A Matter of Scandal (9 page)

“I know you have good sense,” Isabelle was saying. “But
s’il vous plaît
, do not let this contest hurt you.”

“Don’t worry, Isabelle. The well-being of my students and the Academy will always come before anything else.”

She parted from her friend at the front door and went outside, where her students waited for her.

“Miss Emma, isn’t Wycliffe coming?” Lizzy asked, tying the strings of her bonnet beneath her chin.

“His Grace, you mean,” Emma corrected.

“He said we should call him Wycliffe.”

Well, fine
. When he’d encouraged her to call him by his titular name, she’d thought that might be some special privilege, reserved for friends and the females he was hunting. Obviously that wasn’t the case.

“If he gave you permission,” she said smoothly, “you should do as you think most appropriate. And no, I don’t know whether he will be coming by today, or not. That being the case, we will walk to the near pasture at Haverly, and conduct today’s lesson on the way.”

“Walk? Drat,” Elizabeth muttered, the rest of the girls echoing her.

“Yes, walk. We are cartless at the moment, and your lessons and my studies both need attention. This way, we may accomplish both.”

Despite the confident statement, she had no idea how she would manage both the task of teaching ballroom etiquette and learning agriculture simultaneously. She couldn’t abandon the girls, though, simply because their guest instructor was unreliable. Nor would she neglect her part of the wager, also for the girls’ sake.

They started down the drive, and Tobias nodded as he pulled open the gate for them. “Wally Jones and me’ll haul the cart out of the pond this afternoon. I’ll have it looking good as new.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “‘Good as new’ would be a miracle. I’ll happily settle for having all four wheels in working order.”

As they walked north, the rumble of wheels heading toward them stopped Emma short. “To one side, ladies,” she instructed, trying to pretend that she didn’t have a very good idea who was coming toward them, and that her pulse hadn’t begun to speed in response.

A phaeton rounded the bend and came to a stop beside them. “Miss Emma,” Lord Dare said, hopping to the ground and doffing his hat in the same motion, “I am here to render assistance.”

She smiled, though she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. The viscount was so…not Wycliffe. “My thanks, Lord Dare, but as you can see, we are walking today.” The phaeton had been so nice to ride in yesterday; she couldn’t imagine owning such a marvelous, well-sprung contraption.

“I don’t think we’d all fit up there, anyway,” Elizabeth said to no one in particular.

“Perhaps you might meet us at the near pasture,” Emma suggested.

Light blue eyes took in the flock of young females ranged behind her. “I thought Wycliffe was taking your class today.”

Apparently Dare and Wycliffe weren’t communicating very well. That was interesting. “I assume he has other business to attend to this morning.”

The viscount shrugged. “Oh, well. His loss; my gain.”

More clomping of hooves came on the heels of that declaration, and Emma held her breath again. A large open barouche appeared, followed by a great black coach emblazoned with the Wycliffe coat of arms. The Duke of Wycliffe sat in the barouche, legs crossed at the ankles, one arm outstretched along the plush red seatback, and a cigar stuck at a jaunty angle between his teeth.

“Oh, my goodness,” Mary Mawgry whispered in an awed tone.

The sight
was
rather impressive. In fact, Emma had never gazed upon such a spectacular-looking vehicle—or man.

“Damned show-off,” Lord Dare muttered under his breath. His normally affable face was set, his eyes narrowed and annoyed.

“Good morning, ladies,” the duke said, standing as the barouche rolled to a stop. “Where shall we conduct our studies today?”

“Where did the barouche come from?” the viscount asked. “Your uncle doesn’t own one.”

“The Earl of Palgrove lent it to me yesterday evening.”

Emma blinked. “Palgrove is a good eight miles north of Basingstoke.”

Green eyes met hers. “Closer to ten, actually. Nice fellow, Palgrove.” He held his hand down to her. “Shall we?”

She straightened her shoulders. “And the coach?”

“I didn’t know how many guards and chaperones and other hangers-on you’d have accompanying you.” For the first time he glanced at Dare. “This way there’s room for everyone.”

“I want to ride in the coach,” Julia stated.

“So do I,” Henrietta added, to no one’s surprise.

