his knife ripping through cloth and flesh, heat coursing through him, infusing his muscles with liquid energy. Ah, this I remember, this I am; I have not lost myself after all.
He had fought off attackers on other docks, and on the docks of other ships on other seas, and he knew just what to do. He sprang up into a half-crouch, his blade arcing, forcing his enemies away. It was no time for subtlety, for graceful thrust and parry. This was pure demonic combat, an anarchy of blades and bodies. His true element.
By the time his shipmates arrived panting, daggers drawn, the light was gone entirely and the dock was slippery with blood. Two of the bandits had fled, and the third lay unconscious on the dock. John loosed his death grip on the saddlebag, let his first mate take it, let his steward peel his fingers from around the knife and put it away. He nudged the bandit with his foot. "Tell your employer," he said, then paused to drag in a breath, "that I passed that test too."
CHAPTER TWO
May 25, 1818
Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book.
He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink.
Love's Labor Lost IV, ii.
I have spent most of my life like this, Jessica Seton thought, sitting here on this settee, waiting for two men to determine the rest of my life. It was an exaggeration, of course, if a forgivable one. Long ago she had waited here in the hallway while a solicitor read her father's will to her uncle, and three years ago when a colonel from the Horse Guards came with news from Waterloo.
Now another afternoon of anxiety and dread. Impatient suddenly, she slipped off her shoes and in her stockinged feet crossed to the door that shut her out of her uncle's study. She rested her temple against the cool wood and held her breath. She could hear nothing but a low rumble of voices. Consigning convention to perdition, she reached for the knob. But it turned under her fingers, and she stepped back quickly as Damien Blake emerged.
She could tell from his brooding face that his suit, like the others, had been unsuccessful. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the drawing room, closing the door behind her and leaning back on it, near despair. "He said no, didn't he?"
Damien was a poet, and measured his words for sound and sense before he spoke them. "That is so." Two beats, and then rest of the line. "He will not give his consent."
"Did he tell you why?"
Damien inclined his head to the side, considered this. He was a radical also, and so etched irony into his next verse. "A man granted such authority need have no reason to use it."
Jessica closed her eyes for a moment and gathered her tattered temper back together. "Did you try to persuade him?"
"Persuade him?" The radical vanished, and the marquess's son regained control of Damien's features. "Certainly not."
"Damien, oh, what did you say, then, if you didn't try to change his mind?"
Suddenly he swept her into his arms, protective and ardent at once. "I told him that true love needed no consent, and we would marry without it."
"You didn't really say that," One look up at his proud noble face told her he did. She wrenched herself free of him. "Oh, Damien, this isn't Romeo and Juliet! We can't marry without his consent."
Damien withdrew sulkily to the couch, assuming a picturesque pose with head back and arms flung out. In the dusty sunlight he shone like an Elgin Marble. "You are of age. I am of age. We can marry tomorrow, if we desire. No man can gainsay us."
"That man can gainsay my inheritance. Damien, if you would just have tried to convince him that you care enough—"
"It should be self-evident."
That this was true did not make it right. She halted her pacing in front of the couch and regarded him with exasperation. "Probably my uncle thinks that the perfect suitor would argue his case."
"Probably," Damien suggested, ironic again, "he thinks no one is the perfect suitor. No one yet living, that is." He
He had fought off attackers on other docks, and on the docks of other ships on other seas, and he knew just what to do. He sprang up into a half-crouch, his blade arcing, forcing his enemies away. It was no time for subtlety, for graceful thrust and parry. This was pure demonic combat, an anarchy of blades and bodies. His true element.
By the time his shipmates arrived panting, daggers drawn, the light was gone entirely and the dock was slippery with blood. Two of the bandits had fled, and the third lay unconscious on the dock. John loosed his death grip on the saddlebag, let his first mate take it, let his steward peel his fingers from around the knife and put it away. He nudged the bandit with his foot. "Tell your employer," he said, then paused to drag in a breath, "that I passed that test too."
CHAPTER TWO
May 25, 1818
Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book.
He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink.
Love's Labor Lost IV, ii.
I have spent most of my life like this, Jessica Seton thought, sitting here on this settee, waiting for two men to determine the rest of my life. It was an exaggeration, of course, if a forgivable one. Long ago she had waited here in the hallway while a solicitor read her father's will to her uncle, and three years ago when a colonel from the Horse Guards came with news from Waterloo.
Now another afternoon of anxiety and dread. Impatient suddenly, she slipped off her shoes and in her stockinged feet crossed to the door that shut her out of her uncle's study. She rested her temple against the cool wood and held her breath. She could hear nothing but a low rumble of voices. Consigning convention to perdition, she reached for the knob. But it turned under her fingers, and she stepped back quickly as Damien Blake emerged.
She could tell from his brooding face that his suit, like the others, had been unsuccessful. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the drawing room, closing the door behind her and leaning back on it, near despair. "He said no, didn't he?"
Damien was a poet, and measured his words for sound and sense before he spoke them. "That is so." Two beats, and then rest of the line. "He will not give his consent."
"Did he tell you why?"
Damien inclined his head to the side, considered this. He was a radical also, and so etched irony into his next verse. "A man granted such authority need have no reason to use it."
Jessica closed her eyes for a moment and gathered her tattered temper back together. "Did you try to persuade him?"
"Persuade him?" The radical vanished, and the marquess's son regained control of Damien's features. "Certainly not."
"Damien, oh, what did you say, then, if you didn't try to change his mind?"
Suddenly he swept her into his arms, protective and ardent at once. "I told him that true love needed no consent, and we would marry without it."
"You didn't really say that," One look up at his proud noble face told her he did. She wrenched herself free of him. "Oh, Damien, this isn't Romeo and Juliet! We can't marry without his consent."
Damien withdrew sulkily to the couch, assuming a picturesque pose with head back and arms flung out. In the dusty sunlight he shone like an Elgin Marble. "You are of age. I am of age. We can marry tomorrow, if we desire. No man can gainsay us."
"That man can gainsay my inheritance. Damien, if you would just have tried to convince him that you care enough—"
"It should be self-evident."
That this was true did not make it right. She halted her pacing in front of the couch and regarded him with exasperation. "Probably my uncle thinks that the perfect suitor would argue his case."
"Probably," Damien suggested, ironic again, "he thinks no one is the perfect suitor. No one yet living, that is." He
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