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was sure she would have preferred it.
    Regardless, her lunge had been well-executed. She had taken him by surprise as no one had in many a long day, not since he first stepped onto a fencing strip. Her form had been excellent, particularly given the handicap of petticoats, corseting and the ridiculously close-fitting sleeves which rendered a woman helpless in the current fragile and wan style. It was possible she might turn out to be a credit to her maître .
    Not that the possibility was an object with him. His purpose from the moment he entered the garçonnière had been to discourage her ambition to become a swordswoman. On second thought now, he was inclined to go forward with these visits. He could not remember when he had been so entertained. And if the truth be told, he wondered what it would take to bring the lady to touch him with willingness, perhaps even pleasure.
    No small amount of that inclination was brought on by the flash of awareness he had caught once again in her eyes, some flicker of hot emotion that roused his curiosity. He had the distinct impression that she would not have cared if she had emasculated him. It was a novel idea, given her remote attitude, one he was inclined to put to the test if the situation arose.
    Schooling his features to suitable gravity, he turned back toward his pupil. “Forgive me, Madame Faucher. My sense of the ridiculous sometimes runs away with me.”
    â€œYou are saying that I…”
    â€œNo, no, you mistake me,” he assured her. “Ferocity in the attack is a fine thing, but requires a weapon to complete it. Perhaps we should take up the foils for this session after all.”
    â€œYou mean it?”
    â€œI do,” he answered, and stepped to where the foils lay on the table with candlelight glimmering along their blades. Choosing one at random, he presented it formally, with a bow and the hilt across his wrist.
    The lady met his eyes for a long moment, her own darkly pensive, as if she wondered at his purpose. He could hardly blame her since he was not sure himself. Testing her further might be no more than an excuse to prolong the lesson. No matter; he would do it still. Like the war it resembled, a bout with crossed blades brought out the true natures of those engaged in it. There was little he would not know about the young widow Faucher when they were done.
    She lifted her chin as if accepting the challenge she saw in his eyes. Then she took the foil from him and stepped back with the quickness of distrust. He could not but approve. She had more reason than she knew.
    Instead of picking up his own foil, Gavin reached for the buttons of his double-breasted frock coat and slipped them from their holes before shrugging off the close-fitting garment and tossing it aside. Removing his watch and chain from his waistcoat pockets, he let them slide from his hand onto the table. He could have stopped there with perfect comfort, but it did not suit him. She was watching, he knew, for he could see her set and pale features from the corner of his eyes. With leisurely movements then, he freed his swirled-glass waistcoat buttons from their holes and stripped away that layer. It was a solecism for a gentleman to appear in his shirt sleeves in front of a lady, of course, and he half expected her to turn her back, make some protest, even leave him. She did none of those things, but stood waiting with a suspended look on her face.
    His impulse, to see if he could shake her nerve, was undoubtedly base, but he would not be deflected from it by her valiance. With a rueful smile curving his lips, he reached for his cream silk cravat, pulling it loose and discarding it, then removed, in fine deliberation, the two top studs of his shirt.
    â€œUnconventional, I will agree,” he said in answer to the curl of her lower lip as he began to fold back the cuffs of his sleeves, “but I do not, as a rule, fence in full evening dress.”
    â€œOnly when