"That went rather well," Addy said, smiling at Lord Falconer as she and her aunt escorted the three gentlemen from the room. "His grace is a notorious high stickler, and the fact he is willing to sponsor Lord St. Jerome is certain to count in his favor, don't you agree?"
"If you say so, Miss Terrington."
The cool reply had Addy frowning. The aloof marquess had never been loquacious, but she'd never known him to be quite so taciturn. Puzzled, she shot him a quick glance, and was surprised to find him watching her with icy disapproval.
"Is something amiss, my lord?" she asked, casting about in her mind for whatever she might have done to give offense.
His golden gaze, sharp and deadly as the bird of prey for which he was named, met hers with a jolt of power. "Should there be?" he queried softly.
Addy scowled in annoyance. "I do not believe so," she shot back, losing all patience, "but 'tis plain you do! Cut line, sir, and tell me precisely what you mean."
There was a pause as he continued studying her. "I am sure you mean well," he said at last. "And I am equally sure Lord St. Jerome is grateful for your pains, but you go too far when you reprimand him in front of others. Mind you don't do so again."
"What are you talking about?" Addy demanded with genuine outrage. "I am certain I did no such thing!"
"Did you not?" he challenged. "Somehow I doubt his lordship would agree."
Addy shifted under an unexpected stab of conscience. She supposed some unenlightened souls might consider her behavior toward St. Jerome as a trifle high-handed, but in her defense, she didn't treat his lordship any differently than she treated her other students. She was the teacher, after all, and they the pupils; a certain amount of despotism was expected, necessary even, if she was to accomplish her tasks. And yet. . .
"I suppose I might have waited until we were alone to speak with him," she said, conceding her guilt with sulky reluctance. "My apologies, sir, if I have given offense."
Falconer raised a jet-black eyebrow. "I am not the one to whom your apology is owed," he responded. "But if you wish St. Jerome to accept your pretty words, might I suggest you offer them with a great deal more honesty than you offered them to me? Good day, Miss Terrington." He followed the others out the door.
"Such a handsome young man," Aunt Matilda enthused, sighing after his departing figure. "A pity he is so cold."
Addy merely grumbled in response. She would like to pretend the marquess was wrongheaded, but her innate honesty would not let her lie. However comfortable it might be to think otherwise, she knew she owed her pupil an apology. The question remained. How to go about it and still maintain the upper hand? She thought for a moment, and then turned to her aunt.
"Aunt, would you wait in the hall for a few minutes?" she asked, laying a restraining hand on the older woman's arm. "I should like to speak privately with his lordship, if you please."
"Apologize to him, you mean," Lady Fareham corrected, looking pleased. "Good. I should have rung a peal over your head had you not. You shamed us all with your shocking want of conduct, and I expect you to beg his lordship's forgiveness. I shall give you ten minutes, no more. Mind you make proper use of them."
Addy bit back a most unladylike sentiment before turning resolutely toward the door. She took a moment to compose herself, straightened her spectacles, and then stepped back into the parlor. Lord St. Jerome was standing in front of the fireplace, and he glanced over his shoulder at her arrival.
"Miss Terrington," he began, his tones as rigid as his posture. "There is something I should like to say to you. Be so good as to close the door."
Addy complied with a touch more force than was necessary. Years of dealing with males had taught her that the best way of handling confrontations was head-on. Men expected women to demur and prevaricate, and it always took them aback to be straightforward and use logical discourse.
"If you mean to ring a peal over my head, sir, I should advise you to save your breath," she said with a deliberate air of injured pride. "Lord Falconer and Aunt have already done so."
He jerked back his head, and she felt a sense of triumph as the anger in his eyes gave way to wary surprise. "Have they?" he asked, his husky voice filled with suspicion.
"And very effectively too," she said, settling her skirts about her as she resumed her seat. "Aunt was especially eloquent in her disapproval, and I assure you I am most thoroughly cowed."
He regarded her closely. "You do not appeared cowed to me," he observed. "Sullen, mayhap, and bad-tempered, but I shouldn't call you cowed."
