His Favorite Mistress by Tracy Anne Warren Page B

what had possessed him to give in to her entreaties. Usually he had no difficulties resisting such feminine wiles, especially when they came from naïve little innocents. But as he was beginning to realize, Gabriella St. George was a genuine original. Of all the women he knew—and there were literally hundreds—he could think of none so daring and unconventional that they would challenge him to a fencing bout. He knew a great many men who didn’t have the nerve to do so—not even for a practice round, since he was considered one of Society’s most deadly swordsmen—but then she could hardly be expected to know that fact. But like a tiger indulging an adventurous cub, he would let her have her fun. As she said, what harm could come from a few minutes’ sparring?
    With Vessey’s rapier in hand, he turned around—and nearly lost his hold on the sword. Lips parting, he stared wide-eyed with the sort of surprise he couldn’t recall experiencing in a very long while. “Good heavens, your legs are bare!”
    Glancing up, she tossed her skirts off her knees, the material instantly blocking the all-too-brief view he’d had of her beautifully turned knees and calves. Yet that single glimpse was enough to send his blood flowing faster inside his veins, and set his palms itching with the desire to uncover all that satiny-soft, alabaster flesh again so that his hands might go a-wandering. Such an interlude, he knew, would be nothing short of exquisite.
    Down, boy, he reprimanded himself. This is Gabriella, remember? Your friend’s niece, who is strictly out of bounds. Though even if she weren’t Rafe’s niece, she would still be out of bounds for all the usual reasons. Giving himself a firm mental shake, he pushed aside the fantasy. Treat her like a sister, he silently advised. Yet even as he focused on the thought, he realized the absurdity of it, a derisive laugh rising to his lips followed by an inaudible groan.
    Plainly unaware of being the cause of any consternation, Gabriella tucked her stockings inside her slippers, then placed her footwear neatly beneath her chair. “This,” she explained with a wiggle of her toes, “is one of the little tricks I’ve learned in order to compensate for dueling in a dress. Otherwise I really would stumble and do myself an injury.” Springing to her feet—her very bare, very lovely feet—she padded toward him. “Ready to proceed?”
    Swallowing down another groan at the sight of her loveliness, he passed her the sword with its protective, wood-covered tip. “Of course. I shall leave it up to you to begin.”
    He didn’t have long to wait as she resumed the proper stance and brought her blade upward. He did the same.
    “En garde,” she called.
    He let her make the first move and the first strike, the rapiers sliding against each other in a high-pitched whining of honed metal. With an easy, single maneuver, she knocked his sword to one side, then stopped.
    “What was that, Wyvern? You’re barely trying.”
    “I am allowing you to warm up. You said it’s been a while since your last bout.”
    “A while, yes, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten everything I ever learned. Now, don’t baby me. I want a real match.”
    He arched a brow. “Very well, I shall endeavor to do better.” She gave a nod, then moved to once again assume the proper stance.
    This time when she came at him, he countered with a bit more force. Still, he was careful to hold back, far too aware of his superior strength and the fact that it would take very little effort on his part to overpower her. Meeting a trio of her parries and thrusts, he allowed her to take the point.
    “That was still too easy. Quit protecting me,” she complained.
    “And quit asking me to fight you as I would a man. You are not a man and when it comes to a contest of sheer strength, I will beat you every time.”
    “Perhaps that is true, but fencing isn’t only about strength, it is also about cunning. Show me the