by Diane Farr
“Ah.”
He leaned lazily back in his chair. “Females are often resistant to learning new skills, are they not? And yet I daresay it’s the same for a woman as it is for a man; an activity that may not have appealed to her at all can become quite an obsession, once a lady discovers that she has a . . .” His smile widened. “A natural aptitude.”
Olivia spluttered wordlessly, but Culpepper gave his lordship an approving nod. “That may be true, my lord. Within the limitations of her female nature, of course.”
“Of course.” Lord Rival shot Olivia another glance filled with suppressed laughter. “I was about to describe for Lady Olivia the benefits of diligent instruction, with frequent repetition, to truly hone a skill.”
Culpepper beamed. “Yes, milord. Practice makes perfect.”
Lord Rival inclined his head in courteous acknowledgment of this platitude. “Precisely. Especially, I believe, when the novice receives expert guidance. A skillful and gifted teacher can inspire true enthusiasm in the pupil, and it is enthusiasm which brings out the student’s full potential.”
His gaze, still brimming with devilment, briefly locked with Olivia’s and heat shocked through her like a lightning strike. She was forced to acknowledge that diligent instruction from Lord Rival would definitely awaken a certain . . . enthusiasm . . . in this particular student.
Culpepper appeared impressed. “I did not know you were an educator, my lord.”
Lord Rival shrugged modestly. “I have been known to dabble. Like any man, I daresay, I have a few, ah, pet theories.”
7
It was inevitable, he supposed, that the morning would end with a suggestion that Lord Rival tour the Fairfax School. A month ago he would have declined such an invitation with alacrity. Even vehemence. Odd, the twistings of fate!
He still had no interest whatsoever in Lady Olivia’s charity, but he had a keen and growing interest in Lady Olivia. It was child’s play to maneuver her into giving him a private tour. When Culpepper declared that he was at Lord Rival’s disposal on any morning save tomorrow, all George had to do was regretfully (and mendaciously) claim that tomorrow was the only morning on which he could do it. Lady Olivia, bless her innocence, immediately rose to the bait and offered to escort him herself.
He called for her at the stroke of ten the next morning, suspecting that she was the sort of female who appreciated punctuality. Sure enough, she was ready and waiting when he arrived. She even expressed artless gratitude for his timeliness.
“You would not credit, I daresay, how many people think nothing of arriving a quarter of an hour past their time, or even more!” she observed, warmly shaking his hand.
“The world is full of laggards,” he agreed. “I am generally among them. But today, of course, I am striving to impress you.”
She laughed. “You have chosen an excellent way to go about it.”
She had chosen an excellent way to impress him, too—if that was her object. He glanced appreciatively at the pretty picture she made in an expensive-looking morning dress of sprigged muslin, belted beneath her breasts with a band of narrow kid dyed to match her gloves. It was the latest fashion, and she looked undeniably fetching in it. He raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. “What! No mobcap? No apron?”
“Pray do not remind me of our first meeting,” she begged. “I am covered with shame whenever I think of it.”
“No need,” he told her kindly. “Remember, I accepted your apology.”
“Yes, you did, and very annoying I found it,” she said tartly. “I am still waiting for yours.” She looked pointedly at him, as if inviting him to speak. He gave her his blandest smile and bowed, indicating the door. She bit back a laugh and gave an indignant sniff, then led the way to where her footman was holding the door for them.
They stepped out into the wind. Lady Olivia stopped in her tracks. A hackney coach stood before her house. As her footman closed the door and disappeared behind them, the jarvey jumped down from his high perch and opened the hackney door, letting down the steps. Lady Olivia still stood, apparently frozen in place.
“What’s amiss?” asked George innocently.
“I hope this hackney isn’t yours!”
“Certainly not. I hired it.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.” With one hand on her windblown bonnet, she tilted her head to glare up at him. “You’re mad. You can’t put me into a hackney.”
“My, we are proud!” marveled George, deliberately misunderstanding her. “What’s wrong with it? I can vouch for its cleanliness and safety, my lady. I rode in it all the way from London.”
