by Jade Lee
In short, she was magnificent. Within seconds of seeing her, he had decided to bed her—until that horrible moment when he discovered she was his ward. Life was indeed cruel.
"Stephen, you are not attending!"
"Of course I am," he responded evenly. "You spoke of how we are undone."
"Do not make light of this situation," his mother snapped. "It is touchy enough with us just out of mourning. But to sport an aging spinster who goes about on the top of mail coaches... well!" She placed a delicate hand on her breast. "I shall have to get my vinaigrette."
"Yes, ma'am," he responded automatically, handing her a glass of sherry instead. "Tell me what you know about the girl."
She took a long, fortifying drink from her glass, then cradled it protectively in her lap. "Well, as to that, you already know as much as I do."
"Humor me, Mother."
She glanced up, clearly trying to gauge his mood. He kept his expression bland and excruciatingly polite, and so eventually she had no choice but to continue. "Very well. Amanda is the daughter of my sister and her husband, that wastrel George Wyndham, Baron Thews. Marie died in childbed and George proceeded to carouse himself into an early grave. A common brawl, I think, finally did him in. Most vulgar."
She gave a delicate shudder while Stephen toyed with a tiny china shepherdess on the mantel. "How long ago was that?"
"Eight years."
"And the girl has lived alone in York all that time?"
"Well, your father hired a companion for her—"
"She did not come with Amanda."
"And, of course, there was that other girl."
From his mother's disdainful tone, Stephen knew she would give him a ripe tale. Twisting around, he gave the countess his full attention. "Other girl?"
She leaned forward, keeping her voice low while her eyes sparkled with a gossip's delight. "Well, it seems George got a brat on some maid, but rather than pay to have the woman removed from the household, he let both maid and child stay on. Apparently George was quite fond of the little girl. Amanda was not yet born, and so she was his first. Mr. Oltheten, your father's solicitor, told me she is quite bright. Studied plants or some such thing and became the local physic. That is how she came to tend Amanda."
Stephen nodded. This was familiar territory. "And did Amanda resent having her half-sister tend her?"
His mother shrugged. "As to that, I cannot tell. According to Mr. Oltheten, they had little choice, as Amanda was quite ill and the closest doctor resides miles away." She furrowed her brow in concentration. "Consumption, I believe. It is quite remarkable, really, that she made such a recovery. I understand she was ill for many, many years."
"She certainly did not seem sick this afternoon," he commented dryly.
"Just as well. A few more years and there would be no hope for a respectable match. She is nearly cast away as it is."
Stephen nodded, his mind still on her strange childhood. "Whatever happened to the girl, the by-blow?"
His mother stared at him, her eyebrows arched in surprise. "I have no idea. Whatever difference does it make?"
Stephen shrugged, then drained the last of his brandy. "None, I suppose. I was only curious."
His mother watched his movements with a careful eye. "Will you speak with her now?"
Stephen set his glass down with an audible click. "I shall speak to her, Mother. If she wishes to remain in my house enjoying our sponsorship, then she had best listen."
He did not miss his mother's self-satisfied smile. "Excellent. Between you and me, I have no doubt we shall make Miss Wyndham toe the line."
"Precisely my thought. Mother." Then, with a respectful bow, he made his way to the library, already rehearsing his words to the headstrong Miss Wyndham.
Thirty minutes later he finished delivering his speech. His hands remained firmly at his sides, and he made sure to maintain his cold gaze on his ward's face. It was one of his better speeches—clear and to the point, with just the right touch of outrage, anger, and a healthy list of cut-and-dried rules. Perfect. Except he had the distinct feeling he had made no headway at all.
He had watched her closely from the moment she entered the library. Since she had taken dinner in her rooms, pleading a headache, he had pictured her appearing for her scold with drooping shoulders, a sullen expression, and perhaps a faint sheen of illness coloring her skin.
