The Scotsman and the Spinster

by Joan Overfield

  "I am a soldier, Miss Terrington. No one understands better what duty and honor mean. Do not presume to lecture me about such things again."

  Instead of demurring, she had the audacity to bristle with indignation. "I beg your pardon. It wasn't my intention to offend."

  Ross leaned forward, wrapping his fingers about her arm before she had the chance to pull away. " 'Tis little matter what you intended," he retorted, his narrowed gaze capturing hers, "for offend me you have. I am more than aware of all that rests on my actions, and you've no' the right to question my determination to do it. Is that clear, Miss Terrington, or must I write it down for you?"

  Her mouth opened as if to disagree, and then she clearly thought better of it. "That won't be necessary, Lord St. Jerome," she responded in accents as stiff as her posture. "I understand perfectly."

  He held her arm a second longer, and then released her. "Then mind you remember it," he said, abruptly weary. He lay back on the pillows, closing his eyes and tumbling headlong into the blackness of sleep.

  The next three days passed in a haze of fever and exhaustion. Ross spent most of the time sleeping, but when he awoke it was usually to find the redoubtable Miss Terrington at his bedside. There were often lessons of some sort, and at her insistence he gave her leave to engage the services of a valet for him. The valet, a rather diffident young man named Joseph, saw to his more personal needs, something Ross found singularly embarrassing. He had been on his own too long to tolerate such cosseting, and he resented being tended like a helpless babe.

  Four days after arriving in London, Ross left his room for the first time. He was still shakier than he cared admitting, but he was done with convalescing. As Miss Terrington had pointed out, time was a commodity of which they had precious little, and he wasn't about to waste another second of it lying about like a pasha in a harem.

  Thanks to his uncle's solicitors his trunks had arrived shortly after he had, but Joseph pronounced most of the contents "unacceptable for a gentleman." In the end Ross donned his best uniform before going downstairs in search of his hostess. It wasn't difficult finding her. He simply followed the sound of raised voices to a parlor located in the front of the house.

  "A scandal, that's what it is, a scandal!" he heard a shrill female voice exclaim. "Allowing a gentleman to remain under your roof when you are unmarried! Whatever shall people say?"

  "Considering Arthur and Aunt Matilda were both here to act as chaperons, very little, I should think," came Miss Terrington's sharp response. "And for your information, Beatrice, the poor man was half dead from the fever! Even had he wanted to ravish me, he wouldn't have possessed the strength to do it."

  Ross raised his eyebrows at that. Evidently the impression he'd made on the little bencheard was poorer than he'd thought, else she wouldn't be harboring any doubts about his masculine abilities. Having learned the value of timing from Wellington, Ross judged this the perfect moment in which to make his appearance. Straightening the collar of his uniform, he pushed open the door and strode boldly into the room.

  The three people in the room turned to look at him, and the look of embarrassed horror stamped on their faces had him fighting back a satisfied grin. It came as no surprise that Miss Terrington was the first to recover her sang-froid, her manner smoothly polished as she rose to greet him.

  "Lord St. Jerome," she said, offering him a cool smile along with her slender hand. "I didn't know you had left your room. You are quite recovered, I trust?" She was dressed in a delicate gown of soft green silk with a ribbon of darker green velvet laced beneath her breasts, and her resemblance to a woodland fairy was even more pronounced.

  "Quite recovered, Miss Terrington," he drawled, his eyes meeting hers as he carried her hand to his lips. "In all respects." He added this last with a wolfish smile of delight.

  A delicate blush was the only sign that she comprehended his meaning, and he had to give the minx her due as she turned to introduce him to the room's other occupants.

  "My lord, I should like to make you known to my brother, Mr. Reginald Terrington, and his wife, Beatrice. Beatrice, Reggie, allow me to present His Lordship, Viscount St. Jerome."

  "My lord." Reginald Terrington rose belatedly to his feet, dragging his plump wife up with him. " 'Tis an honor to meet you."

