Because she would disappear. At the end of the Season. She supposed she should warn her sisters, so they could begin adjusting to her imminent departure.
The door suddenly burst open to reveal Samantha breathing heavily. “He’s just arrived. Oh my God, Lauren, are you certain you’ll be safe with him?”
“Of course I’m certain. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, because he cleaned up rather nicely. I believe even Mother is shocked.”
Panic shot through Lauren. “Mother’s downstairs?”
She and her stepfather were supposed to remain in their chambers or the library. They weren’t to greet Tom.
“She and Papa,” Samantha said.
“Oh, Lord, I thought they understood that I didn’t want them about,” she said, as she swept out of her room and dashed down the stairs.
“Well, it is their residence,” Amy pointed out, following in her wake.
“I know, and it’s becoming so terribly inconvenient.”
“Only because you think our previous life was more appealing than this one.”
“It was.”
Lauren hurried down the steps.
“But—”
“Forget it, please. I don’t wish to have one of our all-too-familiar arguments now. I have more pressing matters—”
She nearly stumbled when she caught sight of Tom. Or at least she thought it was Tom. Surely it was. Yes, most definitely it was. The eyes at least would forever give him away and the manner in which his gaze always met and held hers, as though he could see clear into her soul, her heart, her very being.
Was it that gaze that made Amy think he loved Lauren? He’d looked at her like that from the moment she’d first seen him behind the general store.
“My word, he did clean up nicely,” Amy murmured.
“Shut up,” Lauren demanded.
She’d seen nothing wrong in his appearance before. Dressed as a cowboy, he’d been handsome, overpowering. But to night…
No evidence of the cowboy was in sight. Tom wore a double-breasted dove gray tailcoat and trousers, with a single-breasted burgundy waistcoat. A black silk bow adorned his pale gray pleated shirt. His boots had been replaced by black shoes, polished to such a high sheen that she imagined if he looked down he’d be able to see his reflection. And in his left white-gloved hand, he held a black top hat.
His ebony hair was combed backed, tamed. His dark eyes were shining as he gave her one of his slow, sensual smiles. It was the only part of him that still reminded her of a brazen cowboy.
She didn’t remember walking the rest of the way down the stairs, but she must have because her slippered feet finally landed on the marble floor of the entryway.
“Hello, darlin’,” he said, his voice echoing between the walls.
“You look…”—she laughed lightly—“very proper.”
“Despite the rumors, I’m not a total heathen.”
“Speaking of rumors,” her mother began. “If you insist upon going out without a chaperone—”
“Mother,” Lauren said, cutting her off. “We’ve already discussed this matter. The only people who will know that I went out this evening, much less that I went out without a chaperone, are the people in this house and those in Lydia’s. If rumors start, I’ll know exactly where to look, and I shall be none too happy.”
Her mother glared at Tom. “If you take advantage—”
“I’ll hand you the horse whip myself,” he said.
Her mother jerked her head back slightly, blinked, as though at that moment she was seeing something about Tom that she’d never before noticed. She lowered her chin somewhat, relaxed her pursed lips. “I actually came in to thank you for sending the flowers. It was a lovely gesture.”
“My plea sure, dar—ma’am.”
Lauren bit back her smile, thought perhaps her mother was doing the same. “Don’t wait up,” she announced, as she headed for the door.
The butler opened it, and Lauren walked through, waiting until Tom joined her.
“That could have gone worse I suppose,” she said. She looked at Tom and smiled. “I’d planned to have Harrington discuss various wardrobes with you, but it seems you picked that little tip up on your own.”
“Lady Sachse had taken me to a tailor. It just took him a while to get my clothing made. You approve of the job he did?”
She couldn’t decide if he was searching for compliments or reassurances that he would fit in this evening. “He did a splendid job. You look incredibly handsome.”
“I wanted to be deserving of having the most beautiful woman in London at my side.”
“Dangerous talk, Tom. Keep that up and I won’t be able to resist and may find myself wishing I did have a chaperone.”
They’d reached the carriage. He took her hand, to help her up the steps, but something in the slight pressure of his fingers over hers caused her to still and look at him.
“Would that be so bad?” he asked, quietly. “To be unable to resist?”
“It might upset our bargain.”
“Again. Would that be so bad?”
She dropped her gaze from his eyes to his lips, felt her mouth go dry. “Our agreement was that I would teach you, not be seduced by you.” She lifted her gaze back to his, regretfully realizing that her words had served only to further incite his desires. He’d always welcomed a challenge. “You really must learn not to be quite so open in displaying your…thoughts.”
“You know what I’m thinking?”
She nodded quickly. “I believe I do, yes.”
“And you’re bothered by the direction they’re headed?”
“Flattered,” she admitted. “But wary. A gentleman wouldn’t seek to make a woman feel uncomfortable, and we are in the midst of a lesson regarding what is proper and what isn’t.”
She thought she saw disappointment wash over his handsome features before he assisted her into the carriage. Taking her seat, she was surprised to notice a large bouquet of pink roses resting on the seat opposite her, the fragrance filling the carriage.
“Who are those for?” she asked, as Tom sat opposite her.