Instead she'd arrived at the library neatly attired with her riotous curls pulled into a tight coil at the base of her neck. Her face remained as clean as her freshly pressed dress, although this, too, was as drab as her traveling outfit.
He told her rather curtly to sit down, and she obeyed with the demure courtesy required. She even kept her brilliant green eyes lowered, respectfully shielded by her thick lashes throughout his speech. Yet he had the distinct impression Miss Wyndham was anything but docile.
"Furthermore," he began again, "you shall follow my mother's fashion dictates to the letter, including wearing a hat at all times outdoors. You will never venture out without the company of a maid or a groom, you shall not dance or comport yourself with anyone of whom we do not approve, and you shall speak softly at all times. In short, I expect you to act with the decorum befitting the ward of an earl."
He stopped his speech, having said everything he planned and a few things besides. Now was her chance to speak, to assure him with soft phrases and sweet smiles that she would make him proud.
He waited. She looked up and blinked.
He raised his eyebrow.
Finally she found her voice. "Is that all?"
"What?" He was so startled by her odd response that he was momentarily stupefied.
"Is that all?" she continued. "No hair shirt, forty lashes, maybe a ritual sacrifice of my scandalous underclothes?"
Stephen felt his color rise at the images flashing into his mind. "You have scandalous underclothes?" he choked out.
"I have no idea," she responded with an airy wave. "Except, of course, to mention that they do not include whalebone and can on occasion be comfortable."
He frowned at her. "Miss Wyndham, it would seem my lecture has had no effect on you whatsoever."
"Of course it has." Her voice was high and bitter, and not at all the demure tones he anticipated. "It has impressed upon me, ad nauseam, exactly how horrible you intend to make my Season just because I cared for a small, destitute boy."
He slammed his hand down on his desk, the loud slap reverberating against the heavy wood. "This has absolutely nothing to do with Tom. You sat on top—on top—of the mail coach. And where, might I ask, is your companion?"
"What companion?"
He leaned forward for emphasis, using his superior height to intimidate the disobedient chit. "The young lady my father hired to stay with you."
"Oh, that peagoose. I sent her away."
He gaped at her. "Impossible! We have been paying her salary for the last eight years."
She tilted her head and regarded him with her forthright stare. "As I am my own best companion, I saw no reason not to be paid for my excellent efforts on my own behalf."
He blinked, sorting through her words. "You took the companion's salary?"
"I paid myself for my work."
"This is outrageous!" He started pacing, marking off the carpet behind his desk in long strides. "Can you not see how important a true companion is? She could have taught you appropriate behavior. She would have kept you from sitting on top of the mail coach."
Amanda shrugged. "I liked it there, and it was cheaper."
"What has that to do with anything? It was not proper."
"Then I suppose I am not a very proper girl." She looked completely unrepentant, as if she had not just confessed a heinous sin.
Suddenly Stephen felt the weight of his responsibilities descend upon him with the force of a battle drum. She was his ward, and yet she displayed no understanding of how to get on. She would soon make her first bow to polite society, and yet she thought nothi
ng of sitting on top of mail coaches and dismissing her companion.
He might have managed somehow if this were not his own first bow as the new earl. If she could not toe the line, then how would he ever manage a credible standing as an earl?
He bit down on his temper. He had not failed when knee-deep in a Spanish swamp, and he refused to be brought low now by a willful chit who ought to know better.
Stepping out from behind his desk, he approached Amanda just as he would a green recruit with more sauce than sense. He kept his tone level but firm, using every inch of his intimidating height to impress upon her his absolute authority.
"Let me explain something to you, Miss Wyndham. If you intend to spend time under my roof, sponsored by my mother, then it is time you learned how to become a proper miss. If not, you will find this a very, very short Season."
Her eyes were huge as she looked up at him, and he thought he detected a tremor of fear skating across her features. Squelching an urge to temper his tone, he pushed ahead, his voice as cold as before. "Do you realize the importance of a first Season? One wrong step, one wrong word, and you shall be tossed back like a smelly fish. And I shall have no compunction about throwing you back to rot in the wilds of York. Do I make myself clear?"
