The Making of a Gentleman

by Shana Galen

  She sat back, saw the anger flash across his face. She might as well just continue playing. Her scheme would never work anyway. But she continued moving backward and began to rise. Before she knew what had happened, his hands were on her shoulders, pushing her back down. Behind him, she saw his mother rise, worry in her eyes. Felicity shook her head, though perhaps the dowager’s interference was exactly what she needed. She allowed herself to be pushed back into place, but she wanted him to know she could be stubborn, as well. Determined, she folded her hands into her lap.

  The comte pointed at the piano, and there was no mistaking what he wanted. “Play,” she said. “That’s all you have to say, and I’ll play until noon.” She leaned close, whispered the word. “Play.”

  He held her hands, and she felt his fingers flex, knew this was difficult for him. He was uncomfortably near to her. Too near—she could see the ring of violet around those cobalt blue eyes of his. Too near—she could feel his warm, sweet breath on her lips. Too near—she could smell him, the intoxicating mix of musk and man.

  Curses! She was glad the dowager was just on the other side of the room, because who knew to what temptations she might succumb if she was left alone with the comte. She couldn’t remember ever being so drawn to a man, had certainly never been drawn to Charles like this. But this man—this aristocrat, whom she had expected to abhor—drew her like no other. The comte said more with his eyes than most men did with a lifetime of words.

  But she wanted one word from this man, and she did not think she was going to get her wish. She searched his eyes with her own, pled silently with him. And just as she was about to give up, to look away, she saw his lips move.

  It was a slight movement, his lips forming the shape of the word play. She wanted to nod in encouragement, but she could not tear her gaze from his lips. She could almost feel them on her skin. They were full and generous, and she could imagine they would be soft and teasing on her lips—or her neck, or her shoulder—

  She inhaled sharply. Where were these thoughts coming from? She had to put a stop to them!

  He moved his lips again, and this time her skin prickled because she heard him whisper. She did nod now. “Yes, that’s right. Just a little louder.”

  He cleared his throat and then he took a deep breath. “Play.” The sound was as scratched as a child’s desk but also husky and unimaginably enticing. She stared at him, watching those lips, hoping for more. But he released her hands suddenly and stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. He seemed surprised he had spoken, shocked at the sound of his voice.

  And then he turned and glanced behind him, almost as though he thought someone was waiting to pounce on him, to punish him. She feared he would leave, retreat to his room, but with a worried look in his eyes, he turned back to her. Inside she felt her heart leap with joy. He had spoken! He had actually done it! And he was still standing before her. She beamed at him. “You did it!” She jumped up and clapped her hands together. “You did it!” She had actually helped him to speak. Perhaps she would succeed at this position after all. Throwing back her head, she laughed with joy.

  He gave her a wary nod, and then he pointed at the pianoforte. She laughed again. “You want me to play again. Of course you do.” She whirled and settled herself back on the bench. Raising her hands, she grinned at him and played a happy little jig.

  And then, because the piece was short and over far too quickly, she played a longer piece she knew he would enjoy. It had always been one of her favorites. She wished she had thought to bring some of her sheet music down from her room, as those were pieces she would like to learn. But the comte did not seem to care what she played. He stood beside the pianoforte and stared at her fingers or alternately at her face.

  She tried not to notice when he stared at her face, tried not to feel the heat course through her at the feel of his gaze upon her. She concentrated on the keys and then, behind the comte, she saw a movement.

  His mother! Of course. She had almost forgotten the dowager was chaperoning them. The comte was probably not even aware of her presence, and perhaps that was a good thing. Tears were streaming down the woman’s cheeks as she all but sobbed. Her eyes met Felicity’s, and the dowager mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  Felicity felt her own eyes sting—partly from the happiness she had given to the dowager. Partly from the thrill of seeing the comte’s accomplishment. But mostly she was thinking of her father, missing him and the family she had once known. She had not expected this family to make her long for her own, had not thought aristocrats capable of the kind of warmth and love she had known as a child.

  But now she knew she had misjudged most unfairly.

  She also knew, without a doubt, she was more alone than she had ever been.

  ***

  Several hours later, Armand paced his room. He was exhausted, but he could not seem to relax enough to sit down. Before the afternoon was finished, he had spoken four words. Speaking each word had been a struggle. It was as though a massive rock rested on his tongue. All of his concentration and patience were required to move the rock, to force out even a single word. But he had forced them out.

  And he was still standing. Nothing bad had happened.

  Yet.

  But he knew something could happen. The holes were a sign. If he said the wrong thing, if the wrong person heard… No! These were the thoughts of a child. He was not afraid anymore.

  But one thing had changed.

  Speaking even those few words had been like a key on the padlock of his mind. Now, unwanted words and phrases from his past rushed at him, faster than he could comprehend them. Some were in English, others French. He thought some might even be Italian or another language. It was exhausting, and now that the door in his mind had been unbarred, he did not know how to close it again—if even for a short time.

