This first lesson had gone better—or worse—than planned, and he needed to call a halt to it.
She shook her head and her gaze sharpened. “What—”
“That’s enough.” As abruptly as he uttered the words, he set her away from him and stood. A good arm’s length apart from him, and he still wished she was farther away. He still needed her to be farther away.
She visibly swallowed. “T-truly? We’re done as in done? But—” She stopped for a breath. “But I haven’t been here that long,” she finished weakly.
Her gaze fixed on his lips. She wanted his mouth again. She wanted to continue kissing him.
“You’re a fast learner. You should be fine.” He nodded brusquely, dismissively, the opposite of how he felt, but she didn’t need to know how she had affected him or that he wanted to keep kissing her.
“I should be fine?” She stared. “Meaning no more lessons? Ever?”
“You understand me perfectly. We’re finished.” He nodded toward the door. “Now go. Leave me.”
He didn’t bark the words at her, but she flinched just the same.
Whatever it took, he needed her gone. Before he broke his promise to her and his promise to himself—before this became more than a game. More than a wager made with Pearson.
“This wasn’t the arrangement.” She stalked toward the door, and then stopped, catching herself and spinning around, pointing a damning finger at him. He blinked. He couldn’t recall a woman ever charging toward him in such a manner, with such a total lack of deference. “You know, you’re not so very impressive, Your Grace,” she snapped.
“I’m not?”
“No. We just barely scratched the surface and you know it, so that is hardly honoring our agreement.”
He shrugged. “You’ll do well enough.” More than well enough.
“And what of the reference you’re to give me? You promised me.”
He winced. He had forgotten about that part. He had promised to use his connections to help her, but he hardly felt inclined to toss her into another man’s bed, even if that had been their agreement. The notion was unpalatable. He would not do it.
At his silence, she exhaled. “Was that a lie, then?” She held her arms out wide. “You’re not going to put me in contact with your friend?”
“I don’t think becoming a mistress is for you.”
“Oh.” She pulled back in obvious affront. “You don’t?”
“I don’t see you suited for such a life.”
Her lips worked for a moment before finding her words. “How dare you?” Even in the paltry light, he could detect the hot rise of color to her cheeks. “We had an agreement and now you renege? Was this just a game to you? You have no idea, no notion what I’m up against . . .” She stopped abruptly with a swift intake of breath, shaking her head. “I should not be so surprised. A man of your position thinks nothing of toying with a female so irrelevant, so pitiable.”
“You know nothing of me.”
She had it wrong. Very wrong. He did not think her irrelevant or pitiable. The more time he spent with her, the more he admired her. She had mettle. Not that he would correct her of that misapprehension.
He wasn’t toying with her. Quite the opposite. This wasn’t a game. He’d approached it that way at first, but it had turned into something all too real. Real enough that he had to end this before it began.
“I know enough about you,” she sneered and continued for the door. “All I ever need to know about you, Your Grace.”
He stared after her, flinching as she slammed out of the room.
He sat there for several moments, staring into the fire, the fingers of his hand tapping restlessly on the arm of his chair.
Chapter 12
Marian escaped the church into cheery sunlight. She held a gloved hand up to her eyes to ward off the sudden glare. The inside of the church had been full of gloom, quite possibly a deliberate circumstance to complement the day’s sermon.
The vicar wasn’t the sort to deliver uplifting sermons. If anything, his words gave way to darker contemplations. Most people left him fully convinced they were destined for the fiery pits of hell if they partook in even the smallest of pleasures.
Papa had always jested that if one needed his spirits lifted he would be better served enduring a tooth extraction than listening to the vicar.
She inwardly cringed. If the vicar knew of her latest activities he’d likely grab a pitchfork to send her on her way to that fiery portal himself.
Her sisters stayed close to her side as they emerged outside, well aware that they could be accosted at any moment. Many of the village merchants were present with their families. Usually Marian and her sisters were spared from their demands at church—it was a day of rest and prayer, after all—but one never knew. As Mr. Lawrence had pointed out, their creditors were becoming more aggressive.
“Look.” Nora tugged on Marian’s sleeve and nodded toward young Mr. Pembroke strolling across the church grounds toward the carriages.
Young William held out his arm, escorting Miss Smith very properly. He was a handsome man, scarcely out of boyhood, his face still prone to spots, but he and Charlotte had grown up together. William had trailed after Charlotte like a puppy since they emerged from their prospective prams. Charlotte was the only one to ever call him Billy.
The girl’s parents followed a step behind, looking as though their favored calf had won grand prize at the local fair. The senior Mr. Pembroke also strolled nearby, attired in a shiny plum-colored jacket with a silver brocade vest, looking very much the preening peacock that he was.
Both sets of parents looked on the young couple proudly, and the sight filled Marian with impotent rage. She remembered when the Pembrokes had looked at her sister with such approval—when Charlotte had been the one on young William’s arm. When Papa had lived and Charlotte could still claim a dowry. The Pembrokes had loved to remark on what handsome children William and Charlotte would have.
Apparently that was all forgotten now.
“One big happy family,” Nora muttered beside Marian.
