by Cheryl Bolen
"I think not. The things would be blasted sticky."
"Probably so. Well, then, the finest lace to be had must do. Let me see. Turn toward the light just a little."
She did so, feeling ridiculous.
"The face is acceptable enough, I guess. Although there is a bit too much of the devil in that smile of yours, and your eyes are full of plotting wickedness. You've fine teeth though, and that is a definite advantage. A man grows weary of women pulling their lips over crooked ones."
"I'm beginning to feel like a bloody horse, Stone!" Beau groused.
"You've got slippers on, praise the lord," Griff said, ignoring her. "The servants were fairly kicking down walls, they were so put out at the footprints you were leaving all down their polished halls. And the maids, I hear, are drawing lots for the dubious honor of serving you. I had one give me her notice just this morning when she drew the short straw."
He considered a moment. "All in all, though, you might do well enough, I suppose, if it were not for that infernal hair."
"My hair?" Isabeau yelped in indignation, clapping one hand over the tresses that were her one vanity. "What the devil is wrong with my hair? Why, that idiot maid stuck the hairpins straight into my skull, I'll have you know, and I didn't hit her once, though I was sore tempted!"
"Most admirable restraint. But I believe it is customary for ladies of fashion to wear their hair powdered, my dear."
"Oh, nay, Stone," Isabeau said, rounding on him, her good humor flown. "If you think you are going to get me to slop lard and flour all over my head, you are sadly mistaken!"
"Pomatum and powder are the accepted—"
"Well, unaccept them! I'd feel as if there were things crawling in my hair if I mucked it all up that way."
"There is a bit of discomfort, but that is the price of elegance."
"Well, the price is a damned sight too high." Isabeau rounded on him, hands on hips. "If it was the fashion to wear a pudding bag on your head, I suppose that you would ask me to do it."
Griffin barked a laugh, his eyes shining. "Don't be ridiculous."
"It makes as much sense as flour and lard. And besides, the powder makes me sneeze and puts me in a formidable temper."
"Heaven forbid." Griffin feigned a shudder. Then he raised a finger, curling it around a wisp of her hair. "I must confess, I prefer your hair unpowdered anyway. All red and gold, with the light caught in the strands." His voice dropped low, and Beau could sense him leaning toward her.
She caught her breath, her pulses quickening, but he stiffened, then drew away. "We are never going to buckle down to our lessons if you persist in distracting me, Mistress DeBurgh. Now, you sit here." He drew out a gilt chair. Its legs were so slender it seemed they would shatter beneath the weight of a cushion.
Beau eyed the seat with doubt but then plopped down on it, tugging it forward with a horrible scraping sound. Griffin winced. It made her smile.
"Now," Griffin said in the accents of a weary schoolmaster tutoring a recalcitrant child, "we shall begin with the basic feminine responsibilities in a household of quality. As a woman you will be in charge of the home, your duty to make it a comfortable, pleasant environment for the man of your choice."
"I cannot think of a man alive that I'd choose for anything but fish bait," Beau said.
"You are to have nothing to do with securing the food for the table. You are only to oversee the serving of it," Griff said with a studied solemnity. "Now, you must be particularly attentive to any guest who might further your family's prospects."
"That, at least, stands to reason. Men are such thickheaded dolts as a rule, they'd need a woman to mop up the disasters they create."
"It is nothing to be taken lightly. Even great men of power need wise hostesses to aid them in their careers. Much of the nation's business is decided over the woman's tea cakes."
"I assure you the only thing my tea cakes would be good for would be loading up King George's cannons."
Griffin sank into the chair opposite her, burying his face in his hands. After a moment he propped his chin on his knuckles and glared at her. "This is going to get us nowhere, milady. This is to be a serious business for both of us, if you recall."
"All right, all right, have it your bloody way. I am perishing to learn what I shall get to do next. Scrub windows? Kiss my lord's boots?"
"Let's begin again. Pretend for a moment that you are the mistress of my estate. We are giving a ball tonight. First we must formally receive our guests."
