by Jade Lee
"We still have not discussed your punishment, Amanda."
Her insides trembled and her knees were weak, but she knew she could not stand more of this strange game of his. She did not jerk out of his hold, because she knew he would not release her. So she simply tilted her head up to look directly into his eyes.
"Then what is you pleasure, my lord? Will you cane me? Beat me? Do you wish to send for your whip? Whatever it is, I pray you get it done with now. We would not want the welts to show beneath my first ball gown." Her voice was hard and flat, and from the shock in his eyes, she knew she had surprised him.
"You sound as if you have experienced it before."
"More times than I can count."
Amanda's butler had used his fists, but his wife had chosen the cane. In truth, she did not blame them, though she fired them both without a reference as soon as she took control of the estate. It was Amanda, with her bitter eyes and all-consuming envy, who had ordered the beatings.
She shook her head, hating the memories, taking the anger she felt and directing it at the earl. "Now if you will excuse me," she said, "perhaps I should wait in my room until you decide exactly what you intend to do with me."
She swept out of his hold and hurried from the room, praying she made it to her bed before she burst into tears. She paused only once, just as she turned the doorknob. He had not moved, but his voice followed her, catching her unaware as she tried to escape.
"Amanda."
She stood frozen, her breath suspended.
"You look magnificent in white."
She picked up her skirts and ran.
* * *
Stephen watched her disappear in a silken rustle of white. She was such a delightful mass of contradictions. One minute she challenged him boldly, her eyes flashing like green lightning. The next, she blushed like an innocent even while she tempted him beyond reason. And then there was that last moment, when her eyes clouded with memories and pain.
How could the mistress of the household be beaten regularly? Who had done it? Was it before she had taken sick? Before she had become mistress of the estate?
Questions spun in his thoughts until he did not know what to do. Best get her married off quickly, he decided.
Stephen sighed and walked stiffly to his desk chair, his thoughts turning inevitably back to the present.
How could new clothes make such a difference in a woman's appeal? Even with her drab clothing, he had known she was a beautiful woman with an animated face and rich, luscious hair. But seeing her today in fashionable attire that emphasized her mature body was like seeing a butterfly emerge from a cocoon. When she'd first stood up from behind his desk, his breath had caught in his throat. Her figure was perfect in every sense. Her breasts were outlined in soft ribbons, their points molding the fabric into classic lines. Though fashion dictated high waists, the soft fabric still clung to her body, suggesting a narrow waist, hips with just the right roundness, and a firm bottom.
Stephen groaned as he sat down in his chair, feeling the soft leather readjust to his frame. He should not be thinking of his ward in such a way, so he redirected his thoughts, forcing himself to relive the outrage. She had been sitting in this very chair, at his desk, violating his sanctuary!
My word, she had actually picked his desk lock and read his journals!
With a grim frown, he turned his attention to his desk. What else had she done besides read his most humiliating escapades during his childhood? Starting at the top, Stephen moved meticulously through each drawer. Nothing was out of place, though his instincts told him she had gone through every inch. Finally he reached the last drawer. She claimed she had not touched his cash box, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the unscarred lock and correct amount of pound notes within.
Then he glanced at his journals. Three journals. He did not have to open them to know she had stolen the most recent one, the one chronicling his return to London and subsequent weeks. Then he mentally reviewed everything written within the thin volume and a slow smile spread across his face.
How long would it take her to find out? Surely not more than another half hour. She could not resist for longer than that. Dinner was in an hour, and she would have to dress. If she wished to read his journal in private, it would be now or after his mother's evening behavior drills.
Stephen glanced at the clock, folding his arms across his chest as he waited. He was ashamed to admit how much he relished his ward's coming set-down, but it would greatly repay her for her crimes.
In the end, it took only another seventeen minutes. She burst through his door looking like an avenging angel, his journal held high in the air as though it were damning evidence in a trial.
"Five pages on how your horse adjusts to London, three pages on sheep farming, another four on crops, and nothing—not a single word—about me!"
He grinned. She truly was a magnificent woman. "Would you prefer I pen insults?"
She stopped, momentarily taken aback. "I... Yes, I think I would. At least then I would know where I stand."
"Is that why you stole my journal? To find out what I think of you?"
She lowered her arm, pulling his diary close to her breast as though cradling something precious. "Well, not just for that."
He raised an eyebrow and waited for her. He found her face exceptionally expressive at times, completely blank at other moments. But right now she frowned at him, her thoughts clearly turned inward as she pondered her answer. Her face reflected puzzlement, frustration, longing, and then abruptly nothing.
"I took it out of curiosity, my lord. I am sorry. It was ill-bred of me. An act completely without conscience. It no doubt serves me right that you wrote nothing about me. Clearly your horse, sheep, and crops are of more importance to you." Her voice lifted into a definite note of pique.
"Incorrect," he said while struggling to keep control of his humor. "I find I prefer to write about pleasant things."
"And I have been most unpleasant?" she challenged.
He grinned. He could not restrain himself. She was so very insulted by the whole thing. "Even you, my dear, could not call our encounters pleasant. Maddening, irritating, astounding, but definitely not pleasant."