Marian glanced quickly to Charlotte, worried at how she was taking the sight of her once suitor with a girl she had called friend.
Her sister’s face had turned pale. “Billy,” she breathed, the sound practically inaudible, but Marian felt the utterance as much as she heard it. She knew her sister well. She knew the pain she felt at the sight of her former beau with another.
As though he felt her stare, William’s gaze lifted and searched until he found Charlotte. He stilled. In his eyes, Marian read the heartache. He still loved Charlotte. He had never stopped. His parents’ disapproval did not alter that fact.
Foolish lad. Didn’t he know Charlotte would have him even if his parents denounced him? Even if he was penniless? She would live in a pauper’s shack. Unlike him, she was loyal. She would never have turned her back on him. She was honorable that way.
Miss Smith spoke to him, but he could not be pulled from his examination of Charlotte. Of course. Marian appraised her sister. Even wan and too thin, she was the most glorious creature in all of Brambledon, and certainly this churchyard. He did not deserve her sister, a girl whose inner beauty surpassed that of her exterior.
“Come,” Nora said, taking Charlotte’s hand. “Let him stare at the back of you, eh?”
Charlotte permitted Nora to guide her away.
Marian stayed put for several moments, rooted to the spot as she glared at young William. As her sisters fled from sight, his gaze turned on Marian. The longing in his eyes faded, replaced by contrition. His ruddy cheeks were chronically splashed with color, but they deepened to almost purple now as Marian sharpened her glare on him, letting him feel the full weight of her disdain, letting him know he was not forgiven for crushing Charlotte.
She glanced at Miss Smith, her sister’s replacement, and looked back at him pointedly. The girl had not ceased talking. Even as he ignored her, momentarily frozen and gazing a
t Marian in mute apology, she talked and talked and tugged persistently on his arm, desperately trying to reclaim his attention.
Shaking her head, Marian turned away. As much as she disdained him, she pitied him. His parents controlled him like a puppet on strings. He was young and destined for a lifetime of regret.
It only solidified her commitment to the path she had chosen. Her disastrous first and only lesson with the duke had not changed her mind. She was still determined to become a mistress.
If she could restore Charlotte’s dowry, then Old Pembroke would give his blessing. William and Charlotte could still be together. It wasn’t too late. If, of course, Charlotte would still have him. Whatever the case, Marian wanted her sister to have that choice. Freedom was about choices, after all. It wasn’t something Marian craved only for herself. She wanted Charlotte to have that, too.
The duke’s rejection had not swayed her from her course.
She would appeal to Mrs. Ramsey and see if she would go ahead and help Marian using her connections. She’d had one lesson with the duke. Certainly it counted for something. The skin at the back of her neck prickled.
A quick glance across the yard in the direction of Mr. Lawrence found him staring at her with the usual avarice in his eyes. Indeed, she had not changed her mind. She would continue on this quest and save herself—save them all.
She only hoped Mrs. Ramsey would empathize and oblige her. Clearly empathy was not something the Duke of Warrington was capable of feeling. She muttered at herself for her continued thoughts of him. She needed to cast him out from her mind entirely.
As she hastened from the church after her family, she contemplated when would be a good time to call on Mrs. Ramsey.
Chapter 13
Unfortunately Mrs. Ramsey decided to take a week to visit her grandmother in Shropshire. Marian learned of this when Diana answered the door to her eager knocking.
She could do nothing but wait and count the days until her return.
Wait and stew and give lessons to the spoiled misses of Brambledon and avoid the creditors hunting her. It was exhausting business.
She actually enjoyed finding herself alone at home one afternoon.
Mrs. Walker had sent a message that Annabel was afflicted with an ague, so Marian occupied herself with some much overdue dusting. Without servants, it was up to Marian and her sisters to see to such matters, and with their busy schedules, it was often overlooked.
Charlotte was gone, working at the Hansens’, and Nora had gone into town to visit the butcher to barter some of their eggs for a bit of meat. Beef was costly, but they needed the sustenance. They had not enjoyed anything hearty since the ham Mr. Lawrence had brought them and there was none of that left.
It worried Marian how gaunt Charlotte was looking these days. The Hansens were responsible for feeding a noon meal to the shop girls under their employ, but Marian suspected that whatever fare they supplied was meager. Charlotte didn’t complain. It wasn’t her way, but Marian saw the evidence on the way her clothes hung on her frame.
Altogether, it just heightened her sense of urgency. Marian needed to make certain her sisters were adequately fed. She knew she could always butcher a chicken and cook it in a pot, but they had lost a few hens recently to foxes and she was not inclined to sacrifice any more when they were consistently providing them with eggs. They wouldn’t starve as long as they had eggs.
She was slipping off her pinafore and hanging it on the hook when she heard a rider approaching. At the sound of hooves, Marian moved toward the front parlor window, mindful not to reveal herself should it be another creditor calling.
Peeking out the well-worn damask drapes that had once been the pride of Mama, Marian gasped.
The duke was in her yard.
He tethered his horse at the fence and strode forward, assessing her house with an inscrutable expression on his handsome face. She wondered what he was thinking. Was it how very meager her home was? How the roof clearly needed replacing? How the fence needed mending? Whatever the case, she didn’t wonder long before panic sank its teeth into her.