He watched her swallow nervously, her delicate neck muscles straining to remain relaxed despite the fear he tried to instill in her.
"Very well," she said slowly, as if she weighed every word. "I understand your point." She bit her lip, her small white teeth pressing into the delicate pink flesh. "I suppose I will become a proper miss."
He breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Thank heaven!"
"But I shall not wear a hair shirt!" And with that, she stood and left the room. He gaped after her, amazed at her show of spirit. He knew grown men who could barely stand after one of his dressing-downs, and yet there she went, her head high, her lithe figure as arrogant as... as his mother's!
Stephen felt his knees grow weak, and he reached for his glass of brandy. Good heavens, he thought with a sudden surge of panic, he was surrounded. Between his mother on one side and his ward on the other, he was to be squeezed into the most uncomfortable debacle of this, his first Season as an earl.
He glanced at a calendar and counted out the days before the Season began in earnest. Perhaps there was still time to run to France and find an honorable death trying to kill Boney. Lord knew a war was nothing compared to the female fireworks he anticipated in the next weeks.
He sloshed another finger of brandy into his glass with a heavy sigh. There was one hope, a slim one at best, but manageable: if he could keep a tight rein on his headstrong ward, then his mother would continue to rule the household as she saw fit. That, of course, would leave him in peace as he dodged matchmaking mamas and sought solace in Aristophanes. Then, with luck, he would marry off Miss Wyndham to some naive fool and escape to Shropshire for blessed peace.
Yes, he decided. It was a good plan. Now all he need do was make sure Miss Wyndham became as docile as a newborn lamb.
* * *
Gillian stepped into her bedroom and released a sigh of delight. She had been in the earl's home for nearly five hours now, but she still could not believe she lived in such luxury. Why, her bedroom alone was grander than anything she had ever seen before.
To begin with, it was huge! Her entire cottage at home was this size. And the furniture here! The room contained an enormous wardrobe, large enough for her to lie down in. She knew because she had already tried it. Her bed had four posters and a thick, feather-tick mattress. There was a chair, a dressing table, even a little writing desk the housekeeper called an escritoire. She could hardly believe this was her very own room. In London. In an earl's house so grand she clenched her jaw shut just to keep it from hanging open like that of a dumbstruck cow!
Giving in to an impulsive giggle, Gillian spun around on her toes until she dropped with dizzy abandon onto the plump pillows of her bed. This will be so much fun, she nearly cried aloud. More fun than she had ever dreamed possible.
With a soft sigh, she rolled over, burying her face in the soft fabric of the coverlet. Even the earl's drubbing could not dim the joy bubbling up within her. Actually, it seemed almost funny, the way he had prosed on about proper behavior.
She should not fight him at every turn. He was a powerful man—powerful in terms of the gentry, but also in sheer physical presence. Every time she went near him, she felt her breath shorten and her chest squeeze into a tight knot of anticipation. But some demon in her made her challenge him at every step, measuring her will against his force. Perhaps her illegitimate side was coming out, but every time he put his hands on his hips and ordered her to do something, she lost all her good sense. She found herself looking for ways to bait him.
It took all her willpower just to agree to behave like a proper miss.
Her! A proper miss! The thought made her giggle into her coverlet. Of course, she had said the words. If she had refused, he would send her back to York on the next coach. But proper was the last thing she would ever be. Amanda had been all that was proper, and it had gotten her absolutely nothing. It certainly had never attracted any suitors.
Jumping up from her bed, Gillian danced over to her mirror. She could not wait to buy new clothes. She imagined herself dressed to the nines in costly silks, jewelry adorning her body while men fell at her feet and promised their devotion.
It would be glorious!
Her? A proper miss? Never. God had not made Gillian to sit with her hands folded waiting for life to come to her. She had plans and dreams for this Season and only a few months to see to them all. She would catch a rich husband, see the sights of London, and most of all, throw away a lifetime of demure habits.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she lifted her chin, picturing her admirers, seeing the silks.
