Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1)

by Jade Lee

  She had nowhere to go.

  She had thought to run to Tom and beg his help to get her out of London. But Tom was gone to Shropshire, and all her money had been sent to the doctor. She thought about Geoffrey. Perhaps she could run to him, but he would want an explanation she could not afford to give him.

  Gillian stepped back from the window and collapsed on her bed.

  There was nowhere for her to go.

  She pulled her knees up to her chin and closed her eyes. She needed to think. She had to be calm and rational and sort through her options.

  First the facts. Stephen knew the truth. She could not stop a soft whimper at the thought. When he had turned his back on her, she felt as though he had cut out her heart. He had been angry with her before, but now he disdained her. Now he could not even look at her.

  The tears ran freely down her cheeks, splashing across her knees.

  He despised her.

  Gillian grabbed a pillow and pressed her face into it. It felt cool against her skin—soft and somehow comforting. She curled around it and let the sobs come.

  There were no more thoughts of her future, no more plans or facts or options. She could not get past the truth, could not see beyond the knowledge that he despised her and, moreover, that he had every right to.

  She was a liar, the scheming bitch Amanda always accused her of being. The pain she felt now was no more than her due.

  All too soon she would hear the countess's outraged shouts, the horrified gasps of the servants. Even Greely's aplomb would not be proof against the news of her perfidy.

  Then they would all storm her door, screaming at her to quit the premises, spitting their hatred at her. She would be tossed penniless onto the street, her marriage to Geoffrey impossible, Tom's help beyond reach, and the servants' friendship hopelessly destroyed.

  Yet it would not matter. Nothing could matter more than the sight of Stephen turning his broad back on her.

  Gillian fell into a fresh bout of silent tears, her body shaking against the pillow, her soul buried in misery.

  What would she do?

  She did not know how long she lay there, sobs racking her body. Eventually her eyes dried, and slowly she began to sense other things. She felt her muscles protest her contorted position on the bed, she smelled the heartening scent of fresh-baked bread, and heard the birds chirp merrily in the tree outside her window.

  She did not hear the angry mutters of betrayed friendships.

  Gillian lifted her aching head, then slowly uncurled her clenched body until she could sit up. Her dress was hopelessly crumpled, her face felt as if it were scrubbed raw, but nowhere did she hear the heavy tread of people come to throw her out onto the street.

  What was happening? Why was she still here?

  She stared at her closed door and willed it to open. And to her benumbed mind, it appeared to do just that. The latch turned and the heavy wood fell backward to reveal the shocked gaze of the countess.

  "Sweet heaven, there you are. I could not credit it when Hawkings said you were not prepared for the Quinleys' rout, but here you are, and looking quite a fright, I might add."

  Gillian could not think of a thing to say. She had expected angry accusations, hunt remonstrances, anything but this scolding for not being prepared for some ball!

  "But—"

  "Have you and Stephen fought again?" The countess sighed as she swept into Gillian's room. The woman looked stunning as always, this time in a silk ball gown of deepest sapphire. "Two months ago I would not have credited anyone could argue as much as I and my sweet Jonathan fought in our first year. But here you two are, at loggerheads again." She wrung out a cloth in the washbasin. "Has he banished you to Yorkshire again?"

  Gillian blinked, then flinched as the countess pressed the wet cloth against her puffy eyelids. "I... I assume so."

  "Well, do not assume. He has not said a word to me, so clearly he regrets his hasty actions."

  Gillian pushed the soothing cloth away from her eyes, coming to an abrupt decision. She could not live with the lies any longer. "I sincerely doubt it. In fact, my lady, I have—"

  "Of course, he does."

  "—something urgent to tell you."

  "Why else would he run off to his club?"

  Gillian paused. "Stephen has gone to his club?"

  "Nearly two hours ago. Just between you and me, I think he feels guilty about how shabbily he treats you."

  "Me?" Gillian squeaked.

  "Oh, yes. He has not escorted us anywhere in nearly two weeks."

  "But Lady Sophia—"

  "It is bad enough that he treats me so, his own mother, but you... why, you are his ward, his responsibility."

