Fencing for Ladies (The Archer Family Regency Romances #5)

Fencing for Ladies

By

Amy Corwin

In defiance of Society’s strictures, Lady Olivia is fascinated by fencing and determined to share the thrill of facing an opponent with a foil in her hand. Defying convention comes at a cost, however. While her family agrees to allow her to found the Fencing Academy for Ladies, she must agree to a betrothal to the extremely eligible, but insipid, Lord Saunders. It seems like a fair compromise, so she agrees, even though Lord Saunders makes no secret of the fact that he disapproves of her academy.

Unfortunately, tragedy strikes the day before her school opens. Lady Olivia discovers a dead body in her office with a marble cherub in place of his head. And she unwittingly leaves a trail of footprints through his blood, blood so fresh that it is still sticky. There is no sign of anyone else in the building—just Lady Olivia and the still-warm corpse.

Scandal erupts, and Lord Saunders demands that she close the academy and conform to Society’s dictates. She stubbornly refuses until a second body is discovered. Desperate, Lady Olivia turns to dashing fencing master, Lord Milbourn, for help. While the handsome master fencer is clearly hiding his own dark secrets, her heart tells her to trust him.

Torn between her growing love for the attractive and enigmatic Lord Milbourn and her promise to Lord Saunders, Lady Olivia is determined to fight for her heart’s desire, whatever the cost.

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Lady Olivia Archer threw the bundle of letters onto her writing desk, nearly tipping over the silver inkwell at the edge. She had thought her Fencing Academy for Ladies was so dashing, so exciting, that it would prove wildly popular with her friends and acquaintances, who insisted they yearned for a chance to do something
outré,
or at least different. Apparently, the prospect of crossing swords with other ladies was less enchantingly
outré
than she’d anticipated.

Why didn’t they understand how exciting it could be?

If only they could feel the exhilaration she’d experienced when she’d first crept into her brothers’ lessons. Of course, Edward had blocked her way, wanting to throw her out, claiming it was wildly inappropriate for her to join them and that she was only interrupting their lesson. Harnet and Peregrine had snorted, shook their heads, and looked to the instructor to make the final decision.

Their teacher, the former Alexander Bron, now the Baron Milbourn, laughed and said sardonically, “Why not,
mi niña bonita?”
That had been the first time he’d teased her with that annoying phrase,
my pretty little girl
.

Annoyance had flared to life inside her, and she’d frowned at him, watching his maddening grin widen. She’d had enough sense, though, to swallow a sharp retort, and the effort that took was rewarded. He had nodded and allowed her to join them.

She didn’t realize what she’d so innocently walked into however. Her brothers didn’t approve of her presence and were determined to test her mettle. They’d all teased her — as well as each other — mercilessly, but they soon discovered that instead of making her run away in tears, she’d adored their challenges and sharp mockery. She whipped them with retorts as sharp as their own, and they gradually accepted her as a worthy opponent.

Finally, in some magical way, she was one of them — at least when she had a foil in her hand. She felt accepted and filled with sizzling energy as she flung insults at their heads and her blade slid against theirs. Her laughter mingled with their snorts and chuckles as they tried to avoid the humiliation of being bested by their own sister.

During those brief hours, she had control of her life and destiny, and she had never felt closer to her brothers. Those lessons had been a precious time, perfect and so full of joy that the mere thought of it lifted her spirts and made her smile. The tingling feeling of her blade rasping against her opponent’s foil as she tested his arm never failed to thrill her. Even Peregrine forgot to stammer when he held a foil in his hand and faced her.

“Watch for an opening — now!” A slow, proud smile would break through Mr. Bron’s somber expression and his black eyes would glow when she slipped in under Peregrine’s guard. “You did it,
mi niña bonita.
Good.
”

He’d been proud of
her
, then. She could face her brother and, at least on this occasion, win.

She’d felt as if she were dancing three feet above the wooden floor.

“Bit of luck, there.” Peregrine had wiped his forearm over his forehead and grinned at her. “Won’t happen again. You cannot live on luck, you little devil.”

“Skill, not luck, Perry dearest.” She’d laughed and saluted him with her foil. “You do realize you have a left side, do you not? You left it woefully unguarded.”

“Your sister speaks wisely,” Mr. Bron said. “The kitten has claws, Mr. Archer. Do not leave yourself open.”

