by Jade Lee
She was so startled by his odd question that, for a moment, she forgot everything but the gleaming light in his eyes, dating her to refuse.
"You think I cannot do it," she challenged.
If anything, his eyes turned even bluer as they sparkled with mirth. "You are doing it. The question is whether you trust me enough to truly relax and enjoy yourself."
"I..." But she had no opportunity to answer as he spun her into a dizzying turn. It was so fast she clutched on to him to keep from falling. Then it was as if she really had fallen, for suddenly she felt herself spinning along with him. She felt the strength of his thighs, which propelled them around and around the floor, the heat of Stephen's arm as he pulled her ever closer, and the mesmerizing beauty of his blue eyes as they focused wholly on her.
She smiled up at him, and he returned the gesture, his face softening into almost boyish lines. Then they spun again, and for the first time in her life Gillian completely relaxed, trusting Stephen to keep her from falling flat on her face. She gave herself totally to the music and completely to him.
They spun and whirled in glorious abandon, and she laughed from the sheer pleasure of it all. She never felt so free, yet she was totally dependent on Stephen. His arms tightened around her until the two of them seemed to be one person, one body, one glorious expression of joy.
Until the music ended.
He guided her to a stop, gently slowing their bodies until they stood, still touching, their gazes locked together. His eyes seemed impossibly blue, incredibly intense. She was breathless and her pulse pounded through her body, but her heart still soared with his, and she could do nothing but stand and stare at his chiseled features and his dark, masculine lips.
"Well, I certainly think we have had enough dancing for one day." The countess's clipped tones felt like a bucket of chill water in their faces, and Gillian felt Stephen start in surprise. He abruptly dropped his hands from her sides, and Gillian stumbled slightly as she suddenly supported her own weight.
"Thank you, Mr. Flauterre," continued the countess. "I shall contact you when we next require your tutoring."
"Of course, madame," agreed the thin dancing master. Then he and his assistant quickly bowed their way out.
"As for you, my girl—" The countess rounded on her, but could not continue as Stephen interrupted.
"I believe Amanda is entitled to a rest, Mother. And as I have promised her a trip to the crypts, now is a perfect opportunity."
"But—"
"I shall call around to the mews for Tom. Amanda, can you be ready in—"
"Five minutes," Gillian said with a gasp. "Just five minutes to get my wrap." Then she dashed up the stairs, still breathless, her head spinning with a kind of mindless joy. The waltz was the most fabulous dance ever invented! And now she would go to the crypts!
What a wonderful day this was!
Oh, she knew it was dangerous to spend more time with Stephen, especially after that incredible, heart-stoppingly scandalous dance. But how could she regret anything so wonderful? And how could she resist spending time with the one person who made her feel so free?
* * *
"Stephen, have you taken leave of your senses?"
"I beg your pardon, Mother?"
"We have only a week left before the Season begins. Surely you cannot mean to take her on such an expedition now."
Stephen brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from his coat sleeve while covertly studying his agitated parent. Her hands clutched her glass of sherry, and her eyes narrowed, seeming almost frightened.
"Mother, I do believe you are distraught about something."
"Do not be ridiculous, Stephen. I am merely concerned about how it might seem."
"A guardian taking his ward on an outing? Whatever is wrong with that? We will bring along her maid and everything shall be fine."
"Do not be obtuse, you stubborn boy. I am concerned about Amanda. You must see how she looks at you."
"Me?"
"Gracious, Stephen. Use your head. She has spent her entire life in the country. Likely the only men she has known are farmers and vicars. You overwhelm her."
"Really," he drawled. "I rather thought she was too willful by half. A stubborn chit who has not the intelligence to pretend otherwise. That is what you said last evening, was it not?"
"Do not throw my own words back at me!"
She stood and grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her while she drove her point home. "The girl is falling in love with you, and if you cannot see that then you are more daft than the thieving boy you are so fond of."
"I have found Tom quite intelligent."
