Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 02] (3 page)

Another stab of guilt knifed through him.

His son and Allegra had pulled their chairs up to the desk. A tray holding the remains of a squab pie, crumbling Stilton and a pot of tea had been pushed aside to make room for a large leatherbound book, and both heads were bent over it in rapt attention. Max was voicing his opinion. In his unguarded enthusiasm, his voice was warbling over a full octave, from boy to man in one sentence. Wrexham suddenly felt a wrenching poignancy as he listened to the familiar tones. In another few years the boy would be grown and gone.

Allegra smiled in response. "An interesting point of view to be sure," she said, careful not to appear to ridicule the young man's opinion. "But perhaps you might consider that Dante was speaking of something else." She launched into a patient and well thought out explanation of the passage in question. Despite his resolve to the contrary, he found his assessment of her rose more than a notch.

Max suddenly turned, as if sensing the earl's presence. Wrexham was jolted to see his expression harden.

"Halloo, Father," he said, the lack of enthusiasm evident in his tone.

The earl stiffened to his full, considerable height. "I trust you have been properly looked after, Mrs. Proctor. If there is anything else you require, you have only to inform Rusher or the housekeeper, Mrs. Gooding."

Allegra looked up. "Everything is quite fine. I thank you for your gracious hospitality, my lord."

The earl could swear he denoted a twinkle in her eye. Was the lady mocking him? He frowned slightly but continued. "I have decided that for the time being, you may remain—while I take charge of finding a suitable replacement. Under the circumstances, having compelled you to travel such a distance from your home, we owe you that much."

She inclined her head a fraction. "Again, how gracious of you, sir. I am in your debt."

His eyes narrowed. This time the sarcasm was not as veiled but he let it pass for the moment. More important was the flush of relief on his son's face.

"You see, I told you, Mrs. Proctor, he is a reasonable man when presented with the facts. I had no doubt that he would make the right decision." Max's tone, though striving to sound self-assured, made it evident that he had thought no such thing.

"I have instructed Mrs. Gooding to make up a chamber for you. You will take your meals with the other hired help or in your room, as you choose. You may set the hours of study. Other than that, your time is your own, but I expect you will not distract others from their tasks. Is that clear?" The earl's voice sounded cold and stilted, even to his own ears.

"Father!" Max's face twisted in embarrassment at the earl's overbearing manner.

"Quite, my lord," answered Allegra calmly. "I shall endeavor to be as... unobtrusive as possible."

Wrexham had no choice but to be satisfied with that. He turned on his heel and returned to the sanctuary of his library.

It was his own conduct he was less than satisfied with.

* * *

The earl eyed his son over the rim of his wine glass, then took a long swallow of the rich claret. The lad hadn't uttered a word since sitting down at the table. The footmen removed the soup and served the next course.

"How did the first lesson go?"

Max looked up. "Very well, sir," he answered, an edge to his voice, as if daring the earl to challenge him.

"I'm glad to hear it."

A look of surprise crossed Max's face, then he returned to pushing the slice of rare sirloin around on his plate. After a few minutes he spoke up again.

"Why did you have to be so rude?"

Wrexham laid down his fork. "I beg your pardon?"

"You were! You needn't have spoken to her like that."

"It had nothing to do with rudeness. She is an employee, hired help. I was merely spelling out the rules," explained the earl. "You must remember she is not a guest here."

The lad glowered.

Wrexham cleared his throat. "I'm sorry if I haven't been as attentive as I should have been. I hadn't realized—that is, I shall endeavor to spend more time with you." He gave a slight chuckle. "Perhaps we could embark on a study of art. It might help to improve your taste in..."

"What's wrong with my taste?" cried Max hotly.

The earl stopped, perplexed. He hadn't meant it that way.

Max crumpled his napkin and threw it on the table. "May I be excused, please?" Without waiting for an answer, he shoved back his chair and left the room, letting the door fall closed with a resounding bang.

"Bloody hell," muttered Wrexham. He stared down at his own plate but found that he, too, had lost his appetite. With an exasperated sigh, his hand went for the bottle of claret instead. Taking up his glass, he rose and limped off to the library.

* * *

Allegra pulled the bedcovers up to her chin. It was a most pleasant room, flooded with sunlight in the afternoon from the two tall mullioned windows opposite her bed and warmed by a generous fire in the neat little hearth. Though not large, the space was tastefully appointed, with a large dresser and armoire of pleasing proportion arranged on one wall and a small desk and chair of excellent quality near the comfortable bed whose coverings of muted blue and pale rose were echoed in the chintz curtains and patterned rug. The painting that hung over the desk proved, on closer inspection, to be a rather nice Dutch seascape from the hand of a well-known artist. Someone had a discerning eye for both art and design.

All in all, it was an accommodation more befitting a guest than a servant. Despite appearances to the contrary, it appeared that the Earl of Wrexham could be a civil host when he chose to be.

Civil, perhaps, but odious in the extreme, as well as arrogant, high-handed and opinionated. But what else should she have expected? He was a lord, a member of the
ton
—and a male. Her mouth curled slightly in disdain. At least he was not an ignoramus, like most of them.