“Our hostess.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” she said.
“It seemed the least I could do.”
She wished she hadn’t advised him to hide his emotions. He’d managed to master the technique perfectly. Sitting there, she had the uncomfortable realization that she hadn’t a clue as to what he was thinking. She gazed out the window already deeply regretting the bargain that she’d struck: to turn him into the sort of man she could never love.
While the well-sprung carriage rumbled toward their destination, Tom pretended to listen while Lauren prattled on about forks, spoons, and knives, how various dishes would be served, when was the proper time to begin eating—as soon as the food was set before you, no need to wait until everyone had been served; when to stop—do not wipe your plate clean and do not ask for an additional serving; what to expect—seven or eight courses; what would be expected of him—pleasant conversation. She was giving him exactly what he’d asked for: the boring mundane rules of polite society.
Strange that what he’d asked for wasn’t truly what he wanted. Oh, he wanted to prove himself to these people, but he was beginning to realize that he wanted to prove himself to her more. The approval in her eyes when she’d come down the stairs and first caught sight of him had caused his chest to swell with such satisfaction that he’d almost popped the pearl buttons right off his shirt. He’d seen desire in her eyes, desire that mirrored his own, but that was obviously an emotion not to be displayed. A shame. How was a woman to know that a man wanted her if he had to keep the passion leashed?
As she continued on with hardly a breath in between, he was beginning to realize why she’d numbered them.
“Is that number thirty-five?” he asked, interrupting her lengthy soliloquy.
She stared at him. “Pardon?”
“One of your sisters mentioned you
numbering the rules. I lost count of where we were.”
“I told you that you would have a lot to remember.” She looked out the window as though suddenly embarrassed by everything that she’d said. Or perhaps hurt by the gruffness in his voice. Whenever he was with her, the longer he was with her, the deeper his voice seemed to sink.
“You don’t have to teach me everything in one sitting. You should enjoy the evening a bit.”
“You’re not paying me to enjoy the evening.” She turned her attention back to him. “You’re paying me handsomely to see that you’re turned out properly.”
It was beginning to irritate him that she was taking the terms of their arrangement to heart. He wanted her help. He couldn’t deny that, but he’d also welcomed the opportunity to spend some time with her.
“So who all will be there to night?” he asked.
“You remember Gina?”
“Pierce?”
She nodded. “She’s married to the Earl of Huntingdon now. They’ll be there. Just the six of us. I thought to keep it small so that if you do fumble, you won’t be quite as self-conscious. Lydia and Gina were both where you are at one point, and their husbands understand that it takes a while to learn everything. So everyone will be circumspect if you blunder and no one outside those walls will ever hear of any mistakes.”
He pretended he was playing poker, careful not to reveal the cards he was holding, because he didn’t want her to know that it disappointed him to realize that she expected him to blunder. Perhaps that was his fault, based on previous conversations, based on his request for her help. But he was a little more refined than she seemed willing to give him credit for.
Perhaps the evening would be a learning experience for them both.
The more Tom came to know the Duke of Harrington, the more he liked him. Perhaps because, like Tom, the man had found himself unexpectedly titled. Well, not completely like Tom and not totally unexpectedly. He was the second legitimate son and had grown up knowing he always had a small chance of becoming duke, unlike Tom, who’d never had any inkling of what awaited him.
The man was without pretense, earning a glare from Lauren when he told Tom to call him Rhys.
“Tom is supposed to be learning how to address people properly,” she’d chided.
“I’ll purchase him one of Lydia’s books,” Rhys had promised.
Tom had also taken an instant liking to Huntingdon, perhaps because when he’d removed his gloves before dinner, it was evident that he had the hands of a farmer, and from what Tom had gleaned so far, aristocrats weren’t supposed to engage in manual labor. But apparently times were changing.
Dinner had actually been enjoyable, with pleasant conversation and no one judging his actions. There was a method to the madness of so much silverware, utensils to be taken from the outside in. Mastering eating with his fork in his left hand had taken some time, since he was accustomed to using his right, but as Lauren explained to him it was a sign of good breeding to use only his left hand. The right was for the knife, which he mentioned he might use to slit his throat.
He’d noticed Rhys fighting not to smile at that comment, while Lydia and Lauren had seen fit to chastise him profusely for uttering such a vulgar remark. Getting Lydia riled was almost as much fun as doing the same to Lauren.
Sitting beside him, she tried gently guiding him through the meal, with quiet whispers and slight nudges, only a few times losing patience with him and snapping at him because he wasn’t trying. He honest to God didn’t see the point. If holding a fork in his right hand caused someone to think less of him, he wasn’t altogether convinced that he was going to put any stock in the person’s opinion anyway.
The seating arrangement hadn’t been quite up to what it should have been had the dinner not been a practice. Tom hadn’t minded. Lauren sitting beside him so he could smell her perfume, feel the warmth radiating from her body, was a hell of a lot more pleasant than having her sitting across from him.
“Thank God, that’s over,” Rhys said, as soon as the ladies quit the room. “I can barely tolerate these formal dinners.”
