The Tutor (House of Lords) (11 page)

“You did?” Why did her heart flutter like that when he talked about education for poor children? Was this what happened to other women?

“Yes. He agreed to look into it.”

“Well, I am glad to hear that,” she said. “I think, however, that our time is up for today, Your Grace.” She tried to keep any trace of relief from her voice as she rose from her chair. He rose as well, taking her hand to help her up. But then he kept it, looking down at her fingers.

She almost pulled away. She knew she ought to. But then he said, “Do you think, under the circumstances, that you might...that you might call me Charles, just when we are alone?” He was still looking at their joined hands, so she could not read his expression, but his voice sounded so plaintive that she was inclined to agree.

“Not Bain?” she asked.

Now he looked up. “I hate that name,” he said, his expression dark and unreadable. “I only let the people I wish to think I am a rake call me by it.”

She nodded. “Charles, then,” she agreed. It was such a comfortable, ordinary name for a man who was neither of those things, and yet somehow it suited him.

“And may I call you Cynthia?”

She was aware that he was moving closer.
Stop this, Cynthia
, she said to herself.
Stop it now
. But she didn’t. “I should like that, Charles,” she said.

Now his gloomy expression shifted slightly. His hazel eyes seemed to darken, and she felt the heat of his stare to her very core. “Say it again,” he said, very softly. His other hand was sliding around her waist.

“Charles,” she whispered, just before his lips came down upon hers. For a moment he held her very still, pressing against her, but then a low moan escaped his lips and he kissed her harder, his mouth teasing hers until she opened to him, and then his tongue was inside her, probing in an obvious mimicry of a far more scandalous act. Cynthia found herself responding eagerly, going up on her toes, her hands sliding up to his shoulders as he pulled her closer. She could feel the heat of his body through her clothes and his. Then he broke the kiss, but instead of pulling away as she expected he feathered his lips along her jaw until he reached her earlobe. Then he took the tender skin in his mouth and sucked gently. “Oh, Charles,” she breathed.

“Again,” he said, kissing her neck as his fingers slid along the neckline of her gown and then under it, finding the edge of her chemise and then the smooth skin of her breast. When they brushed her nipple, she let out a little shriek.

“Charles!”

He laughed, his breath hot against her skin. “I thought you were an enlightened woman,” he murmured, kissing the spot where her neck and shoulder met, then dipping lower to run his tongue along her collarbone.

She put her hands out and shoved at him. “Not that enlightened,” she said.

There was a knock at the door. They flew apart, though Cynthia was certain her skin was still flushed as Lady Imogen strode in. She smiled. “Cynthia,” she said. “It is so good to see you again.” Then she nodded coolly to her brother. “Charles. I was wondering if Miss Endersby shouldn’t be getting home, since we will be dining in just a few hours.”

“Yes, of course,” Cynthia said.

“You are invited to dinner, of course, Miss Endersby,” Lady Imogen said warmly. “Did my scapegrace of a brother forget to ask you? And we are to attend the theatre afterwards. Please say you’ll join us.”

Cynthia made a point of not looking at Charles as she said, “I should be delighted, Lady Imogen.”

“Excellent,” Lady Imogen said, though Cynthia did not miss the reproachful look she shot her brother. “Well, we must get you home, then.” And she swept Cynthia out of the library, leaving Charles to stare after them.

ELEVEN

When Imogen returned from escorting Cynthia out, she sat down across the table from Charles and glared at him. He pretended to read Hobbes’s
Leviathan
for a few moments before looking up at her.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Well what?”

“Have you proposed?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“She refused.”

Imogen groaned and glanced back at the door as if she could see Miss Endersby driving away in the carriage. “Then what was she doing here? Why did she accept my invitation?”

Charles turned a page. “Miss Endersby and I have come to an...agreement, of sorts.”

“What agreement?” Charles told her. “Oh, my,” Imogen said when he had finished. “And you expect me to plan a week’s worth of entertainments for you and the girl whose reputation you have not-quite-ruined, so that you may appear to be seriously courting her?”

“I
am
seriously courting her, Imogen. But yes, I confess that is my hope,” Charles said.

“And I suppose I shall have to attend as well so that it appears we have all accepted her—not that we haven’t, of course. Quite the opposite.”

Charles nodded.

Imogen leaped up from her chair. “Honestly, Charles, I have always looked up to you and admired your intelligence and resourcefulness, but sometimes you can be a colossal idiot.”

“What do you mean?” he asked evenly, enjoying the way her face was growing pinker by the minute. “I thought it was a remarkably clever plan.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, beginning to pace. “I give you credit for one thing: you have bought yourself time. But you have also set yourself a monumental task. You have six days to make her fall in love with you.”

Charles scoffed. “I hardly need her to fall in love with me, Imogen. I just need to make her see that being married to me is better than ruination and despair.” He thought about those words after he said them and realized that he had made it sound as though there were actually a competition between those things.

Imogen seemed to embrace the implied meaning of his words. “A difficult choice, indeed. What do you plan to do if she refuses you at the end of the week?”

