Dilemma in Yellow Silk (24 page)

She still worried, her stomach tied in a tense knot. When the ten minutes were up, she stood in the hall, tapping her foot, and spun around just as Dru scurried down the stairs.

“I’m ready,” she said breathlessly.

Viola was relieved not to see the whole family. That eventuality had only occurred to her after she’d extended the invitation to Drusilla. She did not want to put the whole of the family in possible jeopardy, nor did she wish to discover herself surrounded by protectors.

She was fortunate Dru had told nobody of her intentions. They went outside and climbed into the carriage. As well as Tranmere, Viola had asked for one more footman, the burliest the house had to offer, which was saying something. To appearances, she had two well-dressed prizefighters with her. She was not at all sure the carriage would hold them if they both swung up behind her.

Tranmere travelled with them, and the other footman, one Hanson, trotted by the side of it. Since their progress to Bond Street was stately, to say the least, that solution served and was not so unusual.

They reached the bottom of Bond Street, and Viola and Dru climbed out, going into the nearest shop.

Viola had begun her expedition in defiance, not as a genuine shopping expedition. But she had missed this exercise in feminine companionship. Having the owners bringing goods to the house did not compare with going to the shops and browsing, before selecting items for herself.

The toyshop before her offered some delectable wares in the broad, curved bay windows. Several fans, patch boxes, and
necessaires
met her gaze. She should certainly buy more fans. “Do you not find they are extremely delicate?” she asked Dru as she entered the shop.

The proprietor approached, rubbing his hands together at the prospect of wealthy customers. Several people were already sitting or standing at the three counters framing the interior. Most favored her with curious stares. One nodded, a lady she had seen at dinner last week.

Viola and Dru spent a delightful half hour perusing the wares and choosing several. Especially fans. One had a saucy scene on one side and a depiction of people decorously bowing to each other on the reverse. The scenes were labeled “Before” and “After.” “After what?” Viola asked.

“Several bottles of wine, I assume,” Dru said dryly. She bent to examine “After.” “Brandy, more like.”

Viola would not leave the fan for someone else to buy. It could prove quite a talking point. Better than a caricature from a print shop, because it had a practical use.

Bond Street was a haunt of the fashionable. Even at this time of year, when most of the fashionable world had left town, it contained a good number of people dressed as finely as she. Of course, Viola was one of them now, a fact she occasionally forgot. At home with the family, forgetting had proved easier. People stared as they walked past, but they did not acknowledge others more than a polite nod or two.

She could not resist a milliner’s shop. Viola had always had a weakness for hats and trimmings.

As she entered the shop, the faint scents of fresh size and fabric wafting around, she realized how much she had missed this. She had never considered her appearance as paramount in her concerns, but that did not mean she disregarded it altogether.

Probably recognizing the livery on her footmen rather than Viola, the proprietress swept forward, all smiles, and dropped a curtsey.

“Show me what you have that is new,” Viola said. Then she introduced herself and watched the deep curtsey with admiration. She could have never managed one quite so perfect. Considering her clientele, the lady probably performed such
obeisances
several times a day.

A moment later, she and Dru were sitting in chairs before mirrors. The lady unpinned her relatively plain hat. She handed it to an assistant and produced a plain
bergère
, but one in an excellent quality, better than any Viola had owned before. She’d have been perfectly happy with that and some new ribbons.

But what was good enough for Miss Gates was nowhere near good enough for Lady Malton.

Admiration filled her when the milliner proceeded to pin flowers, ribbons, and feathers to the hat in a seemingly haphazard way. But when she had done, the result was charming. It was worth the price just to see her do that.

Recalling her new riding habit, which she had not yet had an opportunity to wear, she ordered a cocked hat to accompany it. She promised to send some of the trim the dressmaker had used on the jacket. Then it seemed natural to order a few new caps, little more than frills of lace, but very pretty lace. Very expensive lace, Viola guessed, but she didn’t ask the price.

