A Lady's Guide to a Gentleman's Heart

by Christi Caldwell

  He stared on, feeling like an actor in the midst of a performance without the benefit of his lines—any of them.

  “Now, you? You, on the other hand, they would expect to be here,” she went on, moving the decanters and glasses off to the left side of the mahogany piece.

  His mouth opened and closed several times. Not because the chit’s reasoning was accurate—he’d been found by his mother not even thirty minutes ago—but rather, because… “Are you trying to tell me to leave?”

  The minx paused in her task to glance back at him with a blindingly bright smile. “That would be splendid. Thank you.” With that, she arranged her belongings into a makeshift desk… and promptly began writing.

  Thoroughly dismissing him and completely forgetting about his presence. Assuming he’d leave.

  The insolent chit.

  Such had always been the way with Lady Emilia. A truth that rankled even more now.

  If he were a proper gentleman—which he always was—then he’d do just that.

  “What in blazes are you doing?”

  He was fair certain that cursing in front of the lady he was tasked with “showing a good time” would not earn his mother’s approval. But a gentleman had to draw the damned line somewhere.

  “Writing,” she offered distractedly, not raising her gaze from the page. Her fingers flew as she wrote… whatever it was that occupied her attention. “You needn’t worry about me. I’ll not bother you while you play your…” Not breaking with her task, she waved her spare hand at the air. “Game. In fact, you may go about doing so now. I’m just going to…”

  The young woman had already forgotten him.

  “As she always did,” he muttered, alternating his focus between the minx, his billiards table, and the door.

  “As I always did what?” She paused to glance back.

  Heath’s neck heated. Apparently, the lady hadn’t been so engrossed that she’d failed to hear that. “I didn’t…”

  “You said, ‘As she always did,’ to which I ask, what do I always do?”

  This would be the moment the spitfire paid him some notice. But then, in fairness, every exchange they’d had from childhood to this moment had occurred before someone else. Never alone.

  “You misheard me. I said, surely you kid,” he smoothly put forward, and when presented with having the too-clever chit ferret out his lies, he opted to be the one to retreat. After all, nothing good could come from them being alone here.

  Heath returned his cue to the rack at the back of the room.

  “Lady Emilia,” he said, sketching a bow.

  The chit didn’t even look up.

  “I’ll leave you to your… pastimes.” Which begged the question, what in blazes were her pastimes? More specifically—his gaze dipped to the small leather journal she scribbled so frantically upon—what in blazes was she writing so intently? He squinted.

  His interloper glanced up.

  Emilia narrowed her eyes and lay her arms in a protective shield over those pages, hiding the words written there. “My lord,” she said impatiently. She did not, however, make any attempt to stand and dip a curtsy… as every last fawning lady who hoped for the title of future duchess did before he even fully entered a room.

  Dropping another bow, Heath beat a hasty retreat and conceded the room to Lady Emilia.

  *

  The moment Lord Heath vacated his billiards room, Emilia gave her head a bemused shake.

  Now, that had come to be the all-too-familiar and expected response from Lord Heath. All of it.

  Coolly polite. More than faintly aloof. And then dashing off.

  Such had been his ways since… well, forever. Since she’d been a girl and he an older boy who’d had neither patience nor a moment to spare for his mother’s young goddaughter.

  It was why she’d known that Lord Heath’s desire to send her on her way moments ago hadn’t been driven by any concern about her parents’ sensibilities or a belief in her charades-playing skills.

  Which she was rather masterful at.

  That detail, however, was neither here nor there.

  Emilia faced forward, determined to renew her work and reread the handful of sentences she’d written in response to the latest question from one of her readers.

  If a gentleman treats you as though you are invisible, you are better off with his disinterest. But also, be reasonably suspicious of a gentleman who shows a fawning interest in you. A lady is best served to find a gentleman who wishes to be with her, but is not false in that desire.