  Gillian took a deep breath. "Countess, please, I have something to confess. I am not—" Suddenly her face was buried under the suffocating press of the cold, wet cloth.

  "Hush. We must get you looking right for tonight's ball. If Stephen wants to hide himself away in his club, then that is how men deal with the world. It is we ladies who must carry on. And right now, that means you are to look your best for tonight's rout."

  "But—"

  "Hawkings!" Gillian flinched at the countess's strident tone. "Come in here at once! We have much to do."

  "But—"

  "Shhh. Hawkings will know just what to do to set you in your best looks."

  From beneath the wet compress, Gillian sighed. She could not see the door open and close, but she heard the rustle of silk as Hawkings removed Gillian's best ball gown from the wardrobe. It seemed despite everything, she was doomed to continue her farce. The countess would not allow her to speak, even if it were to announce her engagement to the crown prince himself. And she could not just blurt out the truth, especially not with Hawkings right in the room.

  "Now listen to me, Amanda," continued the countess firmly. "Men think they know everything, and believe me, they certainly have their place. But do not make the mistake of thinking they run the world. It is simply a clever ruse we women allow them. It keeps them busy so they do not notice the important things."

  "But—"

  "Hush, girl. I am talking now."

  Gillian sighed. "Yes, my lady."

  "Stephen is a wonderful boy, and I adore him to distraction, but he always has been a bit stiff in his thinking. Whatever you have argued about will wash away soon enough. What is important now is that you are going to a ball tonight, you will be courted and feted and danced with until you drop with weariness. Then, in the end, you will make a brilliant match."

  "But—" Gillian cut off her objection as Stephen's mother stripped away the now tepid cloth. "My lady," she began, "I simply must—"

  "Amanda," the countess said as she loomed above Gillian in all her regal disdain. "I say you will attend the ball, and attend you will. I say you will make a brilliant match, and never doubt that you will. Do you understand, Amanda? I have said it."

  Gillian nodded weakly. What else could she do?

  For whatever perverse reason of his own, Stephen did not expose her fraud. Gillian did not understand it. She merely marked the time, watching as he remained absent from his own home, returning in the small hours of the morning only to leave each morning as soon as he was dressed.

  She would be in bed and hear his heavy tread as he passed by her door. Once, she heard him stop just outside, as if he wished to open the door and speak with her. She lay stiff in her bed, her breath caught in her chest, waiting for his decision. Then he passed on, and she was once again caged in her strange existence.

  She went to parties, danced and laughed as usual, and pretended to a gaiety she did not feel. And every moment of each day, she waited to be exposed. She imagined every knock on her door to be Stephen, come to throw her from his life. She heard every whisper as the first rumblings of shock at her perfidy.

  Yet all she could do was wait. Geoffrey remained away on estate business. Stephen did not leave for York. And the countess seemed obsessed with making Amanda a stellar succes
s.

  There was nothing to do but wait.

  * * *

  Stephen glared bleary-eyed across the dim, fetid air of the gaming hell. He searched for another victim, but unfortunately, no one appeared interested in being ruthlessly stripped of their money.

  He growled something incoherent and reached for another glass of brandy.

  Someone approached, so he looked up and grinned, gesturing with lazy movements at the chair across the table from him.

  "Piquet, gentlemen?" he asked lazily.

  The two dandies paled, shook their heads, then hastily retreated. Stephen took solace back in his glass. He had heard the rumors, saw the speculative glances. Mavenford was mad, they said. His humor was sadly out, due to an old war wound, and he was drinking and carousing himself in a futile effort to correct it, they whispered. Or better yet, two of his many mistresses were feuding over his illegitimate children, and he would rather bury himself in brandy than face them.

  No one knew the truth. Not even Stephen.

  All he remembered was that he was angry, more so than ever before in his life. And when he sobered up enough to almost remember who had made him so very furious, he crawled back into his bottle.

  But all through his self-destructive drinking, he knew the end approached. He could feel the tension coiling inside him like a spring wound tighter and tighter. He would soon snap, and God help the poor soul upon whom he finally unleashed his temper.

