A Lady's Guide to a Gentleman's Heart (The Heart of a Scandal Book 2)

by Christi Caldwell

  Oh, blast and damn. His eyes flew open, and Heath grabbed his brother by his lapels. “The billiards room,” he repeated, shaking him slightly. “Was there anyone else in there? A…” He glanced around quickly and spoke in a hushed whisper. “A…”

  “Woman?” Sheldon neatly supplied. “As in the mysterious woman whom our mother was indiscreet enough to make a list about?” He waggled his eyebrows.

  Damn his brother. He was having entirely too much fun with this. All of this. “Go to hell,” he said again quickly, releasing him.

  His brother’s smile faded, taking all his earlier amusement with it. “There was no one there when we arrived. The note was just under the billiard table.”

  Where he’d been playing when Lady Emilia had arrived and upended his game… and from there, his whole damned night. Though, in fairness, his mother was more responsible than anyone else. “You are certain?” he pressed.

  “Certain there was no woman? Or about the location of the note?”

  Heath gave him a sharp look, earning a sigh.

  “Oh, very well. I’m certain on both scores. You do know you’re dreadfully straitlaced and becoming increasingly more so the older you get.”

  “I’m not straitlaced.” He bristled. “I’m respectable. Honorable. Reliable.”

  Sheldon leaned over. “Yes, so reliable that you went about losing a confidential list.”

  And damn his younger brother for being correct… in this. He’d concede that and not an inch more. Heath glanced down at the object of all his woes this night, skimming it.

  “Furthermore,” Sheldon said while Heath read that page, “all jesting aside, though it is certainly unsettling to lose it, there’s hardly anything identifying on it.”

  “Other than Mother’s handwriting.”

  “There’s that,” Sheldon conceded. “Many of the guests who’ve been assembled, however, have been brought forward as marital prospects for you.”

  He winced. Yes, Heath had suspected as much. “But how many of those ladies break their fast at six o’clock?” he pressed, and his earlier panic returned.

  His brother lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “My wife is also an early riser and dines before the other guests.”

  Fair enough.

  In a rare show of support, Sheldon tossed an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. “No one discovered it. They could have. But they did not.”

  Breathing slowly between his teeth, Heath dusted a hand through his hair. Yes, having lost the note could have been calamitous, and yet, it had since been found… by his brother. It was an unfamiliar state for him to be in—making a misstep in front of… anyone. Heath found himself unnerved by the show of sibling solidarity.

  “Mother really shouldn’t have put anything to paper.”

  “Certainly not. But given that it was you, the ever-responsible, meticulous one,” Sheldon said dryly, without inflection, “she probably trusted that any instruction she gave you, in any form, would be safe.”

  Yes, there was that. High expectations had been set not only by his parents but by every tutor who’d firmly instructed Heath on his responsibilities as ducal heir. Responsibilities that now included—he looked down at the note once more—entertaining Lady Emilia Aberdeen.

  “Now, if I may suggest you seek out your rooms? By my estimation, the guests have another”—Sheldon consulted his timepiece—“twenty minutes or so of their evening’s entertainments.”

  Folding the list into neat quadrants, Heath concentrated all his energies on that minute task. He attempted all the dignity one might muster after making a near-epic blunder. “Sheldon…”

  “Graham,” his brother slipped in.

  “Yes, Graham, then.” Defiant in everything, his younger brother had even claimed ownership of his middle name as his first. “I wanted to say…” He coughed into his fist. “That is… Thank—”

  “You needn’t even finish those words,” his brother cut him off. “That is what brothers are for.”

  That is what brothers are for. It was an interesting statement and avowal from two boys who’d once been friends, but had drifted apart after the death of their other brother. Managing a grateful nod, Heath hurried back toward his rooms. After Lawrence’s death racing Sheldon—nay Graham—every member of the Whitworth family had… been changed. And just as much, how they’d treated one another and behaved around one another… all that had changed, too. Lawrence’s passing had served as a reminder to his then-young self how precarious life was and how much rested upon his shoulders. From that day on, he’d not made a single misstep. He’d not allowed himself to commit one. Rather, he’d conducted himself only in a respectable manner, carrying himself with dignity and—

  “How… unexpected running into you again, Lord Heath… and in a state of dishabille, no less.”