  Emilia paused midsentence and reread the words there. Words that came from a place of knowing. She’d no wish to be near any person who didn’t genuinely desire her company. Gentlemen, like Lord Heath, with their effusive bows and hasty exits. She’d made fool enough of herself for one bounder. Her interests were now singular and fixed on helping other young women avoid the same missteps she herself had made.

  And yet…

  Unbidden, her gaze crept back to the door.

  It was one thing to remember the lifetime of Lord Heath’s icy disdain toward her. It was altogether different when he’d been the person who’d rescued her this night from certain humiliation at the feet of two societal gossips.

  That defense, his opening the door and facing down the harpies, all to protect her had been… unexpected.

  And made her think… Nay, it made her see that mayhap there was more to the gentleman, after all. Mayhap she’d misunderstood him, or unfairly judged him, or—

  A small scrap of white snagged her notice.

  Leaning down, Emilia peered at the page resting on the floor.

  It was… a note.

  Oh, bloody hell. This was certainly a test of her character and strength.

  She forced herself to turn around to resume her work.

  It is not your business. It is not your business. It is not…

  Emilia tapped her pencil back and forth on her book, from top to bottom. From the corner of her eye, she peeked over at that forlorn scrap of white just lying near the billiard table. After all, any guest might come in and find it. That was, another, less reliable guest. A gossip. Someone who’d read that note and bandy its contents about to the Duke and Duchess of Sutton’s other guests.

  Yes, she couldn’t very well leave the note there. In fact, she was the more reliable person to discover said scrap. Setting down her pencil, she stood and hurried over to gather up the note. Unbidden, her gaze skimmed the page.

  Why… it was a list of some sort.

  Emilia turned it over in her hands. The handwriting was familiar. How did she know that handwriting? How—?

  Her eyes widened. “The Duchess of Sutton.” She’d seen enough letters delivered from one duchess to the other to recognize it. She made to fold the page. After all, she couldn’t very well go about reading her godmother’s note.

  Except…

  Emilia chewed at her lower lip.

  It wasn’t truly a note. It was a list about…

  Emilia’s gaze dipped once more.

  1. Inquire after her interests and take part in those activities with her.

  Why… why… A little laugh built in her throat, and she clamped a palm over her mouth to stifle the revealing sound, lest she give herself away. The list was instructions, more than anything, advising the recipient on how to woo one of the guests. The Duchess of Sutton was playing matchmaker, and as her youngest son had already wed, it could only mean she sought to maneuver Lord Heath, her eldest and the ducal heir, into a match with an unnamed lady.

  This time, she couldn’t help it. Her laughter, pulled from her, more unrestrained and freeing than any other laugh she’d laughed these past ten years.

  Emilia warred with herself. It was the height of rudeness to read another person’s notes. Although… Emilia was Lady Sutton’s goddaughter, and just as important, Emilia was London’s most notorious columnist with matchmaking advice.

  Why… it would be rude to not read the note and secr
etly offer help where she could to Lord Heath and his nameless lady.

  2. She arises early for the morning meal. (Six o’clock punctually.) Break your fast with her.

  Another young woman who rose at six o’clock. Splendid. As one who herself rose early and supped before most of the house had even begun to stir, it would certainly make it all the easier to identify the young lady’s identity.

  3. Be a good conversationalist to her. Express an interest in whatever subject she speaks to you on. Ask questions. Ladies like to know people care about what they are talking about.

  It was generally good advice the duchess had written down for her son. And yet…

  “Based on our last run-in, Lord Heath, you’re going to require assistance with those instructions,” she murmured and kept reading.

  4. Do try to make her laugh. She’s still hurting.

  Emilia’s heart tugged as all her earlier amusement fled. The woman had been hurt. It was a sentiment Emilia could identify with all too well. She sighed and hurried through the remainder of the duchess’ list.

