by Julia Quinn
She smiled weakly. “Very well. I shall meet you at the front gate at thirty-five minutes past four. I am dismissed at half four,” she explained, “but it will take me five minutes to walk to the gate.”
“Can we not simply meet here?”
She shook her head. “Not unless you want every gossip at Danbury House talking about us.”
“An excellent point. The front gate it is, then.”
Elizabeth nodded and left the room, her wobbly legs just managing to make it back to the cushioned bench. Dear Lord, what on earth had she gotten herself into?
Meow.
She looked down. Malcolm the demon cat was sitting at her feet, staring at her as if she were a kitchen rat.
“What do you want?”
The cat shrugged. Elizabeth hadn’t known that a cat could shrug, but then again, she hadn’t thought she’d ever find herself sitting in Danbury House’s great hall, talking to her feline nemesis.
“You think I’m ridiculous, don’t you?”
Malcolm yawned.
“I’ve agreed to let Mr. Siddons train me to find a husband.”
The cat’s ears perked forward.
“Yes, I know you like him better than me. You like everyone better than me.”
The cat shrugged again, clearly unwilling to contradict her statement.
“You think I can’t do it, don’t you?”
Malcolm made a rolling motion with his tail. Elizabeth was at a complete loss to translate this, but given the cat’s well-documented distaste for her, she tended to believe it meant, “I have a better chance of finding a husband than you do.”
“Elizabeth?”
She turned beet-red and jerked her head to the side. James had poked his head through the library door and was regarding her quizzically.
“Are you talking to the cat?”
“No.”
“I could have sworn I heard you talking to the cat.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Oh.”
“Why would I talk to the cat? He hates me.”
His lips twitched. “Yes. So you said.”
She tried to pretend she didn’t realize that her cheeks were burning. “Don’t you have something to do?”
“Ah, yes, the lesson plans. I shall see you a bit after half four.”
Elizabeth waited until she heard the library door click shut. “Dear God,” she breathed. “I have gone insane. Completely insane.”
Adding insult to injury, the cat nodded.
Chapter 10
James arrived at the front gate at a quarter past four, knowing he was ridiculously early, but somehow unable to stop his feet from carrying him to the appointed meeting site. He had felt restless all afternoon, constantly drumming his fingers on tables and pacing across rooms. He had tried to sit down and write out the lesson plan he had bragged about, but the words would not come.
He had no experience in training a young lady for society. The only young lady he really knew was the wife of his best friend, Blake Ravenscroft. And Caroline hadn’t precisely been trained for society herself. As for all of his other female acquaintances—they were just the sort Mrs. Seeton was trying to mold Elizabeth into. Just the sort that had prompted his overwhelming relief at leaving London.
What was it he wanted in a woman? His quest to help Elizabeth seemed to beg the question. What was it he wanted in a wife? He had to marry; there was no arguing fate in that respect. But it had been so damned hard to imagine spending the rest of his life with a shy flower who was afraid to express an opinion.
Or worse, a shy flower who didn’t even possess an opinion.
And the final twist of the bayonet was that those opinionless young ladies invariably came with extremely opinionated mothers.
He wasn’t being fair, he forced himself to concede. He’d met a few young ladies who were interesting. Not many, but a few. One or two of them he even could have married without fearing that he was ruining his life. It wouldn’t have been a love match, and there would have been no grand passion, but he could have been passably content.
So what was it these ladies—the ones who had fleetingly caught his attention—had possessed? It was a certain joie de vivre, a love for life, a smile that seemed real, a light in the eyes. James was fairly certain he wasn’t the only man who had seen these things—all of the young ladies in question had been quickly snapped up into marriage, usually by men whom he liked and respected.
Love for life. Maybe that was what this was all about. He’d spent the morning reading HOW TO MARRY A MARQUIS, and with each edict, he’d pictured a little bit more of that incomparable sapphire light melting away from Elizabeth’s eyes.
He didn’t want her molded into some predetermined ideal of young English womanhood. He didn’t want her walking with her eyes downcast, trying to be mysterious and demure. He just wanted her to be herself.
Elizabeth shut the door to Danbury House behind her and set off down the main drive. Her heart was racing, her hands were clammy, and while she didn’t feel precisely embarrassed that James had discovered her desperate secret, she was as nervous as could be.
She had spent all afternoon berating herself for accepting his offer. Hadn’t she spent the previous night sobbing herself to sleep, all because she thought she could love him—a man she could never marry? And now she was purposely putting herself in his company, allowing him to tease her, to flirt with her, and—
Good God, what if he wanted to kiss her again? He said he was going to train her to attract other men. Did that entail kissing? And if it did, should she let him do it?
She groaned. As if she’d be able to stop him. Every time they were in the same room together, her eyes wandered to his mouth, and she remembered what it felt like to have those lips on hers. And God help her, she wanted that again.