"You will find your ward turning down every eligible offer this Season because she has convinced herself she is in love with you."
"Surely you exaggerate," he drawled, but he could not deny the icy chill gripping his spine at her words.
The countess narrowed her eyes. "Do I? Or perhaps I underestimate your feelings for her."
"Me!" he exclaimed, plainly shocked. "She is my ward, for God's sake, and a childish scapegrace to boot. How could I fall in love with her?"
His mother nodded, satisfaction relaxing her grip on his arm. "Good. I rather had a better bride in mind for you. Lady Sophia Rathburn, last year's incomparable. She is elegant, sophisticated, and everything a countess should be."
"I hardly expect to be setting up my nursery this Season, Mother." He kept his voice firm, hoping his tone would have some effect on his mother.
He was singularly ineffective.
"Piffle," she said with a dismissive wave. "Just make sure you recall your obligations to your title and do your best not to encourage your countrified burden."
Stephen sighed. "You can count on me to do what is proper by my name," he said stiffly.
Then he looked up as Amanda stepped into the room. Her face was unnaturally pale, and suddenly he had a panicked thought. Could she have heard their conversation?
"Are you ready?" he asked too brightly.
She smiled back, her features shifting into a demure, if somewhat lifeless smile. "Yes. Thank you for waiting, my lord."
She had heard. Stephen nearly groaned out loud. Deliberately forgetting to summon a maid, he counted the seconds until he could speak with her alone. He needed to explain his mother's words, perhaps—
He cut off his thoughts with a sigh. What would he say? If she were indeed falling in love with him, then his mother was correct. It would be best to dash her hopes now. And if she had not set her cap for him, she would find any explanation extremely embarrassing. He certainly would.
No, he suddenly decided, he would not speak to her. Instead he made an effort to keep the conversation moving, albeit along safe, mundane lines. Amanda responded in kind, slipping easily into the polite chatter she had disdained only minutes before. And all the while, Stephen watched her face for betraying hints of distress.
There were none. And yet she seemed so flat and dull.
"Are you feeling quite the thing, Amanda? We could postpone this if you are tired."
"Oh, no, my lord. Unless, of course, you would prefer to do something else."
"Of course not. I suggested it in the first place."
"Yes."
"Good." Stephen regarded his ward. "You will tell me if you tire."
"Of course."
"Good."
And that was that. Clearly she could not have heard any of his mother's absurd comments; otherwise she would be prostrate with distress, he told himself. Except that Amanda was not a typical girl. In fact, he realized as he let his gaze linger on her tight bodice, Amanda was not a girl at all, but a woman who kept her thoughts hidden deeply within herself.
Which only served to tell him she might or might not have heard his comments, and she might or might not be dying of mortification inside.
Unless, of course, his mother was totally out and Amanda had no tendresse for him whatsoever. For some perverse reason, that thought disturbed him most of all.
/>
* * *
Gillian stared unseeing out the carriage window. She had waited an eternity to escape into London, and now she passed buildings and monuments with barely a sidelong glance. Beside her, Tom chattered about everything he had learned and done in the mews, but all she could hear were the countess's scathing comments and Stephen's shocked disdain.
Countrified burden. Stubborn chit.
Obviously he knew nothing of how she had changed, of all the things she had learned.
Childish scapegrace.
That one hurt the most. She had been a fool to think he would ever notice her. He was to marry Sophia Rathburn, a woman born to elegance, no doubt as different from plain, illegitimate Gillian as silk from sackcloth.
Gillian sighed and let her forehead drop against the window. At least she had one reason to be grateful for that little scene. The countess was right: Gillian had begun to fancy herself half in love with her handsome guardian. More and more when she dreamed of her first balls, Stephen was the one leading her onto the dance floor, dropping at her feet in admiration, showering her with tokens of his affection.
