The Duplicitous Debutante (Cotillion Ball Book 6) Page 9

  Suddenly, calling an end to the charade of Phoebe Wyatt became a blessing rather than a curse. It might be the true answer to her problems, as both Dorcas and her mother had suggested. Make Henry Cooper fall in love with her before she revealed herself to him completely. And keep all random thoughts of their potential children to herself.

  She cleaned her pen and put the paper away. She’d get no more writing done today. Not with images of Henry’s lips and his black hair swirling around his face running through her mind.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Harry mounted his horse and brought the young woman down from his shoulder to rest in his lap. He put a steadying arm around her as he kicked his horse into a trot. At the jarring movement, the woman opened her eyes and locked on his. Cornflower blue eyes, Harry thought, as he eased his grip on her slightly.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” He tipped his hat.

  “You saved me,” she replied in a whisper. “Thank you.”

  “You are making me earn my keep. Your daddy hired me to make sure the railroad got through Indian territory with no trouble. I never thought the Indians would take you and hold you for ransom, but they always look for the weak link.”

  “And I’m the weak one?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Well, you are just a mite of a thing.”

  “Oh.”

  Harry noticed her hands forming into fists. Maybe she wasn’t so weak after all. Just tiny.

  For the first time since he had arrived in New York, Henry was actually excited about his day. He enjoyed running his own business, true. His father was taking a hands-off approach so far, which was to Henry’s liking. Except for the elusive F.P. Elliott, all the authors he wanted to continue to do business with had fallen in line, and production of the popular novels was once again up and running. The business was making money, and even though he had expressed to his father his lack of interest in the publishing world, he was proud of what he had accomplished.

  He was just getting started. He admired what the contingent of Boston liberal authors had done with a monthly magazine. The production side of his house could easily accommodate another publication on a monthly basis. Of course, he’d have to set up a subscription service for the new magazine and get all the bookkeeping for that part of the business in place. It would mean more work in the portion of the company he was least entranced with, but he was certain he could find somebody to handle it.

  Despite his growing interest in publishing, being the head of a company was nothing compared to besting an opponent in a fencing match, and he had regretted the lack of a sparring partner. His body cried out for some physical activity. Holding imaginary confrontations wasn’t nearly as satisfying as having an actual dueling partner. With his impetuous suggestion to Rosemary Fitzpatrick yesterday, he had found a way to combine his two worlds.

  It provided him with an unfair advantage, but it was the best he could come up with right now, since none of the young men he’d met through his affiliation with the Cabots had expressed more than a mild interest in his hobby. Not Rosemary, though. She’d leapt at the opportunity to be shown the basics of fencing. But he outweighed her by a substantial margin. When he’d picked her up and carried her to the divan on the night of the Cotillion, he’d realized how tiny she was. He’d noticed before then, certainly. Her miniscule waist, her petite stature. But when he’d wrapped his arm around her back to carry her, he’d gotten a true sense of how small she really was.

  But she wanted to learn to fence. He’d caught the gleam in her eyes when he’d mentioned it, so how could he possibly take back his impulsive offer? He had been a fencing teacher during his final year of living in New Orleans with his uncle and had enjoyed directing the young men under his command and marking their progress. He especially had appreciated it when their moves had begun to rival his own. A few of the young boys had become almost as good as he was, and were worthy opponents. The clanging of their swords, the sound of their feet as they moved back and forth, and their labored breathing as they sparred, was as inviting to him as a formal ball. He grimaced as he thought of the debutante ball of a few nights ago. Maybe more inviting.

  He paced the room as he waited for Rosemary’s arrival. All thoughts of production and profits fled his mind as he picked up his épée and cut through the air with it. In his mind, Rosemary stood in front of him, dressed in her brother’s breeches and smelling of patchouli, brandishing her own sword. They lunged and parried, and she was a well-matched partner to him, meeting his every advancement with a sparkle in her eye.

  Aha! He executed a swift envelopment, seizing her blade and leading it in a full circle. She was defenseless against his weapon. Henry could claim the victory.

  And to the victor go the spoils, which in this case would be to claim her mouth and kiss her, as he’d been wanting to do for weeks. Why was she taking so long to arrive?

  • • •

  Wearing a pair of riding breeches under the skirt of her day dress, Rosemary halted, in a moment of indecision, at the door to the publishing house offices. If she went through with this fencing lesson, things would change with regard to her relationship with Henry. She still desperately wanted to have the lesson, but it would mean getting into a state of semi-undress in front of Henry Cooper. Who was her employer, after all. She had decided to meet him again by herself, even though she was breaking all kinds of etiquette rules by not having a chaperone. But if she was to get undressed in front of Henry, she wanted no outside observers.

  Was she brazen enough to go through with it? This type of behavior just wasn’t done—in polite society, anyway.

  Would he find her attractive with fewer clothes on? Was this the real reason for her hesitation?

  What if he rebuffed her yet again?

