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CHAPTER 4

RICHARD

M oving from a terza guard position straight into a full, bent-knee lunge, I watched with dispassionate satisfaction as my polished steel rapier hit its mark and sank in deep, almost reaching the family motto etched in an elegant scroll on the blade, Si Vis Pacem Para Bellum.

If you want peace, prepare for war.

Dark crimson blood blossomed into a sickening rose pattern across the white linen jacket.

Taking a step forward, I stared down at the supine form at my feet.

Her long chestnut hair was a tarnished halo of tangled curls about Elizabeth’s head as her beautiful full lips drained of color. Thick fans of sable lashes rested against her deathly pale cheeks, hiding her mesmerizing green eyes from me.

“Goddamn it, Richard! Did you have to sink the blade in so fucking deep?”

Blinking my eyes, I shook my head, clearing the vision of Elizabeth from my mind. In its place was my sparring partner, Andrew.

Leaving for London moments behind Lizzie, I had waited till she was secure at Jane’s before returning to my home. Needing to burn off some aggressive energy as I waited for Jane to do as I’d bid her, I engaged in a no-holds-barred sparring match with Andrew.

I had known the Marquis of Greyhorn since our days at Oxford but wouldn’t consider him a friend. I didn’t have friends. I had acquaintances and business partners. Pawns. All of them.

The only person who mattered to me was Elizabeth. Everything I did, every breath I took, was for her. She brought light and energy into my jaded, oppressively colorless life. Her fresh innocence had broken me free of my dissolute existence. Before her, there had been no air around me. Nothing left to pique my interest or challenge me.

Then I started my games with her. She was so delightfully malleable. So easily led down the path of debauchery and sin. An unwilling yet complicit partner. The stakes were high. There were no rules, and yet she played. Why? Because she loved me.

There was no power on Earth, no amount of riches, that could compare to the heady sensation of having a woman obey your every command, no matter how depraved, out of loving obedience.

Then, this morning, she had betrayed me. It wasn’t the moment she’d pulled the trigger. She had acted in a moment of passion and obsession. I could not only forgive such an act but was immeasurably pleased by it. In a way, it was a compliment. Not just any man could inspire such a volatile mix of love and hate in a woman.

No, she’d betrayed me the moment she’d walked out the door, and for that she would pay. Dearly.

There wasn’t a doubt in my mind, my little bird would fly back to me. My hold on her was too strong. Still, obviously it was time I secured her to me more permanently. These temper tantrums and the idea that she had freedom of choice in our relationship needed to stop.

She was mine. Full stop.

After this morning, I would put a plan into place to make sure she never left my side again.

The final end game.

“Fuck. It won’t stop bleeding,” complained Andrew as he struggled to his feet, holding his side.

“It’s barely a flesh wound,” I scoffed as I tossed him a towel from the sideboard before grabbing a chilled bottle of water, swallowing half its contents. I had no sympathy for him. He knew I preferred to spar with sharpened blades instead of the usual dull, rubber-tipped fencing swords. Where was the challenge or excitement in a sword fight without the danger of injury?

As I watched him press the towel to his injured side, the large wooden crest hanging low against the brick wall caught my eye. Painted with bright gold and royal blue, it was our family crest: two broad swords crossed over a dead dove.

A constant reminder that a Winterbourne always prevailed. Always.

Snatching the half-empty bottle of water from my hand, Andrew downed the remaining liquid. Swiping his mouth on his fencing jacket sleeve, he groused, “Does everything have to be taken to the extreme with you, Richard?”

Selecting an orange from the bowl set out by my staff, I smirked. “Without the threat of deadly consequences, what would be the point in doing anything?” Sinking my thumbnail into its skin, I pulled back the soft rind, exposing the sweet flesh of the orange.

Waving the bloodied towel at me, Andrew continued. “You’ve made my point, old chap. You know, not everyone considers life a zero-sum game.”

Placing a slice in my mouth, I crushed it with my teeth, relishing the burst of tart sweetness, ignoring his statement, knowing my answer would reveal too much of myself to him.

Turning away, I flicked open the cloth buttons before shrugging out of my confining fencing jacket, grateful to feel the chilled basement air on my skin. As a precaution against the sting of the sharpened blades, I usually wore the heavy canvas-like jacket but defied tradition by sparring in jeans and bare feet.

When I had purchased this building in Mayfair, one of the first things I did was to convert the wine cellar into a fencing studio. I covered every square inch of the thick brick walls in a mix of antique and modern weapons, from swords to daggers to dueling pistols.

Crossing the varnished maple floor, I racked my sword before turning back to Andrew. “You’re just upset because you shouldn’t have bet your Pallavicini against me.”

“You would be bastard enough to hold me to that stupid bet.”

Shrugging, I swiped a towel over my sweat-dampened chest. “Consequences.”

Andrew had annoyed me ever since he’d swiped the great seventeenth-century rapier master’s sword from me in a pre-auction bid in Italy two years earlier.

That Pallavicini sword should have been mine. And now, after two years of maneuvering, I had finally manipulated Andrew into offering it up on a foolhardy bet against me.

He should have known me long enough to realize I never make bets I can’t win, and I always win.

From the doorway, someone cleared their throat. “Your Grace, you have a guest.”

Stepping out from behind my butler, Elizabeth appeared.

Her simple white t-shirt, tucked into a pair of too-long jeans, appeared almost translucent where her wet hair had soaked the fabric, exposing the dusky pink areoles of her nipples.

Andrew gave a low, appreciative whistle. “You are one lucky bastard, Winterbourne. Bet she’s a hot piece of as?—”

With a growl, I rounded on Andrew. Throwing him against the rough brick wall, I pressed my forearm against his throat. His eyes widened as he gasped for breath, clawing at my bare chest.

Elizabeth’s screams were lost as the blood pounded in my ears.

“You ever so much as look at her again, I’ll jam a sword so deep into your chest you’ll taste steel. Do you understand me?”

Andrew choked out his response.

After waiting another moment, making sure my threat was clear, I released him.

Clasping at his throat, Andrew ran out of the room, not even stopping to pick up his discarded rapier that lay at our feet.

With the primal blood urges of anger and lust still running high in my veins, I pivoted to face a wide-eyed Elizabeth.

Breathing heavily, I rasped, “He escaped. You won’t be so lucky.”