Ruined by a Rake (4 page)

“That goes for you as well, Eleanor
,” Malcolm added, residual sharpness hardening his words.

Eleanor’s head jerked up at the mention of her name, her forkful of potatoes halted halfway to her mouth. She
looked as though she wanted to argue with the unfair admonishment, but instead merely pressed her lips together and nodded.

Damn it—he hated to see her like this. Where was her spunk? Her fire? It was as if all the fight in her fizzled whenever Uncle Robert
so much as glanced at her. Hopefully tomorrow Nick could shake loose the bee in her bonnet.

Mother took a hardy sip from her wine, seeming oblivious to Eleanor’s distress. Setting down the goblet, she turned to Malcolm. “How wonderful that Nicolas should be here for the house party, don’t you think? I imagine he shall catch quite a few ladies’ attention.”

Nick could tell exactly how excited his stepfather was with his presence. A firing squad might have been more welcome. “I’d rather he’d have come when he said he would. This party is hardly the place for him.”

“Actually, he’s come at just the right time. Lord Kensington’s absence would have had us in quite the pickle. Now there’s no need to fret over our numbers.”

Mother’s statement had exactly the opposite effect on the mood than Nick would have expected. Malcolm slammed his silverware to the table and snatched up his wine glass. Eleanor jumped at the noise, nearly dropping her fork.

What the hell was going on here? And why had Kensington left before the party had even started? Nick wanted answers, but he’d be damned if he’d ask them with his stepfather around.

Mother, as was usual, was completely unperturbed. “Nicky, darling, I have just the girl for you to entertain. Mr. Landon’s oldest daughter turned eighteen this month, and this is to be her first foray into society. She’ll officially debut with Libby next Season.”

“Just what we need,” Malcolm muttered as he set down his drink. “A fresh-faced young debutant providing unfavorable comparison to Eleanor.”

Nick very nearly choked on his peas. Of all the . . . he may often tease Eleanor, but Malcolm’s comment was designed to draw blood. With outrage burning in his gut, Nick jerked his gaze to her, not even giving a damn if she could sense his fury. Her face was pale, her jaw tight, but she gave her head a quick, nearly imperceptible shake when their eyes met. Her meaning was clear: stay out of it.

Ah hah
—he was beginning to realize what might be the cause of her odd behavior since his return. Knowing Malcolm, that was surely not the first comment he had doled out to her as the party approached. Despite her wishes, his fists clenched under the table, a retort poised precariously on his lips.

“Don’t worry,” Mother said breezily,
heedless of the tension at the table. “I’m sure Nicky will have no problem keeping the girl occupied.” She smiled in a somewhat reassuring way before lifting her wineglass again and downing the contents.

Glancing
once more to Ellie’s wane face, Nick finally managed to swallow the words he wanted to say. “Well then,” he said, working to keep his tone light, “sounds as though Miss Landon and I should suit perfectly. I’ll leave the serious entertaining to Eleanor.”

The rigid line of her shoulders relaxed even as her gaze remained fixed on her plate. Malcolm cut his eyes toward her, his gaze hard and steady. “For once, Norton, I think you have the right of it.”

Agreement from Malcolm? Something was definitely wrong here. Refusing to break from character, he lifted his glass and tipped his head to his stepfather in a classic arrogant move before taking a long drink.

Whether she wanted to or not, Eleanor
would
tell him what the devil was going on. After all, what good was being trained in the art of war if one couldn’t shamelessly exploit it on one’s family?

Chapter Three

The swishing of razor thin metal through cool air soothed Eleanor in much the way harp music calmed the music lover, or fine wine pleased the connoisseur. In the early morning gloom, damp fog was her cover, the dim promise of sunrise her only light. She moved forward swiftly, danced backwards, and thrust again. Nothing but mist met her blade, though she couldn’t help but imagine her uncle’s chest at the end of her buttoned tip.

“Your form is terrible, cousin.”

Eleanor gasped at the sudden pronouncement, and swung around, her rapier extended. Nicolas’s smiling face was inches from her blade. He didn’t even have the decency to flinch, drat the man. “Even my worst form would be miles better than yours.”

Leaning back against the crumbing ruins of the old abbey wall, he
nodded solemnly. “I agree wholeheartedly. Unless, of course, we are speaking of fencing. If that is the case, allow me to clear up your misconceptions.”

She didn’t relax. The way she was feeling this morning, she could happily take her meddling
step-cousin’s head right off. “Sounds like a challenge to me. Have you come prepared?”

Though they used to meet frequently for these clandestine matches, it had been over two years since their last one. As much as he was a thorn in her side, she would be forever grateful to him for teaching her the sport. It had started as a lark, but had quickly evolved to their favorite form of communication, taking their verbal sparring and converting
it into proper duals.

Stepping back, he whipped his own sword up to clang against hers, making an X of the two weapons. “But of course. I wouldn’t dare meet anyone at dawn unarmed, least of all you, dear Ellie.”

She rolled her eyes, sending a brief glance heavenward before meeting his gaze. His
amused
gaze. Of course. Everything was a game to him.

“
En guard
,” she commanded, planting her feet more firmly and extending her left hand behind her for balance. “And
don’t
call me Ellie.”

“As you wish, my sweet.”
He paused for a moment, pursing his lips, then backed up a step. “By the way, I’m very sorry about your mother. I know I said as much in my letter, but it was a damn shame.”

She blinked, taken aback by his quiet words.
Sincere
words. Leave it to Nick to throw her off kilter.  She swallowed against the sadness that rose from deep within her, letting her gaze fall to the rocky ground. “Thank you,” she said, nodding twice before looking back up. “I’m very glad to have Aunt Margaret, at least.”

She smiled tightly, willing him to move on from the topic. This gentle side of him she kept catching glimpses of unnerved her. She didn’t quite know what to make of the changes she saw in him.