“Perhaps your groom might take the phaeton back to Haverly, then, and I’ll accompany you.” Dare’s hand touched Emma’s shoulder, though she hadn’t been aware of his approach.

Wycliffe nodded, gesturing to the liveried groom who sat beside the coach’s driver. “Danielson, take the phaeton back to Haverly. At a walk, if you please.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Before she could think to protest, Dare and Wycliffe lifted her up into the barouche, one man on each arm. Elizabeth piled in after her, while Jane and Mary followed with more decorum. The other girls and Miss Perchase made for the coach.

“Elizabeth, do not bounce on the seat,” she instructed.

The duke tapped on the floor with his ivory-handled walking stick, and the vehicle started off.
“And you think not bouncing will assure Lizzy’s success in Society?” he drawled.

Sometime yesterday, they’d all ended up on first name terms. She felt rather left out. “I think not bouncing is the proper way to behave,” Emma corrected sharply.

“I’m not going into Society, anyway,” Lizzy said, taking Mary Mawgry’s hand and patting it. “Let me know if you’re going to be ill, and I’ll make them stop,” she whispered.

“I thought the barouche might be well-sprung enough to prevent any discomfort, Miss Mawgry,” the duke said.

So now the Duke of Wycliffe was traveling twenty miles to secure a proper vehicle for one of her—his—students
. Emma frowned.

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” Mary said, smiling. “Even nicer than my father’s. I think I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern, Wycliffe.”

Emma’s scowl deepened. So Mary felt chatty today; that was unusual. She kept her gaze on the passing hedge grove. She certainly didn’t want to make shy Mary self-conscious by gaping at her.

“Why aren’t you going into Society, little one?” Lord Dare asked from beside her.

Lizzy wrinkled her freckled nose. “I want to be an instructor, like Miss Emma. Or a governess. I haven’t decided, yet.”

Wycliffe lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Clearing her throat to warn the outspoken girl, Emma turned to more directly face Dare. “I’ve been doing some research, my lord. Why did you suggest an oat crop yesterday, when barley is selling higher at market?”

“Oat’s less costly to grow. You don’t have to worry so much about irrigation, and even if the crop ruins, the local farmers will still buy it as hay.”

“But in the near field, the duck pond could irrigate the crop for next to nothing. Profit versus cost, barley is the more sound choice.”

Dare looked at her, his expression mildly surprised. “You’re right, of course.”

The duke’s eyes seemed alight with amusement and, unless she was gravely mistaken, approval. That was odd, considering he didn’t think she could add two numbers together, much less comprehend the fluctuating price of barley.

“If you’d asked me about the crop,” he said, “I would have recommended barley.”

The viscount shifted beside her, but remained silent. Something had definitely set the two men at odds with one another. If it was she, well, she couldn’t help feeling flattered despite her practical nature. Her well-married friends would never believe a duke and a viscount were sparring over her, of all people.

“If you’d recommended barley, I still would have researched the alternatives,” she said, just so he wouldn’t have the last word.

“I would hope so.”

“Wycliffe,” Jane asked, “do all of London’s assemblies allow waltzing now?”

Turning his gaze from Emma, he nodded. “Even the stodgiest have been forced into permitting it, since the alternative is that no one will attend. They all accept Almack’s, though, as the watermark. Without permission to waltz there, don’t expect to be allowed to do it elsewhere.”

“So you recommend the waltz?”

“I recommend anything which requires a man and a woman to embrace.”

“Your Grace!” Emma warned, over the giggles of the girls.

“If you’ll excuse me, Emma,” he said mildly, “I’m conducting a lesson.”

“A lesson in lewd behavior!” she snapped.

“A lesson in ballroom decorum and on being successful in Society, actually,” he amended.

His smug, arrogant expression irritated her immensely. “Just remember that I, too, will be one of the judges at the end of this contest, Your Grace.”

“Since when?”

“Since now.”

“Very well. But planting barley in one field won’t win you any wagers. You’re going to have to work harder than that, Emma.”

So now he was giving her advice—as if she needed it. Well, perhaps she did, but not from him. “As that American naval fellow said, ‘I have not yet begun to fight.’”

