by Sawyer North
Chapter Ten
When Henry met Lucy the following morning in the breakfast room, her disposition seemed different from a day earlier. Absent was her former glibness, replaced by a wary resolve. Although their previous interactions had been combative, flow of conversation had never proved strained—until this meeting. After failing to break through her wall of curt replies, he opted for bluntness.
“Surely, you are not angry with me for yesterday. After all, it was you who disparaged my sister. I merely defended her honor.”
Her dark eyes flashed. “You knew.”
“Knew? Knew what?”
She folded her arms and glared. “In fewer than ten days, I will be sent before a social firing squad. You knew of this and yet failed to warn me.”
Her accusation took him aback. “How did you…”
“Her Grace told me. Why did you not tell me? After these past days, I thought perhaps…”
The statement died on her lips, leaving him immensely curious. “Please say what you mean.”
The clench of her jaw softened and her chin trembled. “I thought perhaps you were actually devoted to my best interest. That perhaps you might even care what happens to me, if only a little.”
Vulnerability gathered around her, clinging closer than it had since that first day on the road. In the throes of doubt, she had never appeared more alluring. He nearly rose from his chair to hold her to his chest, to comfort her, to inhale the lavender scent of her hair. Propriety and fear pinned him where he sat.
“I care greatly about your best interest. I am concerned for you.”
She eyed him with suspicion. “Just how much has the duchess offered to pay you for your concern? Fifty pounds? A hundred?”
He remained silent, not wishing to admit the terms of the deal. What seemed so rewarding before now felt callous. She harrumphed, and the vulnerability faded abruptly.
“More than one hundred? For a fortnight’s work? No wonder you suffer my slings and arrows so willingly.” She paused briefly to smile. “I thank you for your frankness, sir. At least now I better understand your motivation.”
He wished to deny her implication but could not. The promise of reward was the sole reason he had agreed to the task initially. How could he explain to her that his interest in success now included more than just payment? How could he admit to Lucy that her beauty and fire had drawn him much deeper into her story than he’d ever planned? His courage faltered and he heaved a sigh. “I am sorry. I did not mean to cause hurt.”
Lucy laughed and waved a hand at him. “I am not hurt. And now, neither am I deluded. Please, let us continue the lessons so you might earn your lavish sum and I might diminish my certain humiliation.”
He remained silent, not knowing how to begin after such a crushing exchange. She appeared to sense his conflict and visibly gathered herself. “What shall we learn today, professor?”
He swept his eyes over her familiar yellow dress, noting for the hundredth time how well it looked on her. “Let us speak of your dress.”
She picked at her garment. “You mean this old thing? The very one you purchased for me to impress the duchess?”
“Yes. The very one. Although it served that purpose, the dress is not at all suitable for your first social outing. Your wardrobe in such company is of utmost importance. Improper dress may be construed as an unforgivable sin.”
“Unforgivable? Forever and ever?”
“Forever as far as the haute ton is concerned.”
Her face grew sad. “I see. I do not wish to remain unforgiven for all eternity.” She paused. “By the duchess, that is. The rest of the ton can rot.”
“Lady Margaret! Come now. Such statements will not help your situation.”
“I only jest. Mostly. Help me understand, then, what is forgivable and what is not. For example, what if I show a little bosom?”
He pushed away immediate thoughts of her bosom. “Forgivable.”
She placed the tip of her forefinger against her dress’s neckline and drew the fabric lower. “To here?”
He tapped his foot with discomfort as the banished thoughts returned with a vengeance. “Forgivable.”
She moved the fabric lower still. “And here?”
He stared at the expanse of exposed flesh formerly hidden from view and stammered a reply. “Forgivable, but only just so.”
Regrettably and thankfully, she stopped there and pointed toward her feet. “What if I show my ankles?”
Henry tried to dismiss the rampaging thoughts of Lucy’s bosom as he considered the question. “Unforgivable for a time, but you might recover eventually with a lengthy streak of propriety. Particularly if your ankles are of a pleasing shape.”
Lucy glanced up sharply at that last statement. Her breath caught briefly. “What, then,” she said slowly, “is your assessment of my ankles, as you saw them when we rode?”
Henry tried not to stare at the hem of her skirt as he recalled her ankles, and the pleasing contours he had glimpsed. Her ankles were thin, rising to a rounded calf…
“Mr. Beaumont.”
He glanced up to catch her gazing wide eyed. “Yes?”
“You seemed to go away for a moment. Are you ill?”
He shook his head so violently his neck rattled. “No, I am not ill. And your ankles are of no concern, because you will refrain from exposing them to anyone from this point forward. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she replied demurely. “I understand. Although a new question nags me.”
He braced himself. “I cannot wait to hear it.”
“What if, sir, I witness something so terribly vulgar that it sends me into hysteria, and in my hysteria, I rip the clothes from my body and run naked through the streets? Forgivable?”
His face went hot and his thoughts began to drift, unmoored by the image of Lucy running through the streets with no—he shook away the startling vision. “Eternally unforgivable. And, please, never say that word in public.”