She snorted in self-disgust. What a foolish child she was. But now the illusions were gone from her eyes. She saw that whatever kindness or generosity of spirit she thought he possessed was in reality a lie. Beneath the urbane exterior, below the expert tailoring and muscled form, underneath his sensuous words and deep voice, Stephen was simply another callous, cruel member of the aristocracy.
How could I fall in love with her? She could still hear the shocked outrage in his voice. Thank God she knew the truth now before the Season began, or she might have thought the gentry almost human.
But no more.
She rededicated herself to her goal. She would find a wealthy husband. She would become legitimate, titled, and revered. If that required endless rounds of French verbs, empty prattle, and haughty disdain, then so be it.
Countrified burden.
She would show him and his Sophia Rathburn. Bastard or not, Gillian Ames would create a future brighter than anyone could ever imagine.
Having made her resolution, Gillian felt immeasurably better. She lifted her head off the window and took stock of her surroundings. Nothing had changed, except perhaps the view outside. Tom still chattered away beside her, but when she turned, she saw Stephen's troubled gaze on her.
Suddenly a picture flashed through her mind. She recalled the countess giving a cheeky footman a set-down with a single look. Striving for just that air of disgust, Gillian tilted her head and sent Stephen an arch look followed by a superior smile.
She nearly laughed when she saw the flushed expression of surprise color his cheeks.
Feeling better than she had in two weeks, Gillian settled back against the squabs and gave her attention to Tom. Then, five minutes later, the carriage slowed to a stop before St. Mary-le-Bow church.
"We are here," Stephen commented unnecessarily.
"Yes, we certainly are," she answered. Then, without waiting for his assistance, she swept out of the carriage onto the street—and stopped dead, the view surprising a gasp out of her.
The church was larger than she had expected, with soaring stone arches and a huge, beautiful bell tower topped by a weather vane in the form of a griffin. It seemed to loom over the surrounding buildings, dwarfing them and the pitiful humans below into near insignificance.
"They say only those born within the sound of these bells are true Cockneys."
Gillian jumped at Stephen's low voice just behind her right ear. She had not realized he was so close until she felt the heat of his breath stirring her hair, sending shivers of delight down her spine.
How could she remain stiffly correct when he was so close it made her knees tremble?
"Shall we go inside?" he asked.
Gillian nodded, furious with herself for being so weak around the man she had just sworn to put in his place. He raised his arm, his expression congenial, his smile warm. Gillian sighed inwardly. Despite her current feelings, she knew it would be dangerous to be too rude. Besides, she intended to be excruciatingly correct, which meant enduring the earl's company no matter what she thought of him.
With a cool smile, Gillian placed her fingertips on his forearm and told herself quite forcefully not to enjoy the ripple of muscle she felt beneath his coat.
As they entered the church, Gillian dropped her gaze out of habit. Bastards did not raise their eyes to God, or so Reverend Hallowsby had repeated over and over to her. So she focused on Tom running along beside her. The boy had filled out in the last two weeks. A steady diet of healthy food as well as a regime of regular bathing had dramatically changed his appearance. His brown curls were now orderly and clean, his face alight with curiosity, not that sallow tinge of desperation. But as dramatic the change, some things remained the same. His eyes still sparkled with a lively intelligence, absorbing and evaluating everything he saw.
"Coo, but don't it look big without the gents stuffing themselves inside?"
"You have been here before?" Gillian asked in surprise.
Tom turned and grinned at her. "Best pickings on Sunday."
"Do you mean to tell me, young man, you came to church to cut purses?" She tried to sound stern, but totally failed in the face of his impish grin.
"Best pickings when the morts try to impress 'is neighbor with the weight of 'is purse." Then he shrugged.
"Tom!" She gasped, awed by his audacity. "Were you truly here cutting purses?"
Slowly the boy's face fell as he shifted awkwardly away. "Naw. They don't let the likes of me in 'ere."
Gillian grew quiet, still keeping her gaze on the boy. She knew exactly what he meant about not being wanted, could see the hurt in his stiff little shoulders despite his demeanor. And in her memories, she relived every single sermon, every echoing word of condemnation that Reverend Hallowsby had heaped upon her head.