  She had determined her best course of action was to make him fall in love with her, but was this really the best way to garner his affections? To undress and become physical with him, but not in a sensual way? Or maybe she should entice him in a sensual manner. Perhaps she’d be better served to leave her skirt on and try to charm him with her feminine wiles.

  If she had any remote idea what feminine wiles were.

  She desperately wanted to turn around and go back home. But Henry was on the other side of the door. A few doors and a staircase were all that separated them. With his long, dark hair, his olive complexion, and his warm, dark chocolate eyes. She could no sooner turn away from their meeting than she could turn back the time on her chatelaine. He tormented her nights, especially when she pictured him brandishing a sword, backing her up against a wall with it, and then taking her as his prize.

  No! She wouldn’t turn and run from him. She was no coward. What she needed to do was to follow through with her new plan to have him fall in love with her, and then reveal to him her true identity. Rosemary prided herself on being able to control every situation she found herself in. After all, she’d been making her own money since she was fifteen, and her paychecks were getting larger and larger as her fan base grew. She had no desire to halt her career now, and Henry Cooper held all the cards to her future as a novelist.

  She needed the assurance that she could get what she wanted from him. And the way to accomplish her mission was to have him become infatuated by her. Completely enamored by her. She would take full advantage of every opportunity to be close to Henry, and would make him fall in love with her.

  But there was no room in her plan to become mesmerized by him at the same time. She had to make certain to keep her own feelings in check, and not do something totally stupid—such as fall in love with him. All her schemes could run aground if she didn’t maintain a clear head about her situation.

  She gritted her teeth, pulled hard on the door handle, and took the flight of stairs quickly to the upper-level offices. Her hand drifted to her stomach to quell the rampant butterflies. She replaced the grimace on her face with a smile and covered the few steps from the landing to Henry’s office doorway. Her future, as well as the future of Harry a
nd Penelope, awaited. She took a deep breath, then opened the door.

  Henry was on the opposite side of the room, sword in hand, and had his back to the door. Rosemary stood in the doorway for a moment, appreciating his form and physique, committing it to memory. For the good of the book, she told herself, of course. No other reason. But her eyes tarried for a long moment on his derriere before she cleared her throat to announce her presence.

  He turned on his heel and pointed the weapon at her, just as he had done the last time with an imaginary sword. A sudden grin broke out on his face, exposing his white teeth. Or possibly they just seemed whiter than most because his skin was darker than most? Rosemary tried to quell her rampant thoughts, to clear her mind and focus. She should speak. After all, words were her livelihood.

  “Hello, Mr. Cooper.” Good Lord, was that the best she could do?

  “I thought possibly you were frightened away at the thought of getting a fencing lesson.”

  Ooh, a dare. The bane of growing up with older brothers. She never could resist when someone issued a dare. Aware that she was about to enter uncharted territory, Rosemary’s hands went to the waistline of her skirt and she unbuttoned it. With a flourish, her skirt fell to the floor and she stepped over it.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Cooper. I am excited at the possibility of besting you.”

  His grin grew even wider. Her butterflies multiplied and performed swan dives into the pit her stomach had become.

  “I see you’ve come alone. That’s not what I would expect from a fine, cultured lady such as yourself.”

  “How many other fine, cultured ladies have you given fencing instructions to?”

  “Touché, Miss Fitzpatrick. Shall we begin, then?”

  Henry turned from her for a moment, gathered up a heavy vest and another weapon, and took a step toward her.

  “You must wear some protection, as will I, so we don’t unintentionally slay each other.” He held the vest open, waiting to help her into it.

  She moved in front of him and allowed him to assist her into the vest, as if it was a fine coat. “What if we want to intentionally slay each other? Is that permissible?”

  Henry’s chuckle burst forth from deep within his body. Rosemary quivered as it wafted over her. Her back was pressed up against him as he assisted her.

  “You are a cheeky little thing, aren’t you, Miss Fitzpatrick? Or should I say, Miss Wyatt? Or is it Miss Elliott?”

  She turned around and faced him. He was standing ever so close. She lost herself momentarily in the deep brown of his eyes. It took every moral fiber she had to break their gaze, but she did. She took a step back.

  “We both know Miss Wyatt was a ruse. And Miss Elliott was a mistake. Miss Fitzpatrick will suffice just fine, Mr. Cooper.”

  “I still don’t understand why you needed to set up such a subterfuge in the first place.” He handed her a sword, its tip covered with a guard. “Let’s begin, shall we? For the time being, we’ll leave the tips covered and will work without headgear, so you can better see what I’m referring to.”

  He took a position opposite her, blade facing out. “Fencing terminology is primarily in French, so you’ll get a language lesson as well as a fencing lesson.”

  Henry touched his sword to hers. “This is presentation, where I offer to you my blade for engagement.”

  “Doesn’t sound French to me, Mr. Cooper.” Rosemary held her sword against the light pressure Henry was exerting against it. The pressure against her blade grew stronger, the sound of steel on steel permeating the air as Henry’s blade slid against hers, and Rosemary’s grip faltered.

  “The time for games is now over, Miss Fitzpatrick. En garde.”

