Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) (27 page)

"You are going to Wyndham Manor?" Her voice was a tremulous whisper, and he watched in alarm as her face drained of all color.

"Yes," he said carefully. "I intended to leave two days ago, but your, um, escapade delayed me. I plan to depart in the morning."

"But... but why? Surely I can explain anything you need to know."

"It is past time I saw the estate, Amanda. Especially since..." He grimaced as he spoke. "Since you will no doubt be marrying soon and the property will be part of your dowry."

"But surely it is not necessary. Not now, I mean, in the middle of the Season. Why not leave it for later?"

Stephen slowly walked back behind his desk, using the movement to buy time. She was clearly hiding something, searching for any excuse to keep him from York. But why? What secrets could be there that she did not want him to find?

He slowly looked up at her, his eyes narrowing as a seemingly inconsequential thought crossed his mind.

"Today is Sunday."

She blinked. "Yes."

"Today is Sunday, and yet you did not go to church."

She swallowed, her throat muscles constricting as she lifted her chin. "I was still resting from my ordeal."

"You are in perfect health." He patently ignored the ugly bruise on her temple for all that the sight still made his gut clench in horror. "You said it was nothing."

"Yes, but—"

"In fact, for the past two months you have never gone to church."

She straightened her body, as if defying him to challenge her, but he could not miss the panic in her eyes. "There is nothing odd about that. Many society ladies decline Sunday services. Especially since I love to dance until dawn the night before."

"Yes, but many society ladies have not had a religious conversion." He watched her closely, seeing not her upright carriage and defiant stance, but the way she twisted her fingers in her skirt and the darting shift of her eyes as she thought through her responses.

"I never said I had a conversion."

She was right. She had never actually said those words. He frantically scanned his memory, struggling to remember what exactly she had said that second night in his house. But instead of recalling that conversation, his mind ran to other conversations, other inconsistencies. He began with his strange discussion with Mr. Oltheten about Amanda and Gillian, touched on the night of her first ball when he found her clasping a maid's cap in her hands. Then his thoughts flashed through her unexpected compassion for the servants and unfortunates, her knowledge of medicines, and her willingness to maid herself, tend her own fires, and do all manner of things without thought—as though no one had ever waited on her before.

Then he lifted his gaze, finally focusing on her brilliantly rich auburn hair. What had Mr. Oltheten said?
Bitter, sickly little thing all encased in white. Looked like a shriveled-up mummy.
Looking at Amanda now, he saw something he had never noticed before. Even if she were wrapped in white and desperately ill, her hair would stand out. It was her crowning glory, a perfect complement for her flashing green eyes.

She would never look like a mummy. She was too colorful a person, too bright a soul ever to fit that description.

"Tell me about your sister Gillian."

He heard her gasp, and the sound sent shock waves reverberating through his soul.

"Why?" she demanded, her voice almost shrill. "Why do you want to know about that worthless bitch?"

He raised his eyebrows, desperately fighting to gain a hold on his thoughts. "Strong words for your sister."

"Half-sister. And if you want strong words, here are some more. She is a lying, scheming woman. You would despise her on sight, and you..." She took a steadying breath. "You would not even know why."

He could read the pain in her eyes, saw it lance through her expression as she fought a losing battle for control. She had never been like this, even in the midst of their most heated battles. Anguish seemed to beat at her before his very eyes. Yet she stood there, her chin raised in rebellion, as if she dared him and the universe to break through her exterior to the misery underneath.

She is Gillian.

The thought whispered through his consciousness with the force of a sledgehammer. He felt his jaw go slack as he stumbled to his desk.
Good God–

He cut off his thought as ruthlessly as a surgeon cutting off a man's arm. It could not be true. It was not true.

He raised his tortured gaze to the woman before him, her face pale as she watched him, her eyes pulled wide with concern.

She is—

No! It was impossible.

It took all of his will to suppress his own mind, but somehow he pushed his own thoughts away. Then, for the first time in his life, Stephen looked straight at Amanda and gave her the cut direct.

He turned around.

He heard her gasp, knowing he had just hurt her, but he was ruthless. He turned his back on her, just as he turned his back on the answers in his mind. He closed his eyes as he closed out his thoughts, shutting away everything he wondered, everything he thought, because suddenly he did not want to know. And more important, he did not want to probe the anguish tormenting the woman he loved.

He closed his mind to it all, blocking everything from his thoughts and his memory. "You may go now, Amanda," he said, his voice cold and implacable.

Then he reached for a bottle of brandy, trying to drown out the sound of her footsteps as she fled his hardened heart.

Chapter 13

Rule #14:

A lady is always in control.

He knew.

Gillian flew up the stairs, her blood pounding out that single refrain.

He knows!

He knew the truth about her birth. He knew she was a bastard, a liar, and a fraud. He knew, and he despised her for it.

She had to leave. She had to escape this house, run from the hatred and disgust in his eyes. Run and never come back.

Gillian had her cap and her few meager possessions packed in a valise and was opening her bedroom window when the truth struck her.

She had nowhere to go.