  "Mrs. Terrington, Mr. Terrington." Ross inclined his head in deliberate condescension. Having been on the receiving end of such patronizing behavior too many years to count, he rather enjoyed acting the haughty aristocrat.

  "Lord St. Jerome, how delightful to meet you," Mrs. Terrington purred, pushing herself past Miss Terrington to bat her lashes at him. "You must allow me to invite you to reside in our home during your convalescence. We live on Upper Brook Street, and I am certain you will find the surroundings far more agreeable to a gentleman of your rank."

  Her fawning manner set Ross's teeth on edge. She was eager enough to ingratiate herself with Lord St. Jerome, but he doubted she'd be so obliging to Sergeant MacCailan. Mayhap 'twas time she learned the two were one and the same.

  "My rank, Mrs. Terrington, 'tis that of sergeant," he told her, making no effort to disguise his displeasure. "And I promise you this place is as a palace to me. I am content to remain where I am; for the moment, at least."

  "But my lord, I fear it will not suit," Mr. Terrington stammered, his pale hands fluttering in protest. "I realize you are new to the peerage, but you must know you risk my sister's reputation by remaining beneath her roof when the two you are not related. Such things are simply not done in our world. London ain't Scotland, don't you see."

  The insult implied in his words had Ross's eyes narrowing in fury. Even when he'd been the rawest of recruits his pride had never wavered, and he was cursed if he would allow such a slur on his character and his people pass unchallenged.

  "You needn't worry over your sister's reputation, Mr. Terrington," he said coldly. "I've a home of my own on Berkeley Street, and will be repairing there this very afternoon."

  He didn't bother mentioning the home was already occupied by his cousin, William Atherton, who, according to his solicitors, seemed in no hurry to leave. Not only did Ross consider the matter none of the Terringtons' affair, he also didn't care if his cousin left the place willingly or nay. Having helped oust the French from Ciudad Rodrigo, he was fairly certain he could dislodge a parasitic dandy without much effort.

  "Ah." Mr. Terrington greeted Ross's blunt statement with a strained smile. "That is very good, my lord, very good indeed," he said, tugging nervously at his starched cravat.

  They spent the next hour making desultory conversation before the couple took their leave, quitting the room with what could only be termed unflattering haste. Miss Terrington watched them go, her eyes bright with laughter as she turned to Ross.

  "That was neatly done, Lord St. Jerome," she said approvingly, her lips curving in a fetching smile. "It is good to know your air of consequence won't require any work to bring you up to snuff."

  Ross cast her a suspicious look, certain she was having a great laugh at his expense. "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning, sir, that you are already puffed up and imperious as a prince, and you shan't require but a bit of polishing before taking your rightful place in Society."

  Ross digested the observation in silence. "Is that compliment or complaint?" he demanded at last.

  "Both," his tormentor replied, then chuckled at his outraged expression. "And you needn't cast daggers at me, my lord, for it is all to the better. We want you to be an insufferable prig. How else are you to overwhelm your enemy except by superior force? To win, you see, you must be three times as haughty as the highest-born member of the House of Lords. It is the only way you can hope to gain their respect."

  To his annoyance, Ross could see the sense of her words. He'd spent half his lifetime observing the ways of the English, and he knew when it came to matters of society and position, the ton were without mercy. Did he show the slightest hint of weakness, they would be
upon him like a pack of jackals.

  "What must I do?" The question was asked without his usual surliness, as he grudgingly accepted he would need her help.

  Dimples flashed in her cheeks as her smile deepened. "Why, something I am sure will fill your Scottish heart with delight, Sergeant. You must act as if you don't give that"—she snapped her delicate fingers—"about what they think of you. Believe me, the less you appear to value them, the more they shall value you."

  "Now," she continued, before he could gather his wits, "it is time we began working on your bows. A courtly bow you do well enough, but I fear your sardonic bow could do with a spot of polishing. You have been confronted by a gentleman whose cravat is tied in the most appalling fashion, and he dares to force an introduction upon you. Show me how you would bow to give him a subtle but effective cut direct . . ."

