“Inside, Your Grace.”
“Not alone, I hope?” Surely, she wouldn’t go as far as that?
“Oh, no, Your Grace! I insisted Bryce accompany her.”
“Good man, Norris.” Bryce was one of the brawnier footmen in his employ, and unfailingly loyal. Servant or not, he wouldn’t tolerate any nonsense on Quincy’s part. “Wait here, Norris. Her Grace and I will be right out.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Jasper marched through the front entrance, anger and worry stirring his blood to a boil in his veins, but as soon as he was through the door, he stopped short.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.” Bryce, who was standing to one side of the center of the room, offered Jasper a respectful bow, but he wore an odd expression on his face—yes, decidedly odd, and one Jasper had never seen there before.
He was smiling. Bryce, the most stoic of all his servants, wassmiling.
“I don’t see what’s so bloody funny, Bryce.” There was nothing amusing about a runaway duchess. “What the devil are you smirking at?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but . . . look at her.” Bryce nodded toward the center of the room where a crowd of gentlemen had gathered around a pair of combatants who were circling each other. “With a bit of practice, the duchess could become a sword master . . . er sword mistress, that is.”
“Good Lord, you mean the duchess is displaying?” It was impossible for him to see what was happening in the center of the room with so many people in his way, but the occasional clash of steel and the excited murmurs of the crowd indicated a bout was in progress.
“Out of my way, damn you.” He shoved through the bodies until he reached the front of the crowd, ignoring the irritable protests that rose in his wake, and there, in the center of the room, her gray gown half obscured by the padded white practice sleeves on her arms, was his wife, a rapier in her hand, and she was . . .
By God, she was leading Quincy—because itwasQuincy, the scoundrel, just as Rowell had said—on a merry chase, giving him quite a time of it, lunging and parrying, her feet a whirlwind of motion as she advanced and retreated. She was a novice, certainly, but she had perfect balance and an athlete’s understanding of how to control her body and use her quick, light frame to its best advantage.
She was . . . good Lord, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She fought cleverly, every thrust and riposte sharp but spare, with no waste of energy or movement, and she was innately graceful, just as she’d been when she’d brought Sampson safely to the bottom of the hill at Basingstoke House. He felt the same surge in his chest as he’d felt that day, an unfamiliar flood of some warm emotion he couldn’t quite identify, but it felt a bit like . . .
Wonder. Pride. Damned if he wasn’tproudof his wife.
Still, he couldn’t permit her to expose herself to the leering gaze of every bloody blackguard in London. Already theton’s tongues would be wagging out of their heads when word of the dueling duchess reached London’s drawing rooms.
It was time to put an end to this.
He searched for the familiar face of Henry Angelo in the crowd, and found him soon enough, near the rack that held the foils. Back through the crush of bodies he went, until he was close enough to Angelo to speak without being overheard. “End it,” he muttered curtly in the man’s ear. “Now.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Angelo stepped forward and with three sharp claps of his hands, put an end to the bout. “Well done, Your Grace! Gentlemen, Her Grace, the Duchess of Montford.”
A round of enthusiastic applause went round the room, and Prue, her cheeks flushed a fetching pink from both the exercise and pleasure, executed a charming little curtsy.
Now that the show was over the crowd began to disperse, but as Jasper made his way toward Prue, he saw that Quincy lingered in the center of the room with her. He was speaking to her—speaking tohis wife, and smiling down at her, and there was that red haze again, swimming in front of his eyes.
He strode forward, putting himself between Quincy and Prue. “What do you think you’re doing, Quincy?”
There was no mistaking his tone for a polite enquiry, and behind him, Prue gave a little gasp. “Jasper! What are you—”
“Well, Montford. Caught up with your wife at last, did you?” Quincy snickered. “I don’t see what the fuss is about. None of the other gentlemen would spar with the duchess. No doubt they feared you wouldn’t approve. So, I volunteered. I couldn’t let the lady languish on the sidelines, could I?”
“Yes, you’re every inch the gallant hero, aren’t you, Quincy? But you needn’t worry yourself aboutmywife. Indeed, I’ll thank you to keep away from her from now on.”
“Jasper!” Prue gasped again, outraged. “For pity’s sake—”
“Possessive, aren’t you, Montford? I can’t say I blame you.” Quincy turned to Prue with a smile, and took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Your new duchess is . . . quite something.”
Jasper growled—actuallygrowled, which was not a thing he’d ever done before, or ever expected he’d do, least of all over a woman.
But Prue was no mere woman. She was hiswife, and he knew better than to trust Quincy anywhere near her.
But Pruedidn’tknow. Not yet, at any rate.