The door to the shop burst open, admitting sound and fresh air. And also the deep male voice that, regardless of the other patrons in the establishment, bellowed, “What are you doing here?”

Viola did not need to turn to see him. His appearance in the mirror told her all she needed to know.

Her wrath rising like a red tide, she turned slowly, forcing control on her senses. “What does it look like? Do you like the hat, or do you have some kind of unnatural objection to headgear?”

“You know what I’m talking about!”

Beside her, Dru fell silent, her face white.

Viola felt no such restraint. “No, I do not. Do tell. Did I forget my ball and chain?” She lifted her skirts and viewed both ankles. “Oh, dear, it appears I did. Should I return home immediately to find them? Indeed I don’t feel properly dressed without them.” How dare he make a scene? Did he assume she would weep or slink away like a woman caught in adultery?

Dear Lord, no. She rose to her feet, her skirts responding with a satisfactory shush of silk. “My lord, if I had known you wished me tethered hand and foot, I would have reconsidered your generous proposal.” Recalling the wicked scene on the fan she had just bought, she added, “Or perhaps you approve of such activities for other reasons?” She put her finger to her chin in an exaggerated attitude of thought. “Sir, I am all ears. Do tell.”

Marcus’s jaw dropped. Behind him, one of the two footmen he’d brought, presumably to swell the ranks she already had with her, coughed and covered his mouth with his hand.

Marcus recovered quickly. “Madam, you know the reasons for my decision. I cannot consider your safety if you constantly defy me.”

“This is the first time in two weeks! After our visit to the opera, I thought you had come to terms with”—however agitated, she would not repeat the deep-seated reason for his protective attitude—“our problems. I cannot live in the house all the time. I can barely exist that way.”

“So your answer is defiance?”

“You know how often over the last week I have asked you? And you…distract me.” With lovemaking and kisses. His tactic had worked very well until today; she had to give him that. “My lord, I cannot allow this situation to go on. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Indeed?” He curled his lip. “So you can shoot straight. How will that help you when you are faced with a man with a sword or dagger? Will you have time to draw it out, prime it, and cock it?”

“I would face him with my sword.”

He raised a brow. Clearly he did not believe her.

“Why so surprised? Ladies take fencing lessons. They do in my world.”

A few of the ladies, their ears flapping, murmured in agreement, but none raised their voice to join in the conversation.

At the moment, Viola cared little for any gossip they might spread. Let them pour the information over the whole of London, if they chose. She cared nothing for what they might say. Only her husband did not ride roughshod over any declaration of independence she cared to make. She would answer him.

“You can fence?” he said incredulously.

“Naturally. Why are you shocked?”

“Because ladies’ fencing lessons are meant to teach them deportment and grace.”

Showing all the grace she could muster, she glided across the shop to stand right under his nose. “Try me,” she said. “I challenge you.” Grabbing up a glove from a nearby table, she struck him with it.

Although a blow from a kid glove must have been as painful as a brush with a feather whip, he flinched. The symbolism of the challenge was what mattered. Snatching the glove from her hand, he tossed it aside furiously. Although he left his hand by his side, he clenched his fist. “You would not dare.” Spoken in low tones, his words were thrillingly arousing.

Or maybe her anger was changing.

He was doing it again, damn him! Angrily she shoved his chest. Shocked, he took a step back, but recovered himself quickly.

“I would dare!” she answered him. “If I had known you intended this when we married, I would never have agreed.”

“And for the rest?” he said silkily. He regained the step he had lost.

But she knew what he was at this time. She would not succumb to his devastating sensual appeal. “Will you answer my challenge? If I win, I choose where I go and when. You trust me, Marcus. If it is difficult for you, you must learn to do so.”

“And if I win?”

“I will agree to do as you wish. For another month. After that, another challenge.”

He nodded briskly, all business, except a residue of desire remained in his eyes, lurking there ready to trap her. “You accept that as your husband, I can dictate your actions?”

She would not. “You can try.” And she would not allow it. He would not behave as cruel and unnaturally as to lock her away, she knew that. He must know it too. The only way to persuade her to accept his will was by winning the challenge.