"Then you would be mistaken, my lord," she returned, meeting his gaze with what equanimity she could gather. "I have been made to see the error of my ways, and I apologize if my incautious remarks offended you. Such was never my intention."
He settled in the chair facing hers, an expression she could not decipher on his handsome countenance. "Let me see if I have the right of this," he began in careful tones. "You treat me like a brat still in leading strings, insult my intelligence, and then tell me you mean no offense. Is that correct?"
"Yes," she said, sensing a trap but not certain how to avoid it. "And now that I think on it, I fail to see why you are so upset. I should have that as a soldier, you would be more accustomed to taking orders."
"And so I am, but as you're always reminding me, I'm not a soldier now. I am the viscount, and a viscount, I'm thinking, would not take so well to such summary commands."
Addy considered that for a moment, and realized she had been condemned by her own words. "Perhaps not," she said, grudgingly acknowledging his point. "But—"
"Miss Terrington." He leaned forward, a look of hard determination stamped on his face. "For me to succeed in the role General Wellington has assigned me, 'tis imperative I have the respect of the men I shall be meeting. And how can I have that when you've made it plain you don't respect me?"
She couldn't have been more stunned had he reached out and slapped her. "I do respect you, Lord St. Jerome! How can you say I do not?"
In answer he began listing every comment and correction she'd made during the brief meeting. By the time he finished, she was gaping at him in astonishment.
"But I do that to all my pupils!" she exclaimed, amazed a battle-hardened solider should prove to be so sensitive. "If I don't correct them privately, then they are certain to blunder publicly. And believe me, Society is a far harsher critic than I could ever hope to be!"
"Of that I have no doubt," he agreed, "but my point is you didn't reprimand me in private. You did so in front of the three men whose support is vital to this mission, and in doing that, you may well have jeopardized everything."
"What nonsense! You—"
"Listen to me," he interrupted, closing his hand about her wrist. "'Tis not my own pride I'm thinking of. For myself, I don't give a tinker's curse what you or any man may think of me. But for Wellington, for the men in Spain fighting and dying, I cannot be so indifferent. If society laughs at me, if they take me for the untutored dunce you treat me, then I should have failed in my mission, and I would die rather than do that. Do you understand now what you have risked with your shrew's tongue?"
To Addy's horror, she could feel a painful lump forming in her throat. "I'm sorry, my lord," she whispered, and this time she meant every word. "I am so very sorry."
"I am sure that you are," St. Jerome continued, relentless as a judge, "but it makes no difference. Had those men not been so firmly in Wellington's corner, only think of the mischief they might have made. I should have been the laughingstock of London, and all of this would have been for naught."
"Then what are you suggesting?" Addy asked, trying to follow his convoluted logic. "Are you saying I should just turn you loose upon Society as you are?"
"I am saying no such thing," he returned, releasing her arm and leaning back in his chair. "I agree I am still in want of instructing, and when we are private, you may treat me however ill you please. Curse me, strike me, break a pot over my head if tha
t is what it takes to drive a lesson home, and I'll not say a word. But when others are about, you will treat me with the same respect and courtesy you would show any other lord."
"No, wait." He paused, surprising her with a smile. "Allow me to amend that. I've seen the way you treat poor Hixworth. What I meant is you'll treat me as a lord who hasn't the misfortune of being under your thumb; with all the respect and courtesy you'd show Wellington himself. Are we agreed?"
It made sense, and Addy rather liked the part about breaking a pot over his head. It sounded promising. If she took his meaning, she was free to terrorize him however much she pleased in the confines of their classroom. Outside it she had but to bridle her tongue, and upon reflection that didn't sound so very difficult. She was even courteous to that dolt Cousin Teddy when put to the sticking point. How much easier would it be to show a man she actually esteemed the required deference?
"As you wish, my lord," she said, straightening her shoulders and meeting his gaze with a lift of her chin. "Now, if you are done making me grovel, I will ring for my aunt. Unless you've some objection?" She lifted an eyebrow in arrogant inquiry.