  She lifted her sword back up to waist level and presented it to him. “On the contrary, Mr. Cooper. The games have just begun.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Soon, they arrived back at camp to an anxious father. “Thank God,” he said as he enveloped his daughter in an embrace. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, Papa. I’m fine.”

  Harry glanced at his employer. “But now the Indians have their backs up. They’re going to be on the warpath from here out. It’s not safe for your daughter to be here. I think you should send her back to the old states.”

  “No!” Penelope cried out. “I want to stay.”

  “Hush now. We’ll talk about it over dinner. Will you join us, Harry?”

  “Sure could use a strong cup of coffee after this. Or maybe a shot of whiskey.”

  After almost an hour of holding an épée, Rosemary’s wrist began to tire. Henry was showing no sign of fatigue, but Rosemary could no longer hold her position, and her sword dipped toward the floor.

  “I’ve worn you out, I see,” Henry commented as she began to falter. “You’ve done very well, though. Most beginners feign exhaustion after only thirty minutes.”

  Rosemary bristled. “I’m not ‘feigning’ anything. But after only holding a pen and a piece of paper for so long, my arm and wrist are truly tired.”

  “Let me show you one last thing, then, which may help.” Henry grasped her hand, which was halfheartedly holding the sword, and wrapped his own hand around it. He brought the sword up to waist level and rotated their wrists slightly inward. “Does the different grip help?”

  Rosemary tried to focus on the shift in her wrist, but her entire hand was tingling and hot where his wrapped around it. She couldn’t get her mouth to work. All she could do was to stare at their conjoined hands. His fingers were much larger than hers and wrapped around hers tightly. The small lines at his wrist were more pronounced than hers, and there was a tiny scar on the inward side where wrist met hand. Without giving a thought to stance, and trying to ignore his body pressed up against her backside, her left hand reached over and captured his.

  “Is this a battle scar on your wrist?” She bent over to examine the mark. It resembled the letter J. She ran a finger lightly over the old wound.

  Henry opened his hand, which allowed her hand holding the sword to fall. She held his wrist with her other hand and turned toward him.

  “It was my first mistake in fencing. My Uncle Jacques had been teaching me all he could of the sport for more than a year. I was getting better and better, and being the brash young man that I was, I thought I could best him. So I challenged him to a duel. I actually thought I could beat one of the most prominent fencing masters in New Orleans.”

  “So what happened?” Rosemary whispered. She was very aware she was almost in an embrace with Henry. His heady scent nearly drove her to her knees as she tried to focus on his words rather than the closeness of their bodies.

  “Well, of course, I lost the duel. As a prize, he branded my wrist with the first letter of his name and said he’d add to it each time he beat me after our initial match, until his entire name was emblazoned on my wrist.”

  Rosemary ran her finger over the J again and grazed the smooth skin next to it. “But there are no other letters.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “That’s because I never lost to him again.”

  “Oh.” For a woman who made her living writing words, she could think of nothing else to say. The story was compelling enough, but the feel of his warm lips on her flesh made her knees weak and her heart jump. She bumped up against his hard body as her balance faltered momentarily, losing herself in his masculine scent of sweat and sandalwood.

  And then moved from the shelter of his arms.

  “I … I must go.” She stepped into the middle of the puddle her skirt had created on the floor and pulled it up over her riding breeches in one quick movement. When the last button was in place, she raised her eyes to him.

  “Thank you for the lesson, Mr. Cooper. I have a much better understanding of the art of fencing now.”

  “I hope you’ll consider continuing the lessons. I rose to the level of a fencing instructor before I departed from New Orleans and found teaching the art quite enjoyable.”

  “I th
ink I’d enjoy continuing the lessons when I have time, yes.”

  “There is one more thing, though, before you go.”

  Rosemary hoped to divert Henry’s attention from what she was certain he was going to say. They hadn’t discussed F.P. Elliott at all today. She raised her hand, palm up, and offered her wrist to him.

  “Do you need to carve your initial?”

  He took a step forward. She took a step back and could go no further. Henry had pinned her against the wall. He took another step forward.

  “Although it is customary for the victor to lay claim to something of the person who has lost, carving up your wrist does not interest me. This is what I claim.”

  Rosemary’s breath whooshed out of her as his lips met hers. He had branded her, even if he hadn’t used his sword point.

  She reached up and pulled the leather strap from his queue, loosening his hair. Then she ran her hands through it as she’d wanted to do for weeks, luxuriating in the texture, so unlike her own. The kiss, which had started off gentle, suddenly turned into one of heat and possession. He pressed himself up against her, and ran his hands down her body to encircle her hips.

  He broke the kiss momentarily and stared into her eyes. “Your hips, in those revealing breeches, have been driving me crazy for the last hour.” His head swung down to capture her lips again. His tongue sought entry into her mouth, and their tongues dueled much as their swords had just done. Rosemary couldn’t think. She could only feel. One sensation after another rolled over her body as Henry’s hands clasped her hips and his mouth seared her lips. She was helpless against him.