My Fair Gentleman

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Chapter 9

  A visit with relations should be a delightful time to reminisce and create new memories that will be enjoyed for years to come.

  Mistress Manners’ Tips for Every-day Etiquette

  Jack wondered which would happen first—would he disgrace his mother by behaving inappropriately in public or end up in Newgate for murdering Lady Ivy Carlisle? He stood in the dressing room that adjoined his bedroom as she tied his cravat with fingers that were deft and sure. He smelled a subtle scent of something flowery and was angry that he noticed it. The task she performed was oddly intimate, and she was close enough to either strangle or kiss. He didn’t imagine there was a man in all of existence who would have blamed him for doing either one.

  She was maddening—he was like a fish out of water in his new environment and she insisted on goading him. If he knew for certain that it was intentional, that somehow she meant to tease him, it might be a bit more palatable, but he wondered if she was simply obtuse when it came to communicating with a reluctant pupil. It was true enough that she had admitted to him when they were in the library that she had been jesting, but her timing had been horrid.

  Or brilliant.

  He couldn’t decide which. And now she stood with him, not a foot away, performing the task of a wife or a lover—and she smelled good. It was a welcome distraction from the meeting that awaited him downstairs. Her hair was shiny and curled elegantly in that way ladies did things, and he was tempted to blow softly across her ear in retaliation for making him angry enough to suffer apoplexy.

  Say something nice about his grandfather at the funeral? It would be a cold day in Hades before he ever said anything nice about the man. That she would even ask it of him spoke volumes about the fact that she really didn’t know him at all. And just when Jack had decided that she might be redeemable—she had charmed his mother and Sophia, after all—she threw out the one suggestion guaranteed to make his blood boil. The fact that his cousin had arrived in the midst of it was only to be expected, he supposed. Better to gather all of the misery he could imagine and stuff it into one afternoon.

  “There, now.” Ivy patted his cravat. “Perfect.” She moved away, regrettably, and retrieved her blasted stack of papers from the side table where she’d plunked them down after putting her pencil behind her ear and making a beeline for his throat when he’d entered the room after changing. She had also tugged on his coat, examined his cuffs, and looked critically at his hair before shrugging a bit.

  “Were you a valet in another life, perhaps?” he asked, still feeling surly as he put a finger between his collar and neck. He wondered if she’d tied it so snugly on purpose. “Where did you learn to tie a gentleman’s cravat?”

  “I told you, Nana insisted. One cannot always be certain a valet will be at the ready—a fact to which we can attest this very moment—so one must know how to make do on one’s own.”

  “Now, there’s a novel thought. You told me just this morning that the more helpless one is, the better.”

  “I didn’t say it was something with which I agreed.”

  “No, you didn’t. In fact, you refused to offer an opinion on it at all.”

  The lady sighed and folded her arms over her papers, which she held to her chest, more the pity. “My lord, I have come to the conclusion that very little will be served by being either evasive or diplomatic with you. I suppose it can be attributed to your time on the high seas and away from civilization.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What can be attributed to it?”

  “Your utter lack of appreciation for societal customs and traditions. A woman is to offer her opinion on only the rarest of occasions, and a gentleman is considered cream of the crop if he has land and an army of servants to see to his every whim.”

  She turned to leave the room, and he grabbed her arm. “Tell me you don’t find that utterly ridiculous,” he demanded, his temper still broiling dangerously below the surface.

  “Well, of course I do. My mind is full of ideas that I shall probably never share with anyone.” Something passed across her face so quickly that Jack figured he must have imagined it. Just a flicker, really, of sadness, perhaps. Or resignation.

  “There are places in the world where you could share your ideas freely and not be considered improper,” he told her gruffly as he released her arm. He patted it awkwardly, wondering if he should apologize for manhandling her. The women with whom he was accustomed to spending time didn’t seem to mind, but he was certain that with this one, he had just broken at least a dozen rules.

  She smiled at him rather as one would respond to a child. “I am certain there are such wonderful places.”

  He raised his eyebrows as she turned and made her way to the door. He followed her, wondering if the pounding in the back of his head would render him useless by nightfall. “You believe I tell stories? I will have you know that sailors are every bit as intelligent as your Society gentlemen, probably more so.”

  “Says the man who drinks directly from the bottle.” She had reached the landing by the time he caught up with her, and she checked her pocket watch as they began descending the stairs. “This is just enough time to have kept them waiting,” she said as he searched for something scathing to say. The most he could manage involved several words even he knew were unfit for anywhere but the deck of a ship.

  He clamped his jaw shut tightly until they reached the door of the drawing room. He had absolutely no interest in meeting the man on the other side of it, and he tried to imagine his mother and Sophia being ejected from their new home to force himself to see it through.

  “You look splendid.” Lady Ivy patted his shoulder. “You needn’t stay in there overly long—it is merely a quick social call. You probably ought to ring for tea, but you might be forgiven for omitting it, as this is a trying time, what with the family being in mourning.”

  He opened his eyes wide and stared at his unwanted governess. “Oh, no. You’re going in there with me.”

