My Fair Temptress (12 page)

“Indeed I have.” He turned a smile on Nicolette. “My father adores my stepmother, and she loves him. You wouldn’t believe how much she’s softened him through the years.”

Nicolette blushed, and inclined her head, and shook it, acknowledging the compliment and declining it at the same time.

“He’s softer than he used to be?” Caroline asked.

“Most definitely.” Jude tugged at his collar in mock dismay. “He used to be a despot. Now he’s more of a…”

“Tyrant?” Caroline asked tartly

Jude gave a shout of laughter, an amusement so pure it should have been illegal. He might look like a fop, but he laughed like a pirate.

Then the nightmare repeated itself. The door slammed against the wall. Nevett stood in the doorway, bristling with indignation. “What are you doing? Having a tea party? Miss Ritter, are you the best Lady Bucknell can provide?”

Caroline found herself on her feet, staring into Nevett’s furious eyes.

The duchess stood beside her.

Phillips, that self-satisfied old beast of a butler, stood behind Nevett.

And Huntington lolled in his seat, his gaze mocking, leaving Caroline to manage on her own.

“I do not believe you know anything about teaching flirtation, Miss Ritter.” The duke attacked the very foundation of her knowledge. “You’re simply repeating what your betters have taught before you.”

Caroline’s temper rose—and she was surprised. A lady’s equanimity never flagged. A lady never grew angry. Although the duchess had said Caroline should be livid at the way she’d been treated in the past, Caroline took responsibility for her actions, for she had been told, time and again, that turbulent emotion was unfeminine.

But right now, she faced an indignant Nevett and a smirking Phillips, and knew they had no right to treat her with disdain. None at all.

Although she might not currently have the circumstances of a lady, she certainly had the upbringing, so she controlled her irritation and modulated her voice. “Your Grace, as I’ve said, I have to observe Lord Huntington interacting with society before I can judge where he needs assistance. I
am
an expert, Lady Bucknell
did
recommend me, and you
did
hire me to teach him. If you would please allow me to do so without interference, my task would be a great deal easier.”

She must not have hidden her exasperation as well as she’d thought, for Nevett’s eyes bulged with affront. “I say…” he sputtered.

“Your Grace, if you would like, I’ll see about hiring a more suitable governess.” Phillips gloated in premature enjoyment. Caroline recognized his type, a petty tyrant who imagined he could manage her as he did the rest of his staff.

But before Caroline could speak, the duchess said, “I find Miss Ritter quite suitable.” And she looked at Phillips. Just looked at him.

Somewhere in the past, when the duchess was first wed, Phillips must have tried his tricks on her and failed, for now he bowed, and he bowed, and he faded back into the foyer so rapidly Caroline blinked at the place that he had inhabited.

“Come, dear.” Going to Nevett, Nicolette placed her hand on his arm. “Let’s leave Miss Ritter to work her magic.”

“I wouldn’t allow a footman to use that tone with me,” Nevett huffed, “much less a young woman.”

“Nor would you allow a footman to teach your son to flirt.” Nicolette guided him out of the room, then returned, and to Huntington she mouthed, “Lock the door behind us.”

The footman shut them in.

Huntington turned the key.

Caroline stared at the door. The last time she’d been locked in a room with a man, her whole life had been destroyed. Now she wondered—had she lost what was left of her pitiful reputation or won the war to keep her position?

“D
on’t look so worried.” Huntington took her arm and sat her back on the sofa. “Father’s bark is worse than his bite, and he rather likes people who stand up to him.”

“Are you sure?” It wasn’t safe to exasperate her employer, especially not when he was a duke. A duke who had promised to pay her a lot of money.

“I’m positive. He likes a challenge.”

“I did stand up to him, didn’t I?” Irrationally, her heart lifted.

