Beguiling Bridget (Waltzing with the Wallflower #2)(23)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

His eyes fell on an elderly gentleman who seemed to have one foot in the grave. “Ah, Bridget, my dear, are you ready for your fencing lesson?”

“I was wrong. It just became much worse.” Anthony began to perspire as Bridget shed her coat and rolled up her sleeves. Smooth fair skin peeked out from her white shirt, causing his nostrils flare in agitation or arousal — he wasn’t quite sure which, but he was certain the temperature in the house just spiked at least ten degrees. And where was the blasted butler with refreshments?

“And you are?” the elderly gentleman asked.

“Viscount Maddox at your service.” He bowed curtly before the man and waited.

“I’m sorry, Lord Travis. He insisted on following me.”

“How fortuitous, my dear. You shall have a sparring partner.”

“Sparring partner?” Anthony repeated and began to laugh. “Surely you jest.”

“I never jest.” The man made no move to smile or breathe, it seemed.

“Right, then.” Anthony shifted on his heels. “So I’ll just…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he silently cursed his brother and Wilde as he shook off his jacket and readied himself for battle… against a woman. The very woman he was supposed to be winning.

Truly, the odds were not in his favor.

“En garde!” Bridget yelled.

Anthony cursed again and momentarily considered running for cover. But a look of pure satisfaction danced across Bridget’s flawless face. So he pointed his rapier in her direction and swore to make her sorry she ever challenged him in the first place.

At the old man’s signal, Bridget began an intense attack, driving Anthony back several steps. It was all he could do to parry the furious blows she swung at him. What had he gotten himself into?

She was good.

But he couldn’t let her think he was impressed. Nor winded. Nor concerned he might just lose. Blast, if he wasn’t all of those things.

His opponent settled into a graceful rhythm. Her ease of movement, as though the rapier were a mere extension of her arm, was as natural as a lithe reed in the wind. Their dance continued. Anthony drew back a step before her attack, making a desperate attempt to focus on the necessary defense. But she made it nigh impossible.

A steady cadence of the clash of steel served to lull Anthony into a hypnotic state, one to which he was willing to submit when combined with the entrancing vision of his Bridget straining against the well-fitting breeches and gentleman’s silk shirt.

With a rakish lift of his brow, he thrust his rapier into the loose fitting fabric, absolutely delighted with the loud rip of her shirt. With a yell, she charged him, but he sidestepped her and thrust his rapier again, this time to the left, finishing his rather artful tear of the shirt, revealing quite a lovely white corset underneath.

“Hmm…” He winked. “I had you tagged for a more colorful girl. Red hair, certainly you would have red—”

“You rake!” Lady Bridget’s rapier came down on his. The steel clashed as she backed him up against the wall. He turned and, with a thrust, pushed her away from him and lightly tapped his rapier on her bum.

Her eyes blazed with fury.

So he obliged himself again. A very unladylike roar erupted from the woman’s throat as her rapier whistled dangerously close to his face.

Rebellious tendrils of her fiery red hair sprang out of her tight braid, framing her ivory face, now flushed with exertion from the bout. And the flame in her sapphire eyes held him captive, a grave distraction — in a true duel to the death, he would have already lost his life. In this case, the price was much dearer. But Anthony knew it was too late, for he had long since forfeited his heart.

“Point!” The old man’s announcement rang out an instant before he felt the sting of her blade, drawing Anthony abruptly from his trance.

He caught the haughty smirk gracing her lips for the briefest of moments. So she wanted to play, did she? Her obvious joy at besting him, made him want to strip her of the rest of her remaining clothes. That would teach the minx a lesson.

Again they engaged. When the lady attacked, Anthony gave way. When he aggressed, Bridget retreated, their steps as well timed as the most complicated of dances. The parry of blows and the singing of their rapiers through the air — the palindrome to which their hearts beat in rhythm.

“Lady Bridget,” he began as he fought off another of her hostile onslaughts. His breath was labored and perspiration soaked through his shirt. He wasn’t sure what was causing him more distress, the lust pounding through his blood or the fear of accidentally stabbing the woman he wanted as his for eternity.

“Point!” Lord Travis bellowed again, interrupting Anthony’s train of thought.

He was losing pitifully. He never lost. The thought of such a desperate humiliation — to lose to a girl — it was repugnant to his every male sense. If Lord Travis said point one more time in reference to the lady he was going to throw his rapier at the man.

Anthony glanced at Lady Bridget, noting the smile on her lips. A shot of adrenaline surged through him and he began his attack, forcing his opponent back while keeping his gaze locked on hers and allowing a smack of hubris to play on his own lips.

Bridget drew back, parrying his assault with a single raised eyebrow as if amused but with not so much as a hint of concern. Her casual defense disconcerted him, but he pressed forward, rearing her into a wall with every ounce of his remaining strength.

Their rapiers deadlocked, and Anthony leaned forward, using the advantage of weight to hold her there, unable to retaliate or regain her position. She pushed and fought against him, but he wouldn’t relent. He could feel the pounding of her heart against his arm, and the desperate grappling for air as her chest rose and fell with her ragged breath.

His gaze dropped to her parted lips and felt himself drawn toward them by an undeniable force. Still her eyes held no fear, but all the more a fire danced behind the deep blue crystals threatening to consume him if he came nearer.

Mere inches from her sculpted lips, his breath ragged with gasps for air, he whispered, “Do you yield?”

Her gaze bore into him as if tunneling through to his very soul, and he knew he could keep himself from her no longer, no matter their agreement.

Somewhere in the haze beyond the universe that held only the two of them, he thought perhaps he heard someone shouting instructions in Latin. Alas, he saw only the lady before him trapped in his arms, so the necessary proficiency to translate the words was far beyond his conscious reach in that moment.