The Social Tutor: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 1)

by Sally Britton

  She asked him, a near stranger, to meet with her in private in order to be taught how to flirt.

  His mother was right. This foolish endeavor, giving her tools that would lead her into trouble, would make him responsible for her downfall. For there was no doubt in his mind that a rake of the ton would recognize her at once for what she was: an innocent maiden with very few protectors. Christine would likely fall prey to the flattering advances of a man whose intentions would be anything but honorable.

  How could he teach her it would be unwise to give her trust to a man of ill repute? How would she recognize trouble when it came to call? The chit likely would not understand the danger until it became too late. The very thought of her, young and kind, ruined by a cad, caused him to grind his teeth together.

  Thomas’s temper rose slowly, both with her and with himself. How could he have been so foolish as to take on such a role of responsibility, attempting to prepare her for society? He did nothing more than prepare the victim for the sacrifice.

  Maybe enough time remained to give her a lesson in care. She could not be too unaware of the dangers facing young ladies, could she? Surely someone, even her pugnacious father, would have warned her against wolves in sheep’s clothing?

  She arrived precisely on time, as she always did, on her side of the brook.

  “Mr. Gilbert,” she said brightly. “Good afternoon! Isn’t it lovely to have the sun back?” Then, without a by-your-leave, she crossed the water on her stunning horse.

  She did not even blink. Did not even question the appropriateness of the move.

  The last time they were together had been in the greenhouse. A very confined space.

  Circumstances forced that, he told himself, and she ought to have gone back to the boundaries we deemed appropriate in the beginning.

  She dismounted while he debated what to say to her, whether or not to reprimand her. She tethered her horse next to his near a scraggly patch of late autumn weeds, then approached with a confident grin.

  “I have some very particular questions today. Shall we begin, Mr. Gilbert?”

  All at once the idea came to him and his plan of action, half formed, was launched with all the subtlety of an English warship.

  “Thomas. Please, call me Thomas. After all, we have been meeting in secret long enough to become friends.” He smiled in what he hoped was a charming manner, though he would not be surprised if she caught a hint of his frustration.

  She hesitated, narrowing her eyes at him. “I thought you wanted to follow all the proper forms?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a shrug and turned to fully face her, hands clasped behind his back. “I know. It seems foolish, given that we have met these many times and no one has ever come to eavesdrop or spy. I was overly cautious. You are right that we have known each other for a long time. In private, there is no reason to be so formal.”

  Much to his horror, her smile brightened. “Oh, I am glad you see it that way! I do feel we are becoming such good friends. I believe you know more about me than my own sisters, at present. You will call me Christine, please.”

  “Christine.” He tried to relax and plan the next move, all the while clenching a fist behind his back. “It is a lovely name.” Having never been a man of loose morals, acting as one in the moment should have been difficult.

  Surprisingly, Thomas found it all too easy to know what to say and do.

  “Come, that rock will be much too cold to sit upon for the lesson. There is a fallen tree here.” He nodded his head to indicate a place a few feet into the thicket, away from the open area in which they usually met.

  “An excellent idea,” she said, her chipper tone grating further on his frustration. She led the way to the log. She sat down, bringing her riding cape tight about her. “It is more wintry today, isn’t it? I am not certain how much longer I will be able to go for rides in the weather without taking ill. There is always the greenhouse to use again, isn’t there?”

  “If you think we should risk it,” he said, sitting next to her more closely than necessary. Their thighs nearly brushed.

  He watched her rub her gloved hands together and she raised them to her lips to blow on them. “My fingers will turn blue before long.”

  His horrible plan continued to produce equally awful ideas.

  “Here, let me see your hands.” He stripped his gloves off and put them on the log and when she gave him hers, eyes curious, he unbuttoned the glove of her left wrist.

  “What are you doing?” she questioned, sounding more amused than offended. She did not withdraw the hand.

  “Warming you,” he said, trying to affect a light tone of voice while his pulse slammed against his temple. His anger, still present, simmered beneath the surface. How could she be so trusting?

  He unbuttoned the first glove and took it off as though it were an everyday, ordinary act. He held her hand between his and chafed it, briskly.

  “That does help,” she admitted. “My fingers were positively frigid from holding the reins. One cannot carry a muff on horseback.”

  “Indeed.” He finished with that hand. “Tuck it there, under your other arm.” She followed his instructions and carried on conversation about the lovely blue sky and the pleasant ride she enjoyed on her way to their meeting.

  His temper mounted, though he tamped it down, lest he give himself away. He unbuttoned her other glove at her wrist, but moved more slowly. Now, instead of simply peeling the glove off, he ran a fingertip gently across the wrist beneath her glove. He cupped her hand carefully, slowly removing the article of clothing. He concentrated on making the movement last as long as possible, allowing his touch to glide against each exposed inch of skin.

  Her raptures over the cloudless day started to sound strangled.

  Finally. A reaction.

  Once the glove was off, he took her bare hand in both of his and proceeded in warming it, with deliberately slow strokes. Then he raised her hand up to his lips and placed a kiss upon the inside of her wrist.