  Two

  Adalaide spent the next hour putting her newest pupil through his paces. As she'd already noted, he was most intelligent, and he took well to instruction. Still, there was something untamed and dangerous about him that had her questioning if he would ever truly fit into the rigid world of the ton.

  "No, my lord, when you are making your bows to a lady, you must give every appearance of delight," she scolded, sending him a stern look. "Remember, you're being introduced to a charming and lovely young lady, not being presented to your executioner. Smile, Lord St. Jerome. Smile."

  His dark gold brows met in a scowl. "I'm a man, Miss Terrington, not some puppet with a doltish smile painted upon my face. I smile when I wish it, and when I mean it."

  "Then you must learn to mean it more often," Addy returned, refusing to be intimidated by his surly manner. She thought of reminding him of his duty to Wellington, but upon reflection decided against it. She might have need of such a ploy in the future, and if she used it now, it was certain to lose its effectiveness. Still, there had to be some way of bending him to her will.

  "Pretend every lady you meet is the lady of your heart," she said, brightening as inspiration struck. "She is your true love, your very dream of femininity, the ideal by which you measure every other female and find her wanting. Show me how you would greet such a lady."

  He said nothing at first, and she feared he was about to turn recalcitrant. Then his lips curved in a slow smile, and the deep green of his eyes took on a decidedly wicked sparkle. Before she could protest he was capturing her hand in his, his gaze holding hers in unspoken command as he raised it to his lips.

  "Mo cridhe." He all but purred the words in a husky voice made all the more tantalizing by the deep burr of his native tongue. "I am enchanted to have found you at last." His mouth brushed over the back of her hand, the intimate touch bringing a hectic blush to her cheeks.

  She cast her aunt a frantic glance, and was relieved to see the older lady had nodded off over her knitting. "Better, my lord, much better," she said, hastily withdrawing her hand and striving for nonchalance. "But kindly remember you may not kiss a lady's hand unless she has given you express permission to do so. We would not wish for you to be thought of as fast."

  A slashing dimple made a surprising appearance in his lean cheek. "Ah, but if she was truly the lady of my heart, would not such permission be assumed?"

  Addy would not let him see he had rattled her. "A gentleman"—she stressed the word firmly—"would never assume anything; especially where a lady is concerned, Still, you have done well enough for a first time. We shall work on it again tomorrow, after we have seen the tailor."

  He stiffened warily. "What do you mean by that?"

  "Your uniform, sir," she said, indicating his jacket with a wave of her hand. "That will do for informal afternoons or private visits, but you will be wanting a more extensive wardrobe if you wish to be accepted in the very best drawing rooms."

  "I ken that," he said, thrusting his jaw forward in a pugnacious gesture that was becoming all too familiar, "but I do not see why it need concern you. 'Twas my understanding I should have the choosing of my own clothing, if nothing else."

  Adalaide paused, realizing she needed to proceed with the greatest delicacy, else she would set the viscount's back up even more than she already had. Men were such delicate creatures, and nowhere were they more vulnerable than in their accursed pride.

  "Of course you may have the choosing of your wardrobe, my lord," she said soothingly, offering him her most cajoling smile. "I merely thought that as you have been out of the country for a number of years, you would welcome the counsel of someone who is more au courant with fashion. I have assisted other gentlemen in this area, and I am generally held to have impeccable taste. You needn't fear I shall rig you out in something that wasn't in the first stare of respectability, I assure you."

  He studied her briefly, and then gave a slow nod. "As you wish it," he said with the condescension worthy of a pasha. "And so long as you don't expect me to caper about like a fop, I've no objections. Wait," he added, frowning as if a sudden thought had just occurred to him. "No French fabrics."

  Addy blinked in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

  "No French fabrics," he repeated. "I've lost too many men to their bullets to be putting gold in their pockets now. I'll wear good English cloth, or I'll wearing nothing at all."

  The blunt pronouncement brought another stain of color to Addy's face. Later there would be time to chide him for making such indelicate remarks; at the moment, she had more pressing matters to address.

