Jasper attempted not to grin and failed.
“There are so many rules, Mr Deverell. So very manydo nots.It is a wonder women manage to accomplish anything at all.”
He tilted his head, his expression turning thoughtful. There were, after all, a great many things a man must be: steady, capable, purposeful; he must distinguish himself, command respect, make something of consequence of his life—and do it all without ever appearing to try too hard, or to care too much. Jasper had long since perfected the art of seeming equal to such expectations (to all but his father), which was not at all the same thing as being so.
What might it be, he wondered, to be a woman within such a system? To live under so many restrictions, without even the small freedoms that rendered them tolerable?
“And what is it, Miss Tolliver,” he said very quietly, “that you believe you might do, if not told so ceaselessly that you must not?”
She tilted her head in imitation, considering the question, then said, quite simply, “Anything you can.”
Chapter 10
“Anything I can?” Jasper repeated.
The claim was quite ridiculous, of course. Not merely because she was of the gentler sex—though society certainly made much of that distinction—but because the notion itself was absurd. Even Jasper’s own freedoms were hardly absolute. A man might boast of liberty, but he was still bound by expectation, by debt, by family, by class. The world allowed very few people to step beyond their appointed place without consequence.
Still, while it was true that the world imposed limits upon every man and woman alive, it was equally true that some men managed those limits with considerably greater success than others, which made Miss Tolliver’s declaration not merely bold, but faintly absurd. When it came to skill, Jasper had very little cause for complaint. He rode better than most men, shot straighter than nearly all of them, and fenced with sufficient proficiency that few gentlemen were inclined to test the mattertwice. He had been taught, thoroughly and well, how to excel; and, in most respects, he did.
(Now, dearest reader, you must forgive our hero this small indulgence of masculine pride. Mr Deverell is, at present, a gentleman who thinks exceedingly well of his own intelligence and abilities—though, as you may already have observed, such confidence rests upon a foundation rather more fragile than he would ever care to admit. Beneath it lies a most inconvenient degree of vulnerability, which he disguises with considerable skill. It is an affliction not uncommon amongst men, and it will not last. In due course, he shall be brought very low indeed—quite possibly to the humiliating position of pleading his case before the very lady he now presumes to instruct.)
It was therefore a little astonishing to Jasper that her next remark was—“Perhaps more.”
Jasper blinked at her, before a laugh escaped him. “You think you might domorethan I? That is a rather lofty claim, Miss Tolliver.”
She turned to him fully, her posture no longer languid, but very straight. “I do not say it to be provocative, Mr Deverell,” she said coolly, “nor to be contrary.”
His laughter faltered and disappeared entirely beneath the severity of her expression.
“I have watched gentlemen all my life striding about the world as though it were theirs by divine right, without hesitation or consequences,” she continued. “Dress me in a gentleman’s coat and boots, Mr Deverell, and I should put half of you to shame before luncheon. For I cannot help but observe that the only thing most of you possess that I do not is a cock. And the liberty to behave as though that fact alone confers authority.”
He regarded her with new attention. “You do me a disservice, Miss Tolliver, if you imagine I doubt your capability. But Iconfess I have seldom heard a lady declare her ambitions in quite such… formidable terms.”
“Oh no,” she said, voice light once more, “I do not believe you doubt me. I believe youadmire my ambitions. I believe you find it vastly amusing—until, of course, I best you.”
His smile returned. “Best me at what, precisely?”
“Anything that might wound your gentlemanly pride,” she said evenly. “I have no doubt I should best you in the approved feminine accomplishments—embroidery, watercolours, the pianoforte, arranging roses in aesthetically pleasing formations.”
“I am already quaking.”
She ignored the jest. “What I should best you in, Mr Deverell, are the pursuits your sex guards so jealously: riding, fencing, cards and pistols. All the little games you play in smoke-filled rooms over brandy and wounded egos.”
He lifted a brow. “Dangerous ground.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.” She tilted her head. “It has been my observation that when a woman proves herself superior in such company, she is rewarded not with admiration but resentment. Some gentlemen do not take kindly to being outdone, least of all by someone who has the audacity to look pretty whilst doing so.”
His lips quirked. “And so you wish to prove yourself my equal?”
“No. I wish to prove myself your better. I intend to defeat you tomorrow morning, and I shall do so with great relish.”
He paused. “Defeat? In what manner, precisely? Fencing? Shooting? Gambling for the honour of it?”
“All of them, if you please. I challenge you, Mr Deverell, to a proper gentleman’s contest.” Her voice had dropped an octave, soft and wicked. “Except, of course, that I am no gentleman.”
His brows lifted again, and he took a sip of his lemonade. “And what are the terms of this exceedingly dangerous arrangement?”
She smiled like a cat before cream. “The same as we have wagered once before. One favour owed by the loser of each contest. No questions. No refusals. I propose we alternate selecting our challenges.”
