by Jade Lee
"Perhaps, my lord, I may be so bold as to suggest you attach yourself to the Home Office. They must have something for you to do."
"Then you would be free to do whatever you like with my estates," Stephen said, his voice low and cold.
"That is what your late brother hired me to do."
Stephen remained silent, and Gillian held her breath, waiting for the coming explosion. Whoever this man of business was, he certainly needed a set-down, and Stephen was just the man to do it.
She could well imagine the earl slowly rising from his chair, hunching down over the desk until nearly nose-to-nose with the weaselly man. Stephen would take a deep breath, dragging out the moment until the little man began to sweat under the strain. Then Stephen would say it, those cutting words that would effectively slice the pompous steward in half.
Gillian waited, fairly tingling with anticipation.
"As you may have noticed," he said with a faint tinge of amusement, "I am not my late brother."
"What?" Gillian burst through the door, her outrage clouding all reason. "You cannot possibly mean to let him," she sputtered, "remain in your employ after what he has said to you!" She turned and glared at the man, then felt her jaw go slack in astonishment. Contrary to what she expected, the steward was not a small, weasel-faced man. Enormous would be a better description. Huge, muscular, and hatchet-faced would be even better.
This man was certainly not a solicitor. He looked like a man who worked hard beneath the sweltering sun, a man who daily fought with the trials and horrors of a farm. He must be a steward on one of Stephen's many estates, she decided.
"Mr. Wheedon, may I present my ward, Miss Amanda Wyndham," Stephen commented in an icy tone. Gillian glanced at her guardian. He was impeccably dressed, as always, but this time the afternoon sun seemed to highlight not his exquisite form, but the faint lines of strain bracketing his angular face.
"Miss Wyndham." At her name, Gillian turned her attention to the intimidating man. He rose from his seat and executed a proper, if somewhat awkward bow, given the constrained space between his chair and the earl's desk.
"Mr. Wheedon," she acknowledged, lifting her chin with clear disdain. Perhaps he was a huge bear of a man, but that certainly did not give him the right to speak to Stephen that way.
"Did you want something, Amanda?" Stephen's voice indicated he was coldly furious, which was not the least bit surprising. What did startle her was that his anger appeared directed at her, and not his steward, who even now waited impatiently for her to leave.
Gillian floundered. "I..." Her gaze shifted between Stephen and Mr. Wheedon. Then suddenly she straightened and challenged the earl. "I most certainly do, my lord. I want to know why you allow this man to speak to you in such a discourteous way."
"I see." Stephen folded his arms across his chest. "And the reason you feel entitled to this explanation is...?"
She stared at him, momentarily stymied by his question. Then she gave him a brilliant smile as she settled herself in a nearby chair. "Because, my lord, you are neither unfit nor stupidly aggressive. Many people view farming as a war, what with the blights and all. As for the thought of nurturing a ram into a frigid stream for his cleaning, well—"
"Just how long were you listening at the door?" Stephen exploded, finally losing his maddeningly cool exterior.
"That does not matter." She gave him an airy wave as she spoke. "What is important now—"
Stephen stepped forward to tower over her. "I will decide what is important, my girl."
She nodded and flashed him her best smile. "Precisely my point, my lord. You should decide what to do on your estates, and not be dictated to by people who should know better than to speak in such an insolent manner." She slanted an accusing glance at Mr. Wheedon and noted with surprise that he flushed with embarrassment.
But Stephen did not allow her the luxury of intimidating his steward. Instead he leaned down, fixing her with an imperious stare. "And why is it I should make all the decisions? Merely because I have the title?"
"Goodness, no!" She gasped. "My father had a title and, as you no doubt are aware, he was a complete idiot when it came to anything but drinking and wenching."
Mr. Wheedon choked at her frank speech, but Stephen, more used to her, merely glowered. "Whereas my experiences with cannon fire and the finer points of killing make me eminently qualified."
She frowned at his sarcasm. "Your determination and discipline make you eminently qualified. And if Mr. Wheedon has not the patience to teach you the rest instead of trying to fob you off on the Home Office, then perhaps you ought to find someone else who is."
She was gratified to see Mr. Wheedon's ruddy complexion pale beneath her steady regard. And for once, Stephen surprised her by staying silent, apparently lost in his own thoughts. He straightened, his gaze abstract as he returned to his desk while both she and Mr. Wheedon waited for his attention.
Fortunately for Gillian's strained patience, they did not have to wait long. Stephen blinked; then after a brief glance at her, he turned to his steward.
"Thank you, Mr. Wheedon, for coming today. I realize as this is spring, your time is extremely short. Please return to Shropshire and implement the changes we have agreed on. I hope to visit there in a fortnight."
The man rose swiftly despite his large size. He bowed to Stephen, gave a curt, triumphant nod to Gillian, then exited the room.
"But... but you are not going to sack him?" she asked as the door closed behind the insolent man.
Stephen waited until they heard the muted thud as the front door closed. Then he turned his attention slowly, imperiously to her.