Lucy eyed him coyly. “What word?”
“That word.”
“That word,” she said ponderingly. “Oh! Do you mean ‘naked’?”
“Yes, that word. You must never say that word in mixed company. It is vulgar to do so, and vulgarity is, of course, unforgivable.”
She smiled. “I see. So once again, let me assess my understanding of the rules, if I may.”
“You may,” he said defeatedly, “but only if it pleases you.”
“It pleases me.” She lowered her chin and gazed intently at him. “A man may be forgiven for extramarital congress, complete with actual practice of the word I cannot say, but I cannot be forgiven for saying the same unmentionable word in mixed company? Is that right?”
He paused, suddenly recalling the dread of French cannon fire descending on his position. “Ah. Yes.”
She nodded sagely. “Can a man, then, be forgiven for saying that same forbidden word in mixed company?”
“Yes. He can.”
She smirked. “Who made these rules, then? I should like to know.”
“I do not know.”
“Well, then. I am certain it was a man, and likely a very ugly man.”
He chuckled, surprising both Lucy and himself. “Probably so. And yes, many of these rules are, as you so eloquently say, stupid. Thank you for clarifying just how stupid.”
She began rising from her chair. “You are welcome, Mr. Beaumont. Now, if you do not mind, I have drunk too much tea and must attend the loo.”
She dropped a still ungainly curtsy and departed the room. Henry laid his head in his hands and mumbled mournfully.
“So little time.”
…
Lucy’s spirits were buoyant in the afterglow of besting Henry again in a battle of wits. How she had enjoyed watching him squirm as she maneuvered him wit
h uncomfortable questions. How she had delighted in contorting his handsome features into consternation, shock, and finally laughter. His capitulation at the end of the conversation proved both surprising and satisfying. After taking leave of Henry, she spent time alone in her chambers reading, assuming he would go his way until the next day. For that reason, the sound of his voice as she later descended the stairs was unexpected. She padded slowly through the entrance hall, following the sound of hushed conversation between Henry and the duchess. Upon hearing her name, she paused short of the parlor to listen.
“I worry over Lucy’s preparation,” the duchess said. “Do you believe she will be ready for suitors of high station?”
Henry’s low chuckle emanated from the room. “I think not.”
“Explain.”
“You wish her to be prepared for suitors of high station. You are well acquainted with such men of London Society—those with titles. They demand delicate perfection from their wives.”
Lucy’s face fell as the condemning words washed past her. In the pause, she admitted agreement with him. Delicate she was not. He spoke again, his voice lower still.
“Your granddaughter’s manner and behavior would be an affront to men of that station. You know as well as I do that no such men would desire your granddaughter in her current state.”
Tears sprang unbidden from Lucy’s eyes. She turned to leave, but halted. As she considered storming the parlor, the duchess spoke.
“Given your assessment, I worry over a lack of interested suitors.” Deep sadness colored her voice. “Such a scenario might destroy what little social confidence she has acquired. I am afraid it might break her.”
Henry chuckled softly. “Do not worry. I predict an abundance of suitors.”
Lucy cocked her head. An abundance of suitors? The duchess asked the obvious question on her behalf.
“How so, Mr. Beaumont?”
“Every entitled scoundrel, rake, and social climber will turn out in the attempt to win the hand of one with such a significant dowry and such excellent breeding. Gentlemen of high character will refrain from the competition to avoid the stench of impropriety.”
“Surely, you do not believe that!” The tone was defensive. “I believe a worthier class of man will step forward. In fact, I am certain of it.”
Henry hummed. “Perhaps you are correct. However, the class of suitor will not alter her fate.”
“And that is?”
A sigh emanated from Henry. “The man who weds your granddaughter will likely stash her away in a country estate so he may dally with women he considers worthier of his new social status. She will be left utterly alone and discarded.”
Lucy bit her knuckle to keep from crying out. Did Henry truly describe her fate? The duchess appeared to answer the question with resignation.
“My granddaughter will be shut away from Society and forgotten with no recourse but to obey her husband. Is that what you are saying?”
“I believe so. However, I do not wish that for her.”
Lucy blinked rapidly. The softness in Henry’s reply drew her nearer the door. She stopped short again when the duchess spoke.
“What do you wish for her, then, Mr. Beaumont?”
“I…” A moment of silence passed. “I wish that she not be hidden away as if something shameful. Your granddaughter is a wild colt. She must be allowed to run free and not be confined to a cage. I fear further confinement will drain her of life, drop by drop.”
The duchess’s voice grew husky. “I wish the same. How, then, do we prevent her seclusion?”
“I remain uncertain. I know only that we must make every effort to prepare her for the gristmill to come. Only nine days remain for us to effect the necessary changes. Only nine days to manifest a miracle.”
“Then we have no choice. Steady on, and no looking back.”
