Guarded Heart Read Free Page A

lady’s eyes. Vanity was not, he felt sure, his most obvious sin, but he was used to at least a modicum of respect for his deadly skill if not for his breeding. To adjust her opinion seemed a worthy ambition. Above all, however, was his need to know why she was so desperate to be instructed in the art of swordplay, particularly by him.
    â€œI will attend you here tomorrow evening, madame. If Maurelle, Madame Herriot, can arrange a fencing strip, I will supply the remaining equipment.”
    Something bright and fiercely triumphant flashed in her eyes before she lowered her lashes to conceal it. “Excellent. I will await you, monsieur.”
    She turned and moved away with languid grace. Gavin watched her go while the blood sang in his veins. It was not only admiration and anticipation that crowded his chest, however. Layered with them was an inexplicable and icy trickle of dread.

Two
    A riadne put half the room and a large portion of Maurelle’s guests between her and the English sword master before she turned her head to look back at him. He had not been at all as she expected. His manner was polished, and his person as well, creating an image of aesthetic refinement at odds with her view of his chosen profession. The fit of his blue frock coat and gray pantaloons was impeccable and his waistcoat of embroidered silk was notable without being ostentatious. His hair had the sheen of old gold coins. His brows, a shade or two darker than his hair, were thick without being heavy and his face was neatly shaven in its entirety, minus the whiskers or bits of side hair affected by most gentlemen these days. His boots had a glassy sheen, his buttons and fobs were plain yet well-polished. In short, he was burnished to such a gloss that it seemed a deliberate attempt to deflect unwanted attention or else a facade behind which he might hide his true nature.
    Then there were his eyes, as blue as the seas of the Indies, vivid with intelligence and an intimation of mockery for everything and everyone around him, yet shadowed as if by hidden shoals. He had seen too much of what she thought and felt, she feared, though how that could be she could not imagine. An instant later, his face had turned impassive, closed to human emotion while remaining as compelling to look at as that of some powerful angel sent from heaven by God’s displeasure. The memory of how he scrutinized her, as if able to plumb her every secret, chilled her so a shiver ran down her spine with a prickling of goose bumps, making her knees feel almost unhinged beneath her gown.
    She had approached Gavin Blackford and emerged from the encounter with his promise for what she required. The die was cast.
    â€œSo, ma chère, the English sword master agreed?”
    The question came in Maurelle’s rather sultry voice as she rustled to a halt beside Ariadne. In an evening ensemble of pale gold taffeta with cream lace and a parure of citrines and diamonds, she wore her hair in braids placed to emphasize the prominent cheekbones that prevented her face from being entirely rounded. A full-blown camellia in style, like those of creamy white she wore in her hair, she was comfortable in her curvaceous embonpoint, and majestic with it. The lady was a widow and, as with Ariadne, comfortable with that circumstance as well.
    Ariadne gave her a wan smile. “With some persuasion.”
    â€œAmazing. I would have wagered anything you cared to name on his refusal.”
    â€œI thought the same for a few moments.”
    â€œWhat convinced him?”
    Ariadne looked at her fan, folding it to conceal the damage she had inflicted. “I wish I knew.”
    It was as well she had watched him from a distance to take his measure before asking that Maurelle present him, she was sure. Because of it, she had let him know more of her purpose than she had intended, perhaps more than was wise. Maurelle, and even Sasha, thought her whim was to play at fencing. Only she and