“I’m impressed. I was under the misapprehension that you were too soft and feminine to speak so brusquely. But that’s nonsense, isn’t it? You’ve survived in London for four years without family or money. It’s a rare young lady who can do so. I greatly admire you for that.” Huntington’s voice sounded so sincere, as warm and as personal as a lover’s.

Taking a startled breath, she stared at him wide-eyed. This wasn’t flirtation. This was seduction.

Then she looked at him again.

He stood flipping his handkerchief back and forth, back and forth, and he watched it as if fascinated by the motion.

She shook herself. No, this wasn’t seduction. By pure accident he had managed to say the thing she wished to hear, but clearly, he had no idea what he’d done or how to follow up on his success. And if he really wanted to seduce her, he would have interceded with his father.

“I should practice my manners.” Picking up her goblet, she crooked her little finger and smiled politely at Huntington. “I’ve been out of society for so long, I say too much.”

Huntington sat beside her at a perfectly respectable distance, yet too close for her comfort. “You say what you think. That’s an admirable quality.”

“No. It is not. Honesty shakes the foundation of civilization.” She inched back an infinitesimal amount.

He didn’t follow, didn’t seem to notice or care. “At least that.”

Irony? From such a man? Was it possible?

“You are my governess. You’re my instructor.” He faced her, his arm braced against the back of the sofa. He looked soulfully into her eyes. “You’re the woman who will guide me into the holy state of matrimony.”

Oh, yes. Irony. It was definitely possible. He was more subtle than she had hoped, which meant he was more intelligent. “My lord, tell me true. Are you determined not to marry?”

As if her accusation pained him, his dark lashes closed over his remarkable blue eyes, then opened, and again he stared at her like a languishing beau. “It’s my penultimate objective in life.”

If, as she suspected, he masked his reluctance with florid speech and suggestive glances, that made her task all the more difficult. She could leave nothing to chance. She would have to search out the woman of his dreams, thrust them together, and somehow create an atmosphere of irresistible yearning. It would be difficult, but possible. She faced him, as determined to seek out his wife as he was to evade his fate. “Tell me, my lord. When you’re at a ball, and you see the whole line of debutantes sitting, talking, smiling—who is it you choose to grace with your attention?”

“Ah. That’s easy.” He leaned back against the arm of the sofa and surveyed her. “I like a tall woman, a slender woman, one who moves with notable grace. I like a woman with a healthy color—no pallid beauty for me. I like dark hair, and unique, aquamarine eyes that bewitch me and draw me closer.”

With a shock, she realized—he was speaking of her.

Earlier in their lesson, he had been trying to impress her with his flirting abilities—and succeeding admirably—but she had detected nothing personal about his attention. He had produced the kind of engaging conversation every man employed to ease a social confrontation. This…this was different. This was blatant flattery. He was testing her mettle.

So she mocked him with a smile. “It’s a well-known fact that tall, graceful women prefer men who wear somber colors and have unaffected mannerisms.”

He flipped his handkerchief as if shooing away a pesky fly. “What else do tall, graceful women want?”

The spark of challenge in his eyes drove her on. “They like men who like to dance.”

“I like to dance.”

“More than that, tall, graceful women like men who, when they dance with another woman, come back with a glass of chilled champagne, present it with all admiration, and converse as if that other dance was so unimportant it didn’t rate a mention.”

He nodded slowly. Going to a side cabinet, he poured her another glass, brought it, and with a bow presented it.

She took it, took a sip, and although it tasted like water, she wondered at the contents. It must be an intoxicating beverage, for she was behaving recklessly. “After the dance, tall, graceful women want a man who worries if they’re cold, who would take off his coat and drape it on them as they wait for the carriage.”

He moved closer. “Are you cold, sweet Caro?”

“There. You see? You show a natural talent for flirtation.” A big-boned, polished, alluring talent for flirtation. But she was his instructor. She maintained control of this lesson. “If you pick up conversational clues as quickly when speaking with an appropriate young lady as you do with me, you shall be mobbed with ladies who recognize your allure.” Hastily, she added, “As well as your style.”