His lordship's lips twitched, but his voice was impassive as ever. "No, Miss Terrington, I've no objections."
Addy knew a faint sensation of relief, which she quickly brushed aside. "Very well, then, we shall begin anew. If you are to make your bows in a little over twenty-four hours, we've much to accomplish. I note you are quite good at rational conversation, but as rational conversation in Society constitutes a contradiction in terms, we must see that you develop a proper well of small chat. Tell me, my lord, how do you find the weather in London this time of year?"
It was Lady Fareham who thought of dancing.
"You do dance, my lord, don't you?" she demanded, eying Ross through her lorgnette. "It is a requirement of all gentlemen that they conduct themselves gracefully upon the dance floor."
"No, my lady, I do not dance," Ross replied, his head aching from all the knowledge being stuffed into it. His face was also stiff from the fatuous smile he'd been holding for what seemed like forever, and his nerves were stretched to the fraying point. He felt like a choice worm being pecked to death by a pair of voracious hens, and had he been less a soldier, he'd have fled the field hours ago.
"But this is dreadful!" Miss Terrington said, frowning at him in patent disapproval. "All young blades dance. How can it be you've never learned?"
"Perhaps because I'm no' a young blade," Ross reminded her, rubbing his head. "And as for never learning, you forget I've been in Spain for the past four years. With whom should I have danced? The other soldiers?"
His sarcasm was wasted on his instructress. "No, I suppose that would not have done," she agreed, looking thoughtful. "However would you have decided which of you would lead? Ah well", she paid no mind to his sputtering, "we shall simply have to take care of the matter ourselves. Aunt" . . . she turned an expectant gaze upon Lady Fareham . . . "if you would be so kind?"
At first Ross thought the older lady meant to partner him, and was surprised when she went to the pianoforte sitting in the corner and settled in front of the keys.
"Now then." Miss Terrington was smiling up at him. "As this is to be a dinner ball, there will only be a handful of sets before and after dinner. Most of the steps are fairly similar, and once you've mastered them you should have no trouble learning the others. We shall begin with a contradance."
The remaining part of the afternoon was spent learning a bewildering set of steps that left Ross feeling as awkward as a plow horse in a parlor. Fortunately he'd been ever fond of music, and he found that by concentrating on the lilting notes and matching Miss Terrington's graceful moves, he was able to give a good accounting of himself. When he completed an entire set without a misstep, Miss Terrington pronounced herself satisfied with his efforts.
"Of course we must see that you learn the other fashionable dances as the Season goes on," she said, her soft cheeks flushed from exertion. "But this is a very good start; a very good start indeed. Do you not agree, Aunt?"
"The lad did very well," Lady Fareham replied, nodding approvingly at Ross. "He's near as graceful as Hixworth, and not half so clumsy as that fool Benchton. He broke your poor foot, as I recall it."
"Only a toe," Miss Terrington said with a casual shrug, "and he was so apologetic, I really could not hold it against him."
"You have taught other men to dance?" Ross demanded. He didn't know why it should be so, but the notion of her teaching another man what she had just spent hours teaching him was faintly shocking.
"Of course," she replied, giving him a patient look. "Dancing is as much a part of my curriculum as learning to bow and the correct way to handle a team. Which reminds me; when you go to Tattersall's with Lord Hixworth, mind you purchase yourself a curricle and some cattle as well as a mount. I mean to have Lord Falconer recommend you for the Four-in-Hand Club."
"What the devil is that?"
"A club for foolish young men with more gold than good sense," Lady Fareham answered with a sniff. "They like to racket about London frightening women and overturning other carriages with their poor driving, and then call it sport. But if you want to be taken as un homme du monde, it is necessary that you be accepted as one of them."
Ross rather fancied being taken as a man of the world, but he wasn't as certain he wanted to join such a club. The members sounded too much like the bored and careless young officers he'd encountered on the Peninsula, who saw racing as just another way to get themselves killed between battles. He'd seen one such young man run down a Portuguese child, and only stop to make certain his horse hadn't suffered an injury. No, he didn't want to be taken for such a man.