  Her answering expression was priceless, and he wished he were in a better frame of mind to enjoy it. “But I’m not dressed for it!” she protested.

  “You look splendid.” He echoed her words. “And if you do not come in here with me, I’m going back upstairs. They can sit in here until they rot.”

  “Lord Stansworth!” she hissed. She glanced over his shoulder and straightened a bit as Watkins approached. It must have been quite a conundrum for her—cause a scene in front of a servant or go along with his demand? Because he wasn’t backing down, and she seemed to know it.

  “Why?” she whispered, her features tight.

  “Because without a buffer, I will probably kill him.”

  She lowered her voice and moved closer to him. “My lord, you have absolutely no reason to hate your cousin. You’ve never even met the man!”

  “Lady Ivy, this is a person who never once lifted a finger to help my family, even knowing full well that my father—his cousin—was dead and we were all but starving. My mother attempted once to approach him and he told her that if she would agree to a special ‘arrangement’ between the two of them, he would provide her with food and lodging for our family.”

  There. He’d said it, and he felt fresh fury and humiliation for his mother’s sake. At the time he’d been too young to fully understand the insult. To say that it made him livid now was a gross understatement.

  Comprehension dawned on her face, and she briefly closed her eyes before nodding once. She smoothed a hand across her bodice and lightly blew out a puff of air.

  “Do you think you can manage the distress of meeting a member of Society while wearing the wrong dress?” He couldn’t help the insult—the lady was without an inkling as to how the rest of the world lived. She and the man in the drawing room were living examples of the Society he loathed, and in which he now found himself embroiled. If he was going to suffer, then so was she.

  She shot him a look of reproach, and he caught a smoldering behind her eyes th
at gave him a grim sense of satisfaction. Perfect. The lady had a temper of her own—that she would now be forced to entertain against her will was only fair. To his amazement, she took a breath and, with a long blink, smoothed her features into a pleasant mask of societal perfection.

  “I outrank both your cousin and his wife, so you will introduce me first. As I am a daughter, I am to be presented as ‘Lady Ivy Carlisle,’ not merely ‘Lady Carlisle.’ We needn’t remain long; if it’s any consolation, I would assume they don’t wish it either.” She paused and looked at him for a moment. “Despite what you might believe of me, or the way I live my life, I am very sorry to hear that your mother was treated so disgustingly. It is inexcusable.”

  The lady gave a nod to Watkins, who moved around them to the door, which he opened and then announced the Earl of Stansworth and Lady Ivy Carlisle to the couple waiting within.

  Chapter 10

  Friendships are often to be found in unexpected places

  and should be cherished and nurtured.

  Mistress Manners’ Tips for Every-day Etiquette

  Ivy had seen Percival Elliot and his wife, Clista, on very few occasions and was glad they had not been more frequent. To say that the pair were condescending would have been grossly understating the matter. He was aging well—his muscle had yet to run to fat, and he likely still spent time rowing and playing cricket—and she was a pretty if somewhat cold-looking woman whose tasteful cosmetics were fine from a distance, but rather obvious up close.

  Perhaps it was because Jack had told Ivy about his cousin’s reprehensible behavior, but as they all sat together in the drawing room, she was hard-pressed to concentrate on what the man was saying. Mary Elliot was all things lovely and kind. How on earth could Percival have attempted to exploit and degrade her when she had gone to him destitute and begging for help?

  Ivy cast a sidelong glance at Jack, who sat ramrod straight in a chair that looked ridiculously small underneath him. Ivy sat next to him, and the relatives were together on a settee just opposite them on the other side of a small table. It was a stilted and awkward tableau; undercurrents of discomfort floated so completely around the room she began to think they were palpable.

  After the initial introductions and a few protracted moments of uncomfortable silence, Ivy relied on several years’ worth of experience at meaningless conversation to break the proverbial ice. “I understand you attended Lord Wilston’s charity ball last month?” she said to Clista, who was visibly irritated.

  Clista turned her focus from her study of the new earl’s face and gave Ivy the benefit of her full attention. “Indeed.” She managed a smile. “One can never be too charitable.”

  “So what do you want?” Jack said, and Ivy restrained the impulse to backhand his shoulder.

  Percival and Clista blinked at him in stunned silence before Clista narrowed her eyes slightly and curved up the corner of her mouth in a simulation of what one might call a smile.

  Wonderful. You’ve just made my task a hundred times harder, my lord. Clista had found a chink in Jack’s armor—his defensiveness and lack of polish, not to mention his rough accent—and would exploit it to the hilt.

  Percival cleared his throat and managed a laugh. “Direct, aren’t you, my boy? Well now, we merely thought to see that you’re settling into the new house comfortably. Welcome you to the fold, if you will.”

  Jack watched the man silently for so long that Ivy figured he meant to dismiss the comment altogether. He finally managed a tight smile of his own. “I am very comfortable, thank you.”

  Percival nodded. “And you have had opportunity to meet your peers in the House of Lords? Many of them are regulars at White’s, of course, even when parliament isn’t in session.”

  “I’ve not had the pleasure of social entertainments,” Jack said evenly. “I am in mourning; it’s to be expected that I would be preparing for my grandfather’s funeral tomorrow.”