Charles had to admit that he hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“Of course not,” Imogen said. She dropped back into the chair she had vacated. “But Charles, do be serious for a moment. If I am to risk my own reputation to help you restore hers, I need to be at least reasonably certain that you will succeed with her. What’s more, I like her, and I wouldn’t want to see her hurt.”

“I shall certainly do my best.”

She sighed. “We must hope that’s good enough, then. Well, I suppose I should go change for dinner.”

After she had gone, Charles sat staring at the pages of Hobbes’s
Leviathan.
When he had been sitting there at least ten minutes without reading a single word, he gave up and threw the book down on the table.

What had she meant when she had said he wouldn’t believe her if she told him why his being a duke influenced her choice? Was it something to do with her father? In their brief acquaintance, Roger Endersby had struck him as the worst sort of snob. He seemed to believe that the common folk were beneath him because they were too stupid to raise their own fortunes, and that the nobility were beneath him because they had become complacent and foolish. It was the sort of conceit one sometimes found in men so intelligent they had lost sight of the fact that other people were even people at all. Charles knew, even if the rest of his family didn’t, that his grandfather, the seventh Duke of Danforth, had been exactly that sort of conceited, ignorant snob. His father had only spoken of the man to Charles a few times, and always with distaste. Charles didn’t blame him. His grandfather had apparently said on the floor of the House of Lords that it would be better for the king to cease providing support for the poor at all, since it seemed that the most cost-effective way to remove their corrupting influence from society was to let them die as quickly as possible.

Was the ridiculous arrogance his father had found so detestable in
his
father the same sort of inflated ego that would cause a man to teach his daughter that a duke was beneath her merely because his rank made him complacent and supercilious? That couldn’t possibly be the reason his title gave her pause—at the very beginning of their acquaintance he had humbled himself before her by admitting his ignorance.

It must be something else. Did she think she was not fit to be a duchess? There were few women he knew who he believed could carry off the title with as much poise as she.

But she had doubts, that much was clear. And yet just now she had allowed him to kiss her, had welcomed his hands on her body, and had responded eagerly to his caresses. Just thinking of the feel of her curves beneath his fingers made him hard. It was clear that no matter what other obstacles they might face as duke and duchess, they would fit together well as man and woman.

Perhaps he simply needed to show her that in addition to being a duke, he was also a man.

Cynthia reminded herself to take a few deep breaths before the carriage stopped outside the theatre. Across from her, Charles was leaning back against the squabs. He had not said a word since they had left Danforth house. Indeed, he had barely spoken at dinner either, though that was hardly surprising with Gillian asking a million questions and Imogen trying to suppress her little sister’s curiosity. It had been all Cynthia could do to think of appropriate answers to the questions about her childhood, her father, and why she had never been sent to a finishing school.

“I did have a governess,” she had said in her defense.

“I think I would have much preferred to have stayed at Starling Court with a governess rather than go away,” Imogen put in.

“Oh, Imogen, how can you say so? I met so many lovely young ladies at the Moreton Academy...well, a few anyway, and I’m sure you did, too.”

Imogen had smiled down at her plate, a secret, cryptic smile that made Cynthia think she was remembering some long-ago girlish upheaval. Cynthia found herself suddenly wishing so strongly that she had had such an experience that she grasped at the first question that came to her mind. “Starling Court is in Suffolk, is it not?”

“It is,” Charles put in from the end of the table.

“I wish you could see it, Miss Endersby,” Gillian said pointedly. “It is the loveliest of all country houses. It is near the sea, you know, and the heaths are quite wild in the spring and summer. And Southwold is a lovely little town.”

“And Starling Court is a grand house, of course,” Imogen added shrewdly. “The Dukes of Danforth have called it home for nearly three hundred years. Before that, it was a Cistercian monastery.”

“Wasn’t it Benedictine?” Gillian asked.

“Does it matter?” Charles grumbled.

Imogen smiled pleasingly. “Not really. Are you fond of riding?”

Cynthia shook her head. “I had lessons as a child, but I’m afraid riding was not my strong suit.”

“We shall have to find you a nice, tame horse then. Do we breed any of those at Starling Court, Charles, or just beasts like Imogen’s?”

“Strider is hardly a beast, Gilly,” Imogen protested.

“Wait until you see him, Miss Endersby. When I came home from school and discovered Imogen riding this great hulk of a horse, I was quite terrified. You will be asking her for a visit, won’t you, Charles?” Almost before the words were out, Gillian turned bright red. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Endersby. That was a very rude question.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Cynthia had said. “Starling Court sounds like the ideal country seat.”

After that Imogen had steered the conversation to slightly tamer topics, talking of anything but the colossal elephant in the room.

But now they were outside the theatre, Cynthia felt as though that elephant were standing right beside her. Already a couple exiting their carriage had slowed their pace a little to stare at their party. Imogen reached out and touched her hand as Charles got out. “Don’t be afraid,” she said.