  5. If she seems upset, it is your gentlemanly responsibility and duty to somehow cheer her up.

  Lord Heath wouldn’t know how. He’d be the last person who’d ever be capable of cheer, let alone cheering anyone up. Either way, the subject of this note was not unlike Emilia of years ago: an object of pity and well-meaning intentions by some and gossip by all. As such, this was not Emilia’s business.

  She made to refold the note when her gaze snagged on a heavily underlined and starred note:

  Do **not**, under any circumstances, discuss her—

  Emilia stumbled, unable to vocalize the remaining two directives. Do **not**, under any circumstances, discuss her betrothal to that scoundrel you call friend.

  “It is my business,” she breathed, her eyes immediately going back to that last item. Then, with something akin to horror, she reread the other familiar details about the mystery lady written upon the note.

  Why… why… She gasped and dropped the page as if burned. Why, why, I am the object to be pitied. She was the one her godmother had ordered her son to see to.

  The duchess wasn’t matchmaking, she was coordinating events for the pitiable spinster. Which was—she cringed—somehow even worse than being the subject of a matchmaking.

  The tightening in her chest was not a product of her memories of Connell.

  Rather, Emilia’s hurt came from the fact that the world would forever see her—and remember her—for how she’d been treated by that feckless cad.

  Even her parents, her godparents, Polite Society, and, by the contents of this note, Lord Heath saw only her marital failings when they looked at her.

  That item on his mother’s list no doubt accounted for his earlier rescue. The gentleman who hadn’t mustered more than a casual mention to her of the weather these past years had suddenly intervened on her behalf with the two gossips earlier? Now it at last made sense.

  Well, they could all go hang. She hardly needed anyone to cheer her up or converse with her or rescue her or… or… “Anything I want,” she whispered into the quiet. Her mind slowed and then resumed racing at a brisk clip. Hurriedly picking up the piece of paper, she reread the suddenly interesting again note. They’d all but handed Emilia that which she’d sought for this painful house party—an excuse to be away from her mother’s matchmaking attempts and the other guests’ gossip. For the first time since she’d discovered the letter, a genuine smile curled her lips.

  Emilia returned the paper to its earlier place on the floor. Mayhap Lord Heath might be of service to her, after all.

  Chapter 4

  Never trust a rumpled gentleman. They are invariably rogues, scoundrels, and cads to be avoided.

  Mrs. Matcher

  A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart

  Nearly twenty minutes later, sometime between dismissing his valet and removing his cravat and jacket, Heath was besieged by the familiar feeling that he was forgetting something. The same sense he’d had the day his brother Lawrence had raced Sheldon and died, that something was wrong even before the world had been flipped upside down by grief.

  Seated at the edge of his bed, with one boot removed and his fingers set to work on the other, he frowned.

  What in blazes was it?

  “No doubt it was your hasty flight from the minx,” he mumbled under his breath, struggling with the boot.

  After all, he’d left in such haste.

  And yet—he paused again.

  No, it was that sensation that occasionally came upon him. It had been there at the oddest times, oddly prophetic in its accuracy. The day his younger brother Lawrence had died. The moment Connell had sent ’round a note and then hightailed it from London, breaking his betrothal to Lady Emilia.

  “You’re being an arse,” he muttered, giving his head a shake. “Aside from seeing the young lady, nothing out of the ordinary is different…” His words trailed off. His heart hammered peculiarly. “The note,” he whispered. Heath patted his chest and then searched for his jacket.

  Shoving to his feet, he was across the room in three great strides. He grabbed the jacket and proceeded to fish around the inside of the silk lining.

  Oh, bloody hell. His gut churned. It had to be here. It had to be here. “Be here. Be here. Be here.” It proved a useless mantra.

  Nothing.

  Dropping to his knees, Heath crawled around the floor in search of that damned scrap.

  Where was it? Where was it?

  And bloody hell, why was there a damned Aubusson carpet with a bloody intricate pattern that obscured everything?