  He stumbled a step.

  Oh, bloody hell. God hated him. There was no other accounting for it.

  For a long moment, Heath contemplated the path forward. He could very well simply pretend he’d not heard the minx. The minx with amusement heavy in her musical voice.

  Except, he also had detected something else underlying Emilia Aberdeen’s tone—a knowing. She believed that gentleman that he was, he’d do the gentlemanly thing and make a quick retreat. Given the respectable way in which he’d conducted himself since… the nursery, it was a likely conclusion for the lady to come to. And yet, it was also the reason he found himself turning around.

  The golden-haired minx didn’t so much as widen her eyes at the state of his dress. Or rather, undress. “Lord Heath,” she murmured, with a deep curtsy.

  He narrowed his eyes. He was believing that show of decorum from this woman even less than he was believing his father’s prized horses would be flying over the damned walls of Everleigh. Nonetheless, he could play the game of pretend formality with the best of them. “Lady Emilia.” Heath sketched an equally deep bow.

  At the sight of one’s host indecently clad, a doe-eyed debutante would have averted her eyes and taken off down the opposite hall. Lady Emilia, however, was no doe-eyed debutante. She was a woman grown now—and tenfold more impish than when she’d been a girl. She abandoned all earlier pretense of propriety and stared baldly at his feet.

  “Sleep wandering.”

  He blinked and followed her stare downward, almost thinking he might find those words scrawled on the flooring. What in blazes was she…?

  “Are you a sleep wanderer, my lord?”

  Apparently, he was the only one of their unlikely pair to appreciate how utterly preposterous it was that she should my lord him. First, they’d known each other as children. And two, well, he was nearly unclad before her. “I trust we’ve moved into the realm of using one another’s Christian names,” Heath said with an impressive drawl his brother would have been hard-pressed to emulate.

  “Very well. Are you a sleep wanderer, Heath?”

  God, the chit was tenacious. “No, I’m not,” he answered, folding his arms in a move that put the corner of the list in his hand on damning display. He swiftly jammed his hands behind his back.

  Her too clever cornflower-blue eyes homed in on the hasty movement. Emilia took several steps closer. Drifting ever closer.

  The insolent baggage.

  She craned her neck so she might glance around his shoulder.

  Heath hurriedly shifted, moving as she moved, rotating with her.

  “Do you know, Lord Heath—?”

  “Heath,” he muttered inanely, his stomach muscles tightening. Who would have imagined that he’d have been better served to practice the art of subterfuge, after all? “The situation certainly seems to warrant the use of our Christian names.” There was no escaping this. He’d wager all his future landholdings—entailed and unentailed—that the spitfire could have renegotiated the Lord Almighty into a second chance in that Garden of Eden had she so wished it.

  Emilia stopped. So abruptly, he was knocked off-kilter, his back colliding with the wall. All
earlier teasing was gone from the lady’s tone and eyes, replaced by a sharpness in those deep blue depths. “I know what that is, Heath,” she said evenly.

  His stomach turned. “You do?” Heath again contemplated his retreat.

  She leaned up. “Why, you have mail to post.”

  “Mail,” he echoed dumbly. “At this—” He pressed his lips closed to keep from uttering the absurdity of posting mail at this late hour. Instead, he clung to the unexpected offering she’d held out. “You are correct.

  She eyed him suspiciously.

  And this was why he’d never bothered with the pranks his brother had. He was rot at it. Why couldn’t he be more like Graham? It was not, however, the first time in his life that he’d wished for those skills. With his spare hand, he adjusted his cravat—that wasn’t there—once more. “I’ve an urgent missive, and given the unpredictability of the weather we’ve been enjoying, I’d thought it prudent to have it sent. Immediately. Now.” As if to draw further attention to the absolute ridiculousness of those ramblings, the longcase striking clock behind her marked the hour.

