The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “I looked the part?” If ever he’d felt less like a gentleman, it was now.

  “Yes. You appeared the perfect gentleman. The suit…the color green becomes you.” Her gaze slid away from his. “Mr. Bourke certainly knows how to cut a suit.”

  He looked down at himself. This was the first time she had paid him a compliment on his appearance. He rubbed at the broadcloth of his jacket absently, his thoughts too jumbled at the moment to make any sense of the past five minutes.

  He coughed into his hand. “Very well,” he said finally, hoping to live up to her expectations. “I trust your judgment.” If she chose to believe he had been the worse for drink and was disposed to overlook his behavior on those grounds, Jonah would never again bring up the topic that caused her so much distress she preferred to block it from her memory. And he swore to himself he’d never do anything to dishonor her again.

  During the course of the next few days, Florence resumed her morning sessions with Quinn over the dining table, this time reviewing what he could expect at a fancy dinner party. Once again, they practiced holding utensils, cups and goblets, increasing the number by several and demonstrating how many courses he might have to sit through.

  She’d had to strengthen her resolve each morning as she sat down with him, to forget what had happened that night and concentrate solely on their goal: to make Quinn into a presentable gentleman before the Duke of Winchester and his circle.

  She turned to Quinn now as they paused after a lengthy lecture on the order of rank among the titled. “You will be assigned a lady for the procession into the dining room. Endeavor to remember her name when the hostess introduces her to you. Hopefully, she will be some half-deaf dowager and you can content yourself with merely taking her arm and following those in front of you.”

  He seemed to hang on her every word, his green eyes fixed on her so intently that it was an effort for her to breathe, let alone think straight.

  She struggled to maintain her train of thought. “However, if she is a young matron or, worse, a debutante, try to curb any inclination to flirt.”

  His brow furrowed. “Flirt? Why ever would I do a thing like that?”

  “You do have that tendency.”

  “If you’re talking about what happened the other night—”

  She drew away from him, shocked that he’d dare to refer to that incident. “Certainly not!”

  He immediately leaned back himself as if aware of his proximity to her. “Forgive me,” he mumbled.

  She smoothed down the tablecloth before her and endeavored to speak calmly. “I was referring to the way you behave around young Betsy.”

  Now he was the one to look amazed. “Betsy? Barely out of pigtails, that one. What in the world does she have to do with flirting?”

  She waved a hand, annoyed at having to explain something so obvious. “You are too free in your compliments with her.”

  He made a sound in his throat. “What are you talking about? She’s a pretty, young lass. I mean nothing by telling her so.”

  What would it be like to have a man shower one with compliments as easily as he did to Betsy? “It may be innocent banter and perfectly acceptable to a woman of Betsy’s class.” She heard her own voice, sounding as stuffy as an embittered spinster’s. “However, in higher society, you must have a care with how you behave around a young, unmarried lady. Anyone just out in society will be extremely innocent and not used to the ways of men. Anyone older—and married—will be a practiced flirt, and you must be even more cautious with your words around this type of lady, if you don’t want to find yourself with more than you bargained for. Is that understood?”

  He planted his fists on the tablecloth. “Let me make something clear before anything else. I’ve never ‘flirted’ with Miss Betsy. By G—, the lass is young enough to be my daughter.”

  He stopped, and the two stared at each other. Florence could feel her cheeks grow hot at the recollection of the last time Quinn had taken the Lord’s name in vain.

  Before she could react, he looked away from her. “Beg pardon.”

  She sighed, realizing his apology was sincere.

  At the sound, he met her gaze once more, his deep-fringed eyes sorrowful. “If only that soap of yours would do my filthy mouth any good, I’d have you wash it out a dozen more times.”

  Before she could think what to say—too astounded by his simple admission—he shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve been swearing and cussing since I was a tyke. It’s a habit I just can’t seem to break. I’ll try my best to watch myself around you because you’re a lady—”

  She leaned forward, unaware she’d placed a hand on his forearm until she saw his gaze travel to it. She whipped it away at once. She had made sure not to touch him since…that evening. “It’s not because I’m a lady that you should watch yourself. It’s because—” How could she explain? She began again. “You are right, it will take more than soap and water to break that vile habit.”