“A hackney with you in it is not safe for me,” she retorted. “Are you so accustomed to the company of—of fast women that you have forgotten the rules? A lady cannot ride in a closed carriage with a gentleman.” She held up a warning finger. “And if you are about to say that you are no gentleman, you may save your breath.”
“Thank you,” said George appreciatively. “I may not be a gentleman, but I can assume the role for however long it takes us to travel to the Fairfax School. If you insist.”
“If? If I—oh!” she spluttered, blushing. “You are absurd! But the point, as you well know, is not whether you would behave properly. It is the appearance of misbehavior that is unavoidable. Once the doors are closed, it won’t make a particle of difference what we do.”
“Well, that’s good news, at any rate.”
She choked, but rallied. “It is nothing of the kind! Why, oh why, did you not hire a gig or a curricle?”
“An open carriage?” he asked incredulously. “It looks like rain.”
“Pooh! A bit of wind and a cloud or two.” She shook her head in despair. “Well, there’s no use repining. We shall have to walk.”
“My dear Lady Olivia! I am wearing new boots.” He tried to look pathetic.
She was clearly not deceived, but at least she was primming her mouth as if holding back a laugh. “You really are the most audacious man!” she exclaimed. She studied him for a moment, tapping her foot against the pavement. He tried to look meek and harmless. This coaxed an unwilling laugh from her. “If you insist on riding with me in a closed carriage, my lord,” she said at last, “my cousin must accompany us for propriety’s sake.”
The jarvey was still standing by, pretending not to hear. George drew Lady Olivia a little to one side. The muscles in her arm were rigid beneath his fingers, but she did not pull away.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked her teasingly. “Is your reputation so fragile? I think your good name will survive a ten minute hackney ride, even with me. Come on.” He winked. “It’ll be fun.”
Her mouth opened in a little O of shock. “I have earned my good name, sir, by eschewing such—such dubious treats,” she stammered.
“Well, what’s the point of earning a good name if you can’t trade upon it a little?” he asked flippantly. “High time you tested it a bit. Dare them all to gossip about you! You are not a child fresh out of the schoolroom. Who will chastise you? Who would dare? A woman of your stainless reputation cannot be condemned for merely riding in a hackney. And in broad daylight! It’s absurd.”
Uncertainty flickered in the back of her eyes. He pressed his point. “Tell me. Would you pass judgment upon any woman of your acquaintance for such a tiny transgression?”
She looked thoughtful. “Not without knowing the circumstances. There might be any number of reasons why a lady would do such a thing.”
He spread his hands deprecatingly. “Well, there you have it.”
Humor suddenly lit her features. “But I have no excuse, my lord. There are no extenuating circumstances whatsoever.” Her gray eyes, wide and luminous, met his with disarming candor. “I would be riding in that hackney alone with you only because . . . I want to.”
He felt his jaw slacken. God save the mark! She had surprised him again. He had a definite weakness for plainspoken women. He felt his pulse begin to pound, and sternly quashed hi
s unruly libido. The situation called for delicacy. If he frightened her off, she’d inflict her cousin on him and ruin the entire day.
He took a deep breath. “Well, if you want to, that changes everything. Let’s take the hackney back to London,” he suggested. “Or, better yet, Dover.”
His joking did the trick; she chuckled. “I will ride with you as far as the Fairfax School, and no farther,” she said firmly. “Even a reputation as sterling as mine cannot withstand more than ten minutes behind closed doors with such a rakehell.”
Victory. He could scarcely believe his good fortune; he had expected far more resistance. Outwardly composed but inwardly rejoicing, he assisted Lady Olivia into the dim, cramped quarters of the hackney coach. There was only room for two persons—a factor which had determined his hire of this particular hackney, since he meant to avoid Bessie Fairfax at all costs. Lady Olivia did not comment on this, and she did not object to his sitting beside her, but when the jarvey closed the door and clambered back up onto the box, he felt her tense and knew she was having second thoughts.