He smiled at her. Just smiled, and her breath caught. He was truly handsome, with thick brown hair as luxurious as mink. The strands begged a woman to sweep it off his forehead. His warm eyes conveyed appreciation without ever looking below her neck, and that was rare in a man. His chin was smooth-shaven, yet a few hours’ growth of his stubble gave it a texture she imagined would feel like velvet. He still flipped that ridiculous handkerchief, and the motion called attention to his hands.

She liked his hands. They were big, almost absurdly big, with long fingers, broad knuckles, and weighty palms. They looked capable, as if they could crush the duchess’s goblets, and gentle, as if they could cradle a baby’s head.

“So what else can you tell me about women that will help me in my pursuit of the perfect wife—what, besides attention, do women want?” he asked, as idly as a man who didn’t even realize he was flirting.

“A clean house, happy servants, healthy, well-behaved children, enough money to pay their bills, and a husband who doesn’t stray.” She smiled. “In short, the impossible.”

“Miss Ritter, you are a cynic.”

Harry had said so. Now Huntington, too. “I fear that’s the truth.”

“Yet you know the secret, and you must tell me.” He leaned close to her. “You’re my governess, and I can’t succeed without you. What is it that
all
women want?”

A vague irritation preyed on her nerves. “Why do men think that women all want one thing, as if we were one big female blob with but a single mind and all the same desires?”

He cocked his head and seemed to consider the question in all gravity. “Because, I suppose, it would be easier that way.”

She subdued her irritation, for if he understood what women wanted, he would be better prepared to find a wife. “I can’t speak for the whole gender,” she warned him.

“Then speak for yourself,” he commanded.

“A woman wants a man who has his own pet name for her.”

His eyebrows rose. “Like Oogy-Sweetie?”

“No! Like…well, for instance, if we were talking about me, it would be a name like…like sweet Caro.”

“I’m flattered that you like my name for you.”

“Yes. Well.” She fluttered her lashes at him. “If you were mine, I would love that you gave me a nickname and used it at appropriate times.”

“Sweet Caro,” he experimented.

She straightened, her spine snapping upright. She shouldn’t be responding to him. What was she thinking? They were student and governess. Her future depended on making a success of this post. In a businesslike tone, she said, “When a woman’s distraught, she wants a man to take her part.”

“I think a woman could depend on me for that.” He didn’t seem to notice the change in her demeanor. He seemed as intent on her as before.

“About anything. Even when things look the worst. Even if her guilt is authenticated by a hundred witnesses.” Grimly, she reminded him of her past.

Just as coldly, he answered, “A man should be willing to challenge those who sully the reputation of his woman. He should kill them on a dueling field.”

“Well.” He shocked her with his stern gaze and his formal tone. He looked…he looked like a man who could kill. Who had killed. Who feared nothing, not even death. That didn’t equate with the Huntington she thought she knew—but she liked to think he would be her champion. Such an idea was a gratifying seduction unlike any she’d ever allowed herself. “That’s admirable. But in my experience, usually those who pass judgment are women.” She gave up pretending she was talking about someone else. “I can’t stick a sword through them—no matter how much I want to.”

“No. But there are other ways to vanquish the beasts. You’ll see. I promise.” With a hearty, “Ha ha!” and a fashionable slouch, he transformed back into the giddy leader of fashion. “But my dear Miss Ritter, you’re being coy. Tell me, what do
you
want?”

Was he truly interested in
her?

No. Not at all. He was simply talking, acting, seducing, when he should be learning. He was being a man, and Caroline knew she should be glad, for that meant she could find him a likely mate. After all, that was all there was to love. Timing and compatibility. Shaking her head, she smiled.

He coaxed, “Surely there must be something that you want. Really want. Want more than anything in the world.”