“Of course not,” Cynthia said brightly, though she was beginning to feel less certain every moment. When had she started to care so much what society thought of her? Her father had always taught her that appearances were what mattered, that behind closed doors one could think and feel what they liked. When she was seven, he had given the Machiavelli’s
The Prince
, and had relished the moment when she had said to him in fluent Italian, “
Prima di ogni altra cosa, siate armati.
”—Before all else, be armed. He had been even more pleased when, years later, she had chosen to embroider the phrase “It is not titles that honor men, but men that honor titles” on a cushion, though Miss Cartwright had been rather horrified. Cynthia had been brought up to believe that it was not her social status that was truly important, but the power it gave her. Now, with the eyes of the
ton
upon her, she felt particularly powerless.

“Miss Endersby?” Charles was holding out his hand to her, looking rather concerned.

“I’m sorry,” she said, allowing him to hand her down. “I was woolgathering.”

“I noticed,” he said, leading her up the stairs. Imogen was close behind them. “You must keep your wits about you now, though. It may look like a social event, but I assure it’s only a thin facade for a battlefield.”

“Perhaps I am dressed inappropriately, then,” she said. “I should have worn my armor.”

“I think you are well armored enough in that dress,” he replied smoothly.

“Do you like it?” she asked, feeling rather stupid for caring about something so frivolous. But the gown was one of her favorites, a vibrant green designed to set off her best features. She had chosen it especially for tonight because she knew it made her look dignified and beautiful and glamorous. And yet as she had stood before the mirror while Ellen laced her up, she had been filled with doubt.

“Perhaps too much,” he said softly, his mouth very close to her ear. The
ton
had noticed, of course, and a woman standing near the door whispered to her friend behind her hand. Cynthia looked right at them and smiled. “The only wrong you can do,” her father had said once, “is to act as though you have done something wrong.”

They swept into the grand lobby of the theatre, which was packed with members of the
ton
even though the play was due to start at any moment. Of course, they did not come for the play. It was a far better use of their time to mill about in the lobby, seeing and being seen, until the last possible moment. Yet even though they were busily trying to make the most of the final minutes before they would have to take their seats, Cynthia noticed a lull in the buzz of conversation when her party’s presence was noted. For a moment it seemed as though everything froze, and then from amidst the crowds a smiling figure in pearly pink emerged. It was Clarissa, her dark, sedate husband following close behind.

“Cynthia!” she cried happily, her face breaking into such a beatific smile that for a moment Cynthia forgot that Clarissa had been trained for this just as carefully as she. Then she remembered, and the worry and doubt cleared from her mind. She saw the pattern of the dance clearly laid out before her, saw the potential missteps and pitfalls. The invisible mantle of confusion that had hung about her fell away.

“Clarissa,” she said warmly. “You remember the Duke of Danforth and his sister Lady Imogen?”

“Of course,” Clarissa said, bobbing a shallow curtsey. She was, after all, a countess. “How nice to see you again.”

“Danforth,” Lord Stowe said, shaking Charles’s hand. They stood very close together, and Lord Stowe began speaking in hushed tones as Clarissa pulled Cynthia a little nearer.

“We are having a dinner party tomorrow night,” she said. Then she pressed Cynthia’s hand between her own and with two fingers tapped her wrist. It was an old signal, one of the many they had invented in their girlhood when secret codes were one of the few ways they could say what was in their hearts and minds. It meant ‘say yes, no matter what you are thinking’. “Say that you will come, Cynthia.”

“Of course,” Cynthia said, only half-listening. The code was enough for her, and her attention was focused on the whispered conversation Charles and Lord Stowe were having. “I should be delighted.”

“You and your brother would be most welcome, Lady Imogen,” Clarissa added.

“...wants to stymie the Commission, I’m sure of it,” Lord Stowe muttered.

“We have no fixed engagements,” Imogen said. “It would be our honor.”

“Good.”

“But surely Brougham won’t allow it. There’s too much at stake,” Charles was replying.

Lord Stowe chuckled, a mellow, soft sound. “Brougham has spent much of his political capital, I’m afraid. No, if anyone is to push it through, it’ll be Grey, you mark my words.”

“Consider them marked,” Charles said.

“Cynthia?” Imogen said. “We must go, or we’ll miss the start of the play.”

She almost said that it was ‘School for Scandal’, which she had read three times, and that no one would be watching anyway, but she knew these excuses did not matter. The point of the whole exercise was to be seen in Charles’s company, for every member of the
ton
to recognize the legitimacy of their connection. So Cynthia smiled and took Charles’s arm and let him escort her up the stairs and into the opulent private box.

Charles had watched Cynthia with concern as they rode to the theatre. As they passed through the doors he felt her fingers tighten on his arm. But then the Countess of Stowe appeared, and it seemed as though there was a completely different woman standing before him.
This
Cynthia was smooth and polished and hard as stone, and he imagined it would take a great deal to pierce her armor. She smiled confidently and chatted easily, and when he held out his arm again to lead her to the box she looped her hand lightly around his elbow, shoulders back, head erect, like a soldier marching into battle. This was the same formidable woman who had confronted him in the parlor of her father’s townhouse, but not the girl who had kissed him in the library that afternoon. Where had
that
girl gone?