Nor was he a preening peacock with garish waistcoats and ridiculously high points to his collar. In fact, he had been dressed quite sensibly. His simple linen shirt and modest cravat were appropriate to the country, as were his buckskin breeches and plain polished Hessians, devoid of pretentious tassels or other annoying geegaws. And it was evident he didn't resort to padding in order to fill out the broad shoulders of his impeccably tailored black serge coat. It was nearly as black his thick, raven locks, which were worn rather longer than was fashionable.

She couldn't repress a grin. She had scored a hit there. Yes, the Earl of Wrexham had proved to be as vain and pompous about his personal appearance as the rest of the bloody swells. The look of outrage on his face when she had referred obliquely to the flecks of gray at his temples had been worth the risk of being sacked on the spot. Not that it was true—the inference that he was well into his dotage, that is. She recalled his lean, strong hands, the breadth of his chest and the long, muscled legs that she hadn't been aware of until later that afternoon. No, he was not quite over the hill...

She gave a shake of her head. But there was no reason to dwell overlong on the earl. He was of no concern now that she had managed to overcome his objections to her presence. Thank goodness for Max. It was lucky that he seemed to have taken a liking to her right off. That had been the key, she was sure. No amount of knowledge or skill with languages would have overcome the earl's natural prejudices. But something in his eyes that afternoon had told her his decision had been swayed by his son.

Her grin softened into a smile. He was a nice lad, not at all like other young men of title she had been acquainted with. He was remarkable bright as well, which she hadn't expected. That part of her job was going to prove much more stimulating than she had imagined. Already they were engaged in a course of study that promised to keep her on her toes.

But enough of Wrexham
pere
and
fils
. That was not why she was here.

She noted with great satisfaction how far her plans had progressed in the last few months. It had been an extraordinary piece of luck that Lucy had spotted the ad for a person of consummate education, expert in both modern and ancient classical languages, to take up a position in northern Yorkshire... She had been racking her brain on how to contrive an extended stay in such a distant place, given her lack of funds and, more importantly, lack of a plausible reason to be there. Now she had solved both those problems in one fell swoop.

It was time to plan the next move. She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. The earl had played right into her hands by admonishing her to make herself scarce once lessons were over for the day. He could have no complaint if she chose to take longs walks through the countryside. Even better, perhaps he wouldn't begrudge her the use of a horse. But she would have to be careful. Regardless of what else she thought of him, he was no slowtop. Those piercing slate blue eyes didn't miss much, she imagined. It wouldn't do to arouse his suspicions.

Her eyes strayed to the battered trunk with her possessions. She had brought just about everything she needed—a goodly length of rope, a long black cloak, a pair of men's breeches and a shirt, a small lantern and a set of picklocks.

And a pistol.

But first things first. Tomorrow, she would start by becoming familiar with the surrounding area and learning just how close the estate of Westwood was.

* * *

Though the earl was not unusually partial to spirits, this evening he felt like draining the wine bottle. In fact, he already had. He stared glumly into the fire, then went and poured himself a stiff brandy to wash down the claret. Settling back into his comfortable leather wingchair, he stretched his long legs out to ease the ache in his bad knee.

As if sensing his master's depressed spirits, Sasha padded over and settled his grizzled muzzle on Wrexham's thigh. The earl gave a reluctant smile as his fingers scruffed through the grizzled whiskers.

"Well, old boy, you at least do not seem inclined to bite my head off tonight."

The big hound licked his hand, then thumped down by the side of the chair, his shaggy tail giving a wag or two before his eyes closed in sleep.

Wrexham swirled the amber liquid in his glass. It was enough to drive a man to drink, he groused. First some unknown, sharp-tongued, bluestocking female had arrived on his doorstep with the intention of taking up residence. Then his heretofore amiable son had behaved in a manner that, had he been a daughter, would have been termed throwing a fit a of vapors. He shook his head as his eyes strayed longingly to the open book on botany experiments sitting on his desk. Somehow he had a feeling it would some time before he could turn his undivided attention back to its pages.

Something else was nagging at him. How could she say Max was bored? Why, the lad like to study as much as he did. Granted, there was little excitement or turmoil at Stormaway Hall, but that had suited both of them quite nicely.

It wasn't boring here, merely... quiet.

His brows came together in a menacing line. A mere chit wasn't going to upset their ordered existence. Max was simply going through some growing pains. He would make an effort to take him out for a bit of riding and grouse shooting. Or perhaps a regular game of chess after supper. The lad would come around in short order.

As for Mrs. Proctor—well, he couldn't deny that she would bring a spark of new ideas to the schoolroom, and that was for the better. After all, he wasn't so crusty as not to realize that the same old books could become a trifle... dull. But if she thought for a moment that his generosity of this morning could be interpreted as a sign of weakness, she would learn who was boss here in very short order.

He brought himself up with an audible chuckle. The wine and brandy were addling his head, causing him to exaggerate the entire situation out of all proportion.

Really, now. How much trouble could the daughter of a scholarly vicar cause?

Chapter 2

Max put his pen down. "I'm famished. I think I shall ring for some of Cook's scones and a pot of tea. Would you care for some as well?"

Allegra smiled as she surveyed the gangly limbs hunched over the leatherbound copy of Dante's
Inferno
. The lad seemed to have sprouted another few inches since her arrival. Why, pretty soon he would be equaling his father's not inconsiderable height. "Tea would be lovely," she said. "But as for scones, well, breakfast was only two hours ago."