His Unsuitable Viscountess. Michelle Styles

      She could not imagine why she had ever thought he might be a suitable candidate.

      How could she have forgotten his voice and his mannerisms? Why had she focused solely on his offer?

      She could not even imagine asking him to escort her across the road, let alone become her husband and all that entailed.

      It simply showed what a foolhardy scheme it had been in the first place. It should make her feel better, but somehow it didn’t. Her problem remained. She needed a husband desperately—but not that desperately. She wasn’t going to suffer her mother’s fate.

      Eleanor gave Lord Whittonstall a panicked look. What if she begged him to marry her? He was a widower. They would have kissed if Sir Vivian hadn’t come in.

      Instantly she rejected the idea—why would he accept her, or her proposition? And to be turned down would be far too humiliating. She had little desire to know if that moment when she’d thought he was about to kiss her had been real or not.

      Neat footwork was required here. There was no way she could put her proposition to either of them. There had to be another way to find a bridegroom. Giving up and allowing her stepfather and Algernon Forecastle to win was not an option.

      It was there on the edge of her brain, just waiting. She kept her eyes on the stone floor and concentrated, but her mind remained frustratingly blank. All she could think about was how Lord Whittonstall’s breath had fanned her cheek. She needed to return to being the sensible businesslike Mrs Blackwell this instant.

      ‘I was merely attempting to see what was so wonderful about Moles swords. Mrs Blackwell has made me a convert.’

      She glanced up, startled. Lord Whittonstall made a bow and held out the sword. His eyes challenged her. The time to deliver the sword had arrived. She had to explain why she’d been so insistent that the interview take place.

      Eleanor put her hand to her throat but no words came out.

      ‘The sword is a gift from you, cousin?’ Sir Vivian’s cheeks became tinged with pink. ‘You should have said, Ben. I thought you only wanted to berate me for spending my money like water and you’ve bought me a top-drawer sword. We will have that talk—the one I have been avoiding. I need to do you the courtesy of listening.’

      ‘Not from me,’ Lord Whittonstall said, inclining his head. ‘From Mrs Blackwell. But her purpose in giving it remains a mystery. She insists on speaking to you and only you. The mystery has me flummoxed.’

      ‘From Moles … for your birthday,’ Eleanor said quickly, before she gave in to her impulse to flee. This whole thing had turned into a nightmare. How could had she have blocked Sir Vivian’s voice from her memory? She should have remembered it from their previous meetings. And the fact he drank port to excess!

      ‘But you were duelling in my library!’ Sir Vivian squeaked, turning a strange shade of puce.

      ‘Lord Whittonstall believed that Moles’ swords were mere flash.’ Eleanor kept her voice steady. If she skated around the reason why she was even here at Broomhaugh Hall she might be able to think up an acceptable excuse, something she could believe in. Anything but the unvarnished truth. ‘I sought to change his view. I regret that you were caused even a moment’s discomfort about the contents of your library.’

      Sir Vivian pursed his lips. ‘And did you succeed in changing his view? My cousin’s views are notoriously steadfast.’

      ‘I relieved him of his sword. It became embedded in my bonnet.’ She held up her bonnet and wiggled her fingers through the gash.

      ‘Ben lost his sword?’ Sir Vivian shook his head. ‘Impossible. You are seeking to make fun of me.’

      ‘But true,’ Lord Whittonstall commented. ‘Mrs Blackwell accomplished it, proving the value of her sword design and the defects of my sword grip. I humbly apologise, Viv, for thinking your choice of sword was more to do with fashion than function.’

      A warm glow filled Eleanor at Lord Whittonstall’s unexpected words.

      Sir Vivian raised his quizzing glass. ‘Ben is the best swordsman I know. Equal to the great Henry Angelo. The last time you lost a sword was at Eton, Ben.’

      ‘Just afterwards. In Bath. Exaggeration does no one credit, Viv.’

      Lord Whittonstall made a bow while his eyes danced. Eleanor wondered why she had thought them cold and lifeless. Or lacking in passion.

      ‘Mrs Blackwell will tell you that I made elemental mistakes with my grip and anyone who knew could exploit the weakness. Mrs Blackwell does possess more than a modicum of skill.’

      ‘I saw an opportunity and took it. Luck.’ Eleanor shrugged. ‘Once you correct your grip you will be a formidable opponent.’

      ‘Luck had nothing to do with it. It will be the sword.’ Sir Vivian rubbed his hands together. ‘Will I have a chance of beating my cousin as well?’

      ‘It is Moles’ latest design,’ Eleanor said, suddenly knowing what she had to say—and why. ‘It combines practicality with a certain flair for the discerning gentleman, such as yourself.’

      ‘Why give it to me for my birthday now? My birthday isn’t for another two months.’

      Eleanor winced. That long? ‘I know what … what an influential figure you are. How people look up to you and admire your taste. I hope you will help spread the word about our new design, and I wanted to take the opportunity of your thirtieth birthday to ask for your assistance … with the matter. Personally. While you are still up here in the north. Rather than sending a note which might get mislaid when you are in London.’

      ‘You want me to use this sword and give your creation the exposure it needs? Like the great Beau does for his tailors?’

      ‘Yes, precisely.’ Eleanor kept her head up as sweat started to trickle down the back of her neck. He’d accepted her explanation. There was no need to linger. She could go and never see Lord Whittonstall again. Never know if he would have kissed her or if it had been a figment of her imagination. ‘I know how much influence you have with those who really matter. A number of people have mentioned your name when they have purchased one of our swords.’

      She breathed slightly easier. Not exactly a lie, but not the whole truth either. Sir Vivian had been influential in getting some custom in.

      Sir Vivian turned the sword over in his hands. His cheeks went quite pink. ‘You best be on guard, Ben. I shall beat you every time now. No one will believe a harridan like Mrs Blackwell gave me a sword! But she has, and she has entrusted me to spread the word.’

      Lord Whittonstall coughed. Pointedly.

      Sir Vivian hung his head. ‘Sometimes my poor tongue gets ahead of my brain, my dear Mrs Blackwell. Far too much port last night. You could never be a harridan. It is simply your reputation that is quite fearsome. It is not every day one encounters a woman sword-maker—a woman who forges swords with a delicate hand.’

      Eleanor forced a smile. So she had a reputation as a harridan? At least she’d been saved from suffering the biggest humiliation of her life. All she wanted to do now was slink off and lick her wounded pride. Tomorrow she’d puzzle out some suitable man to marry her. ‘Now that I have said my little piece, I should go.’

      Lord Whittonstall’s large hand clamped about her elbow, pinning her to her spot. ‘And this is all you came to say?’

      ‘Yes. As Sir Vivian has quite clearly said, he would not have believed it if I left the sword. I had to have his agreement, and now I have it.’

      His gaze became more hooded and a muscle jumped in his jaw. Eleanor had the uncomfortable feeling that he saw through her tale. That he’d heard her rehearsing her proposal when she’d thought she was alone.

      ‘And you will show me the move that bested my cousin?’ Sir Vivian asked. ‘Before you depart?’

      ‘I