at the
other man's heart.
*****
Chapter Six
Honoria stifled a shriek and dashed from the
balcony and back through the ballroom, pushing through the crush of
guests lining up for another country dance. She flew down the
stairs and through the dark back hall to the garden door.
The ringing of steel on steel and shouting
male voices spurred her on. Honoria burst through the door and ran
across the grass toward the fighting men.
Mr. Templeton had his back against the garden
wall, his ridiculous costume bright against the dark ivy. His sword
hung uselessly in his grasp, and Christopher's sword was at his
throat.
"Yield," Christopher said in a harsh voice.
"Yield, or I'll not be merciful."
"Christopher, no!" Honoria shouted. Her
dancing slipper slid on a wet stone, and she went down into grass
and mud in a flurry of draperies. She felt a sharp stab of pain
then a rush of darkness.
*** *** ***
When Honoria fluttered open her eyes again,
Christopher was bending over her, a fierce expression on his tanned
face. Mr. Templeton peered over Christopher's left shoulder, the
man safe and sound. No sword protruded from his throat, belly, or
any other mortal place.
"What the devil are you doing, Honoria?"
Christopher asked her.
Honoria looked up at him through a numb haze.
"I had to stop you killing him."
To her astonishment, and her fury, the men
gathered around began to laugh, including Mr. Templeton.
"Your kind heart becomes you well, Miss
Ardmore," Mr. Templeton said. "But there was no need to swoon. Mr.
Raine was simply teaching me the ins and outs of swordplay."
Honoria did not believe that for a minute.
"He was, was he?"
"He was," Christopher answered. He held out
his hand to help her up.
Honoria's draperies had loosened at one
shoulder. She snatched at them before they could tumbledown
altogether, grasped Christopher's hand, and made to stand.
Wrenching pain made her cry out. Christopher
caught her with his strong arm, more gently than she could
imagined. "What is it?" he asked quickly.
"I believe I have sprained my ankle."
She sounded like a heroine in a silly
romantic novel, she thought, face heating in embarrassment. They
were always twisting their ankles or swooning and having to be
carried away by the overly handsome hero.
The circle of men closed around her. Honoria
looked up at a mass of black cashmere splashed with waistcoats of
ivory white, banana yellow, violent purple, and cherry red, each
topped with cravats tied every way imaginable.
These were Corinthian gentlemen who had
disdained costumes tonight but were mad for any sport, such as an
impromptu sword fight in the garden. They began offering various
words of advice--"Bind it up," "No, walk it out," "I know a doctor
chap who's the end on ankles," "Shall I carry you to a couch, Miss
Ardmore?" "Stubble it, I'll carry her."
Christopher put an end to the debate by
lifting Honoria into his arms and starting for the house. Mr.
Templeton, trotted beside him, looking relieved that he wouldn't be expected to carry her.
Diana, catching sight of them, rushed
upstairs and led Christopher to Alexandra's bedchamber. The
Corinthians dropped out one by one, losing interest now that the
swordfight, and the bets they no doubt had been making on it, was
over.
Mr. Templeton, once Christopher carried
Honoria inside Alexandra's bedchamber, announced that he'd better
go down and tell Mother what had happened. He would not even look
inside the obviously feminine room, but turned away, red-faced, and
dashed off.
Christopher laid Honoria on the bed. She'd
registered their progress upstairs only dimly--she'd felt nothing
but Christopher's strong arms, the beating of his heart, and the
sensation of how safe she felt against him.
Diana slid the slipper from Honoria's left
foot, and Christopher took her ankle between his large hands,
probing gently. "It's not broken."
"Thank heavens," Diana said. "I'll wrap it
for you, dearest. Then we'll go home."
Honoria lay
other man's heart.
*****
Chapter Six
Honoria stifled a shriek and dashed from the
balcony and back through the ballroom, pushing through the crush of
guests lining up for another country dance. She flew down the
stairs and through the dark back hall to the garden door.
The ringing of steel on steel and shouting
male voices spurred her on. Honoria burst through the door and ran
across the grass toward the fighting men.
Mr. Templeton had his back against the garden
wall, his ridiculous costume bright against the dark ivy. His sword
hung uselessly in his grasp, and Christopher's sword was at his
throat.
"Yield," Christopher said in a harsh voice.
"Yield, or I'll not be merciful."
"Christopher, no!" Honoria shouted. Her
dancing slipper slid on a wet stone, and she went down into grass
and mud in a flurry of draperies. She felt a sharp stab of pain
then a rush of darkness.
*** *** ***
When Honoria fluttered open her eyes again,
Christopher was bending over her, a fierce expression on his tanned
face. Mr. Templeton peered over Christopher's left shoulder, the
man safe and sound. No sword protruded from his throat, belly, or
any other mortal place.
"What the devil are you doing, Honoria?"
Christopher asked her.
Honoria looked up at him through a numb haze.
"I had to stop you killing him."
To her astonishment, and her fury, the men
gathered around began to laugh, including Mr. Templeton.
"Your kind heart becomes you well, Miss
Ardmore," Mr. Templeton said. "But there was no need to swoon. Mr.
Raine was simply teaching me the ins and outs of swordplay."
Honoria did not believe that for a minute.
"He was, was he?"
"He was," Christopher answered. He held out
his hand to help her up.
Honoria's draperies had loosened at one
shoulder. She snatched at them before they could tumbledown
altogether, grasped Christopher's hand, and made to stand.
Wrenching pain made her cry out. Christopher
caught her with his strong arm, more gently than she could
imagined. "What is it?" he asked quickly.
"I believe I have sprained my ankle."
She sounded like a heroine in a silly
romantic novel, she thought, face heating in embarrassment. They
were always twisting their ankles or swooning and having to be
carried away by the overly handsome hero.
The circle of men closed around her. Honoria
looked up at a mass of black cashmere splashed with waistcoats of
ivory white, banana yellow, violent purple, and cherry red, each
topped with cravats tied every way imaginable.
These were Corinthian gentlemen who had
disdained costumes tonight but were mad for any sport, such as an
impromptu sword fight in the garden. They began offering various
words of advice--"Bind it up," "No, walk it out," "I know a doctor
chap who's the end on ankles," "Shall I carry you to a couch, Miss
Ardmore?" "Stubble it, I'll carry her."
Christopher put an end to the debate by
lifting Honoria into his arms and starting for the house. Mr.
Templeton, trotted beside him, looking relieved that he wouldn't be expected to carry her.
Diana, catching sight of them, rushed
upstairs and led Christopher to Alexandra's bedchamber. The
Corinthians dropped out one by one, losing interest now that the
swordfight, and the bets they no doubt had been making on it, was
over.
Mr. Templeton, once Christopher carried
Honoria inside Alexandra's bedchamber, announced that he'd better
go down and tell Mother what had happened. He would not even look
inside the obviously feminine room, but turned away, red-faced, and
dashed off.
Christopher laid Honoria on the bed. She'd
registered their progress upstairs only dimly--she'd felt nothing
but Christopher's strong arms, the beating of his heart, and the
sensation of how safe she felt against him.
Diana slid the slipper from Honoria's left
foot, and Christopher took her ankle between his large hands,
probing gently. "It's not broken."
"Thank heavens," Diana said. "I'll wrap it
for you, dearest. Then we'll go home."
Honoria lay
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