  He winced as the Westminster chimes sounded over. And over.

  Heath offered a sheepish smile through the clear ringing.

  Remarkably controlled as she was, the lady returned that smile and waited until the ten whole beats had first played and faded before speaking again. “Is it a sweetheart?”

  He stared blankly at her.

  Emilia nudged her chin at him. “Your letter?”

  Heath strangled on his swallow. “N-n-no,” he said emphatically between his coughs. “Other business. It is other business,” he settled for.

  Emilia drifted closer, until she was a handbreadth away, the scent of her, apple blossom, unexpected and sweet, and he filled his lungs with that summer fragrance. “Is that your view of love and… sweethearts, Heath?” Emilia angled her face up toward his. “As formal business arrangements?”

  He was still lost in that tantalizing fragrance, so it took a moment for her question to register. “No. I don…” Except… He frowned. The relationships he’d had in the course of his life, the lovers he’d taken, had all been neatly arranged formal affairs with contracts drafted. There’d not, however, been… a sweetheart. Such a relationship bespoke an intimacy greater than sex and was one he’d not known before.

  An all-too-knowing smile danced on Emilia’s lips. “I see.” By the glimmer in her impish eyes, she’d declared herself the holder of his truth. Emilia stepped away, the scent of her lingering still. “I will leave you to your mail… Heath,” she added, his name emerging as more of an afterthought than anything.

  In fairness, that was what he had always been to her—an afterthought.

  “Emilia.” He straightened, bringing his shoulders back and his feet together. His damned stockinged feet.

  Emilia’s eyes dipped down toward the carpeted floor, and she lingered her gaze on his feet.

  He resisted the urge to shift back and forth.

  When she at last looked up, the familiarly teasing smile pulled at the corners of her lips. “Good evening, Heath.”

  “Emilia,” he repeated for a second time, yet another reminder that he was not in possession of his roguish younger brother’s charm or skill at discourse.

  He waited until Emilia continued past, her curved hips sashaying, the ice-blue satin molding to a delicately rounded derriere.

  Heath swallowed hard. Do not look at her hips. Do not look at her—

  As if she’d heard that silent chastisement, she cast a glance back over her shoulder and, with a saucy wink, disappeared around the corner.

  Fighting back a groan, he swiped a hand over his face—the hand with the blasted list that was the source of all his woes.

  Damn his soul to hell.

  Ogling his best friend’s former betrothed, noticing the scent of her. Mayhap he had more of his brother’s scoundrel blood in him, after all.

  Chapter 5

  The only worthy gentleman is the gentleman who’ll stand shoulder-to-shoulder with a lady.

  Mrs. Matcher

  A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart

  If Emilia were being honest, she was rather enjoying herself. More so than she had in the years since she’d been jilted. And certainly more than at any previous house party before.

  And it was for the most unexpected of reasons.

  Or rather, the most unexpected person.

  Lord Heath Whitworth.

  Nay…

  Heath… The situation certainly seems to warrant the use of our Christian names.

  Seated at the Duchess of Sutton’s breakfast table, Emilia felt her lips tugging in a smile. And this was not a cynical or practiced or serene one she’d don for respectively appropriate moments. This was… a real one.

  She’d forgotten what it was to truly smile, or tease, or do anything lighthearted. But now on two occasions—first, their meeting in the billiards room, and then in the corridor—she’d actually been enjoying her exchanges with Heath. During them, he’d not been the distant boy she’d known as a child or the aloof, proper ducal gentleman Connell called best friend.

  Scribbling a small circle at the top of her page, Emilia peeked at the empty doorway and then over to the clock affixed along the front of the room. Four past six. Perhaps Heath was not coming. He’d only ever been punctual. Mayhap he’d no intention of fulfilling that list of obligations his mother had given him, a prospect that should bring with it relief.