  His green eyes looked puzzled. “Are you saying I need something stronger?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Her earlier discomfort forgotten, she strove to make him understand. It seemed as if suddenly the real reason Quinn was among them was revealing itself. This was the moment she’d been praying for since the morning she’d stood below the gallows.

  “You have been made a temple of God,” she said, choosing her words with care. Oh, how she wanted him to understand. “It’s because He dwells inside of you that your language should reflect the new man you are.”

  He stared at her. “I always thought it was because you wanted to turn me into a gentleman.”

  “But don’t you see? That’s what a true gentleman is. He is a man of principle, of honor, of chivalry. He is not a man who is careless with his speech, or who goes about flirting with young girls, or who behaves in a manner unmindful of the consequences to others.”

  “I told you I never flirted with Betsy. She’s a mere lass.”

  She sat back, remembering how they had gotten on the subject. “Hardly.”

  “In any case, that’s the way I regard her. She re—” He stopped abruptly. His face was flushed and he was no longer looking at her directly.

  “She what?” Florence asked, her curiosity aroused.

  He rubbed his forefinger against the tablecloth, as if embarrassed. Her heart began to thump, wondering what hidden thought he would reveal about Betsy. Could she bear to hear it?

  “She reminds me of my Judy…when she was that age. Not in the way you seem to think,” he added hastily. “More like seeing her takes me back to that time when I was that age, beginnin’ to court Judy.” He sighed deeply.

  Florence’s chest constricted with a sense of his bereavement. She’d known the loss of her two parents so quickly one after the other…and the pain of rejection from a suitor whose feelings hadn’t been as deep for her as hers for him.

  But to lose one’s wife and two young children to illness and virtual starvation. To feel helpless against the grating poverty…

  “I see,” she said softly. She had to curl her hand against the tabletop to keep from reaching out and covering his. “I’m sorry.” The words seemed inadequate to express what she was feeling for him and the depth of her longing to comfort him at that moment.

  Before she could say anything more, he leaned back in his chair and pinned her with a stern look. “And another thing I want you to get clear, I may be a gentleman in name only, but I don’t trifle with a woman’s feelings. I was married to one woman and never was unfaithful to her. I’ll probably be too tongue-tied around these great ladies at this dinner to do much more than open my mouth to say how d’ye do.”

  She looked away, thankful that he was too indignant to notice how his words were affecting her.

  If he never flirted or trifled with a woman’s feelings, how was she to interpret his kiss? Anger and hurt pride? She’d told herself that over and over—every night as she lay
in bed awake reliving it.

  Quinn had been intent on punishing her that evening. That’s all the kiss had meant to him.

  Would it have made it any better if he had been trifling with her emotions?

  And if there were any other reason?

  And why did she keep torturing herself over it?

  Chapter Fourteen

  “The Reverend Damien and Miss Hathaway. Mr. William Kendall.” The footman’s stentorian tones sounded above the noisy drawing room.

  Jonah stood with the Hathaways at the entry of the immense room aglow with the light of two chandeliers and dozens of wall sconces. He had never seen such splendor. Only now did he realize how simple the Hathaways’ parsonage was. What he’d viewed as luxuries beyond his reach were merely comfortable furnishings in comparison with the duke’s living quarters. Gilt frames around massive paintings filled every available wall space, whose paper was like brocade. The high ceiling was sculpted in elaborate swirls.

  Jonah wiped his sweaty palm down the length of his knee breeches then quickly followed the curate and Miss Hathaway as they entered the room.

  It was already filled with people, who had scarcely turned at the announcement of their names. He expelled a silent breath of relief. The first hurdle of having to pass the line of footmen below and climb the red carpeted stairway to the drawing room was past. Now, for the dinner itself.