Dinner had come to an end after eight courses. The ladies had retired to the drawing room, while the gentlemen remained at the table for some brandy and supposedly manly conversation. Tom didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but he’d rather have had the ladies present. He didn’t think they were appreciated enough there. He didn’t see a need to chase any away so he could talk to a man, but Lauren had insisted.
“Formal? Good God, man, formal is when a hundred are in attendance. This affair was simply a pleasant evening,” Huntingdon said.
Rhys looked at Tom, nodded toward Huntingdon. “Unlike you and I, he’s never had the luxury of knowing anything other than a nobleman’s life.”
“When was the last time you harvested wheat?” Huntingdon asked.
“I have to confess that the closest I’ve come is loading ships, and that, my friend, is backbreaking work.”
Chuckling, Tom gained the attention of both men. “I thought peers were supposed to pretend never to lift a finger.”
“Quite so,” Huntingdon said. “Sorry for the slip.”
“So how are my brother and his family?” Rhys asked, as the footman poured him some brandy.
“They were doing well, the last I saw them,” Tom said. “Building a new house, doing a little traveling.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Grayson had a difficult life growing up here, not being legitimate and all that. It’s terribly frowned upon, and my older brother Quentin was not the kindest of brothers.”
“Is cruelty common among the aristocracy?” Tom asked. “Because I’ve heard a few bad things about my father, as well.”
“Not really. For the most part, the aristocracy is made up of good men and women who take their duties and position quite seriously and with a great deal of honor and nobility. But like all aspects of society, exceptions abound, and we have our bad apples.” Rhys took a sip of brandy. “I believe this is the part of the evening where I’m supposed to instruct you on after-dinner manners. Lauren whispered in my ear before leaving the room that you possessed—in her words, not mine—the nasty habit of smoking. Therefore, here are the rules as I know them. If you decide to enjoy a cigar or cigarette, you can’t rejoin the ladies. It’s not polite to be around them with your clothing smelling of smoke. Of course, if your host has a smoking room and can offer you a smoking jacket, then it’s allowed. I have neither.”
“A shame. I have some fine cigars in my jacket pocket.”
“Truly? Of all my vices, I’ve yet to add smoking to the list. Do you think stepping out on the veranda would serve to keep the smoke from getting into our clothes?”
Tom grinned. “It’s my place of choice.”
Rhys had the glasses filled with more brandy, before escorting Tom and Huntingdon to the veranda. Before long, each was puffing on a cigar and enjoying the brandy.
“I believe this may be the start of a bad habit for me,” Rhys said.
“I can think of worse habits. Have even engaged in a few,” Tom said.
“As have I, although marriage has curtailed my number of bad habits considerably.”
“So I understand that you knew Gina in Texas,” Huntingdon said to Tom.
Tom nodded. “Not as well as I knew Lydia, since Gina’s family left Texas. Does she ever talk about wanting to go back?”
“No, I think she’s quite happy here.”
Leaning against the pillar, Tom wondered what it would take to make Lauren happy here. “So tell me. How important is all this stuff that Lauren thinks is so damned important?”
“You mean the Season?” Rhys asked.
“The Season, the manners, the etiquette, the making of a good impression. Any of it. All of it.”
Studying Tom, Rhys took a puff on the cigar. “Actually, it’s terribly important. It broadens or limits your options, depending upon how well you…perform. Believe it or not, your most pressing task is to get
married and produce an heir to inherit your titles.”
Tom couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “You’re not serious.”
“Unfortunately, I am. If I understand your financial situation, based upon the rumors circulating, you have no problems there. You need to oversee your estates, of course, but much of that is simply delegating, then following up to make sure the work is done properly.
“However, a good deal of effort goes into finding a suitable wife, and that, my new friend, is the true purpose of the Season. Each ball is a marriage market. You look the offerings over, make your selection, charm her, so that by Season’s end she is wearing your ring rather than someone else’s.”
“So if I’m not looking for a wife, I could skip all this nonsense.”
“I thought Lauren was planning to return to Texas.”
“She is.” That didn’t mean Tom had given up on her completely. He took another puff on his cigar. “I know she’s unhappy here.”
“I can’t speak to that. I only met her last Season. Before that, I was somewhat of an…outcast.”
Tom narrowed his eyes at Rhys, studied him. “How does one become an outcast?”
“A bit of family scandal, which to my way of thinking, doesn’t make me the ideal choice for instructing you in proper behavior. However, supposedly all is forgiven, and I’ve regained my good standing, but only because Lydia made it so.”
“She’s happy here.”
“Incredibly.”
“How did you make that happen?”
“Don’t think I really had much to do with it. She simply thrives on all the ceremony that I find tedious.”
“If you find it tedious, then why are you in London?”
“Because she loves it so, and I love her. Besides, I must begin laying the groundwork so that our children, when they come along, will be accepted and loved by all who know them.”
Tom grimaced. “I’m used to a man being judged on his own merits.”
“A man can rise above his family’s scandals. A man’s scandals can also bring his family down. Improper behavior is not tolerated well, especially by the older ranks. As much as I wish it were otherwise, I would advise you to take Lauren’s lessons seriously. A soiled reputation is not easily washed clean.”
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