Guarded Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

he let her go. She swayed a little, seeking her balance. He put out a quick hand in aid but she only glanced at it, uncomprehending.
    Being held in his arms should have been loathsome and her release a joy. That neither was true stunned her into immobility. She had been surprised by his swiftness, angered by his daring, stirred by the heated hardness of his body but not, unaccountably, repulsed. To be set away from him gave her a hollow feeling in her stomach, as if she had been rejected. It was disconcerting in the extreme and, yes, even a little frightening. What manner of woman was she that she could be affected in this way?
    She had planned so carefully. She had known Gavin Blackford was attractive to women. Why had she not taken that detail into consideration?
    The truth was, she had thought herself immune. Because she had known no man in a physical sense except her elderly husband who roused mere compassion, had met none in the salons of Paris who caused her heart to beat faster, she had discounted the possibility of a physical response. That had been an error, one to be avoided from this point onward. She truly did learn from her mistakes.
    â€œMadame?”
    She lifted her lashes to search his face for triumph, amusement, some sign that he recognized her dilemma. The blue depths of his eyes were clear, his firm mouth with its sensual curves and tucked corners unsmiling; a quirked brow expressed nothing more than polite inquiry.
    He had taken her foil as he stepped away, firmly removing it from her possession and placing it on the side table. It was just as well. She had greater need of a living teacher than a dead one.
    â€œYou spoke of other details,” she said, her voice strained.
    He was still for a long moment before he gave a short nod. “So I did. Let us talk of stamina and breathing, the placement of feet, chalk lines and, above all, control.”
    â€œControl.” She had taken a deep, reviving breath while he spoke and was glad to discover that her voice was now reasonably well-modulated.
    â€œOf both our weapons and ourselves,” he answered, going on without pause, “Come, take your place here on the piste.”
    He didn’t touch her, but only indicated with a smooth gesture of one hand where he wanted her to stand. Lips compressed, she moved to where he directed, turned to face him. It seemed, with his talk of control, that he might have noticed her confusion after all. That would not do. The last thing she wanted was for him to think there was anything personal in her approach to him. Pride would not permit the use of feminine wiles as a trap. Neither could she see any satisfaction in it.
    â€œNow,” he said, his features serious as he joined her on the stretch of canvas, “hold out your arms in this manner.”
    She did as he illustrated, spreading her arms away from her body and as straight as the tightly fitted sleeve of her walking costume would allow. He shifted until their fingertips overlapped a few inches. Then, as she watched, he turned three-quarters toward her and dropped into a crouch with knees spread, right arm still extended and left bent at the elbow with his hand held at the level of his head.
    â€œFace me and take this position with your right arm extended.”
    She followed the directive, though she could feel a flush burn its way from her neck to her hairline. All her life long she had been told that a lady never sat or stood with her knees apart. To deliberately spread them, and in front of this Englishman, was like abandoning all modesty. It felt suggestive, even erotic, though she recognized the stance as the typical swordsman’s crouch often seen in the mock swordplay of opera and theater.
    â€œLower,” he said. “Bend your knees more. Lift your arms higher.”
    Her skirts puddled on the floor around her as she complied with the first command, but her tight sleeves prevented elevation of her arms much above the level of