Lucy raced stealthily away, unable to listen further. Henry’s defense of her raised an astonishing turmoil of emotion. Since the day she had met him, he had been her pursuer, her tormentor, her iron-fisted tutor—an adversary in every sense. But something had changed. She wanted his regard. Despite all her reasoning otherwise, she wanted him to care what became of her. She returned to her room, closed the door behind her, and leaned in to it. Why was she caught in such a whirlwind of angst? With reluctance, she admitted the truth. She had come to care for him, and hoped his defense was a sign of reciprocation. Regardless, he sounded fearful. She clenched her fists while gathering scattered emotions. Resolve welled within her—as it always had when defeat dogged her. So, she was just a prize to be won? A trophy to be shut away in a dark cabinet?
No.
She would not allow that to happen. She would learn the rules and learn them well. And she would turn the tables on anyone attempting to use them against her. A wild colt, indeed! They would all learn just how hard she could kick.
Chapter Eleven
For Lucy, the ensuing days continued as before in intensity and frustration. Endless drilling. Interminable practice. Hour after hour and day after day of what to say or not to say, what to do or not to do, what to think and what thoughts to shun. However, gone was the mild playfulness that had crept into the banter between Henry and her. Gone was the belief that she did not care about the experiment’s outcome or what Henry thought of her. To worsen matters, she could not dismiss Henry’s prediction of what would happen if anyone learned of her involvement in the robbery of Lord Colvin. The duchess noticed her turn toward melancholy.
“You will need a dress, Lucy. One that stuns everyone you greet.”
“There is no time for that. A dressmaker would need to work around the clock to finish in time.”
The duchess flicked her hand dismissively. “Nonsense. The clock falls silent and sleep becomes mere annoyance when a duchess makes a request. There is always time when high station calls.”
Lucy heaved a sigh. “Then let us give our business to the Archambeau brothers. They performed a minor miracle last time. Perhaps they will again.”
Within the hour, Lucy and the duchess stood in the shop of the very surprised Archambeaus. No person of rank had haunted their shop in years, and never had a duchess darkened their doors. Phillipe and Jacques fell over each other to please the visitors. Though happy for their windfall, Lucy’s spirits failed to lift. After all, a dress was simply a dress. Still, she patiently submitted to extensive measuring and lengthy conversations regarding fabric and color. Ultimately, she placed all faith in the good tastes of the duchess and the Archambeaus, a necessity now that she was so keenly aware of her shortcomings.
As they rode away from the shop in the coach, the duchess calmly considered her from the opposite bench. “I see by your countenance that you did not find the experience as enjoyable as I had hoped.”
She tried to smile. “I enjoyed it more than my disposition might indicate. I am happy to spend time with you. I am happy to bring such opportunity to Phillipe and Jacques.”
“And the dress? Does that please you?”
She tilted her head indecisively. “A dress is only that, and no more. What is it compared to meaningful matters, such as friendship or a future?”
“I quite agree, my dear. A dress is naught but cloth and thread and no substitute for character or grace. However, a dress is also a doorway. If you catch the appropriate eye, then friendship and a future may follow.”
“I hope you are right on that matter. I must trust your word on it.”
Even as the duchess smiled with satisfaction, Lucy continued battling doubts. As the carriage rocked through the streets of London, its walls closed in on her, caging her like an exotic bird.
Upon arriving back at the house, they were surprised to find an unexpected caller waiting in the parlor. Henry sat in silence near an unfamiliar young woman. When the duchess saw the visitor, she let slip a quiet groan overheard by only Lucy
. That, and the visitor’s general demeanor, lifted Lucy’s hackles. The young woman turned to consider them, allowed a cool smile to cross her lovely features, and rose with a fluid motion. She dropped an elegant curtsy so graceful swans might have sighed.
“Your Grace.” Her greeting ignored Lucy’s presence. The duchess exhaled a pent breath.
“Lady Isabella Sedgewick. How nice to see you.” Lucy had not known the duchess long but guessed she was lying through her teeth. Henry stood and motioned to them.
“Will you join us? Isabella called some half an hour ago, and we were merely biding time in hopes of your return.”
“Why not,” the duchess replied flatly. Lucy followed her to the sofa opposite the chairs occupied by Henry and his visitor, oddly stung that he had called the woman by her Christian name. She studied Henry, but he remained a closed book, other than his seeming regard for the visitor. She immediately saw the appeal. Lady Isabella’s honey hair formed a luscious pile atop her head, drawing attention to delicate cheekbones, a proud nose, and full lips. Faced with such fragile beauty, Lucy became painfully aware of her less than delicate appearance. After a numbing silence, the duchess spoke.
“Lady Isabella,” she said with forced cheer. “What brings you to call? You have not visited in some time. Not since last your grandmother forced you.”
Lady Isabella dipped her head and responded in that fluidly nasal manner of those accustomed to speaking down the nose to others. “Yes, Your Grace, and I apologize profusely. However, I only just learned of our shared acquaintance in Mr. Beaumont. I asked why I should not call on two old friends with a single visit and found no reason to stay away.”
The duchess’s regard shifted toward Henry, who did not rebut the claim, before returning to Isabella. “Mr. Beaumont is an old friend, you say? How did you come to know him?”
