smoke-filled rooms over brandy and wounded egos.”
He lifted a brow. “Dangerous ground.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.” She tilted her head. “It has been my observation that when a woman proves herself superior in such company, she is rewarded not with admiration but resentment. Some gentlemen do not take kindly to being outdone, least of all by someone who has the audacity to look pretty whilst doing so.”
His lips quirked. “And so you wish to prove yourself my equal?”
“No. I wish to prove myself your better. I intend to defeat you tomorrow morning, and I shall do so with great relish.”
He paused. “Defeat? In what manner, precisely? Fencing? Shooting? Gambling for the honour of it?”
“All of them, if you please. I challenge you, Mr Deverell, to a proper gentleman’s contest.” Her voice had dropped an octave, soft and wicked. “Except, of course, that I am no gentleman.”
His brows lifted again, and he took a sip of his lemonade. “And what are the terms of this exceedingly dangerous arrangement?”
She smiled like a cat before cream. “The same as we have wagered once before. One favour owed by the loser of each contest. No questions. No refusals. I propose we alternate selecting our challenges.”
He did not reply at once, but looked at her through narrowed eyes, as though assessing a horse he suspected might bolt or bite. “These challenges,” he said slowly, “do you mean to win?”
“Most certainly.”
“And if you do?”
“Then you shall owe me far more than a kiss, Mr Deverell.”
It was at that precise moment that Jasper’s thoughts—which were already inclined to unruliness in Miss Tolliver’s presence—descended into a state of utter and irredeemable disarray.
Despite the notion being absurd, it was also uncommonly titillating, indeed.
It was the most exhilarating and deliciously dangerous wager he had encountered in years.
“Well then.” He lifted his glass in quiet salute, letting his eyes linger on her lips just long enough to make his point. “We must decide upon the first contest. Ladies first.”
She smiled, and then appeared to consider the matter, her head tilting like a cat watching a bird at the window. “Let us begin with what you are least likely to survive.”
He bit his cheek, revealing dimples. “Do continue.”
“Riding,” she said sweetly. “Cross-country. Ashwick Park, before first light. I shall even permit you to choose your mount, though I very much doubt it shall improve your chances.”
“How gracious of you. I shall, of course, best you with ease. Riding is something of a natural talent of mine.”
“How fortunate for you. One does hate to humiliate an opponent entirely.”
He allowed a smile. “As for my own selection… fencing.”
Her brows lifted, pleased. “Ah. Swords at dawn. How very romantic.”
“Sabres. I shall endeavour not to harm your person. Your dignity, however, is beyond my protection.”
“Oh, Mr Deverell,” she said, all lightness and lace. “You are welcome to try. I have been outwitting overconfident men since I could toddle.”
“Then I shall beg for mercy in advance.”
“Certainly,” she said. “You may beg at any point.”
He laughed low.
“I believe it is my turn once more,” she said, tapping a thoughtful finger against her glass. “Since you have claimed fencing.”
“By all means, Miss Tolliver.”
“Cards,” she said. “Vingt-et-un. Quick, and excellent for parting fools from their coin.”
He raised his glass in salute. “A woman after my own heart.”
“Oh, keep it,” she replied breezily. “I’ve no use for hearts. But coin, on the other hand…”
He gave a slow, admiring smile. “You do realise, Miss Tolliver, that it is not too late to withdraw. I should think no less of you.”
“That,” she said, “is precisely why I shall not.”
“Very well. I name the fourth—pistols. Ten paces. Fixed targets. Unless you would prefer a moving one?”
“You truly wish to be reminded of the last time I handled a pistol?”
“I am told Lord Langley still favours his right side.”
“Quite correct,” came Theo’s voice from behind them, as dry as the duke’s port. “And I have no intention of standing within twenty paces of either of you while you are armed.”
Miss Tolliver acknowledged his return with a gracious nod. “I shall do my utmost to aim away from the audience this time.”
Theo snorted and turned to speak with the duke and duchess, leaving the pair in a pocket of privacy once more.
Miss Tolliver leant back, thoughtful. “Next—billiards, I think. I have spent far too many evenings in the country not to profit by it.”
“Then I shall claim a foot race,” he replied easily. “A proper sprint.”
“Running, Mr Deverell?”
“You are not equal to the task?”
She gave him a look of mild pity. “My dear, I spent the better part of my childhood in the country, outrunning four sisters, an elder brother, and three spaniels. Not to mention my entire sojourn last Season escaping a succession of particularly vindictive geese. I assure you I shall manage perfectly well.”
Jasper took a measured sip of lemonade and regarded her over the rim of the glass, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. There was not the smallest chance she could outrun him.
“That brings us,” she said, with satisfaction, “to the final challenge. One more to crown the set.”
Jasper tilted his head, lips curving with languid amusement. “Indeed. What remains, I wonder? You have already challenged my skill on horseback, at sabres, cards, pistols, billiards, and on foot. What further humiliation do you propose?”
She appeared to consider the matter with great seriousness, then turned to face him fully. “Tell me, Mr Deverell… have you ever wrestled?”
He blinked. “Wrestled?”
Her smile was sweet as clotted cream. “Yes. That brutish display of masculine strength in which gentlemen strip down to their shirtsleeves and attempt to throw one another to the ground.”
He stared at her, half-laughing. “I—that is to say—yes, certainly. At school. And once at a very regrettable house party in Kent. But surely you do not mean—“
“I do,” she said brightly. “It seems only fitting. A final test of physical prowess. Entirely unrefined. Entirely inappropriate. And therefore, entirely perfect.”
His voice dropped. “And what, pray, would a lady know of wrestling?”
“I know enough,” she said. “And I am rather confident I could have you on your back in under a minute.”
He choked slightly. “Miss Tolliver. That may be the most indecent remark anyone has ever made to me in a public theatre.”
“Then I am vastly disappointed in your social circle.”
There was a long and terribly charged silence, during which their knees brushed and their eyes danced.
At last, Jasper lifted his glass once more. “Very well. Seven contests. Seven forfeits. And for the final trial… wrestling.”
“Privately, of course.”
“Naturally. It would be quite indecent to pin a lady to the floor before an audience.”
She leant nearer—closer than was strictly proper or wise—and said softly, “I do hope you mean to fight fairly. Though I must warn you, Mr Deverell… I never do.”