She pursed her lips and absently stroked the leather cover of his journal. "Is that what you think of me?"
He was silent a moment, feeling caught beneath her steady green gaze. What did he think of her? He was not exactly sure, and there lay the true reason he had not written about her. She was completely outside of his experience—both seductive and totally innocent, willful but also generous to the point of gullibility. He had yet to settle her neatly into his thoughts, and therefore could not express his opinion in his journal. And now here she was, the cheeky minx, demanding to know exactly what he had not felt comfortable enough to put in his own diary.
"I think you have been neatly served for prying where you do not belong. Now if you will please return—"
"So I am nothing to you. A nonentity, an insignificance."
He grinned at her lack of self-confidence. "Amanda, you are definitely an entity. You have physical mass. You certainly have an effect on your environment—"
"You know what I mean. I..." She grimaced as she struggled for the right words. "I am an annoyance to you, and you will happily dismiss me to think of more important matters."
He took a deep breath, wishing it were true. If he could easily dismiss her from his mind, he would be a much happier fellow. Instead he had done little else these last few days but think of her. Of course, he could not admit that to her. Instead he tilted his head and regarded her with what he hoped was a bland expression. "Why does it bother you so?" Her shoulders slumped in defeat as he seemed to confirm her worst fears. She settled onto the nearby couch and stared morosely out of the window. "What am I to do?"
"You will add the following rules to your list of ladylike behavior: A lady does not pick locks. A lady does not indulge her curiosity with inappropriate behavior. And a l
ady most certainly does not read private journals."
She frowned, waving away his rules with a distracted air. "No, no. What shall I do?"
He blinked. He had not the slightest clue what she meant. "I do not understand."
She sighed, the sound almost tragic. "I am in London to attract a husband. If you, my guardian, do not notice me, then how shall I ever attract anyone?"
"Uh, I did not exactly say—"
"No, you did not, but then you are the soul of propriety. You would not." She dropped her head on her hand and tapped her fingers against her lips as she thought. He was so distracted by the sight he almost missed her next words. "I shall just have to act more scandalous."
"What!" He nearly bolted out of his chair.
"Oh, nothing too outrageous, just a little bolder."
"Amanda, I assure you—"
"No, no, let me think." She was suddenly up and pacing, her white skirts swirling about her ankles in an enticing display. "I could lower the neckline of my dresses, except there are probably enough demireps around that I could not compete—"
"Your necklines are entirely proper!"
She whirled on him, her hands on her hips as she scolded him like a slow schoolboy. "Well, that is just the problem. I am entirely too proper to the point of becoming boring."
"Amanda—" He pronounced her name in a low growl, but she did not heed him.
"Perhaps I could play cards. I am actually quite good."
"There are a few card parties—"
"Oh, quite correct. Probably too tame. Perhaps a rumor, then. The countess says society practically thrives on gossip. What if I suggest I tread the boards?"
That did it. He jumped out of his chair, crossing to tower over her. "As an actress? You will do no such thing!"
"Too much?" She spun away from him, still deep in her own thoughts. "Very well, an aborted elopement? No, no one would believe it." Then she snapped her fingers in triumph. "I have it! I shall pretend to be illegitimate!"
"Absolutely not!"
She turned, her eyes wide, as if she were surprised by his outburst. He ignored her, stomping around his desk so he could impress upon her the absolute truth of his words.
"Believe me, Amanda. You are nothing if not memorable. I have no doubt that only the senile or daft could possibly forget you."
"But—"
"And as I have decided to provide you with a substantial dowry, let me assure you, you will create a stir even if you were cross-eyed and in your dotage!"
For once she did not interrupt him, but her downcast eyes stopped him. Finally she spoke in a subdued voice. "Are you saying I shall be courted for my dowry?"
He sighed, stepping forward enough to place his hands on her shoulders. "I am saying I expect to be tripping over suitors three deep on my doorstep once the Season begins. So you have no need for outrageous lies or infamous gowns. If anything I need you to behave with excessive dignity—"
"Oh, I doubt I could achieve that—"
"With appropriate dignity then, and the men will fall over themselves to propose."
She remained silent a moment, considering his words. And while she focused on her inner thoughts, he allowed himself to revel in the silky texture of her arms and the heated blush his touch brought to her skin.
Finally she lifted her gaze to him, and he forced himself to think of something other than the urge to draw her deeper into his arms. "What if I said I was illegitimate?"
"I shall boot you back to York and wash my hands of you entirely. You will not bring such scandal to my family."
She nodded once, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy. What was the matter with the girl? he wondered. He had said everything she wanted to hear. She would have a huge dowry and suitors cramming the rafters. What more could she want?
"Amanda—"
"I must go dress for dinner," she interrupted. "Here is your journal, my lord. I am sorry I read it. I will not do so again. Now if you will excuse me..."
He reached down to take his journal from her trembling fingers while he searched her face for some clue to her strange behavior. But her face was once again empty of all expression. "Amanda—" he began.
"Good evening, my lord." Then she dropped into a deep curtsy before slipping out the door.
