Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) (20 page)

"I know what you mean. You mean that between my mother and your imagination, you have worked yourself into a fine state of nerves."

"No, I—"

"Come here." He took her hand and pulled her over to the bed. It was only then she remembered the mobcap, and it was already too late.

He saw it and lifted it out of her hands.

"What is this?"

"It is... Gillian's cap."

"Your half-sister's?"

She nodded, frantically scrambling for an explanation. "I do not know why I kept it. It is silly really." She tried to draw away from him, but he held her still, keeping her hands encased in his.

"Why would you keep Gillian's mobcap, Amanda?" His voice was low and deceptively casual. Gillian sighed. She could not get around it now. He would not let her escape without some explanation.

Gillian pulled her hands away from him, releasing a half laugh that sounded strained. "I... I used to wonder about her at night. What would it be like if I had been born her, and she me."

"Truly? What did you decide?" His tone gave nothing away, and Gillian found herself slanting looks at his face as she struggled with her words.

"I... I do not know. At times I thought one life would be easier—gathering herbs, tending to the sick, polishing the silver. It was not a bad life. Then again, maybe living in Wyndham Manor was better. There were servants and fine things. She—I never worried about starving."

His gaze remained hard on hers, and for a moment she was afraid. Then his expression gentled as he urged her to continue. "Now you wish you were Gillian. That you did not have to worry about what to say, how to hold your head, what to dance and with whom?"

She nodded, agreeing with him, but not for the same reasons. She wanted to be herself again, to walk the moors and not have to double-think every word, every action, wondering if she were revealing her true bastard nature. Wondering if she embarrassed or betrayed Stephen every time she spoke or did something ill-bred.

She looked down at her hands, twisting the cap around her wrists until it felt like manacles. "I... In York, I knew who I was and what was expected of me. But now I say and do things I do not recognize. I look in the mirror and see someone entirely different. And I wonder if... if..."

"If maybe it would better if you just left and went back home?"

She sighed, surprised by her own confusion. She had been swamped with guilt all day. All she could think of was Stephen's anger and frustration last night in the library. She had done that to him. She came into his life and totally disrupted it. Yet he and his mother had still taken her in and trained her for a position in society. It was enormously generous of them, and yet how did she repay them? By committing a fraud, lying to them about who and what she was. If her perfidy ever came to light, they would be severely compromised. In fact, they would never completely recover their social standing.

The
haut ton
never forgave a hoax as deep as hers.

"Amanda?"

Gillian came abruptly back to the present, only to be buried under another wave of guilt. She looked up at his handsome face, feeling her chest squeeze with anxiety. Now was the perfect moment. He was waiting for her to speak. She could confess all, make a clean breast of it right now before it was too late.

But looking into his dark blue eyes, she saw the concern swirling there. He had the most changeable eyes, darkening with anger, turning gold in sunlight, sparkling with amusement. How would they look after her confession?

Probably hard with fury as he unceremoniously threw her out of his life and his house.

She could have withstood an ignominious return to York. But not the thought of leaving him, or that their last moments together would be angry and bitter. She could not do it. She could not tell him the truth.

"Amanda? Do you truly wish to be back home?"

She took a deep breath, ruthlessly pushing her doubts aside. "No, my lord. I will not go back to York."

He nodded, and she narrowed her eyes as she studied his face. It was cast half in shadow, emphasizing his harsh angles and dark eyes. But what she noticed most was his expression—or rather lack of one. If ever there was a moment she wanted to read his emotions or understand his thoughts, now was the time. But there was nothing to see. Nothing to read.

Then suddenly he stood up, drawing her with him. "Come with me."

"What?"

He tugged the mobcap out of her hands and tossed it carelessly onto the dresser. "I have something for you."

He drew her to the doorway, and then, after a quick glance to make sure no one was about, he pulled her down the corridor to his room. Then they ducked inside, and he quietly shut his door.

