Sweet Enemy (9 page)

She turned her gaze back to the field. Bright red and blue and green pennants flapped in the wind, surrounding a field that was absurdly marked with streamers. A multicolored tent was staked beneath a large oak. Stratford and the other gentlemen had disappeared into it, presumably to ready themselves for the games.

Liliana looked behind her. Amongst the gathering crowd, several young ladies—Penelope included—stood near, ready to watch the sport. Yet they had no ribbons. An elderly matron not so discreetly pointed toward Liliana while others openly stared, appraising her before whispering behind their fans or open hands.

The clues clicked into place.

Drat Stratford! He’d made her the center of attention, choosing her to champion in some ridiculous farce of a tournament. And for what reason? To keep his eye on her or…

A strange melting sensation drizzled down Liliana’s middle.

Could he actually
be
interested in her? An improbable likelihood, but—

Several trumpets blared, signaling the start of the event. Liliana turned in her seat, her back straightening, trying to ignore the stares of the crowd. Drat, drat, drat Stratford!

As if curses called him to her, he emerged from the tent flap, his black hair shining almost blue in the sun. Liliana’s breath caught. She hadn’t noticed before how tightly the buckskin breeches molded to Stratford’s hips, clinging to his legs and accentuating his muscled movements. His chest was now covered in a scrap of leather, but her mind easily filled in what her eyes could no longer see, what her hands had felt beneath them last night in the library.

Though the other competitors looked somewhat plain out of their formal dress, this casual guise seemed to fit Stratford. Liliana shook her head.
Fit
was perhaps not the right word so much as…
suit
. As he strode across the expanse toward her, with the hint of a roguish smile tugging at one side of his mouth, he looked strangely…unburdened. Like he was truly comfortable for the first time in a long time.

Liliana huffed. How would she know that?

What she did know was that he eclipsed the other men, blotting them out with his sheer presence.

Some long-dormant female nerve shivered as he stopped before her, bowing low.

“M’lady,” he said, his voice swirling over her. He extended his hand, helping her to rise. His eyes caught hers, staring into them for a prolonged moment before giving a cluck of his tongue. He nodded at the ribbons she still held in her hand. “I had hoped the lavender would suit, but I can see now that no man-made shade of purple could ever compare to your eyes.”

Liliana felt a ridiculous urge to smile, but then firmed her jaw. What was he up to? “The ribbons are fine. Thank you, but—”

“I shall have to scour the garden for a natural shade to match them,” he interrupted. “Violets? No, too dark. Freesia, perhaps? Or sweet peas.” His eyes glinted. “I have it. Globe thistle.” He smiled, his teeth white behind the slow spread of his lips. “Prickly, yet passionately purple.”

Liliana stared at him, openmouthed, she feared. He was playing with her, but to what purpose? Her toes felt warm. In fact, heat was seeping into all kinds of unusual places.

“I—” Liliana swallowed around a dry throat. “Thank you…I think. But I must insist—”

A trumpet blare cut off her rebuttal.

Stratford removed his sword from its scabbard. “While I find my mother’s entertainments frivolous”—he gave Liliana a long-suffering look—“I am ever the dutiful son. Therefore, would you do me the honor of allowing me to wear your colors into battle, m’lady?” He held an oddly decorated sword out to her, hilt first, with an exaggerated flourish.

The other women in her row were dutifully tying their ribbons around the swords of the other competitors. Liliana looked behind her. Aunt Eliza raised her eyebrows in encouragement.

Liliana sighed, then took one of her ribbons and tied a neat clove hitch around the hilt.

He looked up at her in surprise.

Perhaps she should have tied a bow.

She met his questioning gaze blandly. One corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile as he spun away, strode out onto the field and took his spot across from an opponent.

Liliana cast a glance over her shoulder. Sneaking away was out of the question—nor realistically possible given her highly visible position. She dropped onto the chair. She could still feel more than one glare coming from her left.

Irritation burned. How had she ended up here? Not only were these foolish games keeping her from her search, but she’d now attracted the attention of a pack of jealous harpies.

She took a steadying breath, willing her feet to stop fidgeting. She couldn’t change that now, at least not where this afternoon was concerned. If she were fortunate
enough that Stratford did not suspect her, she needed to make the most of this debacle.

She would do her level best to annoy him so badly that he would run the next time he caught even a glimpse of her. But how to do that? Liliana thought about all of the things she detested most about her own sex. Simpering? Crying? Batting of the eyelashes while acting weak and helpless?

She snorted. No. While she did hate those things, she’d never be able to carry it off. She wasn’t an actress, after all.

She’d be herself—well, sort of. She’d share her mind. She’d be opinionated and flaunt her intelligence. And, of course, she’d criticize his every move, and then tell him how he could have done it better.

Men hated that.

Stratford would be begging to see the last of her by the time this afternoon was through.

G

His
wooden
sword.

“Hell’s bells,” he muttered.

“What’s that?” asked the man across from him. The newly belted Viscount Holbrook stood eyeing his own “sword” dubiously.

“Only a woman would organize this foolishness,” Geoffrey grumbled, looking over the assembly. It looked like a damned medieval fair. Guests sat on one side of the marked field looking jovial and relaxed, while servants crowded the opposite end, like the nobles and peasants of old. Twelve women sat apart in places of honor, ready to cheer on their champions. All that was missing were juggling jesters. Ridiculous.

Thank God Holbrook was the only political sort who’d come up so far. The rest weren’t due to arrive until week’s end.

Geoffrey tugged at the leather breastplate that served as armor. So much for dazzling Liliana Claremont with this display. By God, he felt like a bloody stage actor. “Why the devil are you playing in this farce?” Geoffrey asked the younger man.