Chapter 6
Rule #7:
A lady does not listen at doorways.
"Non, non! Please, Miss Wyndham, you must try to concentrate."
Gillian sighed and tried to focus her attention on the thin dance master. "I understand, Mr. Flauterre. A figure eight, a curtsy across, and then we pass down a step."
The countess dropped wearily into the couch and glared at her. "If you understand, Amanda, then why do you forever get it wrong?"
Gillian folded her hands in front of her and tried not to let her eyes tear. She felt stupid and awkward and so very, very disappointed. Her Season was supposed to be fun, but it felt more like jail than the longed-for dream of her childhood. And as each frustration followed yet another disappointment, she was hard put to keep her tongue civil, much less remember who took what in their tea or where to put her feet next in some inane dance.
"Mademoiselle, you have such grace, such style, if only you would apply yourself." Mr. Flauterre practically scraped the floor as he begged her to pay attention.
Gillian smiled at him, feeling sorry for the poor man whose livelihood depended on forcing girls like her to attend. "You are very kind, Mr. Flauterre, if a bit given to exaggeration. Very well, shall we begin again, and I will try to put my big, clumsy feet where they belong?"
"Oh, non, non, your feet are petite, ma cherie, and very skilled. It is only your will—"
"Stephen! Thank heaven you are here." The countess's voice cut a cold fear through Gillian's heart, and she spun around to see the earl lounging in the doorway, looking very handsome in a dark coat and tight-fitting trousers.
Ever since the debacle in the library, Gillian had worked extra hard to avoid him. She could not look at him without remembering the way she had stormed into the room, piqued because he had not written about her in a diary she should not have read in the first place.
What was it about the man that made her lose all reason?
And now he regarded her with those steely blue eyes, and she wondered what stupidity she would commit next in his august presence.
"Pray, do not just stand there, Stephen. Do something!" The countess dropped backward against the couch, her hand pressed to her brow in a very fragile and tragic sort of picture.
"Just what would you suggest I do, Mother?" Stephen's voice was rich with humor as he gazed at Gillian, clearly inviting her to share his amusement. But Gillian felt too awkward and too stupid to enjoy the countess's foibles, so she dropped her gaze to the carpet and sighed.
"I fear, my lord, that unless you can magically transform me into a pixie, there is little hope for my skills on the dance floor."
"Nonsense," he commented, stepping forward. "I agree with Mr. Flauterre. You are quite graceful, just perhaps a bit... bored?" Gillian did not realize he was so close to her until she felt his finger beneath her chin, gently urging her to look up into his eyes. "You do not seem happy, Amanda. In fact, you seem so different from the girl who two weeks ago stormed into my breakfast room speaking of crypts, I begin to think you an impostor."
Gillian jumped at his words, a surge of fear coursing through her despite the innocence of his remarks. Surely he did not know the truth? He was merely saying she seemed changed from two weeks ago.
"Amanda?" he asked, clearly surprised by her suddenly panicked expression.
She hastily looked away. "My apologies, my lord. I am merely somewhat tired."
She could tell he did not believe her. The extended silence felt charged with his curiosity. But then he spoke, his words barely above a whisper.
"Tell me what is the matter."
Gillian tried to keep her eyes averted, tried not to be drawn into the soft blue of his gaze. She k
new one look into their depths and she would tell him anything. So, she chose to look at the countess instead, noting the woman's tragic pose as she reclined on the settee and sipped a glass of sherry.
"You need not fear," Stephen continued. "I want to understand."
It was impossible to resist such gentleness, and so she nodded and spoke in a near whisper, choosing to confess what she could and hide what she could not. "All my life I have dreamed about this, about dancing and attending balls. But now..." Her voice trailed away, but Stephen would not let her stop.
"But now...?" he prompted.
"Now I find myself completely bored," she finally admitted. "I have no time to read or simply be by myself. I am to practice silly conversations about empty topics. I cannot play cards except for a few paltry pennies. Even the dances are dull."
Behind her she heard the countess sniff in shocked disdain, but Stephen silenced his mother with a pointed look before turning back to Gillian. "The dances are merely opportunities for eligible ladies and gentlemen to converse."
"Converse? How can one converse sensibly while being constantly interrupted to walk in a circle or curtsy? If we are to dance, then let us dance. If we are to talk, then we should talk."
"You see!" exclaimed the countess horn her position on the couch. "You see what ridiculousness I am forced to deal with?"
"On the contrary, Mother, I find Amanda's ideas eminently reasonable. Perhaps the problem is the choice of dance." Taking Gillian's hand, he guided her to the center of their makeshift floor. "Mr. Flauterre, a waltz, if you please."
"A waltz!" exclaimed his mother. "But Stephen—"
"Three steps, Amanda," he said, effectively silencing her. "Like this." Then he pulled her into his arms, and the music began.
It started awkwardly as she tried to adjust to the strange rhythms of the dance, to their constantly shifting direction, and to the overwhelming sensation of being in Stephen's arms. But then he leaned closer, whispering into her ear.
"Do you trust me?"
