Guarded Heart Read Free Page B

Gavin Blackford knew her final purpose. And he did not know the whole of it.
    â€œI should warn you, he will call tomorrow evening,” Ariadne continued after a moment.
    â€œTo begin, you mean? So soon? Parbleu, what an impression you must have made!”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œNot only is he most selective in his clients, but the waiting list is long for those eager to face him on the fencing strip.”
    Ariadne allowed herself a cynical smile. “Perhaps it’s the novelty.”
    â€œOr he could anticipate a novel reward,” Maurelle said with an amused curl of her full lips.
    â€œHe will be disappointed.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know. You are a widow and he is made to a marvel, yes? The hours these swordsmen spend on fencing strips make them sublime of form, with wide shoulders and firm thighs far beyond those of other gentlemen. And I’m sure he’s the soul of discretion.”
    â€œI…have no time for games of that nature.” Ariadne ignored as best she could the small, hot thrill that rippled through her at the thought of Gavin Blackford’s expectations, the jangling of her nerve endings like a careless hand sweeping across harp strings. “Besides, it’s you everyone will be talking about if it becomes known that he visits with any frequency.”
    Maurelle tilted her head as the amusement faded from her eyes. “At first, possibly. But then a more likely explanation may occur to the gossips.” She paused. “Are you quite sure you know what you’re doing, chère? It’s one thing to take up a Bohemian attitude, but quite another to forfeit your good name for a caprice.”
    The warning was gentle yet serious. Maurelle should understand the problem as well as anyone, Ariadne knew, since she had performed the difficult balancing act of living freely for years while maintaining her good repute. Married at a young age to man much her senior, she had embraced her eventual widowhood with gratitude and a vow to cling to it. Though careful never to transgress upon the conventions too far, she entertained a wide circle of friends, many of whom, like the maîtres d’armes, were forbidden entrance to the more conventional households of aristocratic New Orleans. Some whispered that she had at least once taken a sword master as her lover, but the arrangement had apparently not been allowed to disrupt her peace or her life.
    It was in Paris that Ariadne and Maurelle had met three years before. Maurelle had been in the city on her yearly pilgrimage to visit relatives and replenish her armoire, while Ariadne had just begun to go about in society at the insistence of Jean Marc, her husband of only a year who had been ill even then with the consumption which killed him. Their paths had crossed at some soiree, and Maurelle had asked permission to call upon her.
    During that afternoon visit, she had received from Maurelle the story of the house party at Maison Blanche, her country plantation where Ariadne’s foster brother, Francis Dorelle, had been killed in a duel. It had been a tearful occasion, but the beginning of their companionship. That she and Maurelle were both from Louisiana, both of independent natures and both victims, in a sense, of arranged marriages to older men, made common ground between them. They had become fast friends, often providing necessary chaperonage for each other.
    Even after Jean Marc died and Ariadne had retired from society in the manner required by her two years of mourning, Maurelle had visited with her in Paris, keeping her current with all the tittle-tattle of New Orleans—which lady had given birth to a child that looked nothing like her husband, which was known to be traveling in Europe at her husband’s command, what gentleman was keeping the latest ballerina from the Theatre d’Orleans. They decided that, when the time was right—when Jean Marc’s estate was settled and the mourning