  “So, what do we do now?” he asked Miss Hathaway in an undertone as they stood among the richly dressed guests. She was his anchor in this mad storm.

  She turned toward him. “We await our hostess to tell us whom we are to escort into dinner.”

  “Where’s the duke?” he asked, rubbing a hand against his jaw, then stopping at the frown on Miss Hathaway’s face. A gentleman wouldn’t do that in public, he supposed. At least his jaw felt smooth. He’d heeded Miss Hathaway’s advice and shaved just before dressing this evening.

  “I don’t see His Grace…oh, there he is,” Damien said.

  Jonah turned enough to follow Damien’s focus.

  “All these gents look alike to me.”

  “Well, you shall not be in doubt much longer, as I see the rector approaching him.”

  Jonah watched Doyle engage a gentleman in conversation, noting the easy way he smiled at something the man said.

  So, that was the mighty duke. A stately man in this late thirties, Jonah would guess, with dark hair. He turned back to the Hathaways.

  “How much longer do we have to wait here?” he asked Miss Hathaway in an undertone.

  “Until our hostess assigns us our dinner partners.”

  “Oh…uh…that’s right.” All her meticulous instructions and now his mind was as blank as a washed slate. He’d be lucky if he remembered his assumed name this evening. How was he ever going to fool all these elegant people around him into thinking he was one of them?

  His eyes sought Miss Hathaway again, but she was looking away from him, surveying the company. It gave him a chance to observe her for a few minutes the way he’d been wanting to do since they had assembled at the parsonage that evening.

  He had never seen Miss Hathaway looking so…He searched for a word. Ladylike. No, that wasn’t quite right. She always appeared ladylike. Feminine? Yes, maybe that was more accurate. Was it the lower cut of her gown? For the first time she wasn’t wearing anything to cover the neckline.

  His glance strayed over this area. It was creamy smooth. Her gown was tied just under her bosom with a silver braided cord. She hadn’t much in that department, it was true, but somehow it suited her. Her build was slim and sort of statuesque. The new word came to mind as he thought of the marble statues they had walked past down the long corridor of the duke’s palace.

  Miss Hathaway’s gown, a sky-blue, offset her pale complexion to perfection. She wasn’t wearing a cap this evening, either, and her sandy hair was drawn up in a knot with a few tendrils allowed to fall against her temples.

  She wore long white gloves that went beyond her elbows. But the upper part of her arms were bare with only little caps of sleeves covering the very tops, leaving most of her shoulders bare. She had a slender neck, adding to her graceful appearance.

  Just then she turned to him and he could feel his face redden at being caught staring at her. “Ahem…I hope I haven’t forgotten everything you taught me.”

  Her eyelids fluttered downward. “I’m sure you will do fine. Remember, if you have any doubts about which fork or spoon to use, just look to Damien or myself and copy our movements.”

  Jonah sighed, wishing once again the evening were already behind them. He observed all the gentlemen around him. He certainly looked like them, in his new black evening coat and black knee breeches. He felt as trussed up as a fowl in the white silk waistcoat, but he had to admit it was very elegant. He patted the cravat, feeling a bit proud of himself for being able to execute the Waterfall with no help from anyone.

  The curate clicked open his watch. “I shouldn’t think it would be too much longer until dinner is announced. It is now a quarter of an hour over the time stated on the invitation.” Their low tones could scarcely be heard above the growing buzz of voices around them.

  “Ah, Damien,” the rector’s voice drifted over Jonah’s shoulder, sending a new chill down his spine. “I’m so glad you could come this evening. May I present, His Grace, the Duke of Winchester?”

  Damien bowed. “Your Grace.”

  Jonah turned slowly. The moment of truth had arrived.

  “My sister, Miss Florence Hathaway,” Damien said, a hand to her elbow, “and our friend, Mr. William Kendall of Bedfordshire.”

  Our friend. The title resounded deep within Jonah and he felt a sudden swelling in his throat so he could hardly say, “Your Grace,” when the duke turned his way.