"I decide how I am addressed by my employees, Amanda." He voice was deadly cold as it pierced her like tiny needles of anger.
"Well, of c-course," she stammered.
"Mr. Wheedon speaks out of love for the land he manages. He is honest and forthright, qualities I highly prize. He would never dream of doing anything disrespectful or dishonorable, such as eavesdropping or bursting in on things he knows nothing about." He punctuated his words with a frosty stare that made her blood freeze.
Naturally she expected him to be angry. She had belatedly realized one did not typically burst into a man's conversation with his steward without warning or preamble. But Stephen was accustomed to her. Other than perhaps a mild scolding and another rule on her list of ladylike behavior, she had not expected anything truly horrid.
She certainly did not expect the implacable fury lacing his deadly voice or the frightening power of his barely leashed temper.
"You have exactly one minute to explain your appalling behavior, Amanda."
"I..." she began, her mind spinning furiously. "I was trying to defend you."
"Defend me?" he said, his voice still low, like the soft hiss of a blade coming out of its sheath. "So you thought I needed your protection?"
"No, of course not—"
"Or perhaps you believed you could help me by humiliating me in front of my employee?"
"No—"
"By bursting through a closed door and showing you have no decorum?"
"No—"
"By then sitting down, uninvited, pushing yourself forward in the most unseemly, disgraceful fashion?"
"I thought—"
"Thought! Amanda, you had no thought whatsoever!"
Gillian looked down at her hands, a lump forming in her throat. She only now began to realize how hasty and ill-conceived her actions were. "I am sorry," she whispered.
Stephen did not respond, leaving her to wilt beneath his implacable scrutiny. Eventually she could not stand staring at her white knuckles any longer. She glanced up, and then wished she had not. His face seemed haggard, his shoulders stooped as he regarded her.
"Stephen?"
"I hoped," he began, his voice once again tight with control, "between my mother and I, we would see you on the path of social decency. I even pictured myself presenting you to the regent himself."
G
illian stared at him, her heart sinking with his every word. "The crown prince?" she whispered.
"Do you know what these are?" He took quick strides around his desk, pulling open his bottom drawer and retrieving, one by one, her crumpled "Rules for a Lady." It had become a game to her in the past weeks, ripping down his signs, tossing them out the window, then dreaming up ways to prevent him from putting up another. She had tried everything from locking her door when she left it to blocking her room at night, but still, each evening when she went to her room and each morning when she awoke, she found yet smother one of his supercilious little lists hanging on her wall.
Now, one by one, he brought out her discards from his desk. She had not realized there were so many. And that did not count the ones she had burned. She looked down at her hands, unable to face the growing pile.
"Are you happy here, Amanda?"
Gillian started, confused by his abrupt change of topic. "My lord?"
He settled into his desk chair with a heavy sigh. "You have been restricted these past weeks, jailed in the house while my mother attempted to teach you how to go on."
More like terrified me into submission, she thought sourly. Then she chastised herself silently for her ill thought. The countess tried her best to make Gillian into a proper lady. It was just her methods that were singularly heavy-handed.
Though she did not speak aloud, Stephen must have read the emotions that chased across her face. "She and I have used every means available to us—pleas, anger, threats—everything short of violence. But it now occurs to me it may be impossible for you to change a lifetime of habits in barely a month."
She looked up, hope kindling within her. Could he possibly be about to forgive her? To ease up on the thousands of ridiculous rules hedging her in from every direction? She could barely contain her glee.
"I think, Amanda, you would be much happier back in York. You have an adequate competence, your own home, and servants you have known for a lifetime. You would never lack for anything."
All her spiraling hopes came crashing down upon her. "You are sending me back?"
He sighed, holding up his palms in a gesture of futility. "Surely you can see now how much happier you would be there."
She shook her head, panic making her heart beat triple time. "No! I have waited nearly my whole life for a Season."
"If I let you come out now, your Season will be a disaster. You are much too wild. Perhaps you could return in five or ten years when you are more settled."
"But—"
"I cannot present you now. You will be completely ruined, Amanda. No one in London will ever receive you. At least this way, you retain the option for the future."
"No!" She pushed out of her chair, her hands pressed tightly together to keep them from clenching into fists. "It would be years too late. I must make my come-out now!" She turned to him, pleading with him to understand. "Please, Stephen, you cannot mean it."
But she saw in his face he did indeed mean it. She was to be sent back to York, her plans in ashes.
"A spinster's life is not such a terrible fate," he said softly. "I will make sure you are well provided for. You may even grow to appreciate it."
She shook her head, thinking of her sick mother, knowing she could not return to York without the protection of a husband's name and money. "Please, Stephen, I beg you—"
"Go to your room, Amanda. There is nothing else to discuss."
She would have stayed, she would have gotten down on her knees and kissed his feet if she thought it might help. But she saw it was too late. His mind was made up, and the earl was nothing if not steadfast in his decisions.
But it did not matter what he thought. She would not leave. She could not leave.
"I will never go back, Stephen. Never."