A final glimpse of bliss. Maybe that was what this was all about. She was going to have to marry someone she didn’t love, maybe even someone she didn’t much like. Was it so wrong to want a few last days of laughter, of secret glances, of that heady tingle of newborn desire?
As she walked toward the front gate she suspected that she was courting heartbreak by agreeing to meet James, but her heart wouldn’t let her do anything else. She’d read enough Shakespeare to trust the Bard, and if he said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all—she believed him.
He was waiting for her, just out of sight of Danbury House, and his eyes lit up when he saw her.
“Elizabeth,” he called out, striding toward her.
She paused, content to just watch him approach, the light breeze ruffling his dark hair. She’d never met anyone who seemed more comfortable in his skin as James Siddons. He had such an easy stride, a smooth gait. She thought about the innumerable times she’d tripped over a rug or swung her hand into a wall and sighed in envy.
He reached her side and said simply, “You’re here.”
“Didn’t you think I would be?”
“I had thought you might have second thoughts.”
“Of course I have second thoughts. This is quite the most irregular thing I’ve ever done.”
“How admirable of you,” he murmured.
“But it wouldn’t matter if I’d had second, third, or even fourth thoughts.” She smiled helplessly. “I have to walk right by here to get home, so I couldn’t avoid you if I tried.”
“How fortunate for me.”
“I have a feeling that fortune often smiles upon you.”
He cocked his head. “Now, why would you say that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. You just seem the sort who always lands on his feet.”
“I suspect you are a survivor, too.”
“In a certain sense, I suppose. I could have given up on my family years ago, you know. Relatives did offer to take in Lucas.”
“But not the rest of you?”
She smiled wryly. “The rest of us aren’t in possession of titles.”
“I see.
” He took her arm and motioned to the south. “Is it this way?”
She nodded. “Yes, about a mile down the road, then about a quarter of a mile down the side lane.”
They walked for a few paces, and then he turned to her and said, “You said you were a survivor ‘in a certain sense.’ What did you mean by that?”
“It’s easier for a man to be a survivor than a woman.”
“That makes no sense.”
She gave him a faintly pitying look. He would never understand what she had to say, but she supposed she owed it to him to try to explain nonetheless. “When a man falls on hard times,” she said, “there are quite a number of things he may do, options he may pursue, to reverse his situation. He may join the army, or sign on to a pirate ship. He may look for work, as you have done. He may use his charm and looks”—she shook her head and smiled reluctantly—“as I imagine you have also done.”
“And a woman may not do these things?”
“A woman looking for work does not have many options if she does not wish to leave her home. A governess post might pay marginally better than a lady’s companion, but I doubt many employers would look too kindly upon my bringing Susan, Jane, and Lucas with me to live in the servants’ wing.”
“Touché,” he said with an understanding nod.
“And as for charm and looks, well, a woman can use those for three things. She can go into the theater, she can become a man’s mistress, or she can marry. As for me, I have no inclination or talent for acting and no wish to shame my family by entering into an illicit relationship.” She looked up at him and shrugged. “My only choice is marriage. That, I suppose, is what it means for a woman to be a survivor.”
She paused, and the corners of her mouth quivered as if they didn’t know whether to attempt a smile or a frown. “Rather distasteful, don’t you think?”
James didn’t answer her for several moments. He liked to think of himself as a broad-minded individual, but he had never once taken the time to imagine what it must be like in the tight, pinching shoes of a woman. He had taken his life, with its myriad choices, for granted.
She tilted her head. “Why are you looking at me so intently?”
“Respect.”
She drew back in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“I admired you before. You seemed an uncommonly intelligent and amusing young woman. But now I realize that you deserve my respect as well as my admiration.”
“Oh. I—I—” She blushed, clearly at a loss for words.
He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” she replied, the squeak in her voice proving her a liar.
“Yes, I did, and I certainly didn’t mean for this to be such a serious afternoon. We have work to do, but there is no reason it shouldn’t be entertaining.”
She cleared her throat. “What did you have in mind?”
“We haven’t much time, so we are forced to prioritize,” he said. “We must focus upon only the very most important skills.”
“Which are?”
“Kissing and boxing.”
Elizabeth dropped her satchel.
“You seem surprised.”
“I couldn’t possibly imagine which of those two surprises me more.”
He swooped down and picked up her bag for her. “It makes perfect sense when you think on it. A gentleman is going to want to kiss a lady before he tenders an offer of marriage.”
“Not if he respects her,” she pointed out. “I have it on the best authority that men don’t kiss unmarried women whom they respect.”
“I kissed you.”
“Well…that was…different.”
“And I believe we have made it clear that I respect you. But enough of that.” He waved her protests away. “You must trust me when I tell you that no gentleman with an ounce of sense in his head is going to marry a woman without testing the waters first.”
“Put that way,” she muttered, “it’s positively poetic.”