“Perhaps you should begin, then. You don’t have much time.” Before she could respond, he faced Jane and Mary again as though she had ceased to exist. “Men like to waltz, whether they’re any good at it or not. The best female partner, therefore, is one who is not only proficient, but one who can make the fellow look better than he is.”

He was trying to pull her into another argument, obviously, but this
was
his class, and they were his lessons, and if they continued in that vein, they would be fairly harmless. That would mean less work for her to unteach them later.

“Pray continue,” she said, and turned to Lord Dare. “Since I am working on improving Haverly’s circumstances as they currently exist, how long would it take to clear two acres and level it for construction?”

“Building another Academy?” the duke interjected.

“Teach,” she said, flipping her hand at him.

Dare cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d rather have this discussion later.”

Emma took the viscount’s gloved hand and squeezed his fingers. “His plans are already completed, or very nearly so, and I certainly have nothing to hide.”

“Very well. Do you have an idea where you want to locate this construction?”

“Yes. Somewhere alongside the creek, preferably on the far side of Moult Hill. We don’t want to spoil the view from the manor house—or from the Academy.”

“Well, you—”

“We’ve arrived, Your Grace,” the barouche driver announced. “Where do you wish me to stop?”

A small herd of cattle grazed on the far side of the meadow. “This is perfect,” Emma said.

“Here, Roscoe,” the duke echoed, as though the driver was incapable of interpreting her comments. The man was impossible.

They piled out of the barouche as the coach stopped behind them. Grey stifled a sigh, watching the other two girls and the fragile Miss Perchase rejoin their group. He should be grateful, he supposed, that Emma hadn’t assigned twenty or thirty of the little chits to his care. With three of
them in the barouche, he could just about keep track of both their conversation and the headmistress’s; with five, the task would become much more difficult, especially with damned Dare present.

The young ones jabbered around him in some obscure adolescent female language. Towering over them as he did by a good two feet, he had no trouble at least keeping Emma in sight.

Dare beside her, she walked up to Simmons and Roscoe. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said with a smile, “for not detouring us into the duck pond.”

Ah, sarcasm
. As if she wanted to be certain he got her point, Emma sent Grey a coy sideways glance. Having slain him with her wit, or whatever she thought she’d accomplished, she wrapped her arm around Tristan’s. After a moment of low-voiced discussion, they strolled off in the direction of Uncle Dennis’s cattle.

Grey watched the soft sway of her rounded hips as she headed away from him. Much as he wanted to level Dare, if she intended on discussing land management, putting some distance between them was probably wise. Just listening to her talking about barley in the barouche, he’d nearly had to place his hat over his trousers. There was clearly something very wrong with him.

“Wycliffe, are you certain we’re allowed to call you Wycliffe?” young Lizzy asked, thankfully pulling his attention away from the headmistress’s backside.

“I said you should. And what I say is generally adhered to.” He studied the cherubic upturned
face with the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “Why?”

“Miss Emma said we shouldn’t.”

Oh, she had, had she? “We’ll do as she says, then.”

All of the faces looking at him fell with absurd expressions of disappointment. “We will?”

“Yes. You may no longer call me Wycliffe. You may call me Grey.”

Lady Jane chuckled. “Miss Emma won’t like that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not very formal,” Lizzy stated.

The others nodded. Before he could ask why Emma insisted on so much formality, Henrietta, followed by Julia, curtsied at him.

“Jane and Mary said you might instruct us about waltzing.”

He’d actually meant to discover how much nonsense the Academy had stuffed into their heads, but he could do that just as easily while they attempted to dance. “I am at your disposal.”

Now Emma was pointing at the cattle and saying something to Tristan. At his response, she laughed and jotted down some notes in the sheaf of papers she’d been toting. Grey narrowed his eyes. Blast it, that should have been
his
laugh, and
his
company she was enjoying.

The girls looked at him expectantly, perhaps waiting for him to pluck an orchestra out of his pocket. He glanced at Emma again. Well, if she meant to leave the class to his ministrations, then so be it.

“You do know how to waltz, I presume?”

“Yes. Miss Windicott instructs us in all the latest dances.”