As if sensing her desire, he repositioned his blade, tapping it lightly against hers. “Shall we?”

“Do you think you can keep up?” she asked, lifting a brow in challenge.

Below his morning scruff, his lips curled in his signature grin. She let out a relieved breath—they were back on familiar ground. He knew it drove her mad when he gave her that self-satisfied smile, which meant he was rarely without it. “Now, do try to be nice. It’s been weeks since I’ve had a proper match.”

Before the last word had even left his mouth, she lunged forward, going straight for his gut. He flitted backwards, parrying her move and striking forward with one of his own. His foil slapped against her right shoulder.

She gritted her teeth, not so much against the sting of the hit as the sting to her pride. He was toying with her, damn him. “Two years in the militia and
that’s
all you’ve got?” She tsked as they both got back into position. After the awfulness that was last night’s dinner, this was exactly what she needed.

“Taking it easy on an old gal like you.”

“Old gal? I’m all of two years older than you, thank you very much.” She engaged him once more, darting forth with lightning speed and poking his ribs with a sound thump.

“Ow,” he laughed, slapping her foil away with his own. “Careful, that’s tender young flesh. You’ve likely forgotten how delicate youthful skin can be.”

She bit her bottom lip to keep from grinning. He was always such a pest. For that little quip, he earned himself a slap across his gloved hand. “Sorry, did that hurt? You’re right; I can hardly remember what such a hit feels like. Though it’s less from my advanced age and more from a lack of a proper opponent.”

“Ah, you’ve missed me. Should I come home more often then? Clearly you are in want of my company if it is a proper opponent you seek.”

He whipped his foil up again and charged her, a move that she easily deflected. They carried on for a few more swings, the clashing of their blades ringing out in the pre-dawn hush. She was starting to enjoy herself, to push aside the fury of her recent arguments with Uncle Robert, and give herself over to the mind game that was fencing.

When she finally had the upper hand, she tagged
Nick once more on the shoulder. “Ha! What were you saying about a proper opponent? Unless your valet cares to extend his services, I know not why your visiting home more often should make a difference in my ability to find a worthy adversary.”

He
shook his arm out, but still smiled that maddening grin of his. “It’s a pity you’ve had to make do without an opponent in my absence. I’m sure Aunt Margaret and Malcolm would be happy to help you find one, should they learn of your early morning exercise.”

She knew very well he was teasing, but still she lifted her tip toward his neck. “You wouldn’t dare say a word, since you are the sole reason I have taken to fencing. Feeble minded female that I am, I was easily led astray by my dear, trusted cousin.”

He snorted, stepping back at the same moment to deflect her foil. “If you’re feeble-minded, then I’m a weakling. And we both know that’s not true,” he said, purposely bullying his way toward her with hard, fast slashes of his blade.

Not true, indeed. Even as she concentrated on defending herself, her
gaze darted toward him of its own volition, catching glimpses of his hardened chest through his loose, open-necked shirt. His sleeves covered muscled forearms that she knew would be flexing this way and that, and his biceps strained against the fabric despite its generous cut. Awareness washed over her, peppering her skin with goose bumps. Good heavens, he must be as strong as an ox now.

She bit her lip, forcing her mind back to their volleys, both verbal and physical. “You know Uncle Robert would never believe otherwise.” Her words came out in staccato puffs as she struggled to hold her ground.

“Because the man’s an idiot.”

The comment caught her off guard, making her grin. He immediately took advantage, surging forward
with a volley that forced her backwards, pinning her against one of the tumbledown half-walls that once delineated the abbey’s courtyard. Drat it all—how had he gotten the upper hand so quickly? Her breath came out in a rush as he leaned against her; the X of their crossed foils the only thing preventing his chest from pressing against hers. She went a little lightheaded at the thought.

The crisp scent of sweat and soap surrounded her as his lips lifted in a slow, smug smile. “You’ve gone soft,” he murmured, shaking his head. “That was entirely too easy.”

Oh, no—there was no way on earth she would allow him to win this, their first battle in so long. Especially when her whole body seemed to be betraying her. Her nerves tingled at his closeness, her lungs willfully drawing in the scent of him. Forcing herself to relax, she offered a contrite smile. “I suppose I’m out of practice. Take your pound of flesh and be done with it.”

She turned her cheek, waiting for him to lean forward for the kiss he had long claimed as his prize of choice. Just another way to remind her of how he had bested her in their first meeting.

He bent forward, his green eyes alight with mischief. She held her breath, working to maintain the focus that wavered at his nearness. Just when she was about to spring, at the very moment her muscles tensed to counter attack, he stopped, tsking. “If you think,” he said quietly, his lips only inches from her flushed cheek, “that I would believe for a second you would just roll over and let me win, you have underestimated me, cousin.”

Smarter than she had hoped. Fighting to regain her flagging resolve in the face of his overwhelming closeness, she shrugged. “Then prepare yourself.”

With every ounce of her strength, she launched herself on the offensive, forcing him away and whipping her foil up between them.

He mirrored her position, his hand held out behind him with his legs evenly planted on the rocky ground. “See? Not feebleminded in the least. Stubborn, willful, and scandalous, but never feebleminded.”

They engaged once more, the clanging of their swords carrying across the dew-laden field. “I am not scandalous, thank you very much.”

He blocked her jab and countered with one of his own, but she saw it coming and danced back just in time.

“But stubborn and willful?”

“A woman never argues with a compliment.”

Chuckling, he dodged her strike and repositioned himself. “That explains so very much.”

“Good. And a woman unwed is not scandalous. She is
independent
.” The fierceness with which she said the words felt good. The match was helping to give her back a bit of her confidence. Being with him somehow made her feel stronger.