Then, choking back a sob, she ran from the room.
* * *
His mood was quite foul.
Nothing had improved his temper since the moment Amanda had burst unannounced into his meeting with Wheedon. Not seven hours, a congenial dinner, whist with his mother, or even the nighttime solitude of brandy and Aristophanes in his library.
He poured himself another brandy and sank slowly into his mother's library chair. He could not sit at his desk, in the chair molded first by his perfect father, then by his brilliant brother. He sat in a different chair, one not so touched with memories or the tinge of failure.
This chair was new. It was hard and uncompromising and very fashionable. Everything he wished he could be right now.
He must send her home, he told himself. Even now his blood burned with anger at the memory of her storming into his library this afternoon. No one, not even his sister at the height of her rebelliousness, had ever dared defy his father in such a way. He could not allow Amanda to do so either.
He was the new earl. And he was right, damn it. She was much too wild to foist off on polite society now.
The irony of the situation, of course, was that she'd thought she was helping him. Heedless of the consequences, she had rushed to his defense, just as she'd rushed to Tom's defense in the coaching inn and later in the dark alley behind the house.
It was one of the qualities he liked most about her. It was also the one quality he could not allow to continue unchecked. She must learn proper manners, not to mention good sense. Otherwise she might run after some damned puppy and end up in the wrong area of London with her throat cut or worse.
It was much safer for her in York, where everyone knew her, and her savior instincts could continue with relatively little danger. If worse came to worst, he would simply hire someone to keep a protective eye on her. She could not stay in London, where her heedless attitude would expose her to too many dangers—both in society and outside the haut ton in the darker areas of a deadly city. She must go home to the country.
Taking a sip of his brandy, he waited for the familiar burn to ease the ache in his chest.
He was draining his fourth glass when a slight tap interrupted his thoughts. He knew who it was immediately. Not his mother—she had already retired—and no one else dared disturb him when the library door was closed.
No one but Amanda.
Pouring another glass, he studied the candlelight as it filtered through the amber glow.
The tap came again, louder this time. Then louder again.
He could not help but smile. He'd best let her in, he decided, or she would soon bang on his door with a mallet.
"Come in, Amanda."
She slipped through the doorway, shutting it quietly behind her. She was as beautiful as ever, her hair coiled like burnished copper about her face. Her movements were graceful and, for once, a bit subdued. It took her a moment to find him in his mother's chair, situated as it was in the corner, away from the spill of moonlight from the window. But eventually she saw him, and her green eyes widened with surprise.
"Am I disturbing you?"
"You know you are," he said without heat. "But that has never stopped you before."
Even in the dim gloom of evening, he could imagine her blush. Seeing the slight duck of her head, hearing the way her breath seemed to catch on a sigh, he knew her cheeks would be brushed with that soft tinge of rose he found so enchanting.
This was torture. She had become achingly familiar in the last weeks. He had not realized how much he liked her here, how much he longed to hear her soft tread or her saucy voice each morning.
And now he must send her away.
He turned to look out the window. "You must know it is too late, Amanda. I will not change my mind."
"I know." Her voice was a whisper, but he caught the note of disappointment, and he grinned.
"Minx," he teased, his gaze drawn inevitably back to her. "You know, but you mean to try anyway."
He expected her to grin impishly at him and continue with her campaign, but she did not. Instead she brought out a piece of paper from behind her back.
"I brought you something," she said, stepping forward. Slow
ly, almost warily, he took it from her hand. What did she think would sway him? A written note of apology? Some watercolor or sketch meant to be a last tearful good-bye present? Would any of those change his mind?
He rather doubted it, but whatever her choice, it would make their parting that much more painful.
"Please look at it," she said, her voice slightly strained.
Reluctantly he held the paper up to the candlelight. It was a neatly copied version of her "Rules for a Lady." All fifteen of them were there, plus two more that read:
16. A lady does not listen at doorways.
17. A lady does not enter a room or conversations uninvited.
"Very nice, Amanda, but what is your point?" His voice was unnecessarily harsh to cover up the emotion that sat like a cold stone on his heart.
She knelt beside him, and he did not miss the submissive posture. Neither did he appreciate it until he realized she had placed herself there not to plead with him, but so she could look out the window at the clouds drifting past the moon.
"I used to look out my window at night, and I would pretend I was a bird, winging my way to London, my journey lit by the soft light of the moon." She glanced back at him. "Daylight was much too cruel, you understand. I had responsibilities during the day, jobs and tasks. But at night I was free, and I would fly to London, where all my dreams could come true."
"London is not a haven, Amanda. It is a place, just like any other place, with its own special rules and dangers." He spoke harshly, his heart beating faster as he watched the moonlight limn her features in silver.
God, she was beautiful.
"I know, Stephen. It was just such a shock to discover that everything I dreamed of for so long was nothing like I expected." She turned and gently pulled the list out of his hand, smoothing down the edges. "I wrote these down so you would know I did learn them. Up until today, I thought they were silly restrictions you made up just to plague me."
"Silly restrictions!"