  Especially if it was her.

  But for now, he took another drink.

  * * *

  Geoffrey Rathburn, Lord Tallis, checked his pocket watch before mounting the front steps to the Earl of Mavenford's fashionable residence. He barely glanced at the house. He had seen it many times before, but even so, something within him registered the stately, aristocratic elegance of the building. It was the home of a family that had been rich and tided for generations.

  It was hard not to envy it.

  So he distracted himself by glancing at his pocket watch one last time. He had returned to town just this morning after completing the final accounting of his inheritance, if one could call it that. His father's debts were staggering, but with a good steward and some creative bookkeeping, he knew his situation was acceptable. It would take a determined effort for Stephen to discover Geoffrey's true financial status. By that time, he and Amanda would be safely wed, her dowry giving his estates a much-needed boost.

  Now all that remained was Stephen's official approval of the match. So immediately upon his return this morning, he sent around a message requesting an audience with the Earl of Mavenford and a later drive with Amanda. Hopefully all would go quickly, and by this evening Amanda could begin plans for their wedding.

  His earlier intention to wait until after Sophia's engagement was discarded the moment he saw the ledgers. He could not wait any longer for his sister to bring Stephen up to scratch.

  Geoffrey sauntered up the steps and pulled the bell cord, moving smoothly inside after the door slid ponderously open before him. "Good afternoon, Greely."

  "Good afternoon, Lord Tallis," responded the stiff butler with an excruciatingly correct bow. "I am afraid Miss Wyndham is not here at present, but if you would be so kind as to wait in the front parlor, I am sure she shall be along directly."

  Geoffrey frowned. Greely never confused appointments, especially those made in advance. "Actually I had an appointment with the earl."

  The butler was well trained. He only blinked, pausing a fraction of a second before speaking. "Very well, my lord. I shall see if the earl is in."

  Geoffrey nodded, watching the stately Greely closely. There was something decidedly odd about his behavior, something out of the ordinary, but quickly covered. But there was no time for questions as Greely stepped silently down the hall.

  As Geoffrey waited, he let his eyes rove along the entranceway, missing nothing. He saw the luster of well-tended furniture and the rich gleam of mahogany and oak, all brilliantly carved. He also noted the pile of cards awaiting Amanda's return, the stack of nosegays and other flowers dotting every flat surface, and the number of invitations awaiting her attention. He expected as much, but it was nevertheless startlingly annoying to see how very popular Amanda had become.

  It was good that he had secured her promise early.

  As if on cue, Greely returned, gesturing to the open library door. "His lordship will see you now." Somewhere in the butler's formal tones, Geoffrey detected a hint of disapproval, and he instinctively bristled. His lineage was every bit as august as the earl's, if not quite as well feathered. How dare—

  His thoughts were abruptly cut off as he entered the library. With a start of surprise, he detected the faint odor of brandy, saw the lurking shadows of a darkened room, and realized the butler's disapproval was not for him, but for the earl.

  Geoffrey found Stephen immediately. The man looked immaculate as always, but his slumped posture, glittering eyes, and the disheveled mat of his hair told him the earl nursed more than his brandy. He looked like a man nursing a grudge.

  This little interview would be a great deal more delicate than Geoffrey had originally anticipated.

  Best get to it then. Geoffrey squared his shoulders as for battle. "Hello, Stephen," he said, gliding to a chair opposite the desk.

  "Geoffrey." The earl's voice was low. Not slurred, just low. And cold.

  Not an auspicious beginning. Geoffrey shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Perhaps this should wait for another time," he offered.

  "You have come about Amanda."

  Geoffrey raised his eyes, wondering what had changed the usually urbane Earl of Mavenford into the cuttingly rude man before him. "Never one for subtlety, were you?" he drawled, relaxing into his chair even as his attention sharpened.

  The silence stretched between them as they sized each other up. Geoffrey was the first to break, mindful of his upcoming appointment with Amanda. "Yes, Stephen, I wish to talk about her. She and I have an understanding."

