His Unsuitable Viscountess. Michelle Styles

an important business call.’

      Ben regarded her upturned face, flushed from their exertions. Her eyes sparkled and her lips shone the colour of port. Mrs Blackwell was far more attractive than he’d first considered. He should send her away right now. It was the correct thing to do. But she intrigued him. He wanted to learn her secret. Why was Mrs Blackwell desperate, and why was Viv the only person who could help her?

      ‘Viv remains, alas, unavailable. Can I assist you with this mysterious matter?’

      Eleanor gulped. Lord Whittonstall’s words pounded through her brain—can I assist you? She wasn’t even going to think about confessing her predicament to Lord Whittonstall. Or asking for his help. She had nothing to offer him.

      ‘It must be Sir Vivian,’ Eleanor said, her stomach clenching. She hated the way she felt as if an opportunity had slipped past. ‘It has to be him and no other.’

      ‘You are doomed to disappointment.’

      ‘I doubt that.’

      ‘Then we must agree to disagree.’

      Eleanor bit her lip. She had said the wrong thing—reminding him about the meeting, about why she was here. That moment of camaraderie and laughter they had shared vanished. And she wanted it back. She had to find a way before he manoeuvred her out through the door and her chance to ask Sir Vivian slipped away for good.

      ‘Shall we fight again?’ she asked as brightly as she could. ‘Best out of three? Give you a chance to prove that it was luck on my part?’

      ‘I know when to admit my mistakes.’ He raised his rapier in a gesture of respect.

      She returned the gesture, ending the bout. She searched her mind for another excuse to stay, but she seemed fresh out of ideas.

      ‘I must congratulate you, Mrs Blackwell. You are a worthy opponent. And your swords are far more than mere decoration for the well-dressed gentleman.’

      He took a step closer to her. Her sword would have dropped to the ground if he had not taken it from her slack grasp. He placed it beside his.

      ‘We won’t need these.’

      ‘Yes. I believe I have proved my point.’ Her voice sounded husky to her ears.

      He stood a few inches taller than she was, but not too tall. His eyes were not coal-black, as she’d originally supposed, but full of a thousand different colours from the deepest black to light grey and every colour in between.

      Her heart pounded in her ears and she knew she was far too breathless, far too aware of him as a man rather than as an opponent.

      ‘You are a far better swordswoman than I considered possible.’ His voice held a new rich note that flowed over her, warming her to the tips of her toes.

      ‘Fancy that. You admitting defeat so easily.’ She attempted a little laugh but it came out far too high. She winced and studied the folds of his cravat. Intently.

      ‘I never hesitate to admit my mistakes. It is part of my charm.’

      Charm? He was trying to flirt with her after she’d bested him? Eleanor struggled to get her breathing under control.

      ‘Is it?’ she whispered through aching lips.

      This had been all about proving that Lord Whittonstall had underestimated her rather than a prelude to flirtation. But right now all she could think about was him and the way his lips moved. All she had to do was move forward a pace and she’d be in his arms.

      She lifted her eyes.

      Their gaze locked. He lifted a hand and touched her forearm.

      Somewhere a door banged, bringing her back to reality.

      Eleanor jumped backwards. Shocked. She had nearly stepped straight into Lord Whittonstall’s arms and destroyed everything she held dear.

      Her proposal to Sir Vivian needed to happen. It was her best chance of securing Moles’ future. Everything would be lost if she was discovered in this man’s arms. Her employees—the men who literally sweated over an open fire to make the swords—depended on her getting this right. Saving the company. This marriage was not about her; it was about giving them a future. Guilt washed over her. How could she have forgotten what was at stake for a single instant?

      He stood staring at her, not moving a muscle.

      She bent her head and pretended great interest in the hilt of the sword. Pointing to it, trying to get back to some semblance of normality, she said, ‘Lord Whittonstall, as you can see, I had the correct grip and the sword has stayed in my hand.’

      ‘Is fencing all you can think about?’

      His voice sent a warm tingle coursing down her spine. She ruthlessly ignored it. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t interested in her. Men never were. If her stepfather were to be believed she possessed no sense of refinement and all the charm of a rogue bear.

      ‘It will do for now.’

      ‘And for later?’

      She tried not to think about Lord Whittonstall drawing her into his arms and kissing her thoroughly. She’d accepted her fate a long time ago.

      ‘Are you seeking a rematch, Lord Whittonstall? A chance to prove you can learn from your mistakes?’ She lifted her head.

      His dark gaze held hers. ‘When the time is right. I want to see if there is anything else I need to learn.’

      She found it impossible to look away. He was going to kiss her. Every fibre of her being told her so. Against everything logical, he was going to do it. He was going to actually kiss her and she wanted him to.

      ‘Do you believe me now … about the grip?’ Her voice sounded far too breathless and reedy. ‘How that subtle change can transform your prospects of success?’

      ‘You have challenged a number of notions today. And I will accept your word on the swords. I had misjudged them.’

      His hand smoothed a curl from her forehead before brushing her skin—a feather-light touch, but one that sent an unfamiliar jolt of heat through her. She wanted him to lean forward and … She flicked her tongue over her lips.

      ‘What is going on here?’ a high-pitched male voice asked, and she froze. ‘Why wasn’t I informed that there was swordplay in the library? My library?’

      ‘Nothing is injured, Viv. All things in moderation,’ Lord Whittonstall said, smoothly moving away from her.

      ‘Yes, but my Ormolu vases! My carpet! I might not read, but I like my books to look as if I do.’

      Lord Whittonstall’s dark eyes shone with mischief. ‘Everything survived except for Mrs Blackwell’s bonnet—and that was her own fault.’

      Lord Whittonstall retrieved his black velvet cut-away coat and put it on, becoming utterly correct again. The moment of intimacy slid away as if it had never been.

      Eleanor struggled to fill her lungs. Saved from scandal. She was here for a purpose, a business transaction. Not some sort of tryst where she’d end up humiliated. Her hands shook slightly.

      She should be relieved, but a stab of disappointment went through her. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t going to kiss her.

      She shook her head. Desiring to be kissed had no part in her plans. All it did was make her look as ridiculous as her unlamented bonnet.

      She grabbed her ruined bonnet and twisted it. One of the feathers snapped in two.

      ‘Is this what you mean by moderation in all things, Ben—duelling in my library?’

      Eleanor half turned and saw her true quarry—Sir Vivian Clarence. Her heart sank. With reddened eyes and a sallow cast to its skin, his face showed distinct signs of hard living. An odour of stale wine hung about him—a stench that reminded her of her stepfather. Worse still were