His Unsuitable Viscountess. Michelle Styles

lord.’

      Benjamin Grayson, the third Viscount Whittonstall, glowered at the black-shrouded creature standing before him, daring to lecture him on the inadequacy of his grip and challenging him to a duel. Did she actually think she’d win, or was she merely trying to prolong the time she was here, hoping to encounter his cousin?

      If so, she was in for a shock. He’d defeat her in short order and the price of her defeat would be her departure.

      The larger question, though, was why she was here at all. Had his cousin ignored the appointment, knowing it was going to be trouble, or had he truly forgotten?

      He knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was about more than the sword Mrs Blackwell defiantly held in her hand. She had gone beyond the bounds of decorum to stay, and there was a faint air of desperation in her manner.

      If he were a gambling man he’d be willing to wager a considerable sum that Mrs Blackwell’s need to see Viv had to do with the wretched state of Viv’s finances.

      Viv and he had been close as boys, but had grown apart. His aunt’s latest missive had entreated him to come and discover what the true situation was. The trip made a welcome relief from his mother and her increasingly strong hints about his duty to provide an heir and preserve the dynasty. She ignored the fact that he had tried once and lost his wife. Tragic accident? Maybe one day he’d believe it. Maybe one day he’d stop blaming himself.

      What he’d discovered up north gave him pause. Viv needed funds. Unless something was done it was only a matter of time before the bailiffs came knocking and Viv had to flee the country. And he did not intend that to happen. Viv had helped Ben in his hour of need at Eton. Fighting his corner. Ben would repay the favour now. He’d solve the mystery before Viv woke from his port-induced stupor and teach Mrs Blackwell a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget into the bargain.

      ‘Shall we have at it, Mrs Blackwell?’ he asked softly.

      ‘Whenever you are ready.’

      Their swords clashed. He parried easily and did a counter-lunge, blocking her move. She took a step backwards. A tiny frown appeared between her brows and she slightly readjusted her grip.

      ‘Not as easy as you thought, Mrs Blackwell?’ he said in a withering tone. ‘You will see my grip needs no improvement. I am not a swordsman who wishes to have his sword disguised as a walking stick or festooned with frills, but a swordsman who spends hours practising my skill.’

      ‘You are worse than I imagined,’ she replied with the faintest trace of a smile. ‘Do try to put up a fight, Lord Whittonstall.’

      She half-turned and countered his move with a parry, forcing Ben on the back foot. He missed his stroke and it was only through sheer instinct that he blocked her sword.

      ‘You do need some pointers. You have become complacent,’ she said with a tiny laugh.

      Ben stared at her, seeing her for the first time as a person rather than as an object of pity or a woman to be indulged. A brain existed behind those grey eyes. She knew how to fence and in all likelihood was better than him. He rejected the thought. As good as he was.

      ‘Complacency? An interesting accusation,’ he said finally, moving a step closer to where she stood, ready for the next onslaught. Their swords crossed. They circled around each other. Their breath intertwined. Their faces were no more than a few inches apart. He was suddenly aware of the magnificence of her grey eyes and the determination of her chin.

      ‘But a true one. You play with skill but lack the heart. Every truly good fencer combines skill with a zest for life. Do you know where your heart is?’

      Ben missed his step. He knew exactly where his heart lay—buried in a coffin with his wife and their baby who had never breathed. He remembered everything about the day when they had buried Alice and he had stood at the graveside, watching as the dirt slowly buried the coffin, listening to the sounds of sorrow, knowing that he’d never be whole again. Even the heavens had wept for his loss. He accepted that, but this—this had become about proving this woman wrong.

      ‘I beg to differ. This has nothing to do with hearts and everything to do with skill.’

      ‘An observation. But to truly rank among the greats you must fence with passion and fire.’

      He redoubled his efforts, to show her that she was wrong. All it would take was his considerable technical skill.

      She twisted her hand at the last possible instant. Sharp and to the right. His sword slid harmlessly past her shoulder, barely ruffling the black tendril of hair that had snaked loose from her bun.

      He clenched his jaw. A mistake could happen to anyone at any time. The unpredictability was one of the things he loved about swordplay. But he had enough confidence in his ability to recover.

      He concentrated on his next stroke. It was only a matter of time before her luck ran out and she made a mistake. Over-confidence would be her undoing.

      She parried and then paused. Her long lashes swept down over her eyes, making dark smudges on her bright pink cheeks. The exertion of the match had transformed Mrs Blackwell from a colourless mouse into a vibrant creature.

      He missed a step and barely recovered before he was forced to retreat backwards. He glanced over his shoulder as the table dug into his thighs. But he used it to propel himself forward and forced her on to the back foot. This time it was her sword which missed.

      ‘You appear to be losing. Do you wish to ask for quarter?’ he asked.

      ‘Never!’

      Ben stared at Mrs Blackwell. A series of ringlets had formed about her forehead, making her appear far more womanly than he’d first considered. She might have the advantage now, but he would regain it. It was a matter of concentrating on the sword rather than on her parted lips or her grey eyes. No more distractions.

      ‘As you wish … I believe the time has come to end our bout.’

      ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

      She lunged forward, twisting the sword and performing a perfect moulinet.

      Ben moved his arm to block it a heartbeat too late. His grip shifted. He clung on—barely.

      With a twist of her sword and the faintest hint of a smile she completed the move.

      His sword arched out of his hand, landing embedded in her hideous coal scuttle of a bonnet.

       Chapter Two

      Ben stared at the sword where it lay. Disbelief swiftly followed by horror coursed through him. He went over the moves in his mind. It should have been impossible, but the evidence stared at him, quivering in the black bonnet. Mrs Blackwell had not boasted. He’d lost his sword.

      He glanced at her, ready for tears or possibly hysterics at the loss of a bonnet. A small infectious bubble of laughter escaped from her covered mouth, swiftly followed by another larger one.

      To Ben’s surprise, a laugh loud and long exploded from him in response to the joyous sound of Mrs Blackwell’s mirth. The sound made him pause. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spontaneously laughed with a woman. Probably before Alice died. He hadn’t laughed much since then, and certainly not this all-consuming belly laugh.

      ‘Oh, dear.’ She dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It couldn’t have happened to a nicer bonnet. You should have seen your expression when the sword flew out of your hand. Priceless.’

      He sobered immediately. He’d misjudged her and over-estimated his own skill. He pulled his sword out of the now ruined bonnet. ‘I owe you a bonnet and an apology. I was insufferably rude and pompous. It was uncalled for.’

      She shook her head. ‘The bonnet was far from my favourite, but it seemed appropriate to wear it. You owe me nothing and I thank you for the apology.’

      ‘Appropriate to wear?’ Ben eyed the