A Matter of Scandal (11 page)

Tristan didn’t look convinced, and in truth, neither was he. Obviously the fresh Hampshire air had rendered him completely insane. He’d lost the ability to separate business from pleasure, so he was making a muck of them both.

The question, then, was how to clean up the mess.

By the time they arrived back at Haverly, he’d come up with the beginnings of an answer, and he spent the next few hours mulling it over. It was astonishingly simple. Emma Grenville had a fine wit and a rare, lovely smile. She had a slender build and pert, beckoning breasts, and he desired her. He therefore merely had to accomplish one task: he had to make her desire him.

“What are you smiling about?”

Grey jumped. His entire annoying party sat prattling in the drawing room, and he hadn’t heard a thing they were saying. In fact, he couldn’t recall much about dinner, either, except
that there had been boiled potatoes. Again—another product of his uncle’s economizing. If he didn’t get Emma out of his system soon, people were going to begin thinking him soft-headed—or worse, soft-hearted.

“I occasionally smile just because I feel like smiling,” he drawled, leaning over to select a cigar from the box on the table.

Alice scowled. “It’s not as if we don’t all know, Grey.”

His smile faded. “And what is it you know, Alice?” Deliberately he lit the cigar and took a long puff, ignoring his uncle’s affronted look and Aunt Regina’s delicate cough. He didn’t care whether his smoking offended the ladies or not. He wasn’t teaching etiquette this evening.

Hobbes entered the room. “Your Grace, my lords and ladies,” he intoned, “Miss Emma Grenville.”

With a silent oath Grey snuffed out his cigar, rising to his feet in the same motion. The other gentlemen in the room followed suit a heartbeat later.

Miss Emma glided into the drawing room. She’d dressed in a dark green gown with a rust-colored pelisse for the occasion; she looked well, if not quite as elegant as Alice and Sylvia. Grey wanted to devour her. Since he couldn’t, he settled for running his gaze along the length of her slender, curved form and imagining.

“Emma, what brings you here at this hour?” Aunt Regina asked, her face concerned. “The Academy is well, I trust?”

The headmistress smiled, reaching out to squeeze the countess’ outstretched hand. “Yes,
everything is fine. Thank you for inquiring, my lady.”

“You must tell us the reason for your visit,” Sylvia cooed, cupping a glass of Madeira. “We haven’t seen you since the evening you favored us with your…interesting rendition of Nurse.”

“I apologize for not having you over to the Academy, but I’m afraid we’re not equipped to accommodate visitors.”

“Hm. Dare and Wycliffe seem to visit often enough.” Sylvia sent Grey a sly sideways glance.

Grey drew a slow, annoyed breath. He might hope to lure Emma into misbehaving, but she hadn’t done so yet, and he wouldn’t have them insinuating that she’d done something improper.

Before he could give Sylvia a set-down, though, Tristan bent down, gazing toward Sylvia’s dainty feet. “What is that, my dear?” he asked, toeing something none of them could see. “Oh, my, it seems you’ve coughed up a hairball, Lady Sylvia.”

Grey lifted an eyebrow at Sylvia’s affronted expression. “Don’t look at me for sympathy,” he said. “You began it.”

“Actually, Your Grace,” Emma said briskly, “
you
began it. As the host of the party here at Haverly, you should be attending to their entertainment and comfort. Given the amount of time you’ve spent instructing my students, I’m not surprised Lady Sylvia—and your other esteemed guests—should feel slighted.”

She was in fine form this evening—both physically and mentally. “I appreciate your concern over the minimal time I’ve been able to spend with my guests,” he returned smoothly, “though
it behooves me to point out that you have interrupted a pleasant evening we’ve been spending in one another’s company.”

“Greydon,” his uncle chastised.

Emma only nodded. “Indeed I have, Your Grace, for which I apologize. I shall be as brief as possible.”

Damn
. He’d wanted her to stay. Emma was far too clever for him to be fencing with her without first considering her reply.

“But you still haven’t said why you’re here,” Alice said, her lips curved in a smile that looked closer to a snarl.

“Alice, you have all the subtlety of a dog bite,” he returned. “I’m sure she’ll tell us when she’s ready to do so.”