  And while he did not mind the racing words and phrases, what he did mind was the assault of images and memories that flooded him. Voices and faces that were wholly unfamiliar to him suddenly appeared. He saw taverns and houses and streets he could not place, men he did not know, and yet all of them seemed in some way to relate to his life before—before prison.

  Images of his time in a cell attacked him as well; those he had more experience controlling. But what were these new images? Were they real? Imagined? Why did they not make sense?

  He put his hands to his head and squeezed, trying to stem the flood. “Damn it.” His raw, rocky voice broke the silence in his chamber, almost startling him. It did not sound like the voice he remembered. But then, the voice he remembered was that of a child’s. This was a man’s voice, and a raspy one at that. He knew with use it would grow stronger. Was that what he wanted? It was what Miss Bennett wanted. He had to give her credit. She was clever and inventive.

  The music she had played this afternoon was an incentive, but that was not all that encouraged him to speak. Seeing her face, the way she smiled and her eyes crinkled at the corners, was more than enough to make him want to continue pleasing her.

  No wonder he had said “Please,” “Thank you,” and “Yes” in addition to “Play.” At this rate, he would be the most polite man in all of England.

  For the moment, he didn’t care. One thing he had no memories of was women. Oh, he could remember his mother well enough, and he thought a few of the fleeting images were also those of his nanny from years ago, Madame St. Cyr. But there were no other memories of women. Was that why Miss Bennett affected him so much? Was that why he could think of little else but kissing her?

  Armand began pacing again. He did not think he had ever kissed a woman. He had seen Julien kiss his wife once, but even their very public affection had limits. It had been a short kiss on Sarah’s mouth. But Armand wanted something longer and deeper. He did not know how he knew he wanted this, only knew the idea absorbed him. When he was near her, there were times he could think of littl
e else. Were all men this way, or was this once again the monster in him rearing its head? Either way, his lips ached to feel hers underneath.

  And that was not all that ached. Other parts of his body, parts he had never paid much attention to in the past, had begun to ache. He clenched his fists, noting how often they tingled, wanting to touch Miss Bennett’s hair, her skin, her lips. He knew enough of Society’s Rules to know touching her in those ways was not appropriate, and so he knew even more fully his other fantasies were far beyond the pale.

  He imagined stripping her of her clothes. He had never even seen a woman naked—no, that was not true. He had seen a painting of a partially clothed woman and a statue, as well. But those were artist’s renderings, not real women. Miss Bennett was real, with her curves and her softness. He wanted to see it all, to touch it all, to touch her.

  But that would never be possible. Not with The Rules. He allowed the thought to sink in and to cool his heating blood. She was his tutor, nothing more. She thought of him as a pupil and probably as little more than a wild animal to tame. She would never allow him to touch her in the ways he wanted. Would any woman?

  For now, he needed to clear his mind, to rid his head of the voices and images. He stepped out into the corridor and saw it was much later than he had thought. The wall sconces were already lit. Stepping back into his room, he realized he had forgotten to part the draperies and open the window. Amazing. The enclosure had not even bothered him. He parted them now. Dusk had long since faded into the dark night.

  He had missed dinner and had not even known it. His stomach protested now, but he had long ago learned to control hunger and thirst. He ignored the sensations and made his way toward the servants’ stairs. He wanted to be outside, in the blanket of darkness. He wanted to feel free—and be free of these thoughts and feelings. He would have to deal with them all again in the morning, of that he was certain. But tonight, he would put them aside.

  He stepped into the garden and inhaled the night air. It smelled like London, like the city. He compared it to the country air at his brother’s house in Southampton. He preferred the fresh smell of grass and hay to that of coal and too much horse manure, but the London garden was better than the house. He stepped out farther, looking up at the stars, and then remembering the night before, he glanced down at the ground.

  The holes had been refilled and covered over. There was no trace of them now, and the earth appeared undisturbed. Maybe that would be the end of it. Maybe the holes were not what he feared. He wondered if Miss Bennett knew the holes were covered, wondered what would have happened last night if she had not tripped over one of those holes. Would he have kissed her?

  He knew he would have. And he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if given the opportunity to kiss her again, he would take it. Society and its Rules be damned.

  Something moved in the path ahead of him, and he froze, his senses alerted to danger. He felt the instinctive need to crouch, but he held himself stiff and upright, a growl rising in his throat. This was his home. The garden was his territory, his to protect. He would stop any intruder.

  And then the shape became more defined—a long white gown like a beam of moonlight floated on the path. He squinted, and a yellow-haired woman walked slowly toward him.

  Armand was almost convinced his mind was once again throwing images at him, but he knew this woman, knew she was no figment of his imagination.

  Miss Bennett was still moving toward him, and he saw the moment she realized she was not alone. She stiffened and paused, her head tilting to get a better look. And then he heard her breath whoosh out, and she murmured, “Oh, it’s you.”

  Since none of the words he had practiced seemed appropriate for the moment, he remained silent, watching her move slowly closer to him. His eyes were on her lips, and he almost willed her to walk away, because he knew if she continued on her current course, he would not be able to resist kissing her. But, of course, she did not walk away. She continued toward him, smiling because she did not know the danger she was in.