"If they are friends of yours, they should know the way in, and I should think they'd be uncomfortable with all that formal shilly-shallying."
"You may dispense with the formalities on rare occasions where you are entertaining only your most intimate circle, but the rest of the time decorum is required. You see, as a lady of quality it will be your duty to entertain not only those whose company you enjoy, but also those who are socially apropos."
"Socially... devil in lightning! What you mean is I must be sweet-faced to people I hate?"
"You must never be rude to them, no matter how much you dislike them."
"Of all the stupid notions I've ever heard! I'll die of a stomach complaint if I have to keep all that fury bottled up inside, or else I'll explode one night and cut down the lot of 'em with my pistols!" Beau fumed, outraged. "Nay, Stone, I have to say it. I cannot think that going to all this work to entertain people I loathe is worth the effort. No swearing, no blood and thunder, and I suppose bawdy jests are out of the question?"
"Indubitably, my dear." Griffin pushed the delicate teapot closer to Beau's turned-up nose. "Now, if we are done with our fit of pique, you may pour me some tea."
Beau slammed her hand on the table. "Did you take some wound to the hand I'm not aware of? The pot is well within your reach."
"But you are the hostess. You must pour the tea graciously, with an elegant flair."
"I'll pour it with flair, all right. Right into your lap." Beau grumbled. She grabbed up the fragile teapot as if it were her saddle and slung the hot liquid into Griffin's cup with enough force to make it rattle against its saucer.
Some of the liquid slopped on the table, but Griffin said nothing. He merely mopped up the mess with a fine linen cloth. "Since you obviously have that skill mastered," he said, "now we shall commence with the proper way to dine. If you look before you, you will see that I had the servants make you a special place setting to practice with."
Isabeau looked down onto the setting. It seemed to be a maze of silver and crystal and china. For once in her life she was daunted. "What the blazes do you aristos do, Stone? Stick every scrap of silver you own on the table? I vow it is just so you can show off how rich you are. But if you ask me, it is like wearing all of your waistcoats at once so that people will know you've got them."
Griff pressed his knuckles to his mouth, his brows lowering in what might have passed for disapproval. But Beau noticed laugh lines crinkling about his eyes. With his other hand he scooped up a spoon, rapping on the table. "Mistress Isabeau, pay attention, if you please," he said with mock severity.
For almost an hour Griffin kept her to task, teaching her the use of every implement on the table. Though confused at first, she soon became determined to master the blasted skill and set to it with a vengeance.
At last well pleased, Griffin pushed himself away from the table. He gave a satisfied sigh. "Now, milady," he said, "is the perfect time to retire to the library for a fine glass of port."
"Stone, I believe that is the first thing you've said all day that I agree with," Beau said with a heartfelt sigh. "I'll even be the perfect hostess and fetch the bloody bottle for you if you tell me where it is."
She saw some imp of mischief in his eyes, but his face was solemn as he shook his head. "I am afraid that the tradition of retiring for a glass of port excludes those of the fairer sex. Only the men are allowed to slip off and imbibe. It is there that they discuss vital matters like politics and the happenings in th
e House of Lords."
"My eye they do! More likely they bandy about the charms of their latest mistresses or how much they've lost gaming!"
"A lady of quality is not supposed to acknowledge that mistresses exist, my love. But the sad truth is that we do spend most of our time talking about horses and hounds and gaming."
"There! I knew it!" Beau said, triumphant. "That is much more to my liking! I'd like to see you try to keep me from it!"
"Isabeau, Isabeau." He tsked softly. "How can you revel in hounds and horses in the library when you have to entertain the ladies in the salon?"
Beau made a face. "I don't suppose they are doing anything half so diverting."
"Why, they are sipping tea, talking."
"Bah! About what?"
"Frills and furbelows, I should imagine. Babies and governesses and the peccadilloes of their servants."
"I can't believe anyone would want to talk about such rot. Why can't the women go into the infernal library with the men? Who makes all these bloody rules? If I had to wager, I'd guess some pompous idiot of a man barred the door to the library because his wife was smarter than he. I'd bet that he was afraid his wife would make him look like a fool."
