Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) (11 page)

"Uh, I beg your pardon?" she asked sweetly, knowing there was no way she could brazen her way through this, but nevertheless determined to try.

He stepped inside the room, his eyes reminding her of a winter storm at sea—cold, fierce, and deadly. Behind him, Greely shook his head in dismay, then discreetly pulled the library door shut.

"Why are you in my desk, Amanda?"

"I was looking for a direction, actually, but got quite distracted." Gillian looked down and began returning his journals to their place in his drawer. Then, giving in to a sudden impulse, she discreetly slipped the last book into her pocket, where it lay heavily against her thigh.

"Distracted?" Stephen repeated as he crossed to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy. "Is that what you call reading a man's private thoughts? I call it a violation of privacy, and a very, very serious crime."

Gillian carefully shut his desk drawer and stood, keeping her hands folded demurely in front of her. Then she spotted her lock pick wire on the desk and nearly panicked. He should not see it. He would think she made her living picking people's desks.

But it was too late. Even as she touched the wire, he was there, wrapping his large hand around hers, lifting it up so he could inspect the lock pick.

"My goodness, Amanda, it seems I underestimated you. You appear to be quite experienced at thievery."

"I was not thieving! I told you, I needed a direction." She tried to jerk her hand from his, but she might as well have tried to pull out a tree, roots and all. She was held fast and would remain so until he chose to release her.

"A direction, you say? Whose?"

Gillian hesitated. To tell him would be to expose herself to all kinds of problems. But what could she say that he would believe? Perhaps a distraction would work.

"Who is Betty?"

Stephen blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Betty. The woman you wrote that poem to." But as the words left her lips, she realized the depth of her mistake. No man wanted his youthful foibles exposed, and Stephen Conley was more private than most. His grip tightened painfully on her wrist, and she bit her lip to restrain a cry of alarm.

"How much did you read?"

"Uh—"

"How much did you read?"

"Only bits and pieces: Actually," she said on a tremulous laugh, "I had no idea you were such a scapegrace as a child. It quite gives me hope."

"That I will forgive your latest transgression? I fear you are sadly out on that thought, my dear."

Gillian lifted her chin, trying to smile brightly despite her fears. "Oh, no, my lord. I know you will punish me, but it still gives me hope that once you settle into your position as earl, you will relax your puffed-up attitude. Mind you, excessive dignity becomes you as well," she added hastily. "I simply meant we shall be much more comfortable together when you cease to demand such high standards of yourself and everyone else."

She smiled at him, pleased her explanation had achieved its desired goal. He blinked dazedly at her, as if amazed by her powers of thought. His next words confirmed her suspicions.

"Your mind quite astounds me, Amanda."

She smiled. "I am counted quite bright."

He glowered at her. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps an earl should retain an extra measure of dignity?"

"Of course not. If it did, no one would ever want a title."

She felt his grip loosen in shock, but when she tried to back away, she found him quite determined to keep her exactly where she was.

"Amazing powers of logic. Tell me, Amanda, how does a woman who is counted quite bright come to use a lock pick?"

She hesitated. "The nights in York are quite long, my lord."

"So you resort to thievery to amuse yourself?"

"Uh, no. To break into my father's library. He had quite a number of books he believed too, um, delicate for one of my tender years."

"I can well imagine," Stephen commented dryly as he carefully brought her around his desk to stand directly in front of him. "So mine is not the only library to be graced by your presence."

Gillian smiled, relaxing now that she had managed to distract him. "It was years before I received the keys, and by that time I was so proficient I never bothered with them."

"And he never took you across his knee to give you the beating you deserved?"

Gillian looked down, unwilling to relive the memories revived by his comments. "You need not worry on that point, my lord," she said softly. "Others took up what my father neglected." The real Amanda, in fact, had repeatedly ordered the butler to beat her. This he had done with almost clockwork regularity.

"And what about me, Amanda? Shall I beat you for your transgression?"

Gillian felt her heart do an erratic double thump at his comment. She stood so close to Stephen she could feel the power in his lean form, only partially hidden by his fashionable clothes. He could no doubt kill her with just his bare hands, but despite his words, she did not fear he would hurt her.

In fact, the thought of his hands on her body intrigued her as much as it frightened her.

She swallowed convulsively, and for the first time in her life had no comment. Her mind was consumed by the images conjured by his words.

Then she felt his hand on her chin, tilting her head until she looked directly into his eyes. This close to him, she could see the gold flecks that made them shimmer in candlelight, and as she watched, the dark pupils dilated, expanding into the blue depths until his gaze seemed wholly dark and devastatingly compelling.

"How shall I punish you, Amanda?" His voice was a hoarse whisper, and she felt her own breath catch on her dry lips. His hold on her face was hard, but not hurtful, and she could feel the leashed intensity in the press of his fingers. "When you pry into a man's secrets, there is no telling what darkness you might find."

Gillian felt her world spin out of control. She wanted desperately to break away from the frightening sensations coursing through her body. She felt hot and cold and trembly all over. All she need do was twist away and the world would right itself again. She would regain her strength and control. Yet she felt powerless to do so. Instead she lifted her chin and swayed forward, begging him with her body to explain the secrets she saw burning in his eyes.

"Why were you in my desk?"

"I was looking for Mr. Oltheten's direction." She could not stop the words if her life had depended on it. And perhaps, she thought with an odd sense of unreality, perhaps her life did hang in the balance. But it was too late.

"Mr. Oltheten? But you have—"

"The elder."

"Why?"