“Wisely — for once — you mean.” Peregrine snorted and nudged her shoulder with his fist. “And none too soon, if you want the truth. I doubt it will happen again.” Despite his words, the twinkle in his gray eyes showed his pride in her. He’d never been a sore loser — all of her brothers were admirable that way — and when he cuffed her again as they headed for the door, an elated laugh burst out of her.

The world had seemed golden-bright with possibility. She could accomplish anything when she held that foil in her hand. And for once, she wasn’t just some porcelain figurine, waiting to be wrapped in brown paper and string and handed over to the first man who bargained for her, destined to be unwrapped and carefully set for display on his mantle for the rest of her dull and placid life.

The brief, glorious memory faded, leaving her feeling even colder as she glanced around the Ivory Drawing Room. The large, airy room was usually her favorite, but today, she shifted restlessly, the thin slippers on her feet doing little to protect them from the cold. She glanced at the huge bow window, framed with sweeping ivory satin curtains edged with gold trim. Normally, the wide expanse let in the light and an exciting view of London life in the street below, but now sleet smeared the window obscuring the view. A gust of icy February wind rattled the panes and one of the curtains billowed out, brushing the delicate white-and-gold damask chair next to her. She rubbed her arms.

The morning had been gray and bleak, the sun unwilling to peek out from behind the thick clouds hanging low in the London sky. Even the passersby hurried along the walkway below with hunched shoulders and the occasional slip when they stepped on a patch of ice. Even the normally glorious painting of dawn over Olympus gracing the high coffered ceiling seemed dull. The rich rose, blue, and gold-gilded clouds had lost their color under a gray pall, and the gods and goddesses themselves seemed tired. They stared so dismally at each other that Olivia could almost see them shudder in despair over their presence in chilly London rather than sunny Greece.

She glanced around, noting the shining, clean surfaces on all the small occasional tables. Except for a few forlorn vases of hothouse flowers and the occasional small Egyptian statue given to them by the Duchess of Peckham after one of her trips to the Nile Valley, the room was perfect. Cold and without the warmth it used to have when her mother used to leave all her bits and pieces all over the sitting room. Half-finished embroidery, magazines, books, and lovely sketches were scattered about when she was alive — always giving her something to talk about with her visitors and set them at their ease. She’d laugh, shake her head, and pick up an item at random to show a guest and suddenly, they were old and comfortable friends.

Right now, the only cluttered surface was her desk. With an exasperated sigh, she leaned her hip against the edge of her slender, swan neck-legged escritoire and aligned the letters on top with one cold fingertip. Disappointment tightened her mouth. She flicked a quick glance at her younger sister, Margaret, sprawled over one of the ivory and gold couches with a book in her lap and one arm draped over the back of the couch. Olivia willed her to leave, but Margaret remained, a secretive smile on her mouth as if perfectly aware of Olivia’s desire for privacy.

As Margaret stared at Olivia, her smile grew thoughtful. She always seemed to know when Olivia was at her lowest and rarely missed an opportunity to relish it thoroughly.

“The post brought you quite a number of replies, Livie. You must be terribly pleased,” Margaret said with patently false innocence. Her blue eyes glinted with merciless amusement. “How many students have enrolled in your fencing academy now?”

A pitiful three
. Today’s mail only contained one more acceptance, bringing the total to an even four. Unfortunately, the most recent lady to register her interest was the one Olivia least wanted to accept. Miss Cynthia Denholm was her oldest friend, so she
had
to invite her. However, Cynthia was a strapping, energetic young lady who would most assuredly outshine all of them, including Olivia, through sheer force of will and muscle.

Assuming Cynthia even allowed Olivia to teach and didn’t simply take over the class herself.

Suddenly tired, Olivia smiled at her sister, pretending a serenity she was far from feeling as she perched on the edge of a settee. “How many? I have not had time to count them all yet. Why do you ask? Are you interested in learning to fence?” She hummed thoughtfully and gazed down at the letters. So many polite refusals. “I may be able to find a place for you, if you wish.”

Her careless words failed to impress Margaret. She tilted her head to the left, her sardonic gaze all but accusing Olivia of lying.

Instead of voicing the disbelief so clearly written on her face, she said, “Oh, I would not dream of taking one of your valuable seats. Not when so many ladies are interested.”

Touché.

Olivia bit the inside of her cheek to stop a sharp retort and smoothed her expression again. When Margaret’s gaze drifted to the pile of letters, Olivia scooped them up and held them against her waist.