To his surprise, the headmistress blushed. “I’m afraid it’s a personal matter. I require a word with you, Your Grace.”

That was more like it
. Moving forward, he gestured her toward a side door. “After you.”

“Grey, what about—” Alice began in a whining voice.

“Excuse us for a moment,” he said, cutting her off.

He shut the door behind him, watching Emma as she turned to face him. Her hands were clasped firmly behind her, and unless he was greatly mistaken, she was nervous.

“What can I do for you, Emma?” he asked in a low voice.

“First, open the door.”

Damnation, lusting after a proper chit was frustrating. Reaching back, he cracked open the door. “There.”

“More.”

Swallowing an oath, he pushed it another inch. “Enough?”

“A foot at least, Your Grace.”

“Fine.”

When he’d complied she lifted her chin, finally meeting his gaze. “Thank you. With my students present, I haven’t had an opportunity for a frank discussion with you.”

If she began chatting about farming, he wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences, open door or not. Her presence alone was enough to leave him aching. “Discuss, then,” he said, taking a step toward her.

“Very well. I haven’t seen much of the world.”

He took another step closer. “I know.”

“And you’ve seen a great deal of it, I suppose.”

“I have.” Three more steps and he would be close enough to touch her.

“I am aware, however, of the way the world works.”

“Good.” One step down, two to go.

Finally she seemed to notice how close he was getting. Shifting her hazel gaze between his feet and his face, she cleared her throat. “I know, for instance, that when compared with London, Hampshire must seem very dull.”

“Not entire—”

“And that you, as a duke, do not like and are not accustomed to boredom.”

With a slight smile, Grey shook his head, noting that they were at least out of the line of sight of the drawing room occupants. “I am frequently bored, and prefer to be challenged, though I believe we’ve had that discussion already.”

“Yes—yes. That’s my point, in fact. In order to keep yourself from being bored, you’ve convinced yourself that I’m some sort of…of a challenge.”

He lifted an eyebrow, wondering which of them she was actually attempting to convince. “And you’re here to inform me that you’re not a challenge. Is that it?”

“Well, yes. I am a headmistress at a girls’ school.”

Her full, slightly parted lips beckoned to him. “Emma,” he murmured, “you are a very great challenge.”

“But—”

Grey leaned down and captured her mouth.

His warm lips teased and pulled, until Emma couldn’t tell who was kissing whom. Her head kept saying that she should run away as fast as she could, but her head didn’t have a chance against the molten heat of Greydon Brakenridge.

Arms of banded iron swept around her waist, pulling her to him. She could feel his arousal, his heat, pressing against her, and she groaned as warmth swept down her spine. He
did
desire her. He wasn’t just teasing.

She twined her hands into his hair, and he deepened the embrace of their mouths. He was a rake, she desperately reminded herself. A very experienced rake, with two other women in this very house that he’d probably held in the same strong, warm embrace. Two women, just through the half open door from where she and the duke stood.

“Stop!” she hissed, yanking his hair.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark and his breathing as harsh as her own. “Why?”

“You go too far.” His elegant hands, intimately cupping her bottom, seemed to burn through her gown to her flesh.

“Isn’t this what you came here for, Emma?” he murmured.

“No!” Abruptly, though, she wondered if he wasn’t correct.

“Then why didn’t you write me one of your stimulating letters?” He dipped his head, running his lips across her throat.

Emma wanted to melt into him. Several of her married friends, especially the Countess of Kilcairn and the Marchioness of Althorpe, had attempted to describe what being the object of a man’s desire felt like, but all of their words had been inadequate. Woefully so.

“A letter,” she managed, “wouldn’t have been sufficient.”

“I agree. You’ve made your point much more clearly this way.” His mouth found the base of her jaw.

“My point. Oh, good lord.”
What had her point even been?
“Yes, my point.” With every bit of self-control she possessed, Emma pushed her hands against his chest.

It was a pitiful effort, but he released her. She thought she’d escaped, until he stroked the back of his fingers along the low neckline of her gown. “I have a point to make, too, Emma.”

She backstepped. “No doubt you do. But—”

“Kiss me again,” he murmured, pursuing her.