“However, that can put you in an awkward position.”
“Oh, you realize that?” she asked sarcastically.
He shot her a look, clearly irritated by her constant interruption. “Some gentlemen lack basic common sense and judgment, and might not break off the kiss at an appropriate time. That is why we must teach you to box.”
“And you’re going to do all of this in one afternoon?”
He pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open, his face a perfect picture of nonchalance. “No, I had thought just the kissing for this afternoon. We can see to the boxing tomorrow.”
“And you are trained in the sport of pugilism?”
“Of course.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Aren’t lessons terribly expensive? I had heard that there were only a handful of instructors in London who are considered of superior quality.”
“There are always ways to obtain what one needs,” he said. He looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. “I believe you said I am the sort who always lands on his feet.”
“I suppose now you are going to tell me you are the sort who lands on his feet with his arms primed and ready to box?”
He laughed and made a few jabs in the air. “There is nothing like it to keep the blood flowing.”
She frowned dubiously. “It doesn’t look a very feminine pursuit.”
“I thought we had decided we weren’t going to subscribe to Mrs. Seeton’s view of femininity.”
“We’re not,” she retorted, “but we are trying to find me a husband.”
“Ah, yes, your husband,” he said darkly.
“I cannot imagine there is a man in England who wants to marry a lady pugilist.”
“You don’t need to be a pugilist. You just need to be able to punch well enough to show that you cannot be taken advantage of.”
She shrugged and made a fist. “Like this?”
“God, no. Don’t tuck your thumb in. You’re sure to break it.”
Elizabeth moved her thumb to the outside of her fist. “Like this?”
He nodded approvingly. “Exactly. But we were going to study kissing today.”
“No, let’s save that.” She thrust her arm forward a few times. “I’m rather enjoying myself.”
James groaned, not quite sure what was bothering him more—that he had to put off kissing her another day or that she had the weakest punch he’d ever seen. “No, no, not like that,” he said, positioning himself behind her. He let her bag fall to the ground as he put his hand on her elbow and readjusted the angle of her shoulder. “You punch like a girl.”
“I am a girl.”
“Well, that much I’ve always found obvious, but you don’t have to punch like one.”
“And how,” she asked, mocking a deep male voice, “does a man punch?”
“Girls, I’ve learned, punch like this.” He made a fist and moved his arm forward and back, his elbow never straying far from his side. “Men, on the other hand, put a little swing into it.”
“Do please demonstrate.”
“Very well. Back off, then. I shouldn’t like to injure you.”
Elizabeth offered him a dry smile and took a few steps back. “Is that enough room for a man?”
“Don’t mock. Just watch.” He drew his arm back. “I shall have to show you this at half the usual speed since I’m not actually punching anything but air. The momentum is likely to take me with the punch.”
“By all means, then,” she said with a magnanimous wave of her hand. “Half speed.”
“Pay attention. You’re watching a master.”
“Of that,” she said dryly, “I have no doubt.”
He moved his entire arm forward, the motion beginning at the center of his back and surging through his shoulder to his fist. If he had been moving at full speed, and if there were someone standing in front of him, James rather thought he might have knocked him out. “What do you think?” he asked, thoroughly pleased with himself.
/> “Do it again.”
He raised his brows but complied, putting even more swing into it this time. He looked up to her face; she had her eyes narrowed and was studying him as if he were a prized piece of livestock.
Looking up briefly, she asked, “One more time?”
“Are you paying attention or just trying to make me look like an idiot?”
“Oh, I’m definitely paying attention. If you look like an idiot it has nothing to do with me.”
James pulled his arm back one last time. “To recap,” he said, “a woman punches forward from the shoulder, without using the muscles of her middle back.”
Elizabeth imitated his female punch. “Like this.”
“Precisely. A man, on the other hand, utilizes the strength of his back as well as his arm.”
“These muscles here?” She lifted up her right arm and used her left hand to motion to the muscles wrapping around her right rib cage.
His mouth went dry. Her dress was tightening around her in most unusual places.
“Here, James?” she demanded, poking her back. “Or here?” This time she poked his back, except that she missed, and got him more in the side, rather close to his waist.
“Right the first time,” he said, darting away from her finger. If she missed his back by another inch or two in the southerly direction, he wouldn’t be held responsible for his actions.
“So it’s a little like this.” She threw a half-speed punch, moving only marginally faster than he had while doing it.
“Yes. But you need a little bit more lateral movement. Watch me one more time.” He threw another punch. “See?”
“I think so. Would you like me to give it a go?”
“Yes.” He crossed his arms. “Punch me.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“No, I want you to.”
“I couldn’t possibly. I’ve never intentionally hurt another person before.”
“Elizabeth, the entire purpose of this lesson is so you can injure another person if the need arises. If you cannot bring yourself to punch a human being, this has been a total waste of time.”
She looked doubtful. “If you insist.”