  Christine’s sharp intake of breath alerted him that he was getting through to her, at least on some level. He raised his eyes at last, meeting her eyes to find them wide in shock, her lips parted to form a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. Yet she said nothing. Did nothing. She should have pulled away. Slapped him. Said something cutting. Screamed.

  The devil inside him prodded him further. His anger mounted. How could she be so helpless in the face of such an onslaught as this?

  “You are no longer cold?” he asked, barely keeping his voice low and controlled when he wanted to grab her and shake some sense into her.

  “I am—I am warm enough,” she near-whispered, that strangled quality still affecting her voice. “Th-thank you.” At last she acted, but by withdrawing her hand, far too slowly to show she felt any real affront.

  Thomas moved closer and put his arm deliberately behind her, his hand on the log and his forearm brushing her waist. “Are you certain? As you said, the days grow colder. I would not wish you to catch a chill.”

  Her face flamed red. “I am f-fine.” Her spine stiffened and she leaned away slightly. “Are you feeling quite the thing today?”

  “Yes. I am very well. Thank you.” He put all the heat and desire he could into his gaze and turned his lips up slowly in a smile. “Better than ever. I am glad you are here.”

  “I come every third day,” she said. Her eyes dropped from his. “And I think we ought to begin our lesson.”

  “Certainly.” Her discomfort still not enough to have him believe her truly secure. “Have we ever discussed what you are to do when you are alone with a gentleman?” he asked, reaching with his free hand to tilt her chin up. When his eyes met hers, he could see she still felt bewildered by his sudden change in attitude.

  “Alone? No. We-we haven’t.” Her deep brown eyes met his with uncertainty, then darted down to look at his mouth.

  “No? Now would be a good time to explain.” He leaned closer, watching her eyes widen in
momentary confusion and then—inexplicably—her lashes lowered as she lifted her face to his.

  He leaned nearer, so close he could feel her warm breath upon his lips.

  “Some gentlemen will have expectations of you, should they find themselves alone with you, like this. Unguarded.” His words whispered softly against her skin. She made it all too easy, and her loveliness, her trust, enticed him.

  What would it be like to kiss her? His eyes went to her lips.

  “Expectations?” she asked, barely breathing. “Of what, Thomas?”

  It was her use of his name that snapped him out of his act, which may not have been an act for much longer, as surely as a bucket of the brook’s water would have done. He jerked back, putting his hands on her shoulders and holding her away.

  “Christine, you brainless little chit!” he said between his teeth. “What are you playing at?” He gave her one little shake.

  Her eyes nearly leaped from their sockets and her face went white, then red. “Me?” she gasped out. “What are you playing at? I thought you might kiss me!”

  “And I nearly did. You certainly would not have stopped me.” He leaped up from his place on the log and marched away, nearly trembling in his anger. “Of all the fool-headed, naive, witless things to do. I gave you every opportunity to run, to scream, to slap me, even to tell me off. How far would you have let it go, Christine?” he demanded, whirling on her.

  She sat, looking positively flabbergasted, and rose slowly to her feet. “What are you saying? Was this all some sort of—sort of test?” Her face paled again. “It was. Of all the horrid, mean things to do.” She looked mortified, then incensed.

  “It is a good thing I did. This throws a whole new light onto your tutoring sessions. Has no one taught you to leave scoundrels alone? To stay away from rakes? From those who would hold your reputation cheaply?” he demanded, striding quickly towards her. He stopped barely a foot away from her and glared down into her eyes. “Never, ever let a man lead you to a secluded place, and never, ever let him divest you of even a glove. And kissing you? As soon as my lips touched your wrist, you should have slapped me soundly.”

  “First,” she snarled up at him, with real heat in her voice, “I was not aware that you were a scoundrel or a rake. I thought you were my friend. How many times have we been in company that we have behaved ourselves? I did not expect that you would be—”

  She broke off, then growled. “I could slap you. How dare you? How dare you touch me and make me think you wished to kiss me?” She tossed her head back, eyes blazing. “How cruel and monstrous. I would never let another man get so close. I am not an idiot. I trusted you.” She placed both ungloved hands on his chest and shoved, taking him by surprise enough so that he took a step back.

  He reached up and caught her wrists, the bare skin against his fingertips hot, her pulse thrumming rapidly against his thumb.

  “Trust or not,” he argued, his glare unabated, “no man should get that close to you unless he has made his intentions clear with you and your father. Even still, it would be questionable.”

  She yanked her arms away and took a step back. “You took me by surprise. Here you were being my friend, caring for me.” Her tone changed, her voice grew quieter. “You were only trying to trick me. I was confused.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I thought you were going to kiss me.”

  “And why didn’t you run? Right then?” he demanded. He shoved both hands through his hair, knocking his hat off. “Zeus, Christine.”

  “Miss Christine,” she corrected quietly. “The ruse is over, Mr. Gilbert.” She took another step, backing away from him. Then another. “I think I have learned all I care to learn today.” She turned on her heel and moved briskly to where the horses were waiting.

  He watched her go, still angry, then quickly moved to catch up to her. “Never,” he said from behind her, “be in a secluded place, alone, with a man of any kind. No alcoves, no shaded trees, or walled-in gardens.”