  “I heard a noise and thought—” She waved a hand, dismissing the idea. “Well, I didn’t realize it was you, my lord.” She stopped before him now, and his hands began to itch. He had to clench them at his sides to keep from reaching out to touch her hair. It was so much like sunlight. Even in the moonlight it managed to shine. “We missed you at dinner.”

  “Yes,” he rasped out. He was not certain what she was speaking of—he wasn’t paying close enough attention—but in his observations, people often nodded and murmured, even when they were not really paying attention.

  His efforts did not go unrewarded. She smiled at him, obviously pleased by what he knew were poor attempts at speech. “Very good. Soon we’ll have you speaking in sentences.” She was wearing some type of blue outer garment, and she pulled it closer around herself now. He was supposed to say something. He could tell by the way she watched him. He did not know what to say, so he stood mute. Feeling like a fool.

  “It’s cooled off quite a bit, so I suppose I had better go inside,” she said, looking past him. He realized she must be looking at the house. “I’ll see you in the morning for another lesson.”

  She started to move away, and he knew he should let her go. He should stand still and allow her to walk inside.

  But he was not going to be able to do that. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and caught her arm. She looked back at him, her face showing surprise but not worry. He thought she should be worried.

  “What is it?” She raised her eyebrows—a sign of interest.

  “Yes?” he rasped out.

  Now she frowned. He had confused her. “Yes…?”

  He grasped her free arm and turned her toward him, pulled her close enough so he could smell her scent and feel the warmth of her body. She was so warm. He wanted to pull her closer.

  “No?” he said, his voice husky and low but less scratchy. She had to know what he wanted now. She was almost in his arms. Armand was painfully aware of how easily he could have her fully in his arms.

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking.” Her voice was low and trembling, but he did not think it was from fear. He narrowed his eyes and studied her face. No, she was definitely not afraid. Should he take that as a yes?

  He wrapped an arm about her body, pulling her hard against him. The sensation was so strong, he almost gasped. Her heat and her softness burned into him. Yet, he did not feel pain. He felt only longing for more. His eyes were on her lips now, and his hand had made its way into her hair. It was thick and soft. He had imagined it might feel warm, like sunlight, but it was cool to his touch.

  He felt its fastenings and wanted to tug them out. He wanted that hair free, but he feared he had gone too far already.

  “I think I know what you’re asking me now,” she said, and her voice sounded different. It was as dark and low as the night closing in around them.

  “Yes. No,” he repeated.

  “Oh, dear. You don’t make this easy. I should not say yes, but—”

  He heard the word he wanted, and that was all it took. He lowered his mouth and touched his lips to hers.

  The feel of her mouth against his was a shock at first. Her lips were so soft and so pliant—not at all what he had expected. He felt he could explore that mouth forever and, acting on instinct, he coaxed her lips open so he could explore further.

  The sound she made in the back of her throat—a low moan—made his heart race and his blood thrum through his veins. He wanted… something. He didn’t even know what he wanted, but his body hungered for it more than it had ever hungered for food or water or companionship in all twelve years of prison.

  And then, quite suddenly, he realized he was hard, hard and straining almost out of his breeches. He wanted to push himself closer to Miss Bennett, to push against her. He struggled for control, grasped it.

  And
it was that moment she began to kiss him back. Up until that instant, she had allowed his kisses, but now she returned them—her tongue twining with his, her mouth locked with his, her arms around his neck.

  His blood ran so hot and so heavy he feared he might lose his hard-won control. He was already thinking of pushing her onto the ground and then—what? He knew what he wanted to do next—was uncertain exactly how it would all work, but he had no fear instinct would show him.

  And then another instinct kicked in—one he was familiar with from long years in prison. The hackles on his neck rose, and his body tightened, wanted to crouch. Something or someone was watching him.

  He yanked himself away from Miss Bennett, tearing his mouth from hers and whipping around to scan the garden.

  “What’s wrong?” she breathed. “What—”

  He saw it then. Saw the eyes watching him. Human eyes. No animal.

  And he knew those eyes. Remembered them from another time, another life. With a howl, he charged.

  Eight

  Felicity jumped back in surprise as the comte released her and charged toward the garden’s gate. “My lord, where are you going? What’s—”

  And then she saw him—the small, gnarled man she had seen out of her window only last night. He was at the gate, at least until the comte charged him. She had to give the comte credit. He was quick and agile, and he almost caught the small, wrinkled man, but the intruder was quick and crafty himself. He ducked under the comte’s arm, circled behind him, then darted back out the gate at a full run. The comte went after him, and Felicity, hand to her heart, hesitated between running to the gate and running inside to fetch the duc and duchesse.

  Finally she pivoted and raced for the town house, entering through the first door she found open—a small, feminine parlor. Once inside, it was only a moment before she encountered a startled servant and made her request known. She bent to catch her breath and still her pounding heart, and then the duc threw the door open.