  "You want to marry her." The earl spoke as if Geoffrey wanted to do something loathsome with his innocent ward, and for the first time in many years, Geoffrey felt a shiver of self-doubt slide down his spine.

  Not trusting his voice, Geoffrey decided to remain silent, his gaze locked with Mavenford's. Stephen obviously had his own agenda and timing. Geoffrey would gain nothing by trying to push it.

  Suddenly Stephen pulled out a pristine piece of linen paper from his desk. On its face, Geoffrey saw a list, the handwriting marching down the page like tiny soldiers.

  "I have some questions."

  Geoffrey nodded. He expected something of this sort.

  "If you answer them appropriately, then you will be allowed to... to further your understanding with my ward."

  Geoffrey nodded again, his confidence returning as he found himself in more familiar territory. He knew his lineage was more than acceptable, his education stellar, and his financial standing, if perhaps his weakest point, would no doubt be overcome by his good breeding.

  He was ready.

  "First, how do you feel about ladies brawling?"

  "I beg your pardon?" He could not have been more shocked if the countess had chosen to appear before them in her nightclothes.

  "How do you feel about ladies brawling?" Stephen repeated in stentorian tones.

  "Of course I do not approve of it," he snapped, wondering if the earl had taken leave of his senses.

  "Would you teach a lady to brawl if she asked you?"

  "Of course not!"

  "What if she insisted it would protect her from cutthroats and thieves?"

  "I would tell her she was wrong."

  The earl's face twisted into a derisive smile.

  "And if she went out barefoot just to prove you wrong?"

  Geoffrey's thoughts whirled as he tried to make sense of this bizarre situation. His gaze went first to the bottle of brandy by Stephen's right elbow. It was nearly full, an untouched glass sitting directly beside it. If
Mavenford was foxed, it was from a different source.

  "Next question. How do you feel about said cutthroats as your personal servants?"

  Geoffrey slowly uncurled from his chair. "Clearly, Stephen, you are not in the mood to discuss—"

  "Sit down!"

  Geoffrey stood, barely able to keep his temper in check. "I do not appreciate being the butt of some ridiculous joke or wager, Stephen—"

  "Wagering! That is question number seventeen. We will get to it in due time."

  "I doubt it."

  Stephen looked up, his eyes coldly intimidating. "We will if you wish to marry my ward."

  Geoffrey waited a moment, weighing his options. He had none. As Amanda's guardian, Stephen had the right to demand trial by fire, if he wanted. And given Mavenford's strange mood, Geoffrey half expected Greely to be heating some coals at this very moment.

  "Next question," continued Stephen. "Are your locks proof against burglars?"

  "I am sure Lord Tallis's locks are adequate to their purpose."

  Geoffrey spun around as Amanda's low tones cut through the still air. She stood in the doorway of the library, the sun splashing on her white gown, highlighting the tiny embroidered rosebuds on the dress until they looked like bright spots of blood.

  "You did not knock."

  Geoffrey did not think it possible, but Stephen's voice grew colder, and Geoffrey was stunned by the dark fury seething beneath his words.

  "The door was open, my lord, as you no doubt intended."

  "Last question for now, Tallis." Geoffrey glanced back at the earl, but saw the question was really intended for Amanda. "How do you feel about bastards?"

  Geoffrey heard Amanda's horrified gasp and was not surprised to see her face drain to the color of parchment. Instinctively he shifted his weight, intending to go to her assistance, but she waved him away, quickly regaining her composure, if not her color.

  "I see now why you were waiting, my lord," she said, stepping carefully into the room. "It appears you merely looked for the most humiliating moment to expose me."

  Stephen pushed out of his chair, his eyes glittering with a black anger. "I was not waiting for anything, Amanda." He practically sneered her name. "And if you want to talk about humiliation, perhaps we should discuss my mother, who is upstairs right now planning your come-out ball, or the nosegays and cards from dukes out in the vestibule. Or maybe you would like to discuss this latest bill from the milliner for your court gown?" He waved a piece of paper in the air, but Amanda did not even look at it.