  “I believe you made that lesson quite clear,” she shouted, not even looking as she turned her mount to lead him to the stone.

  Thomas stopped and knelt before her, offering his cupped hands to throw her up into the saddle. “Good.”

  She took his help without a word. The moment she sat properly, she urged her horse forward across the brook. Once on the other side she turned, glaring at him.

  “You could have spoken to me about it, Mr. Gilbert. I hardly needed a demonstration of what a rake looks like.”

  “You are too trusting,” he argued back, folding his arms before him and sending her the sternest of glares. “What do you really know of me? What if I was no better than a common rake?”

  “You are a Gilbert,” she bit out, eyes narrowing. “I know your father, your mother, your sisters. I followed you around while you learned from my mother. You have always behaved as a gentleman ought. Why would I ever have reason to doubt you? To distrust you? I never did. Not until today, when you behaved like a perfect ruffian. You made your point, Mr. Gilbert.” She pulled her horse around, turning her back to him. “Good day.”

  His anger receded as he watched her, straight-backed and furious, ride away. His breathing slowed, as did the blood pounding through his veins, but it was not until he turned to see her gloves upon the log and his hat on the ground that he realized his misgivings about the chosen teaching method that day.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three days of rain kept Christine indoors and away from the brook. She highly doubted that Thomas would come and wait for her during a deluge, but she considered with great satisfaction how he might look, waiting for her in the pouring rain. After their last session, Providence gave them a reprieve from each other. She wanted to forgive him for his actions, but the way he went about teaching her, treating her as though she were a fool, hurt her pride.

  She never would have allowed a man she barely knew to take such liberties with her gloves, her hand, or come so near kissing her. She was not a complete fool. She read novels and knew to look out for villains seeking to take advantage. A woman’s reputation was all she had. No woman could afford to risk herself. Christine knew that.

  The question remained, niggling at the back of her mind, why did she trust Thomas so completely? Trust him enough that when he did begin moving toward her, as though to kiss her, she waited with bated breath?

  Christine told herself the reaction was obviously due to the fact that she had never been kissed. Ever. Curiosity about the action caused her hesitation at the brook and who could help but wonder if the sensation was marvelous or strange? Pressing one’s lips to another person’s did strike her as an odd way to show affection, but when Thomas leaned in closely, she understood the appeal.

  She dropped her shoulders and stood to pace the room. Rebecca was curled up on her favorite chair, scowling down at her gardening book. Julia sat at the piano bench, playing a melancholy air.

  “Confound the weather,” Christine muttered.

  “Hm?” Julia looked away from her music, though her fingers continued on the keys. “Did you say something, Christine?”

  “She made a crude statement about the weather,” Rebecca answered for her, turning a page. “And I quite agree with her. I am tired of the rain. I wish it would be fine and sunny or else soft and snowy.”

  “Rain must come sometimes,” Julia countered with an arched brow and smile. “You both do look bored and in need of exercise. You ought to take a walk indoors, to stretch.”

  Christine scoffed. “Don’t be silly.” She flung herself back into her chair and glared at the window. “I am in need of an occupation, not exercise. Something to keep my mind busy.”

  “Borrow my horrid horticulture book,” Rebecca suggested, snapping the book closed. “You may learn the difference between peonies and pansies and when to plant them.”

  Julia laughed, still plunking at her piano keys but without as much dedication as before. “You know, Mother loved flowers. She always broug
ht them into the house. But she claimed the moment she tried her hand at gardening, everything wilted away. She had no talent for growing things.”

  “Except daughters,” Rebecca quipped with a smile. “I didn’t know that. We have such beautiful gardens. I thought Mama must have loved to garden.”

  “Not at all. She loved to walk there, though, when she was not indoors with us or out riding.” Julia shifted on the piano bench and dropped her hands to her lap. “Do you remember the picnics we took out amongst the flowers? Late spring, when the ground was dry enough to lay a blanket down.”

  Rebecca nodded, appearing eager. “I do remember. We used to take tea cakes and sandwiches to eat.”

  “I loved those picnics,” Christine said quietly, picturing her mother’s face as she doled out biscuits. “We would spend all afternoon outside, and Mother never once lectured us on freckling.”

  “She used to say that sunshine must be good for growing girls if it was good for the flowers,” Julia remarked, sounding wistful. “When the weather turned, we still took walks on the paths. Then we would come inside and sit before the fire.”

  “And drink chocolate,” Rebecca burst in. “Oh, I do remember. Mama would tell us stories. Or teach us a game.”

  Christine shared a smile with Julia. “I sometimes forget how much time she spent with us. I always think of what she looked like on a horse when she took me for rides. It is easier to remember those times when it was only Mother and me.”

  Julia nodded and rose to come around the instrument. “I think she took special time with each of us. I remember Mother showing me how to knit and taking me on visits about the parish to see friends and give our blankets out to others. She was always kind. I wanted to be like that.”

  “You certainly are,” Rebecca assured her. “Everyone knows you are the kind one.” She sighed. “I can barely remember Mama some days, though she is never far from my thoughts. I cannot think if there was anything special we two did together.”