Gillian sighed, knowing now he would not kiss her. She jumped a bit, startled by her own thought. Was she waiting for a kiss? Not possible. Why would—

But her thoughts were interrupted by his growled demand. "Why do you want his direction, Amanda?"

She turned away, finally able to break his spell over her. "Because I wished to send him a recipe for his lungs."

"Why not simply ask me for it?"

Gillian shrugged, her excuse sounding feeble to her own ears. "Because you would make me see him, and I... I have no desire to visit his sickroom."

He remained silent for a long moment. Her back was to him, her eyes on the smooth planes of his desk. Would his skin be as silken to the touch? Certainly not as cool, for she had felt his heat radiate through the many layers of their clothes.

"How did you learn this recipe?"

"G-Gillian needed it. I made it for her many times." It was hard to say her own name, to speak of her own death even knowing it was all pretend.

Then she felt him draw closer. She heard the rustle of his clothing and smelled the faint sandalwood of his cologne. When he spoke, his voice was low and his breath teased the hair along the back of her neck.

"It must have been hard to watch your sister die. Especially since she nursed you all those years."

"It is hard to watch anyone die. Gillian's death was no worse than another's." It surprised her how cold she sounded. So much like the real Amanda.

"Still," he pursued, "she was your sister—"

"Half-sister. And I never felt any kinship with her." That much at least was true, for both Gillian and the real Amanda.

Then suddenly it was too much for her. He was too much for her. So she crossed quickly to the earl's chair, using the movement to escape his disturbing presence. She remembered his desk in detail, so she knew just which drawer to pull open for a sheet of foolscap.

She quickly scribbled down the recipe without looking up. But though she never glanced at him, she was excruciatingly aware of the man who watched her with those hooded eyes.

"There." She pushed the paper toward him. "Please send it to Mr. Oltheten with my regards. Now if you will excuse me..." She meant to slip by him and straight out the door, but he stopped her. He grabbed her arm and drew her close until she pressed sideways against him—her shoulder tucked against his muscular chest, her hip flush against the narrow heat of him, and her thigh nestled between his legs.

"My lord?" She hated the breathless quality to her voice, but she could not stop the fluttering of sensation quivering in her belly.

"We still have not discussed your punishment, Amanda."

Her insides trembled and her knees were weak, but she knew she could not stand more of this strange game of his. She did not jerk out of his hold, because she knew he would not release her. So she simply tilted her head up to look directly into his eyes.

"Then what is you pleasure, my lord? Will you cane me? Beat me? Do you wish to send for your whip? Whatever it is, I pray you get it done with now. We would not want the welts to show beneath my first ball gown." Her voice was hard and flat, and from the shock in his eyes, she knew she had surprised him.

"You sound as if you have experienced it before."

"More times than I can count."

Amanda's butler had used his fists, but his wife had chosen the cane. In truth, she did not blame them, though she fired them both without a reference as soon as she took control of the estate. It was Amanda, with her bitter eyes and all-consuming envy, who had ordered the beatings.

She shook her head, hating the memories, taking the anger she felt and directing it at the earl. "Now if you will excuse me," she said, "perhaps I should wait in my room until you decide exactly what you intend to do with me."

She swept out of his hold and hurried from the room, praying she made it to her bed before she burst into tears. She paused only once, just as she turned the doorknob. He had not moved, but his voice followed her, catching her unaware as she tried to escape.

"Amanda."

She stood frozen, her breath suspended.

"You look magnificent in white."

She picked up her skirts and ran.

* * *

Stephen watched her disappear in a silken rustle of white. She was such a delightful mass of contradictions. One minute she challenged him boldly, her eyes flashing like green lightning. The next, she blushed like an innocent even while she tempted him beyond reason. And then there was that last moment, when her eyes clouded with memories and pain.

How could the mistress of the household be beaten regularly? Who had done it? Was it before she had taken sick? Before she had become mistress of the estate?

Questions spun in his thoughts until he did not know what to do. Best get her married off quickly, he decided.

Stephen sighed and walked stiffly to his desk chair, his thoughts turning inevitably back to the present.

How could new clothes make such a difference in a woman's appeal? Even with her drab clothing, he had known she was a beautiful woman with an animated face and rich, luscious hair. But seeing her today in fashionable attire that emphasized her mature body was like seeing a butterfly emerge from a cocoon. When she'd first stood up from behind his desk, his breath had caught in his throat. Her figure was perfect in every sense. Her breasts were outlined in soft ribbons, their points molding the fabric into classic lines. Though fashion dictated high waists, the soft fabric still clung to her body, suggesting a narrow waist, hips with just the right roundness, and a firm bottom.

Stephen groaned as he sat down in his chair, feeling the soft leather readjust to his frame. He should not be thinking of his ward in such a way, so he redirected his thoughts, forcing himself to relive the outrage. She had been sitting in this very chair, at his desk, violating his sanctuary!

My word, she had actually picked his desk lock and read his journals!

With a grim frown, he turned his attention to his desk. What else had she done besides read his most humiliating escapades during his childhood? Starting at the top, Stephen moved meticulously through each drawer. Nothing was out of place, though his instincts told him she had gone through every inch. Finally he reached the last drawer. She claimed she had not touched his cash box, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the unscarred lock and correct amount of pound notes within.

Then he glanced at his journals. Three journals. He did not have to open them to know she had stolen the most recent one, the one chronicling his return to London and subsequent weeks. Then he mentally reviewed everything written within the thin volume and a slow smile spread across his face.