But the image wouldn't form. Try as she might, she just couldn't see it, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard Amanda's voice laughing at her, calling her hateful names, and, worst of all, ordering her to perform all manner of drudgery or idiocy just to relieve the spiteful girl's boredom.
Looking down, she felt her spirits sink. How could she do this? What imp had convinced her that she could pretend to be Amanda?
She did not want to be Amanda! She did not want to be cruel or bitter! She wanted to dance!
Suddenly spinning away, she twirled about her room. No, she would not sit and wait to be admired like the real Amanda. She would not lounge like a stuffed bird on a couch while people spoke pleasantly to her face but cursed her behind her back.
No, Gillian would spend her days exploring London, and her nights dancing! Her feet would be lighter than air as she twirled in some handsome gentleman's arms. Yes, she decided with a happy sigh as she once again fell back onto her bed. Yes, she had definite plans for her Season, and none of them included acting the earl's idea of a proper miss.
* * *
Gillian woke to the chaotic sounds of a London morning. Although a bird trilled nearby, its song was nearly drowned out by the sounds of carriages, hawkers, and servants performing their daily activities. Still, even their noisy clamor could not compare to the song in her heart.
Today was her first day in London!
She jumped out of bed, dismayed to see the late hour. She usually rose with the sun, but last night she had been too excited to sleep. So when she finally drifted off to dream of elegant balls and ardent suitors, her body overcompensated and she rested far too long.
She chose her dress quickly. Truly, there was little to pick from her half-sister's drab outfits. For the last year of Amanda's wretched life, the girl had barely left her bed, and then only to go to the privy. Everything she owned was years out of date and extremely heavy, to ward off her constant chill.
Shrugging on the shapeless fabric, Gillian promised herself new clothes soon. Not a maid's costume, not Amanda's shapeless drapes, but beautiful clothing of rich colors.
But not today. Today
she had an entire list of places to visit. She practically danced down the stairs, bestowing her brightest smile on the footman waiting there. He seemed momentarily stunned, and she felt a deep thrill inside her. Would the earl ever look at her like that? With shock and awe in his eyes?
Yes! she cried silently to herself. When she dressed in silks and jewels, he would bow low before her and kiss her hand, whispering scandalous words of adoration. Oh, she just knew this would be a glorious day! She felt so young and carefree, as if the old Gillian had never existed and this was her true self springing alive for the first time.
Following the footman's directions, she made her way to the breakfast room, remembering at the last minute not to skip.
The first thing she saw as she opened the door was the countess excavating the last bit of a boiled egg with a slim spoon. She had met the woman only briefly the evening before, but by the time the interview concluded, the two had reached a state of mutual dislike.
As usual, Lady Mavenford appeared everything Gillian admired about the aristocracy. She was delicate and graceful, with a natural beauty that defied time. But Gillian already knew the illusion would shatter the moment the woman spoke. The countess was not shrewish. Far from it. She appeared polite and considerate, her voice low and extremely polished. But the words! The woman's questions were pointed and her eyes missed nothing, from the stray curls bobbing about Gillian's cheeks to the mud stains splattered across her skirt.
In her presence, Gillian felt nothing more than a dirty mongrel who muddied the countess's pristine floor. She had never been so aware of her own lacks as when faced with this woman. And now she had to take breakfast opposite the imperious biddy? Gillian was sure the countess would find something to criticize.
With an inward sigh and an outward smile, Gillian resolved to make the best of it. She would not allow Lady Mavenford to ruin her pleasure on this glorious day.
"Good morning," she said sweetly as she moved into the sunny room. As she crossed the threshold, she saw the earl and her step faltered. Her earlier experiences with him had been in the gray light of a dismal afternoon. Later she saw him outlined by the softer glow of candlelight. Today she met him in the full brilliance of a beautiful morning.
