Swept Away By a Kiss by Ashe Katharine

Author:Ashe, Katharine [Ashe, Katharine]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2010-07-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

Sword arm wide, the tip of the Viscount of Ashford’s weapon quivering against his throat, Lord Hannsley stood like stone. His eyes flared with impotent fury.

Slowly, Ashford drew his blade down.

With an odd calm, Lord Fredericks said, “The bout goes to Lord Ashford.” No one needed him to add that the marquess was disqualified for wielding a dangerously splintered blade. The day’s play was over.

As though shaken out of trance, the spectators seemed to breathe a common sigh. Applause filled the hall, conversation erupting among the party. Valerie watched Steven turn and extend his hand to his opponent. Lips tight, chest rising and falling heavily, Lord Hannsley shook it in silence then strode off the fighting floor.

Cassandra and Alethea talked in Valerie’s ear. She did not hear it. In the shock of relief, she saw only Steven Ashford watching his opponent leave the hall. He dropped his gaze and stared, long and thoughtfully, at his right hand, palm open upward.

Then he looked up and directly at her. Valerie shivered, meeting his gaze steadily. Finally he shifted his attention to several gentlemen approaching. She took in a fast, deep breath.

Anna’s slender hand slid around her cold fingers.

“Come, darling. Let us go dress for dinner.”

Nodding, Valerie followed.

“You two favored us with quite an exhibition today. I’ll wager you are both riddled with bruises.” Lord Fredericks spoke down the length of the dining table. A dozen gentlemen reclined around it. Smoke from lit cheroots circled through candle flames, the musty scent mingling with the aroma of strong wine.

No one had yet mentioned Hannsley’s broken blade. Steven assumed it seemed best among everyone present to pretend the marquess hadn’t known of it. Or to actually believe that. Astounding. But he’d never really understood the rules of the English aristocracy. One moment they were prosing on about honor, the next protecting villains within their exalted midst. The latter was the very reason Steven had to gather every piece of proof available before he publicly accused Hannsley. Without hard evidence, the marquess’s peers would never condemn him, a member of Prinny’s set, one of the wealthiest men in England.

“Ah, yes,” he said lightly. “One must continually strive to impress the gentle lords and set the gentle ladies’ breasts aflutter. What, hm, Clifford?” He raised a crystal goblet of port toward the marquess.

Hannsley bared his teeth in a grimace that might have been a smile. Steven laughed, flicking an errant fir needle fallen from the table’s centerpiece to the floor beneath his finely clad feet.

“Since the ladies are not present, I challenge these two to admit who could best the other when they were boys,” Bertram Fenton said. “You were schoolmates at one time, weren’t you? I’ll lay blunt upon the chance, Hannsley, that you beat this frippery fellow soundly every time.”

Steven raised a languid brow at the younger gentleman, then allowed his mild gaze to slide to the marquess. Hannsley’s eyelids were nearly closed. Smoke streamed from his distended nostrils.

“Memory fails at present,” Hannsley murmured.

“Tiresome modesty,” Steven said upon an exaggerated yawn.

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