  "Your patriotism does you credit, my lord," she began, "but you must understand everyone wears at least some French fabrics. Naturally we shall do our best to avoid it if it offends, but—"

  He folded his arms across his chest, his expression resolute. "No French fabrics."

  Having dealt with difficult and irrational males for the better part of her life, Addy knew when to press and when to retreat. "Very well, Lord St. Jerome," she said, shuddering to think how Monsieur Henri would react when she told him. "No French fabrics."

  The rest of the lesson passed without incident, and then Addy gently awakened her aunt. She was about to ring for tea when Lord Hixworth appeared for his daily instruction. Her first inclination was to send him on his way, but upon reflection, she asked him to join them. It would do the diffident earl a world of good to be introduced to a man of St. Jerome's strong character, and he in turn could benefit from meeting the affable young gentleman.

  While they were waiting for the tea to be served, she gave the two men the opportunity to become better acquainted. Upon learning he was newly returned from the Peninsula, Lord Hixworth gave St. Jerome an incredulous look.

  "You served with Wellington?" he asked, sighing enviously. "But that is marvelous! What an honor it must have been!"

  St. Jerome brushed back his dark blond hair, a cold, distant expression stealing over his countenance. "An honor, aye, that much I will grant," he said, his lips twisting in a bitter smile. "But you're wrong to think there is anything marvelous about a battle. There's nothing but death and horror to be found."

  The younger man's smile wobbled at the harsh observation. "Have—have I given offense, my lord?" he asked, sounding perilously close to tears.

  Addy was about to step forward to save the earl from further disgracing himself, but Lord St. Jerome merely shook his head.

  "No, lad, you did not," he said with surprising gentleness. "And my apologies to you for snapping off your nose. Miss Terrington is a harsh taskmaster, and all of this drilling has left me feeling as if I've spent the day on the parade field." He cast her a teasing look and added, "If ever you tire of instructing gentlemen in the social graces, Miss Terrington, you might wish to write Wellington. The Army could make use of you."

  Lady Fareham gave a delicate shudder. "I pray you do not say such things, my lord, for it will only encourage her. She is already too managing by half, and I despair of her ever making an eligible match. Or even an ineligible one," she added, giving a low titter of laughter.

  Addy ignored her aunt, irritated
by what she regarded as unwarranted criticism. "I do not consider it managing to be of service to others," she responded with a regal sniff. "I have been blessed with abundant intelligence and the wit to make use of it. What sense would it make for me to sit idly by and watch while those lacking these things bumble their way through life? It is my duty to be of what help to them I can."

  "And 'tis a duty you perform with the greatest enthusiasm, I've noted," Lord St. Jerome said, astonishing her with his support. "My compliments to you. 'Twould seem the general has placed me in the most capable of hands."

  Addy thanked him with coolness, although inside she was preening with delight. Over the years she'd received similar compliments from other pupils, and while she was always gratified to have her efforts acknowledged, she couldn't remember being more pleased by a student's praise. Perhaps it was because this particular student was so unlike any of the other gentlemen she'd had cause to meet, she decided, sliding him a measuring glance through her lashes.

  While the others chatted, Addy studied her newest pupil. She was amazed to discover Lord St. Jerome could be quite charming when he put his mind to it. To be sure, his wasn't the cold, polished charm of a seasoned gentleman about town, but if the way Aunt Matilda was blushing and simpering was any indication, it was every bit as effective. Even Lord Hixworth benefited from the attention being shown him, blossoming as the viscount sought his advice on the matter of purchasing a horse.

  "Of course Tatts is where you'll want to go for a proper mount," the earl said, his voice surprisingly firm as he sipped his tea. "Be happy to go with you, if you'd like. The traders are an honest enough lot, but they'll pluck you clean if they think you a Johnny Raw."

  A hard smile touched the edges of the viscount's lips. "No one has taken me for a Johnny Raw in a great many years," he replied obliquely. "But your company should be most welcome, my lord. Thank you."