Guarded Heart Read Free

from such a charmed circle had been his own choice, made on the day he left England’s green shores, but that did not make the exile less galling.
    â€œWho is this man you hate so much that you would take such risks?” he asked, his voice flat. “How did he wrong you?”
    â€œThat is my affair.” She lifted her chin with a quick movement that caused the gaslight from the nearby wall sconce to shimmer over her hair, highlight her cheekbones, pool in the delicate hollow of her throat.
    â€œStill, it might be useful to know whether he is some bumbling fool or a swordsman of note. To meet the first might leave you some hope of victory. The other would be suicide.”
    â€œMy need is to be schooled for the meeting. The outcome need not concern you.”
    He could think of many things in which he would like to school her during evening lessons held in private, none of which involved a sword. At the same time, he was disturbed by the fervor of the impulse. He was not prone to wayward fantasies. A man who could not control his imagination was a danger to himself on the dueling field.
    â€œYou are mistaken,” he answered. “I have the reputation of my atelier to consider. And I refuse to be responsible for the death of an innocent.”
    She opened her lips to answer. Then she closed them again, compressing the soft curves in a tight line. Her hands clenched on her fan, and the tearing sound as its painted silk pulled away from the ebony sticks seemed loud in the quiet. Drawing a deep breath that lifted the gentle curves of her breasts a fraction from their silken prison, she looked down at the damage, then smoothed the tear with a trembling finger. “I see. You will not help me.”
    â€œI regret most sincerely…” he began.
    â€œPerhaps you can name another who might be suitable.”
    Reluctance gripped Gavin. He could name a dozen others, though only one or two he might trust to impart the skill the lady required without taking advantage. The maîtres d’armes of the Passage de la Bourse were honorable in their fashion, but numbered few saints among them.
    â€œOn second thought, don’t bother,” she said, tilting her chin. “Monsieur Novgorodcev will be all too happy to instruct me. I was persuaded you might have a different level of skill, perhaps more finesse compared to what he might have acquired during training at a military academy, but his will have to suffice.” Swinging away from him with her heavy gown rustling as it swirled over her petticoats, she began to walk away.
    â€œWait.” The request was dragged from him, graveling his voice with reluctance.
    She paused, turned slowly with brows lifted above eyes as black as a winter storm yet burning with life and, perhaps, hope. “Monsieur?”
    To agree was madness. He would regret it, without question. What drove him was not entirely his annoyance with the Russian or any doubt of her safety with him or any other sword master. The fact was that he was bored. He required stimulation, new interest, new purpose.
    His male friends in the city had settled into marital bliss in the past year or two, and though they invited him to their homes, he was far too aware of being outside their family circles to be comfortable. The Brotherhood, that loose collection of swordsmen organized some four years earlier to offer protection to women and children who received none under the shaky legal system of a city divided into three separate municipalities, had dwindled to a mere shadow of its former self. The past activities of the original trio—Rio, the Conde de Lérida, the Irishman Caid O’Neill and Gavin’s half brother Nicholas Pasquale, along with himself—had met with such success that few incidents now required their intervention. It seemed the challenge posed by Madame Faucher might be an outlet for his bottled energy.
    Then there was the lingering contempt in the