“I want to take my sister to France to live with my mother’s family in peace and happiness,” she said with brutal honesty. “That’s what I want—and I will have it, because I’m going to get it for myself.”

He placed his fingers on his lips as if he were surprised.

Unfortunately, that caused her to notice his mouth, to wonder how he kept his lips so rich and soft-looking, the kind of lips a woman would like to kiss. Yet despite his garb, he projected an aura of intense masculinity. She’d noticed it before, but she hadn’t been affected. Not really. Not like now, when they were locked alone in a room and she could hear nothing but the sound of her own breathing. And his.

He broke the silence. “I have complete faith in your ability to get anything you decide to have.”

“You do?” She sounded too surprised. “I mean, you do.” Well, why not? It had taken him to point it out, but she was strong. She’d survived on her own for four years in London. Survived when most women would have starved or been killed. She had won a confrontation with the duke of Nevett and his abominable butler, and she would wager not many could say that.

“Yes, you’re an amazing woman.” Again Huntington moved closer. “And I have complete faith in your ability to find me the right wife. Tell me more about the things women want.”

“All right.” She took a long breath. Some ladies might not want to tell him the secrets of their gender, but if he were to succeed—if
she
were to succeed—he needed to know things, things other men only vaguely understood. Grasping Huntington’s collar in her hands, she looked into his eyes. “All right. Listen to me. A woman wants presents for no reason. Not because it’s a birthday or Christmas. Just because it’s Thursday, or because you saw a muff that would be pretty with her eyes. A woman wants a man to save her the best cut of the roast and the best ripe strawberries. A woman wants a man who lifts her feet into his lap after a long night of dancing and rubs them.”

“You have charming feet.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with disdain. “I have very large feet.”

“So do I. Thus I find your feet charming.”

“There you go.” She bestowed her praise honestly. “A woman wants a man who turns a skilled compliment tailored only for her.”

“I’ll remember that,” he said meekly.

He was truly good at this. Amazingly good. With this information, and the proper woman, Caroline could motivate him. She could get him married! With rising excitement, she told him, “When a woman wants to go somewhere, she wants a man who makes sure she gets there safely.”

“Naturally.”

“If a woman is crying for no reason, she doesn’t need a man to point out that it’s for no reason, as if that will make everything better.” Caroline put her face close to his and emphasized each syllable of that most important rule. “Every woman likes a man who bathes frequently.”

Huntington’s mouth crooked on the edge of merriment. “A great number of women must be disappointed.”

“A great number, indeed.” But not her. Not now. He smelled like fine soap and powerful masculinity. “A woman likes to be kissed. A lot.”

“Tell me more.” His lips puckered as he formed the word.

“A woman likes a man who
enjoys
talking to her, and kissing her. You’re only a man, so I don’t know how best to explain it, but try to understand—a woman likes a man who understands romance.”

“Or at least a man who pretends to,” he said wryly.

Her mirth caught her by surprise, and she giggled like a girl.

He reached toward her face as if trying to catch a note of her laughter, and his eyes comprehended far too much. “You’ve been kissed before.”

Trust the man to pick that out of her list of instructions. “Wait! I didn’t say
I
like to be kissed.”

His hand fell away.

“But women talk, and I listen. Women—other women, most women—delight in kissing. They wish that men would linger over the exchange rather than sprint toward some desperately important goal.” Her smile lingered. “I know about the rush, for when I was kissed, it was usually by a young man who charged at my lips as if he were the cavalry, and I was a hill to conquer.”

Huntington chuckled. “Who else kissed you?”

“Once Lord Duchesman kissed me in his garden, and that was interesting, a kiss from an older man who showed patience and skill and—” She stopped. And who had, after the scandal, been kind.

“Any more?”

“One quite disgusting kiss.” That Lord Freshfield forced on her.

“Let me see if I can do better than that.” Huntington leaned forward until his lips barely touched her cheek, and his breath whispered along her skin. “Let me know where I fall on the list.”