“Did Lord Graybrook fail to meet his appointment?” Olivia assumed a more direct approach to disconcert her sister. Margaret wasn’t the only one who could recognize a soft spot and
riposte
.

Surprisingly, after not showing the least sign of interest in him, Margaret had suddenly set her cap at the handsome Lord Graybrook. Thus far, he had failed to acknowledge her existence, which was probably best for both of them. Olivia wasn’t blind. She had noticed a touch of falseness in her sister’s interest in the man and wondered about her sister’s intentions. If she didn’t know Margaret so well, she’d say she was only interested in the man’s title, and not the man himself. But Margaret wasn’t generally fascinated by status and titles, so Olivia couldn’t account for her feeling that something was not quite as it seemed.

However, Margaret did show distinct signs of frustration. Her dimpled smiles that used to be so common were becoming increasingly rare, and her temper worsened by the day. Olivia was beginning to fear that her sister would try something desperate, such as hiding in his carriage after a ball to surprise him. Others of Margaret’s acquaintance had done similar things, and she couldn’t eliminate it as a possibility if her sister failed to catch Lord Graybrook’s attention.

So while normally Olivia would never have mentioned Graybrook, the need to divert her sister’s attention from her own difficulties drove Olivia into forbidden territory.

Margaret studied her for two seconds before the anger and disappointment in her eyes overwhelmed her self-control. “Lord Graybrook has been exceedingly busy. It is hardly surprising that he has not visited recently.” Her eyes sharpened, and a small half smile curved her mouth. “What do you hear from our dear Mr. Bron? He seems to have forgotten us since he became Lord Milbourn. And you had developed such a
tendre
for him, too, when he was teaching our brothers fencing.” She dropped her gaze to admire her fingernails, resting on the book in her lap. “It must be quite painful when he avoids us now.”

“I outgrew my affection for him years ago, if I ever had any. And if you will recall, I am betrothed—”

“Not precisely betrothed,” Margaret pointed out helpfully.

“I have an understanding with Lord Saunders. Our father arranged it before he died,” Olivia answered frostily, although saying the words always made her feel uncomfortable.

Nonsense. There is nothing awkward in my situation. It is quite normal.

She ought to be proud that Lord Saunders intended to fulfill his and her family’s expectations that they would marry. Perhaps their understanding wasn’t precisely romantic, but Lord Saunders was a gentle, sweet man. He would make a good husband. So she ought to be pleased with the match that was her mother’s last wish.

And as Margaret was fond of pointing out, Lord Saunders was much sought after. He had the wealth and social position that would make her life very comfortable after they wed, and his appearance was quite pleasant in a plump, brown rabbity sort of way.

Everyone said it was a brilliant match.
Everyone
. She should be happy, glowing with triumph to have walked away with the catch of the Season.

“An understanding,” Margaret repeated thoughtfully. “Yes. However, forgetting that minor detail, it remains most disheartening that Lord Milbourn ignores us. Why, he could hardly be bothered to wave when he drove by in his curricle the other day.”

“He drove by? When?” As soon as the words left Olivia’s mouth she regretted them. Warmth crept up her cheeks.

Margaret watched her with a slight smile. “Yesterday. Not that it matters, of course.” Laughter bubbled through her words. “Since you are practically betrothed.”

“Of course,” Olivia agreed hastily.

“You know I hate to keep raising this point, but I suspect that if Lord Milbourn does not agree to teach, many of your ladies may not attend your school after all. It is not nearly so interesting to fence with another lady, is it? And Lord Milbourn has such an air of danger about him. He makes one want to cross swords with him, does he not?”

“I confess you see him in a much different light than I do, and I see nothing unfortunate about the situation. I shall not mind in the least if Lord Milbourn ignores us. He is merely a baron, after all, and Lord Saunders is an earl, so I am content—”

Margaret’s sharp hoot of amusement interrupted her. “When did you start chasing titles, Livie? You are not the least interested in such things. If you were, you would be more anxious to accept Lord Saunders and marry him forthwith.”

“I have never been anxious to marry anyone. And I believe we may both forget Lord Milbourn without the slightest regret,” Olivia continued relentlessly. “I am quite good enough to manage the school alone, thank you. I am sure the students and their parents will be reassured that the academy is all female, including the teacher.”