“For sport, of course. Besides, I’ve need of a bride,
same as you,” Holbrook said as he shifted on his feet, limbering up for the competition. “You’ve certainly invited the crème to this little party. Thought I’d try my hand at impressing one or two.” Holbrook flexed his shoulders. “Rotten luck drawing you as challenger. While the bragging rights of having bested Wellington’s darling would be well worth it, you’re sure to give me quite a drubbing.” Holbrook smiled good-naturedly. “S’pose I’ll just have to count on finding m’self a sympathetic young chit to tend my wounded pride.”

Geoffrey laughed, twisting to loosen his knotted left hip. “Even newly returned from the continent, I’ve heard of your reputation with a blade,” he said. Indeed, which was why Geoffrey had switched his opponent to the very skilled Holbrook.

Mother had originally paired Geoffrey against some poor milksop, no doubt to make him look better by comparison. Geoffrey scanned the field, shaking his head. She must really think he needed help. A man in the pair nearest them had no idea how to even hold a sword properly, and his partner looked to be in his dotage, swallowed by the armor, with his balding pate sticking up like the head of a wizened old tortoise.

At least Holbrook would be fair competition. “I expect we shall make a good show of it,” Geoffrey stated as he squared himself to Holbrook.

“Ah, Stratford, that is what the ladies want, is it not?”

Geoffrey snorted. His gaze immediately flew to Liliana Claremont. He’d intended to throw the match, just to thwart his mother, but no more. Liliana sat coolly in the warm afternoon sun, not laughing and smiling like the other girls around her, but with a regal air. She reminded him of a master’s painting of a dark-haired queen.

Only her rapidly tapping foot belied her sense of calm. Clearly, she wished to be anywhere but here.

That made two of them.

“En garde.”

Geoffrey turned his attention back to Holbrook,
whose easy smile had vanished. At the blast of a trumpet, the matches commenced.

Thwack.

The sound jarred Geoffrey. Wood certainly differed from the clanging of metal upon metal, but after only a couple of passes he fell easily into the familiar moves of combat. In his periphery he noted the clumsy attempts of those around them.

Holbrook’s were anything but.

Geoffrey dodged Holbrook’s thrust, which shot pain through his lower back. He sucked in a breath. Damn. The last time he’d done any hand-to-hand fighting, he’d taken a bayonet through his side. He was considerably slower on his feet these days.

He adjusted his stance to accommodate and swung his stick in a swift upward arc, catching Holbrook’s side.

“Point,” Holbrook acknowledged with a nod. The game was to ten. The men faced each other again and Geoffrey led with a thrust toward Holbrook’s middle.

Fifteen minutes and several points later, only the two of them remained. Geoffrey led nine points to eight, but his back burned and he struggled to hide his limp. He didn’t want to show Holbrook his weakness so close to the finish.

The air rang with the clacking of wood and with the cheers and enthusiastic groans of the spectators. Geoffrey drew a deep breath—he could almost smell the victory to come as blood pulsed through his veins. He hadn’t felt this alive in more than a year. He’d been a fool to think he could have thrown the match any more than he could just roll over and marry whomever his mother wanted him to.

His eyes darted once again to Liliana, sure that now he’d see at least appreciation on her face.

He couldn’t see her face at all. In fact, she wasn’t even watching! Instead, she focused on her lap…What was she doing? It looked as though she was scribbling something—

Pain exploded through his left side.

The crowd roared.

Geoffrey hobbled backward, catching himself before his weak side crumpled.

“Point!” Holbrook shouted, exuberant.

Damn it. He’d let himself be distracted by a woman who by all appearances could not care less about him.

Geoffrey glanced back at Liliana. She hadn’t looked up from her doodling even to see what the roar was about.

He shook his head. Well, appearances
could
be wrong.

The two men squared off for the final sparring. As Geoffrey circled Holbrook, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Liliana wasn’t like the other women here. Ever since she’d been dragged across the lawn by her aunt this afternoon, he’d noticed her discomfort. He’d swear it was the social situation that made her so. And when he’d called his mother’s games frivolous, Liliana didn’t prettily demure. Though she hadn’t said as much, he was certain she’d agreed with him. In fact—

Crack.
Geoffrey barely blocked Holbrook’s thrust. Holbrook grunted, then danced away from him.

Geoffrey’s thigh throbbed and his lower back knotted. He thrust Liliana Claremont from his thoughts. He needed to end this. He planted his feet, knowing that moving was beyond him at this point. He shifted as much weight to his right as he could and tightened both hands around the hilt of his sword as he waited for Holbrook to come to him. If Geoffrey were to win now, it would have to be with strength and cunning rather than agility.

Holbrook advanced, his face alight—he, too, anticipating victory. Geoffrey brought his stick down, blocking Holbrook’s quick swipe. Holbrook shifted to his own left, quickly striking again. Geoffrey had to twist hard to his right to fend off Holbrook’s blow.

He saw the moment Holbrook realized his advantage. The blond man’s eyes narrowed and one corner of his
mouth rose in a triumphant smile. He moved even farther to Geoffrey’s right and raised his sword high to deliver the final strike.

Geoffrey crouched, his lower body screaming as he moved into the unnatural position. He shifted his sword into his right hand, then passed it behind his back to his left, a move he’d never have been able to make with the weight of a true sword.

Holbrook’s swing missed high.

Geoffrey arced his sword up and around with his left arm, catching Holbrook in the side. As the crowd erupted around them, Geoffrey’s leg crumpled and he dropped to his knees.

“Damnation, Stratford,” Holbrook exclaimed, grinning as he reached down to help Geoffrey up. “Thought for certain I had you there.”