Why was he here? What was he doing here?
It wouldn’t do for Mrs. Pratt to pass by and see him in her yard given the woman’s proclivity for gossip. Hopefully nobody noticed his mount in front of her house and remarked upon it later. She didn’t need to be the subject of yet more rumors.
Before he even reached her door, she yanked it open. “What are you doing here?” She waved him inside fiercely. “Come, come inside at once before someone sees you.”
Her words did nothing to hasten him. He was moving far too slowly for her liking. She snatched him by the hand and pulled him inside, quickly closing the door behind him.
She dropped her hand from his as though singed by the touch. Stepping back, she crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Shouldn’t I?” He arched a dark eyebrow.
“No. You should not. It’s untoward.”
He looked at her in bemusement. “Need I remind you that you called upon me at night. Alone. Unchaperoned,” he stressed.
“You don’t need to remind me of that fact.” That very regretful, embarrassing fact. She was doing her best to cast the memory from her thoughts. “But have you by chance looked outside?” She nodded to the window. With its drawn drapes, midmorning sunlight spilled into the room. “It is broad daylight. Anyone could have seen you . . . Anyone could still see you.”
He removed his hat from his head and ran a hand through his rich, dark hair, tossing it in appealing disarray. Her palms tingled and itched to feel those strands again. She curled her fingers inward as though stifling the impulse.
“I did not realize you were so concerned with propriety. All our previous meetings have hardly been proper. I was unaware of your level of concern for decorum.”
She sniffed at the veracity of that allegation, but denied the charge at any rate. “Those encounters were discreet. Mostly,” she qualified, recalling herself crouched under his table at Colley’s Tavern. “This is not discreet.”
“Do you wish me to leave, then?”
She opened her mouth and then closed it with a snap.
Common sense told her he had the right of it. He should leave. She should insist on that at once.
Curiosity, however, outweighed her common sense. She still wanted to know why he was here. Why, after their last encounter, had he sought her out in her own home?
They stared at each other for a long moment as silence stretched between them, and she had no doubt that his mind was traveling back to that last encounter, that night with all its shocking intimacy. The echo of it swelled between them.
She had sat on his lap. They had kissed. Passionately.
She had touched him. Fondled him. Explored the hard outline of him and longed to free him of his breeches. She had no inkling she had such an inclination for passion, for the type of lust that could seethe and storm between a man and woman.
She had stood witness to such a storm when her charge fell in love with her current husband. From the periphery, she had watched in bemusement, thinking she would never know such a thing, that she would never lose her head the way Clara did over her Scottish laird—or that a man would never lose his head over Marian in the same fashion. The latter, in this instance, had proven true.
The memory of how the Duke of Warrington had cast her out had not ceased to sting.
The recollection of that evening never stopped humiliating her. She specifically could not forget the ugly and dignity-shattering way it had ended. Dignity was an advantage of the affluent and privileged and fleeting for those faced with struggle and hardship . . . for those faced with penury. For her.
He had demanded she leave as though she was something repellent. As though she had done something wrong. And what did she know? Perhaps she had. She might know about matters of intimacy, but she did not know about matters of intimacy. It was a crucial distinction. She had no expe
rience. That’s why she had come to him for guidance. It mortified her to think he had to send her away. Was she that bad at it?
“Would you care for some tea?” The question popped out, alerting her to the fact that she had reached a decision without conscious deliberation. Apparently she would not demand his departure.
“Yes, thank you.” He clasped his hands behind his back.
Nodding, she ducked her gaze and strolled past him, wiping suddenly moist palms over her skirts. All at once, she felt unaccountably shy as she led him to the parlor.
The room was dusty. They hardly ever used it anymore. Certainly they were no longer in the habit of entertaining guests. Since Papa had died, they took all their meals in the kitchen, even eschewing the dining room. It was just easier to eat and clean up in one place.
His gaze scanned the room, doubtlessly noticing its shabby state, although he uttered not a word. That would have been too rude. Even for him.
“I’ll be back directly with the tea.” She executed a rather clumsy curtsy as though this were a proper occasion. She had no idea what compelled her to do so foolish a thing. A freak impulse. Her limbs moved before her brain could function.
She was glad to have an excuse to turn and flee the room.
Once in the kitchen she took several deep breaths and gripped the edge of the worktable until her knuckles ached from the pressure. She stared blindly ahead.
Why was he here? Why? Why? Why?
After the last disaster of their lesson, she had never expected to see him again. At least not in close proximity. She would perhaps have to endure the sight of him from afar, but never face to face. That had been her expectation.
Her hope.
With a sharp exhale, she released the table and then set the kettle to boil. She rummaged to see if she could find any biscuits, even though she knew it was useless. There was no bit of food in this kitchen unaccounted for.
Giving up, she examined the woeful status of their tea collection. They had been reusing their tea leaves to an embarrassing degree, much longer than customary, wringing out every bit of flavor possible. Much like her life of late. Her days had become all about wringing out what she could—squeezing out every bit of sustenance.
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