"Lord Falconer belongs to this club?" he asked, surprised the other man should participate in something so frivolous.
"Oh, yes, the marquess is a noted whipster," Miss Terrington said, crossing the room to ring for tea. "He also boxes at Gentleman Jackson's Salon and shoots at Manton's Gallery, where he's counted such a deadly shot none will challenge him. Indeed, if he weren't so neat in his appearance and so somber in his demeanor, I daresay he'd be labeled a Corinthian."
A Corinthian. Ross mentally reviewed the dictionary Miss Terrington had prepared for him, giving the words Society used, and listing their precise meaning. A Corinthian was a sports-mad young man who fancied going about looking and behaving like a drunken coachman; a ridiculous occupation, or so Ross thought. Then a more horrifying thought occurred to him.
"I'll not have to be a Corinthian, will I?" he demanded, appalled at the very possibility.
"Of course not." Miss Terrington looked equally horrified.
Ross relaxed with a relieved sigh. "Thank heaven for that."
"You're far too old to be a Corinthian, although we might want to pass you off as a rake. Rakes do so much better in Society, do you not think so, Aunt?"
"So long as they don't go about seducing the wrong young ladies," Lady Fareham concurred. "But are you quite sure you want him to be taken for a rake, Adalaide? I thought you wished him to be viewed as a serious young lord anxious to do his duty."
The two women continued discussing the coming Season and the role he would be expected to play; never once bothering to seek his opinion. Ross listened in stony silence, bitterly accepting how little choice he had in their decision. The admission was hurtful, and for a moment he was thrown back into the past and facing his uncle's solicitor across his father's coffin.
"Of course you will come to London, Mr. MacCailan," the older man had told him, studying him over a pair of spectacles. "You are your uncle's heir, and your proper place is at his side. We shall depart after the services."
In crude English and even cruder Gaelic Ross had told him what he thought of such a plan. Not even the promise of the commission he had longed for was enough to change his mind, and when the solicitor had been so incautious as to make vague threats, Ross had thrown him out of the kirk. He'd been twenty then, and full of
pride and determination. Fourteen hard and bloody years later, he now found himself right where his uncle had wanted him. It looked as if the old aintighearna had had the final laugh after all.
Impatient with his unhappy memories, Ross rose abruptly to his feet, almost upsetting the tea cart in his haste.
"I beg your pardon, Lady Fareham, Miss Terrington," he said, voice raw with the emotion tearing through him. "But I must go. I shall return on the morrow." He began striding purposefully toward the door.
"But what is wrong, my lord?" Miss Terrington demanded, gazing at him in a mixture of alarm and annoyance. "Are you ill? Shall I send for the doctor?"
Ross shook his head. "No, that is not necessary. I just recalled a previous engagement, and I must be away else I shall be shockingly late. Good day." And he fled the room before his instructress could stop him.
"Well, and what was that all about, do you think?" Aunt Matilda asked, gazing at Addy in confusion. "The poor lad dashed out of here as if his breeches were afire."
"I am sure I do not know," Addy said, wondering if she should give chase. She knew his lordship denied being ill, but she was too well acquainted with men to give his denial any credence. Most men she knew would sooner die than admit to an infirmity, and as she'd already learned to her cost, Lord St. Jerome had twice the pride of any man she'd ever met. Perhaps she would have the doctor call upon him regardless, she decided, nibbling worriedly on her lip. It wouldn't do for the viscount to suffer a relapse at some inopportune moment.
She and her aunt settled back to finish their tea, and she was considering retiring to her rooms for the afternoon when there was a tap on the door and Williams entered the room.
"I beg pardon, my lady, Miss Terrington," he said stiffly. "But there is a gentleman outside who insists upon seeing you. He gave me his card and asked that I present it to you." He offered the silver tray and the card upon it with an expression of rigid censure on his imperious features.
Intrigued, Addy accepted the card, her eyebrows raising as she recognized the name stamped on the fine parchment.
The Scotsman and the Spinster Page 5