Griffin couldn't stop a laugh. "You are probably right," he admitted. "I know of several fellows who might do just that very thing."
"I shall mount a rebellion," Beau said, striking her hand to her breast. "You shall return from your port to find your wives dicing and swilling Blue Ruin, talking about ways to bedevil their husband's lights o' love."
"Is that so? Well, if you are not too wearied after your rebellion, do you think you might care to indulge in any of the usual amusements? Music? Singing?"
"I can't play the pianoforte, and the only songs I know would turn your grand ladies green."
"Then we will have to cover up this sad lack of accomplishments by dazzling the assemblage with something else."
"My skill with the pistols?" Beau asked hopefully. "I could shoot the posy off one of the ladies' bonnets. Or I could pick the buttons off a man's waistcoat at twenty paces."
"I'm afraid shooting in the house is very bad form, Isabeau. It will have to be something else." He seemed to consider the problem. "Dancing," he said at last, well pleased with himself.
"D-dancing?" Had he said drowning she could have been no more disconcerted. The thought of touching him, stumbling about as awkwardly as she had at her fencing lessons, filled her with dread. She was graceless, and she knew it. She thrust her hands behind her back, retreating behind the delicate table. "Nay, I don't think I—"
"Dance with me, Isabeau."
She curled her hands into fists, attempting to feign carelessness. "I've had enough of lessons for today. And anyway, I would just tread upon your toes. I'll not be responsible for laming you."
"Despite all your bluster you're a wisp of a thing," Griffin said, his hands spanning her waist as if to prove his point. Suddenly she gasped as he lifted her high and held her there, forcing her to gaze down into those dangerously handsome features.
"P-put me down, you ruffian!" she stammered, wriggling against the grasp of his hands. "I mean it, Stone! Or you can take your 'lady' nonsense and cast it—"
He dropped her with a suddenness that made her cry out. His hands caught her a split second before her slippers slammed into the floor. "Your wish is my command, milady," he said with amusement. "I seem to remember you saying nearly those same words mere seconds before you shattered—what was it? My grandmother's Ming? I must confess, you've taken such a toll on Darkling Moor's possessions, it is hard to keep an accounting."
"This place is much too cluttered anyway," Beau said between gritted teeth. "I'm doing you a service, ridding you of old refuse that should have been thrown away centuries ago.
Griff grimaced. "I doubt many connoisseurs of antiquities would agree with you. However, I am willing to allow bygones to be bygones."
"And now, if you would honor me?" He swept her a courtly bow, extending one strong hand.
"Honor you? I'll most likely horrify you before we make an end to it. Griffin, the muddle I made of the silver and such will be nothing in comparison to this disaster. Jack attempted to teach me to dance once, and I was clumsy as a colt."
"Come now, at least in dancing you'll not be in danger of getting nicked with a blade."
Beau thought she'd prefer to face down burnished steel than the alarming charm that seemed to radiate from every pore of Griffin Stone's virile body.
But she straightened, sticking out her hand abruptly. Griff retreated a step. "Well?" she snapped. "Let's get it over with."
Griffin grinned. "Ah, such pretty manners, such winning ways! I've seen warmer eyes across a dueling field." He caught up her chilled fingers. His hand felt warm, strong. "Smile, Isabeau. The orchestra, it seems, is striking up a minuet."
Beau muttered an expletive, and pulled a face that had Griffin chuckling. But as his laughter faded he began to hum deep in his chest, endearingly off-key. And Beau thought she had never heard anything so beautiful.
With a patience that amazed her Griffin schooled her in the figures of the dance, whispering encouragement, enduring her fumbling, steadying her whenever she tripped over the cumbersome folds of her gown.
And despite herself, the tension began to drain from Isabeau's rigid arms and stiff legs. Despite herself, she became lost in the approval that shone in sea-blue eyes.