  The man’s dark eyes seemed to pierce his very soul and for an instant Jonah felt sure the duke would burst out with, Jonah Quinn, the man wanted by the law!

  But he did nothing of the sort. With a slight nod, he turned his attention back to Hathaway. “I have heard more and more of late of your sermons at St. George’s.”

  Jonah let his breathing return to somewhere near normal as the two men began discussing church. But his peace was short-lived as he noticed the rector engage Miss Hathaway in conversation. The room was too noisy for him to catch much of their conversation, but Jonah could feel his blood begin to heat at the familiar way the rector touched Miss Hathaway’s forearm as he related something amusing.

  And the look in Miss Hathaway’s eyes…as if she worshipped the man. The cleric could probably do no wrong in her eyes. How could any man ever compete with a saint like that?

  In a few moments, the duke left them. Jonah frowned at the rector, wishing he would make his excuses as well.

  Only a few more minutes went by before their hostess approached them, a haughty woman with a profusion of feathers on her head and diamonds about her neck. The dowager duchess, Miss Hathaway had told him beforehand, the duke’s mother.

  She indicated the young lady Hathaway would lead in. Jonah’s heart sank when she turned to Doyle and informed him that Miss Hathaway would be his partner.

  Then she fixed Jonah with her cold blue eyes. “You will escort Mrs. Woburn.” With that pronouncement, she left him.

  He turned to Miss Hathaway. “Who the blazes is she?”

  “A footman will bring her to you when dinner is announced.”

  They hadn’t much longer to wait. As soon as a footman announced they were to make their way to the dining room, there was a general movement as couples paired off. The duke left the drawing room first, a beautiful woman on his arm, followed by the dowager, with an elegant, white-haired gentleman taking her arm.

  “Mrs. Woburn, sir.” A footman approached Jonah, an overweight, middle-aged woman at his side.

  Jonah was suddenly tongue-tied. What was he supposed to say? He remembered Miss Hathaway’s strict warnings not to flirt with any l
ady. At least this was no spring chicken. He glanced at Miss Hathaway and she gave him a slight inclination of her head as if to reassure him.

  He bowed to Mrs. Woburn. “Good evening.”

  The lady favored him with a going-over. He hid his shock, thinking ladies didn’t behave as forward as lowborn women. Nor that they wore rouge and lip color as this lady did, as bright red as a cherry’s. “Good evening, Mr. Kendall, I’m much obliged to your company tonight.” She held out her hand and he extended his arm the way he saw the rector do with Miss Hathaway.

  Mrs. Woburn looped her hand through the crook of Jonah’s arm. With a final, panicked look Miss Hathaway’s way, Jonah took his first step into the fashionable world without his able teacher.

  Miss Hathaway looked as stricken as he over his dinner partner, but it was too late for either of them.

  Jonah bent forward to help himself to another mouthful of the roast peacock. He had never eaten so much meat in his life. Roast lamb, hare, a haunch of beef, chicken pie, turbot in cream, quail in pastry. No poor man’s fare, not a piece of bacon or an oyster in sight.

  And the fruit! He’d never seen such a variety—oranges and apples spilling across the white cloth, merely there for decoration, it seemed. And candied fruits arranged on tiered platters in the middle of the tables, grapes, cherries, strawberries, no thought to season of the year. Did they all come from hothouses?

  He hadn’t dared reach for half of the dishes in front of him, too mindful of all Miss Hathaway’s warnings in the days leading up to the dinner party.

  But Mrs. Woburn, seated on his right, had not seemed hampered by any scruples, as she asked him time and again to pass her a dish.

  Miss Hathaway sat across from him, between her brother and the rector. It was too far away to carry on a comfortable conversation, there was such a din, with waiters moving around them and platters passed hither and thither. But every once in a while he’d catch her approving nod, or he’d look to make sure he was holding his fork and knife the right way. There had been a soup course earlier and he hadn’t taken up his spoon until he’d seen her take hers. He’d remembered her instructions for how to slip it into the shallow soup bowl away from him and then to bring it up to his mouth without slurping it.