“I have never done such a thing in my life,” she reminded him nervously. “I hope you will do nothing to make me regret my decision.”
“I hope not, indeed,” he assured her softly. “For I plan to coax you into doing far more scandalous things than this.”
She almost jumped. “Why, this is—this is very frank!” she stammered. “What can it profit you, sir, to ruin my reputation?”
“I do not intend to ruin your reputation. I merely intend to be private with you whenever I get the chance.” He smiled. “Having had a taste of your delightful company, I cannot bear to return to formality. It seems very flat to only see you with other people milling about. I found even poor Culpepper very much in the way.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean!” she said unexpectedly. “It is great fun to speak privately with you, although I daresay it is shocking of me to admit it. Do tell me, sir, for you must know I have very little experience of such things—are all rakes as charming as you are?”
Taken aback, he stared quizzically down at her. She seemed to be quite serious. “Charm is a necessary accouterment for a rake,” he admitted, laughter quivering in his voice. “Although, as you have probably guessed, few are as charming as I am.”
She laughed outright. “Then I daresay the others fail to match your success rate.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, of course,” he said modestly. “Discretion being another necessary accouterment for a rake.”
“What an interesting life you must lead,” she remarked, folding her hands placidly in her lap. “Pray tell me a few of your adventures.”
“Not for worlds! It is your turn to tell me something.”
“Oh, are we taking turns? Pray ask me something I can answer quickly, for I had much rather talk about you,” she said mischievously.
He grinned. “Very well. A certain question has been tormenting me for the past forty-eight hours. Why does your cousin call you Ivy?”
“Oh, dear.” She bit her lip. “It is—it is a family nickname. I have had it since I was a child.”
“But why Ivy? It’s not commonly used as a diminutive of Olivia.”
“No. It’s not meant to be. It has nothing to do with my Christian name.”
She was studiously looking away from him. Incredulous, he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her face back to his. “Good God, are you blushing?”
Her eyes met his defiantly. “And what if I am?” she demanded. “This is a very personal question, sir. I am not entirely sure I should answer it.”
“You made me discuss how charming I am,” he reminded her, suppressing a laugh. “Whatever you are about to disclose couldn’t possibly be worse than that. Come, now! Why does your family call you Ivy?”
She swatted his fingers crossly away from her chin and squared her shoulders. “Oh, very well,” she said grudgingly. “If you must know, they call me Ivy because—” She took a deep breath, then sighed. “Because everything I touch, I take over.”
He burst out laughing. She looked chagrined, but her eyes were twinkling. “I daresay it seems very funny to you, my lord—”
“Oh, yes! It does.”
“—but my nickname was something of a trial to me, I assure you. Until I became used to it.”
“It seems very apt.”
She looked dismayed. “Heavens! Can you tell already? You hardly know me!”
“My dear girl, from the instant I encountered you I have watched you dominate everything and everyone around you. Only witness the ruthless methods you employed to keep me out of poor Beebe’s house! Why, you stopped at nothing.”
“No! How can you say so? I did not even succeed!”
His eyes gleamed. “No. Because that was the day you met your match.”
She faced him in the half-light, indignant but laughing. “As to that, sir, only time will tell. If it’s a contest between us as to which is more overbearing than the other, I would not hazard a groat on the outcome.”
“No, nor would I,” he said promptly. “And I’m a betting man.”
There was something about shared mirth that invited intimacy. George was very aware of how close her face was, upturned to his, and how the rocking of the coach brought their bodies into repeated contact. He found it thoroughly enjoyable.
Her head tilted a little as she studied him, a smile still playing across her face. “I suppose it would be a mistake to underestimate you,” she remarked. “I am very used to having my own way, as you have so unkindly observed! But when I think how you have managed to thwart and bully me—and on such short acquaintance!—I realize I really must be on my guard with you.”
He neatly slipped his arm behind her. Her gray eyes widened but he ignored her alarm and smiled down at her. “Did I browbeat you into stepping into this hackney?” he murmured. “I think not.”