Oh, my goodness, she wanted to
. “Let me speak,”
she demanded, putting her hand over his seeking mouth.

He tugged it away. “Speaking does not seem to be something you’re shy about,” he returned dryly.

“Humph. As I was saying, your presence in Hampshire is unusual enough that you have attracted the notice of my students.”

“Your students.”

“Yes.” From his skeptical expression, he knew very well whose notice had been attracted, but at the moment that wasn’t the point. “And even more, your presence at the Academy, and your…physical attractiveness…well, surely you understand that it’s very easy for young ladies to be swayed by a kind word and a pleasing countenance.”

To her relief, he nodded. She didn’t think she would have been able to continue much longer.

“You’re concerned that your students may develop a tendre for me.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“And that in doing so, they might cost you the wager.”

“What?” she stammered. “The wager has nothing to do with this! I am talking about the…fragile hearts of young girls.”

Wycliffe looked at her for a long moment. “You are, aren’t you?” He sighed. “I have no intention of behaving in such an underhanded manner. I’ll win the wager easily enough without resorting to that.”

She nodded. “Thank you; I’m glad you understand. We have rules, and whatever your motivations for…pursuing me, I cannot—I
will not—allow you to keep sneaking into the Academy—into my bed chamber—when a school full of young, impressionable females might see you and misinterpret your actions.” He continued to gaze at her in silence, so she continued. “Is that clear?”

“Are you going to have this conversation with Dare?”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“And why is that?”

Now his expression was serious, even angry. Even—though her pulse fluttered again to think it—jealous. So part of the animosity between the two men
was
over her. A small thrill ran down her spine.

“Tristan has not been in my bed chamber. Nor has he kissed m—”

“‘Tristan’? You call him ‘Tristan’?”

She flushed. Blast it, she should have been paying more attention to what she was saying. But she’d been too occupied with the idea that an actual—two actual—males found her desirable. “He asked me to,” she offered lamely.

“Then I ask you to call me Grey. Will you do it?”

“Your Grace, I am not here to assign nomenclatures, or to participate in your little game of one-upmanship. I am here to make certain you understand both the rules of the Academy and the reason we have them. Please—”

“Will you?” he repeated, his tone and expression becoming dark.

Her pulse skittered again. “All right. If it will keep you from pummeling anyone, yes. I will call you Grey.”

“Then do so.”

“I just did.”

“No, you didn’t. You referred to me as Grey. Call me by my Christian name, Emma.”

She sighed, hoping she looked more composed than she felt. “As you wish, Grey.”

“That’s more like it. Now, where were w—”

The door opened the rest of the way. “Greydon? Is everything all right?”

Grey closed his eyes for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he faced the doorway again. “Yes, Uncle Dennis. We’ve been discussing the wager.”

Belatedly, Emma realized how close to one another they were standing. Swiftly she took a step back, folding her hands together. “It’s just that I have a few doubts about the wisdom of some of the things His Grace is teaching my students,” she said briskly.

Lord Haverly’s smile wavered a little, and Emma winced. It was bad enough that she be seen in nearly private conversation with a man. For her to be discovered within touching distance of him would be enough to ruin her in London. Thank goodness none of her students was present; she was becoming an abysmal role model. And as for kissing Wycliffe, touching his hard chest and feeling his strong arms pulling her close…she would worry about that later.

“Well, I still believe this wager is a great deal of nonsense,” Haverly said. “I don’t suppose the two of you will listen to an old man’s opinion, though.”

“Not at the moment,” the duke returned. “Excuse us, uncle, but there are a few more points we need to clarify.”

Thanks to their previous embrace she knew precisely which point of his he wanted clarified, and Emma knew if she didn’t escape at once, she probably wouldn’t have the willpower to do so. “I believe I’ve stated my reservations, Your Grace. It is now up to you to satisfy them.”

Grey faced her. “I believe I’m up to that task,” he said in a low voice, his eyes glinting.

Damnation. She’d said the wrong thing—again
. Hopefully Lord Haverly wouldn’t notice her blush in the dim room. “I shall be going, now,” she said, trying not to rush her words.

“You could stay for whist,” the earl suggested, obviously making an effort to be his usual jovial self.