“Then I accept.”

“Swords, then?”

He bit his lip. Would he impose his will? Or trick her and insist on a lesser challenge?

He did neither. “Swords. Now.”

Before she could move away, he’d seized her hand and dragged her from the shop. He strode across the street, not waiting for the crossing-sweeper to clear their way. She had to skip over two particularly generous clumps of horse dung to keep up with him. He tromped through a patch, not even noticing.

Across the road lay an establishment marked only by a paneled wooden door covered with cracked green paint and a brass plaque. In contrast to the door, the plaque gleamed with polishing, to the point of obliteration.

The legendary Domenici’s Fencing Academy looked like nothing from the street. Set above a row of fashionable establishments, mostly dedicated to the male aficionado, the stairs leading up gave no indication of what lay in store.

Two rooms were made one, the walls decorated with crossed swords, paintings of swordfights, and prints depicting classical positions. Although Domenici did not forbid women his establishment, he did allow them in for only one day a week. And today, Wednesday, was not it.

Men were in various states of undress. The ones who had stripped off their shirts to mop themselves down shouted when they saw Viola. “Hey, get out!” and other such charming sentiments.

She ignored them.

Her husband strode across the space to where padded vests hung on pegs. He selected one for himself and then threw a couple down before he yelled, “Where are the boys’ vests?”

Stunned, one of the patrons waved to a place near where he stood. Marcus strode across, grabbed one, and tossed it across the space at her. “You want this?” he shouted. He was still furious. His eyes blazed.

Men shouted, but now their names were bandied about. In his right mind, Marcus would have fought not to have her here, so it was just as well he was not in his right mind. Finally Viola felt alive, in touch with reality again.

This she understood. This she could handle, even the men’s bawdy comments, before someone said suddenly, “By God, sir, it’s Lady Malton!” thus driving the assembled crowd to a frenzy of speculation and then, in the next breath, to betting. The odds were long on her.

They cleared the floor, forming a ring outside it. Chairs were dragged into place, men sitting astride with their arms draped over the back, others standing, all avidly watching. She doubted Marcus saw any of them.

She didn’t reply to her husband’s question. She only tucked her lace ruffles up her sleeves so they would not get in her way. Then she threw the shapeless, brown garment over her head, before fastening the tapes at the sides. She took her time, which gave her a chance to breathe deeply a couple of times. She pulled air into her lungs and forced calm on her body.

Marcus was in a fine temper. So much so he tossed a small sword to her, albeit handle first. She caught it deftly. His eyebrows went up.

“You still want this?” he repeated.

“Why would I not? I set the challenge. What would you call someone who backed down?”

His upper lip curved up. “You are certainly not a coward.” Bringing his sword up, he saluted her with it, the blade whipping through the air as it swished down. The unbuttoned blade.

That gave her pause. She’d always practiced with blunt-tipped blades. What if she forgot? She bit her lip. She would not; that was all.

She copied his salute and took a pose, thanking the lord for the fashion in shorter skirts.

Their blades met in a clash of metal.

The cacophony stilled, as shouts of “Be quiet!” and shushing noises echoed around the big room.

Speech did not completely cease, but it settled into a quiet murmur when the proprietor, an Italian of imposing height whom Viola recognized from the prints of him, strode into the main room, followed by another man. The man’s attention flicked from one to the other, Marcus to Viola, and then back again.

Viola only noticed him because she faced him, holding her sword in a defensive position.

Marcus circled his weapon, tracing elaborate patterns in the air. He was trying to distract her, making her wonder how he would come at her. She did not watch the tip of his sword. She watched his eyes.

A fraction before he struck, she saw the spark, the instant he made the decision. She countered, and then looked for an attacking position of her own, but she did not find one.

Not that time.

They went back to circling, their shod feet scraping the bare floor, sliding on the polished floorboards. She faced Domenici again. His face was impassive, but the moment she flicked her attention to the fencing-master, Marcus went in.