The Complete Regency Bestsellers And One Winters Collection. Rebecca Winters

those broad shoulders and long legs. The errant thought caught her off guard. After years of assessing men from a purely athletic standpoint as fencers, she seldom spared a thought for the more sensual applications of the male physique. Apparently, she was sparing a thought for it now. A shiver, wicked and delicious, shot down her spine as the Englishman moved in a tight circle around Anjou just out of reach of the man’s foil. It was easy to imagine the confident press of his hand at a woman’s back, of that hand guiding her skilfully through the crowded floor of a waltz. What woman wouldn’t want to be led out on to the floor by such a partner, his body pressed ever so slightly to hers, their bodies attuned to the subtle pressures and nuances of the other?

      She had to stop. Now she was being fanciful. It had been three years since she’d had a serious suitor or even been interested in one, nor was there any time for one at the moment with the tournament looming. She gave herself a mental scold. The salle and Antoine were her life now. Until that changed, there was no room for romantic games. A sharp movement from the floor refocused her attention. She’d been so engrossed in her little tangent of a fantasy she nearly missed it—the moment when the Englishman’s blade slipped past Julian’s guard and his buttoned tip pierced the master in the chest.

      Julian swept him a bow, acknowledging the defeat, but his face was hard when he took off the mask and retreated to his corner to wipe the sweat from his brow. The Englishman did the same, pulling off the mask and tossing it aside, revealing a face a woman could study for hours and still not discover the whole of it; there was the strong, sharp length of his nose dominating the centre, the dark brows and long, defined cheekbones that likely did incredible things to his face when he smiled. Right now, he was not smiling and they lent him a slightly rugged air. And his mouth, with that thin aristocratic bow on top, and sensual, fuller lip on the bottom, was positively wicked. Suffice it to say, that mouth alone could keep a girl imagining all sorts of wicked things all night.

      ‘He was perfect today,’ Alyssandra remarked. She and Antoine moved back from the holes to talk, to plan. The Englishman would want to know if there was another master above Anjou with whom he could continue his studies.

      Her brother’s eyes held hers in all seriousness for a moment. ‘Not intimidated, are we?’

      She huffed at the idea, marking it as ridiculous with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘Appreciating him is not the same as being intimidated by him.’ Intimidated? Hardly. Excited? Definitely. Her body fired at the knowledge of it.

      No, she wasn’t intimidated. Men in general did not intimidate her. She’d faced men who’d believed they were the best, men like Julian. She revelled in the thrill of matching blades, of wearing them down and striking when their arm was weak and their pride too strong. She sensed, however, that the Englishman would be different. A true challenge, but one she would overcome, she was confident of that. She’d been watching and learning. She was ready and now so was he.

      The Englishman had been coming to the salle d’armes for three weeks. At first, she’d watched him because he’d been new and new was always intriguing. He had started with informal matches against the gentlemen who came purely to exercise. Having dispatched them, he’d moved on to those who came to study the art more seriously until there was no one left to face, no one left to coach him except Julian. It had been a testament to his skill and to his wealth that Julian had consented to take him on. Julian took on only a few select pupils with the skills and finances worthy of instruction from a great master. Now, Julian had been beaten. The Englishman had earned the privilege to face her; she, who was even more exclusive than Julian, not because of the money, but because of the secret. None of her clients ever knew they faced a woman. The mask gave her anonymity, her skill preserved it. No one would ever believe a woman could possess such a talent.

      Alyssandra reached for her mask, her sword arm already feeling the grip of her hilt in her hand. ‘Shall I go out now?’

      Antoine shook his head. ‘No, sit and watch with me. Your Englishman is not quite perfect, no matter what you believe.’ He gave a crooked half smile and nodded towards the peepholes. ‘They’re about to start again.’

      She and Antoine pressed their eyes to the holes once more. She watched and waited patiently for Antoine to make his point. They had done this countless times since his accident had rendered him incapable of fencing. She was his legs now and he was her mentor. One of the benefits of being a twin was being able to read her brother’s mind after a fashion. He could read fencers, but she could read him. She knew what he was thinking quite often before he spoke. Like now. They weren’t even looking at each other and yet she sensed he saw something in the Englishman’s parry.

      ‘There!’ Antoine exclaimed in hush tones although there was no threat of being overheard. The room was soundproofed. ‘Do you see it?’

      She did see something, but what? ‘No,’ she had to admit. She was astute at assessing her opponents, but her brother was a master at detecting the subtle movements of a fencer. It was what had made him so good.

      ‘Right there, he drops his shoulder,’ Antoine said. ‘Watch closely, he’ll do it again.’

      This time she did catch it, but only someone of Antoine’s skill would have noticed without instruction. Julian certainly hadn’t or he would have taken the opportunity to drive his button into the Englishman’s briefly unprotected shoulder.

      ‘When he recovers from a parry, he drops the shoulder. It’s when he’s most vulnerable.’ Antoine winked at her. ‘We’ll help him fix that, of course, but only after you’ve established yourself with him.’

      ‘Bien sûr.’ Alyssandra laughed with him. It was an effective strategy for gaining a student’s respect to beat him a couple times before showing him why he’d lost. It proved the instructor knew what he or she was doing in theory as well as practice. But she sobered at the solemn look on her brother’s face. ‘What?’

      ‘You can beat him, right?’ he asked, worry creasing his brow. ‘If you can’t...’ He didn’t finish the sentence. They both knew the reputation of the salon was at stake, as it was any time Alyssandra faced an opponent, masquerading as Antoine Leodegrance, the famed Parisian swordsman.

      She smiled to alleviate his concern. ‘I will beat him. All will be well, as it always is. You have taught me perfectly,’ she assured him. She understood his concern. He wanted her to be safe, but he was also frustrated with his own impotence to provide for them without relying on the masquerade. It had been three years since Antoine’s accident, three years since they’d instigated this ruse in order to keep the successful salle d’armes running. No one would willingly study fencing under a woman’s guidance.

      Their ‘petite déception’ had worked splendidly up until now. There was no reason to think it would not continue to work. Only one other knew of it and that was Julian, who had as much to lose as they if the secret was exposed. Of course, they had not thought to keep the ruse in place for so long. They’d hoped Antoine would recover the use of his limbs and return to his rightful place as the salle’s master at arms. It was only a matter of time, the physicians had said confidently at the beginning.

      After three years, though, she had to wonder how much more time could be allowed to pass before they had to admit Antoine’s recovery was an improbability? And if he didn’t recover? What did that mean for the two of them? Antoine was all the family she had, but they could not sustain the masquerade for ever, for many reasons, not the least being her hopes for a family of her own. The longer she kept up the ruse, the longer she put off her chances to make a worthy match. It might be too late already. Etienne DeFarge had married another last spring, unwilling to wait any longer. Any hopes she’d entertained in that direction were gone now.

      But those were thoughts for another time, for a far-off future if it ever came. They had no bearing on tomorrow or the next day. What did matter was the Englishman. Alyssandra turned back to the peephole, intent now on her quarry, all dark thoughts of the future thrust aside along with more seductive visions of a dancing Englishman complete with long legs, broad shoulders and a very kissable mouth. Tomorrow, she thought silently, you, sir, shall