  Dragging his hands along every corner of the floor, it took barely any time to discern that the list wasn’t there.

  Which could only mean… Somewhere between his unexpected meeting with Lady Emilia and his trek to his rooms, he’d lost it.

  Oh, bloody, bloody hell.

  Spinning on his heel, Heath took off running, racing the same path he’d taken earlier. Searching as he went. His gaze on the floor, he collided headfirst with a wall.

  With a grunt, Heath staggered back, landing hard on his arse. Rubbing his head, he glowered up at his youngest—and entirely too amused—brother, Sheldon. Or Graham. Or whatever the hell he wanted to be called these days.

  “You seem distracted,” Sheldon drawled, holding a hand out.

  Taking that offer, Heath jumped up, then registered his ever-vexing brother’s attention on his feet. More specifically—

  “You are barefoot.”

  His bare feet. Yes, his brother would notice as much. But then, no gentleman generally went around sans boots, particularly Heath. “Stockinged feet are hardly the same,” Heath said defensively, dusting his palms over lapels… that weren’t there.

  “You are, uh… missing a jacket, brother,” Sheldon pointed out, remarkably deadpan.

  Heat splotched Heath’s cheeks. He couldn’t very well go about saying that he, the reliable son, had gone and lost a damned list given to him by their mother. A list pertaining to her goddaughter, and there was, in fact, a houseful of guests. His stomach dropped. Dead. I am dead. “There were…”

  Sheldon quirked an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “Matters of import that I needed to attend to,” he neatly substituted. Heath made to step around his brother, but Sheldon slid into his path, preventing that escape. Blast and damn. He didn’t have time to stand here indulging his brother’s humor. He clenched his jaw to keep from saying as much. Frantic worry over that missing list aside, Heath was the one who’d let his ducal guard slip, yet again, that night. “What is it, Sheldon?” he asked with remarkable calm.

  “Given that you’re half naked, I’d dare say whatever has you rushing around must be a matter of grave importance.”

  “It is of some importance.” Grave. It was absolutely grave. He made another sidestep.

  His vexing sibling proved tenacious, locking steps with him yet again. “How important?”

>   Grave had been correct. He’d sooner lop off his arm than admit as much to his younger brother, who by the glimmer in his eyes was enjoying Heath’s circumstances entirely too much. “Important enough that I’d be better served elsewhere and not indulging your amusements here,” he said, bowing his head slightly. This time, when Heath stepped around Sheldon, his brother made no attempt to block his escape.

  He’d made it no farther than three strides before his brother called out. “I don’t suppose this is what has you in such a frenzy?”

  Heath spun back.

  Leaning a lazy shoulder against the wall, Sheldon stood there with his arms folded and an all-too-familiar piece of vellum in his hands.

  Any other time, he’d have been horrified that his scapegrace brother would be the one to find it. “Oh, bloody hell,” he breathed, charging over to claim that hated scrap of paper.

  “You’re welcome,” Sheldon drawled as Heath ripped it from his fingers. “You should have a care with that. Perilous stuff when information finds itself in the wrong hands.”

  Were there really any right hands, however, for that note? “Where did you find this?” he demanded, stuffing the scrap inside his—

  Sheldon leaned forward. “This is where a jacket might prove helpful,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Oh, go to hell,” he muttered, and his brother laughed uproariously.

  If he were one of those lords given to crudeness, this was certainly where Heath would begin turning a middle finger up at his younger sibling. “Where—?”

  “You’ve my son to thank for discovering it.”

  His stomach plummeted. “Frederick?” Who else might have seen that damning page?

  “Alas, there is only one son, for now. Fortunate for you, he asked me to join him in the billiards room a short while ago.”

  “The billiards room,” he echoed, his eyes briefly sliding closed. There was a God, after all. Their mother’s guests were still engaged in the evening’s round of eternal charades, as he’d come to refer to it as a boy, and therefore, no one…