  It would mean Emilia needn’t worry about a gentleman being underfoot or finding herself the object of self-pity. And she could devote her attentions to where they should be: on her advice column instead of on the list she now worked upon.

  Her smile dipped as she stopped her distracted doodling.

  What accounted for this peculiar regret, then? “You’re being silly,” she muttered.

  “What was that, my lady?” One of the footmen hurried forward.

  And now I’m talking to myself. “It is a bit chilly,” she neatly substituted, making a show of adjusting her shawl.

  One of the duchess’ eager servants was already rushing over to the fireplace before she realized what he intended.

  “No, you needn’t. That is…”

  The liveried servant set to stoking the fire over her protestations.

  Stop it. Clear your head. She didn’t require a gentleman about to enjoy herself. Why… why… her life had been quite full since Connell’s betrayal. Abundantly so. Angrily flipping back in her book to the incomplete column for her editor, she resumed her work.

  Do: Commit your future to a gentleman who allows you your interests and supports them. Each lady deserves a spouse who sees her value. Therefore, it is wisest to avoid those rakes, cads, and scoundrels whom Society sees as exciting.

  Emilia paused in her writing and stared at that last sentence. As a rule, every lady, from debutante to dowager, craved the company of those thrilling gentlemen. She herself had been equally captivated by one such nobleman’s charm. How different the Duke of Renaud had been than the staid, proper, respectable gentlemen. Gentlemen like Lord Heath Whitworth.

  Except, stealing another glance at the clock, Emilia acknowledged that Lord Heath was not entirely—not at all—the pompous boor she’d taken him for. What else would she have thought about a boy who’d not played with her as a girl and then who’d been only aloof to her as a young woman?

  Picking up her cup of warmed chocolate, Emilia flipped back to the note she’d made last evening about the gentleman now occupying her thoughts.

  When she’d invaded his billiards room, he’d remained playing his game and then had faced her boldly—albeit sheepishly—when she’d discovered him unclad in the corridor.

  These were unfamiliar sides to a man whom she’d seen, but not truly seen, before.

  And you saw a whole lot more of him last evening.

  Emilia devoted all her attentions to the contents of her cup, lest the pair of footmen at the opposite
wall note the blush burning her cheeks. Emilia was no empty-headed ninny to go wide-eyed over a gentleman’s physique, and yet…

  Jacketless and in his bare, well, stocking clad feet. And she, for the first time in her life, had been… intrigued by Heath Whitworth, of all gentlemen. Tall, lean, and wiry, he’d an altogether different physique than her former betrothed. Only, sans jacket and cravat with his lawn shirt gaping open, she’d appreciated for the first time the chiseled perfection of his frame. From the aquiline nose, to the sharp cheeks, noble jaw, and brow, he put her in mind of one of those Greek statues she’d admired in the London Museum.

  Unbidden, her gaze shifted to the doorway. Mayhap, she’d been wrong and Heath had no intention of dutifully following the items on his mother’s list pertaining to the spinsterish houseguest.

  Nay, he would.

  Knowing him and his reputation as she did, she knew that he knew no other way. He’d be here.

  And he’d fulfill every last item on that list.

  She peeked at the clock. Six minutes past six.

  Footfalls echoed in the corridor, tapping a purposeful, rhythmic march forward.

  Her heart did a little leap, and she frantically flipped through her book to a clean page devoid of recriminating information.

  When was the last time she’d been this excited about another person’s company? It was only because of that list. That’s all it was. Even saying that in her head, even telling herself that over and over, the lightness remained.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Her heart knocked harder against her rib cage, and she looked up from her book.

  Taller than most men, he filled the entrance, looking—

  Pained. He looked pained at being here, and she was certain she was going to hell for taking such delight in that. The bounder.

  With all the ladylike lessons on decorum drilled into her, she glided to her feet. “My lord.” Bowing her head slightly, she sank into a curtsy.

  “Em—” He glanced to the servants at the sideboard. “Lady Emilia,” he corrected, adherent to societal expectations. As he went to the sideboard to make himself a dish, she studied his broad back from under her lashes.