“No, indeed!” she said cordially. “How silly of me to think so! It was all my idea. This is the very thing to give my morning the perfect start: ten minutes of peril.”
She was laughing, but he could feel tension thrumming through her as if she were a tightly strung harp. She was very near repenting the impulse that led her to share the hackney with him. One false move and she would slip away. His instincts told him that a strategic retreat would reap benefits later in the game, but it was damnably difficult to let her go. He was once again conscious of the electricity that seemed to spark and sizzle between them. It was delicious to sit so close to her, in the intimacy of the rocking coach. It was delicious to have one arm around her, even so lightly. He hated to remove it.
He carefully lifted his arm, letting her see that it cost him something to do so. “Far be it from me,” he told her regretfully, “to imperil you.”
Her expression immediately sobered. She almost looked regretful herself, which was exactly the outcome he’d been hoping for. But just as he was congratulating himself on the success of his stratagem and filing it away for future use, she asked a question that rocked him back on his heels. She asked him softly, but with disconcerting directness, “Are you my enemy?”
It was a ridiculous question, almost theatrical in its exaggeration. He started to laugh, but as he gazed into the preternaturally clear eyes so close to his, the impulse died.
Pinned by those silver eyes of hers, it struck him in a flash that the rock-bottom truth was, he was her enemy. He meant to harm her. He liked her, he respected her, and he felt strongly attracted to her—but he would steal from her if he could. First her heart, and then her fortune. He had not thought of it in such bald terms until this very moment.
He wanted to make a flip remark, but could not. He felt his habitual suavity slip a little. It was not a comfortable sensation. Whatever she was reading in his face, it was causing her expression to become more and more grave. “You hesitate,” she said quietly. “I see.”
Good God. How could he recover from this moment? It was obviously
too late to try the flip remark. He took one of her hands in a strong clasp, frowning.
“I hesitate because you seem to be in earnest. An easy answer would make light of your question.” He looked quizzically at her. “You do not pull away when I touch you,” he murmured. “There’s no need to look embarrassed! I merely point it out to illustrate my predicament.”
He lifted his other hand and ran a finger along the side of her face, thoughtfully tucking a strand of her dark hair back into her bonnet. A woman of her stamp would respond to directness more surely than to flattery or soothing words. He would abandon raillery and try honesty, at least as far as he could.
“I do not know whether we are at cross-purposes until I know what your purpose is,” he said quietly. “I confess, I do not understand what you are about. If I were you, Lady Olivia, I would have nothing to do with me. I did not expect you to forgive my conduct at Beebe’s house, let alone the remarks I made that day. Frankly, you should have acquired an unalterable disgust of me. Yet—here we are. Why?”
She pulled her hand out of his and looked away. “I owe Mr. Beebe a great deal—” she began.
“Faugh! Do not tell me you are only attempting to comply with the terms of his will. That won’t fadge. You could have achieved that by fobbing me off onto Culpepper, and spared yourself the trouble and annoyance of dealing with me directly. Had you wished to avoid me, that is what you would have done.”
Humor returned to her countenance. “Well, then, what’s the mystery?” she said bracingly. “Obviously I don’t wish to avoid you.”
He must have looked as nonplussed as he felt, for she laughed at him a little. “You clearly know nothing about the life of a respectable spinster.”
“No, that I don’t! If I did, would I find your behavior less baffling?”
“Oh, I think so.” Her smile was serene. “Do not misunderstand me, my lord. I love my life and would not trade it for another. But it . . . lacks spice.”
“Aha.” This was interesting. He raised an eyebrow, amused. “So you pine for adventure. Ten minutes of peril actually is the way you’d like to start your mornings. I never would have guessed it.” His shoulders shook. “Although, in hindsight, I should have! You did provide a number of clues. Oh, do not blush! You were charming.” He leaned back against the squabs, letting his gaze travel over the slender form perched primly beside him. He was acutely aware of her knee touching his thigh in the close quarters of the hackney. A slow smile spread across his features. “So. Your life lacks spice. You have chosen your man well, Lady Olivia. I will gladly spice up your bland existence.”