All because she had beaten him with his own cross until he bled. He had caught her right after Sunday services his first week in the vicarage. He had pulled her into the back room while whispering about sin and atonement.
And then he had touched her.
She had not stopped to think of the consequences. She had not realized how vindictive the man might be when thwarted. She had merely reacted, grabbing a wooden cross from the wall and striking out until she could escape. And that was when her nightmare had begun.
Sighing, she reached out to ruffle Tom's hair. "The morts never liked me either," she said softly, and was rewarded with a flash of understanding far beyond his tender years. "But," she added with a grin, "we are here now. And with an earl!"
Tom grinned back, and she knew they had formed a bond. Whatever became of her, she would not forget Tom. And whatever he could do for her, he would. Their loyalty toward one another was assured, and it gave her such comfort that Gillian finally gained enough courage to look up at the church itself.
It was certainly impressive. Large windows threw checkered patterns across the floor, lighting long rows of rich, dark pews. The floor was made of stone, and her walking boots clicked ominously on the gray floor. But it was the altar that drew her attention the most.
Even before Reverend Hallowsby had come to York, church had never been a happy place for her. Though Reverend Crane had been kind to her, he always said she would have to be extra good, to walk an extra tight line before God because of her unfortunate parentage. Now, despite the distance adulthood gave her, she still felt a tiny bit of panic as she entered the church. Would God strike her dead because she was a bastard pretending to be legitimate? Would Reverend Hallowsby's hellfire and brimstone rise up and burn her alive for her audacity?
In her mind, she knew it was all foolishness, but still her heartbeat accelerated and her fingers clutched Stephen's arm as she raised her eyes to the cross.
Nothing. She saw a gilded cross sweeping upward above the altar. Then, before she could catch her breath, the sight was replaced by a fleshy visage with an ob
sequious smile.
"Good afternoon, my lord. Welcome to St. Mary-le-Bow church. Have you come to hear the bells?" Gillian blinked and focused on the overly round face of a minister scurrying forward.
"Actually, Reverend," commented Stephen from beside her, "we have come to see the crypts."
"The crypts! My goodness, but—"
"I believe my solicitor contacted you earlier in the week regarding this visit."
The man's face underwent a dramatic change. Where before it was merely ingratiating, it now became positively overflowing with toadying adoration. "Oh, my, yes, my lord. Of course. I had not realized you were the Earl of Mavenford. Please, please, follow me."
Gillian glanced up at the earl. His face was impassive as his gaze wandered over the flowing stone arches.
"You arranged for a visit earlier this week?" She thought their excursion merely an afterthought of their incredible dance. But now, knowing he had actually planned ahead for their outing made her unaccountably pleased with the world.
He glanced down at her, smiling warmly. "I promised you I would. Did you not believe me?"
"No," she answered. "I did not. I apologize for misjudging you."
His face grew pensive as he slowed their progress through the sanctuary. "Not many people have kept their promises to you, have they?"
Gillian's mouth went dry, and she glanced away. How could she forget how very much this man saw even in polite chatter? This was just another example of how easy it was to make serious mistakes around him, how one false word could give away everything before she even began. She must be doubly on guard today.
"Oh, Reverend!" she suddenly exclaimed. "This is absolutely amazing stonework. How was it done?" She knew Stephen was not fooled. She had no true interest in masonry. It was merely an excuse not to speak to Stephen. And from the weight of his gaze, he was not happy with her distraction.
Still, he said nothing, allowing her to encourage the minister into long soliloquies of rapture on the construction details of the church. She listened politely, as did Stephen beside her. But all too soon Tom grew bored, wandering about, poking into one niche or another, pocketing a dropped coin when he thought no one saw. Meanwhile, Gillian pretended fascination with the cleric's words while Stephen's hooded gaze remained trained on her, as though she were some puzzle he needed to decipher.