  Ivy bit back a smile at Percival’s quick nod and subtly tightened expression. The fact that the old earl had been Jack’s grandfather and only Percival’s uncle was a trump card heavily in Jack’s favor. If Jack could continue to deliver veiled barbs rather than oafish outbursts, there might be hope for him yet.

  “And what is your connection to the earl, Lady Ivy?” Clista asked. “Do you spend much of your time here in his home?”

  “Our grandmothers were the dearest of friends, and the dowager countess and I visit here together and also have called on his Lordship’s mother and sister during this time of loss.”

  “Oh, Lady Carlisle is here now? I should love to see her.” Clista had a glint in her eye that Ivy didn’t particularly appreciate.

  “Regrettably, she tires so easily these days that she is currently resting in one of his Lordship’s upstairs rooms.”

  “Yes, regrettably.”

  Jack shifted in his chair, and Ivy thought she might have heard a growl.

  “Had his Lordship received advance notice of your visit, he would have been more fully prepared to entertain you,” Ivy said, creasing her brow, “but the staff is consumed with preparing for the late earl’s funeral, you understand.”

  “We do understand indeed.” Clista gave a nod and a sympathetic frown of her own. “We are family, after all.”

  “Of course.” Ivy resisted balling her hands into fists, but only just. She kept them demurely in her lap, one resting gently atop the other.

  Clista turned her attention to Jack. “Cousin, should you have need of anything at all, please know we are at your complete disposal.” She placed her hand on her chest. “This is such a trying time for all of us.”

  “I imagine it is,” Jack said.

  “And your dear mother and sister—please do have them call on me soon.”

  “Not likely.”

  “They are also avoiding Society as yet,” Ivy said. “It would hardly be appropriate, of course, to be making social calls so soon after the death of Mrs. Elliot’s father-in-law.”

  Percival cleared his throat and shifted forward on the seat. “Well then, John, when the funeral has concluded and you are ready to go about town, I would be happy to show you the lie of the land, so to speak,” he said with a wink.

  Jack stood. “I will contact you, should I have need.”

  Ivy also stood, as did Jack’s cousins. Considering the way he had treated Mary, Percival was fortunate that Jack hadn’t planted his fist right in the man’s face upon entering the room. As it was, Ivy felt absurdly proud of the new earl’s restraint. With bows and curtseys all around, the Elliots took their leave.

  “All things considered, well done, my lord.” Ivy grimaced at the door. “But if Percival Elliot outlives you, he is next in line again to inherit, yes?”

  “Unfortunately,” Jack grumbled. “And after him, my mother says it’s his son, ‘little Percy.’ Unless I produce an heir.”

  “Might I suggest you remain watchful?”

  Jack raised a brow. “You think he would orchestrate my demise?”

  “I do not know that, precisely, but I wouldn’t put anything past her. I do believe she wants this house and all that goes with it.”

  Jack stood in the small, enclosed garden at the back of the house and stared into the distance at nothing in particular. His gut still churned uncomfortably in the aftermath of the visit with his father’s cousin and the man’s equally odious wife. He felt trapped and angry, and neither was a circumstance for which he had ever had any tolerance.

  Lady Ivy, to her credit, had saved the visit with his relatives, neatly dodging Clista’s barbs and managing to keep the whole affair, if not actually comfortable, at least bearable. He sincerely hoped he would have to endure such unpleasantness only on the rarest of occasions in the future, and he would move heaven and earth, if necessary, to keep his mother out of Percival’s clutches. Several years had passed, it was true, but Mary Elliot was still a beautiful woman, and unless Jack had suddenly become inept at reading people, Percival was still a lech
er. He had leered at Lady Ivy one too many times for Jack’s liking.

  He heard the door open behind him and sensed Ivy’s presence without even sparing her a glance as she joined him in the garden. “I thought you were leaving,” he said, his eye still fixed on the sky beyond the wall.

  “I was. I returned.”

  He finally glanced at her. “Did you forget something?”

  “I want you to know that I . . . that I . . .” She chewed on her lip for a moment, her arms holding her papers across her chest. “I should hate for you to think for even a moment that I condone Percival Elliot’s behavior toward your mother.”

  “You said as much earlier. I heard it.”

  “Did you?” Her gaze was frank, unblinking. She flushed a bit but forged ahead. “I believe you have an opinion of me that is fixed quite firmly. I do not find all members of fine Society to be above reproach, or even likable. My entire effort—” she waved a hand in the air, “with this endeavor is to see your family well placed. That they must seek to be accepted by people of your cousin’s ilk—well, it is insulting, to say the least.”

  He found himself a bit confused. Perhaps there was more depth to the woman than he’d previously thought. She had nothing to gain by sharing such things with him—she had only to do her appointed task and be finished with it. Why did she care for his good opinion?

  “Thank you,” he said, hearing the stiffness in his tone. He felt as though he should say something else, but he was at a loss.

  She finally nodded and turned to leave.

  “Just a moment.” He reached out and caught her arm. “Thank you for your support today. I . . . I appreciate your good thoughts about my mother and Sophia.”