Free Guarded Heart by Jennifer Blake

Blackford. At the rate things were going, she might as well nail announcements to the lampposts and charge admission.
    She must learn what she needed to know, then end this affair. The sooner, the better.

Seven
    â€œP ractical, most practical,” Gavin said as he turned with the lazy lift of a brow to observe the ensemble Ariadne had chosen to wear for their second fencing session. “Also provocative. Is it meant to show your dedication or as a distraction?”
    â€œThe idea was simply to be able to move with more ease. And you did suggest fewer petticoats.”
    She closed the door of the long garçonnière chamber and came forward, much more aware than she wanted to be of the plain muslin canezou blouse she wore this evening which pulled over the head through an opening that plunged deep unless the overlapping ends at its front were securely fastened beneath the belt at her waistline. She had rolled the shirred sleeves to her elbows to free her gloved hands, in imitation of the maître d’armes, then used the pull cords running through the skirts of tan d’or twill—ordinarily used to lift the hem of the walking costume to avoid mud puddles—to raise it above her ankles in their soft leather half-boots. She had left off her heaviest petticoat with its stiffening of woven horsehair, or crin, retaining only a single underskirt for modesty. If Monsieur Blackford thought the resulting display of wrist and ankle provocative, she could hardly wait to see his reaction to the ensemble she had ordered yesterday morning.
    Not that it mattered what he thought, of course. It was only that how he saw her, what he thought of her, might be useful.
    Nevertheless, the heat she noted in the dark blue depths of his eyes made her so self-conscious it was difficult to move with any kind of grace. She was too closely reminded that no corset confined her waist and only the clever seaming in her camisole supported her breasts so they moved as she walked forward, brushing against the fabric with a tingling sensation in their sensitive peaks. That she and the sword master were alone once more, isolated by any number of rooms from Maurelle and her guests for the evening, was not lost on her either.
    She should have insisted that the maid, Adele, attend them. The idea had crossed her mind only to be dismissed. It was pride that made her reluctant to have anyone as witness, at least in part. She was a novice at this sport, after all, and must naturally be somewhat inept. Then she was not some young girl requiring constant supervision, and it seemed best not to set a precedent. The time might come when she would prefer to have no witnesses.
    â€œThoughtful, possibly, but not simple,” he said as he watched her approach. “Still, if you don’t mind the draft, I don’t mind the view.”
    Her lips tightened. Let him look, for what good it might do him. She would even return the favor so he might see her lack of concern. He had made his preparations again in the manner she had copied, and stood now in his shirt sleeves with the candlelight gleaming in the dark gold waves of his hair and creating leaping flames in his eyes. The only change was that he wore trousers this evening instead of pantaloons, with straps that fastened under boots of supple leather that had thin soles which would doubtless slip more easily over the fencing strip.
    â€œShall we begin?” she asked, then cleared her throat of its unaccountable huskiness. “I’m sure you will be glad to have done with this task so you may enjoy the rest of your evening.”
    â€œNow there you are wrong. This evening is my raison d’être and only solace. Prolonging it is my object. Do you doubt it?”
    â€œFrankly, yes,” she said. “Or will you leave me armed for more than an instant?”
    â€œYou are still annoyed over that, like the brick-mason’s helper reprimanded for sloth who had only two naps all