She had thought to run to Tom and beg his help to get her out of London. But Tom was gone to Shropshire, and all her money had been sent to the doctor. She thought about Geoffrey. Perhaps she could run to him, but he would want an explanation she could not afford to give him.

Gillian stepped back from the window and collapsed on her bed.

There was nowhere for her to go.

She pulled her knees up to her chin and closed her eyes. She needed to think. She had to be calm and rational and sort through her options.

First the facts. Stephen knew the truth. She could not stop a soft whimper at the thought. When he had turned his back on her, she felt as though he had cut out her heart. He had been angry with her before, but now he disdained her. Now he could not even look at her.

The tears ran freely down her cheeks, splashing across her knees.

He despised her.

Gillian grabbed a pillow and pressed her face into it. It felt cool against her skin—soft and somehow comforting. She curled around it and let the sobs come.

There were no more thoughts of her future, no more plans or facts or options. She could not get past the truth, could not see beyond the knowledge that he despised her and, moreover, that he had every right to.

She was a liar, the scheming bitch Amanda always accused her of being. The pain she felt now was no more than her due.

All too soon she would hear the countess's outraged shouts, the horrified gasps of the servants. Even Greely's aplomb would not be proof against the news of her perfidy.

Then they would all storm her door, screaming at her to quit the premises, spitting their hatred at her. She would be tossed penniless onto the street, her marriage to Geoffrey impossible, Tom's help beyond reach, and the servants' friendship hopelessly destroyed.

Yet it would not matter. Nothing could matter more than the sight of Stephen turning his broad back on her.

Gillian fell into a fresh bout of silent tears, her body shaking against the pillow, her soul buried in misery.

What would she do?

She did not know how long she lay there, sobs racking her body. Eventually her eyes dried, and slowly she began to sense other things. She felt her muscles protest her contorted position on the bed, she smelled the heartening scent of fresh-baked bread, and heard the birds chirp merrily in the tree outside her window.

She did not hear the angry mutters of betrayed friendships.

Gillian lifted her aching head, then slowly uncurled her clenched body until she could sit up. Her dress was hopelessly crumpled, her face felt as if it were scrubbed raw, but nowhere did she hear the heavy tread of people come to throw her out onto the street.

What was happening? Why was she still here?

She stared at her closed door and willed it to open. And to her benumbed mind, it appeared to do just that. The latch turned and the heavy wood fell backward to reveal the shocked gaze of the countess.

"Sweet heaven, there you are. I could not credit it when Hawkings said you were not prepared for the Quinleys' rout, but here you are, and looking quite a fright, I might add."

Gillian could not think of a thing to say. She had expected angry accusations, hunt remonstrances, anything but this scolding for not being prepared for some ball!

"But—"

"Have you and Stephen fought again?" The countess sighed as she swept into Gillian's room. The woman looked stunning as always, this time in a silk ball gown of deepest sapphire. "Two months ago I would not have credited anyone could argue as much as I and my sweet Jonathan fought in our first year. But here you two are, at loggerheads again." She wrung out a cloth in the washbasin. "Has he banished you to Yorkshire again?"

Gillian blinked, then flinched as the countess pressed the wet cloth against her puffy eyelids. "I... I assume so."

"Well, do not assume. He has not said a word to me, so clearly he regrets his hasty actions."

Gillian pushed the soothing cloth away from her eyes, coming to an abrupt decision. She could not live with the lies any longer. "I sincerely doubt it. In fact, my lady, I have—"

"Of course, he does."

"—something urgent to tell you."

"Why else would he run off to his club?"

Gillian paused. "Stephen has gone to his club?"

"Nearly two hours ago. Just between you and me, I think he feels guilty about how shabbily he treats you."

"Me?" Gillian squeaked.

"Oh, yes. He has not escorted us anywhere in nearly two weeks."

"But Lady Sophia—"

"It is bad enough that he treats me so, his own mother, but you... why, you are his ward, his responsibility."

Gillian took a deep breath. "Countess, please, I have something to confess. I am not—" Suddenly her face was buried under the suffocating press of the cold, wet cloth.

"Hush. We must get you looking right for tonight's ball. If Stephen wants to hide himself away in his club, then that is how men deal with the world. It is we ladies who must carry on. And right now, that means you are to look your best for tonight's rout."

"But—"

"Hawkings!" Gillian flinched at the countess's strident tone. "Come in here at once! We have much to do."

"But—"

"Shhh. Hawkings will know just what to do to set you in your best looks."

From beneath the wet compress, Gillian sighed. She could not see the door open and close, but she heard the rustle of silk as Hawkings removed Gillian's best ball gown from the wardrobe. It seemed despite everything, she was doomed to continue her farce. The countess would not allow her to speak, even if it were to announce her engagement to the crown prince himself. And she could not just blurt out the truth, especially not with Hawkings right in the room.

"Now listen to me, Amanda," continued the countess firmly. "Men think they know everything, and believe me, they certainly have their place. But do not make the mistake of thinking they run the world. It is simply a clever ruse we women allow them. It keeps them busy so they do not notice the important things."