She circled, dipped, swayed, returning to slip her fingers into the grasp of Griffin's warm ones. And the regal patterns of the minuet faded into a dance more primitive, more alluring.
Their eyes locked and held; their lips trembled with a desire that made each brush of fingers across fingers exquisitely seductive.
He moved with the grace of a panther, dangerous, sensual. His dark hair swept back from his brow in thick waves that seemed to dare Beau's hands to tame them.
Beau shivered. Languorous heat stole over her, making her own movements more entrancing. She met his gaze openly. She had never been able to hide what she was feeling for long. And never before had she felt such soul-deep emotion.
Griffin's humming rasped as though he were robbed of breath, and when he turned to catch up her hand yet again the harsh sounds died in his throat.
He stood, peering down at her, his fingers unmoving, his face still, so still.
"W-what is amiss?" Beau asked. "Did I break your toes? I told you I would before we even began."
"Nay, it is just..." He drew away from her, and Beau suddenly felt cold. "It has been a long time since there has been dancing in this salon. When I was a child, there were grand balls held at Darkling Moor. My mother would let us sneak down from the nursery to peer at the guests, and she would always slip in here with us and dance, first with William, then with me, while the music drifted down the hall."
"It must have been wonderful," Beau said softly.
"Grandmama thought it was inexcusably rude for the duchess of Ravensmoor to run off like a truant dairymaid. But no matter how she scolded, my mother would not listen."
"She hated your mother. The dowager duchess, I mean. I could see it when we talked. When I woke up she was bending over my bed like some old hag," Beau teased. "I'll never again torment Molly about being afraid of bad dreams, for that was a nightmare, I assure you. I thought the old witch would choke when she saw what I was wearing."
"I wager she did." Griffin gave a hollow laugh. He touched the miniature of a beautiful, smiling lady on a small table, and Isabeau's heart ached for him. "My mother caught a fever when I was six, and died so swiftly it seemed that one moment she was laughing and dancing, and the next I was staring at her in her coffin. My grandmother swept through the house burning everything my mother had touched, as if she were trying to blot out her very existence. She said it was because she feared the things were a breeding ground for fever, but even then I knew better."
"Was she jealous of your father's love for your mother?"
"Nay." Bittern
ess creased Griffin's face. "My grandmother hated my father almost as much as she hates me. But my mother... she loved him, and that was her greatest heartache of all." Griffin's hands fell to his side, an aura of sadness surrounding him. "My father was something of a rake, I'm afraid. Not capable of being faithful to anyone. He was fond of my mother, after his fashion. And he petted her shamelessly, with the same careless good humor he bestowed on everyone around him. But as for any abiding passion"—he shrugged—"it was not in him to give."
Beau watched him, silent. She felt as though she were peering past his blue-gray eyes into Griffin's soul. She wanted to ask why his mother hadn't taken a fire iron to his father and cudgeled him into giving up his mistresses. But for once her first thoughts did not trip off her heedless tongue. Something in the tone of Griffin's voice held her.
"She must have loved him very much," she said, sensing he needed her to speak.
"She adored him." Griffin smiled wistfully. "Any trinket he brought to her, any gift, she treasured above all others. That was why..." He looked away as if to shield emotions too raw to let anyone witness. "That was why when she died I hid the gown. I couldn't bear for it to be thrust into the flames. It was one of his gifts and she had loved it so much."
Beau nibbled at her lip, remembering how her mother's face had glowed whenever her father had entered the room. Lianna Devereaux had been a beauty beyond compare at any time, but when she had gazed upon Robb DeBurgh she had seemed an angel straight down from heaven. What torment would have shown on Lianna’s delicate features if she had seen passion for a score of other women in her husband’s eyes? And how would that agony have touched a child who loved them both?
She stood, uncertain what to do, knowing instinctively that Griffin would not want pity or commiseration.
At last he turned. "And so, Isabeau, I think you learned far more than how to serve tea today. You will think me a tyrant for keeping you at your lessons so long."
"I happen to think that tyrants are most amiable company," she said softly.
