His Favorite Mistress by Tracy Anne Warren

might have left behind. Done, he turned back to her. “I thought you were occupied with the ladies this morning. Painting, was it not?”
    “Yes, but a morning of water coloring has taught me a very valuable lesson.”
    One of his elegant dark eyebrows rose in inquiry. “And that would be?”
    “That I am an utterly dreadful artist.”
    A smile broke over his face, eyes twinkling as a chuckle reverberated in his chest. “Surely, you’re not that bad.”
    “No, I’m worse, believe me. And although Julianna tried her best to convince me not to give up, I know a hopeless cause when I see one. No, art will never be one of my finer accomplishments.”
    He set a fist on his hip. “Not to worry. You have myriad other talents, many of them quite exceptional.”
    “Though perhaps not always in the usual realm of ladies. My prowess with archery and firearms, for example. And I know how to fence as well.”
    “Really? And where did you happen by that ability?” Before she could answer, he held up a hand. “No, wait, don’t tell me, another one of your circus performer friends.”
    Thrusting out her lower lip, she made a face at him. “Not at all.” Ambling toward the table, she reached over and took his practice sword in hand, taking a few steps backward so she could safely slash the blade through the air. “I was taught by the sword master for our theater company, Monsieur Montague, who could slice a branch of candles in half and leave them all standing exactly as they were.”
    “Your Monsieur Montague sounds quite skilled.”
    “Indeed, yes. He was a French émigré who lost his home and family during the Terror. He never gave details, but we all believe he was the younger son of an aristocrat who watched his loved ones perish at the hands of the Committee and Madame Guillotine. He had an occasional habit of drowning himself in a few too many bottles of wine. Otherwise, he was an exceptional swordsman.”
    “And he taught you, did he?”
    Another smile curved her mouth as she played the blade of the sword in a slow circle. Raising her left arm into the air behind her head, she assumed a fencer’s stance. “En garde,” she dared.
    Managing a thrust in spite of her long skirts, she lunged forward three steps and set the blunted tip of the weapon against his chest. “Surrender, Your Grace!” she cried in a dramatic voice. “I have you at my mercy.”
    He cast a brief glance down to where the blade rested with innocent intent against his shirt. “So it would appear,” he observed in a familiar drawl. “Though I must say this reminds me of another time we found ourselves in a similar situation.”
    The study in London, she thought. A small shiver rippled just beneath her skin, particularly when she recalled what had transpired between them that night after he had taken her gun. Without knowing she meant to, the edge of her tongue darted out and slid across her lower lip.
    At the movement, she saw his gaze dip and hold, a dark gleam flashing inside his eyes. But an instant later, the look had disappeared, the only discernable expression on his face one of agreeable amusement.
    “As I recall,” she observed, “you tricked me that night.”
    “With good reason.”
    “Agreed. But that doesn’t mean my pride wasn’t wounded. A sporting man would give me the opportunity to repair it.”
    “By dueling with you?”
    She nodded.
    “Most of the sporting men I know would categorically refuse to fight a lady.”
    “But luckily you are not most men, are you, Your Grace?”
    “Wyvern,” he corrected. “And stop trying to appeal to the unconventional side of my nature. Besides, how can I accept when I stand here at your mercy—you in possession of my sword, as it were?”
    At my mercy indeed, she scoffed with silent mirth. Given he had half the room at his back, he knew as well as she that he could step free of his “capture” any time had he wished.
    “There are a number of other weapons on the walls,” she