It took a moment for Gillian to realize she was in his bedroom. She felt a tingle course down her spine. If she thought looking through his desk was intimate, it was nothing compared to standing in the center of his private chamber. She gazed around her, turning slowly as she absorbed the details. She did not know what she expected—something grand, maybe a little pompous. A great, huge bed with a raised platform and gilt posters. Maybe rich draperies with the earl's crest emblazoned all over them. But there was very little of that here.

He had a large bed, one probably handed down through the generations, but the draperies and extra pillows were stripped away, making it seem bare, almost austere. There were the usual accoutrements of any modest bedroom—a wardrobe and a dresser—but both were bare of knickknacks, coins, or even a hairbrush. In fact, the only thing in the entire room that seemed uniquely Stephen's was a large leather chair pulled close to the fire, and a stack of books beside it.

She crossed to it, running her fingers along the top of the chair, noting the unmistakable indents in the seat and back cushions. Like his desk chair, this one already bore his mark. It was all she could do to resist folding herself into his chair just to feel herself surrounded by his presence and the heady scent of leather and man.

"Here."

Gillian looked over to see him pull out a small box from a drawer of his dresser.

"I intended to wait until your come-out ball, but perhaps it is more appropriate now." He held out the package to her, and she reached forward, gingerly lifting it from his hand.

It was small and very light with a pretty silver ribbon, which she tugged open. Then, almost with a sense of dread, she pulled open the lid. There, nestled on a piece of white silk, was a delicate gold filigree necklace twisting around green stones shaped like leaves. Above them rested matching ear bobs. The jewelry was so beautiful and delicate she felt her chest constrict in awe.

"Those are emeralds," she said softly.

"Yes." He leaned over, reaching past her fingers to lift the necklace off the silk and hold it up to her face. "Almost a perfect match for your eyes," he said. "Except you sparkle more than they." Then he stepped behind her and brushed aside her hair to fasten the necklace. His fingers sent a tingle of awareness through her body, and she gasped as she felt the cool caress of the necklace contrasted with the hot press of his fingers.

"Exquisite," he murmured, his gaze holding hers in the dresser mirror.

Gillian raised her hand to touch the beautiful creation about her neck. He had given her emeralds.

What was she, Gillian Ames, bastard and lowly housemaid, doing wearing emeralds? She should be thrilled at finally starting on the path to her dreams. She had wealth, support, and most of all, the opportunity for a fine marriage that would establish her and her mother for the rest of their lives. She should be dancing on the rafters in excitement.

Instead, all she could think was that she was a thief and a liar living someone else's life. Her breath caught on a sob, and she felt Stephen's hands tighten on her shoulders in surprise, turning her around so he could look directly into her eyes.

"Amanda? What is wrong?"

"I... I do not belong here," she said, then felt her eyes widen in shock. Why on God's green earth had she said that? "I... I mean—"

"Shhh, it is all right. You are Amanda Faith Wyndham."

"No-"

"Yes. Amanda, listen to me. You are an earl's ward and a beautiful woman who has already become an Original even before your come-out."

"No, I am not who you think—"

"Shhh." He pressed his finger against her lips.

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Then she felt his hands drop to her shoulders, drawing her closer to him as he tried to caress away her trembling.

She meant to move away from him, to escape somewhere, anywhere. But her body would not obey her mind. Then he touched her, lifting her chin until she looked directly into his eyes, and she knew she was lost.

"I believe in you," he whispered. "I believe that after tonight, all of society will be at your feet, and I shall be stepping over suitors three deep in the hallway."

She blushed at his foolish image. "Do not be absurd," she whispered.

"It will happen," he said, his voice unnaturally rough. "Then what will I do?"

She did not understand the husky timbre of his voice or the almost desperate sound of his words. The mesmerizing golden flecks in his eyes filled her thoughts, and she felt her heart beat faster as he drew a ragged breath. He leaned down, his dark hair brushing against her forehead as his breath mingled with hers.

"So beautiful," he whispered, and then without even realizing that she was the one who moved, she found herself in his arms, straining upward as his lips descended to hers.

Their first touch was achingly tender, lips to lips, and through them she felt him shudder as if he struggled with himself and lost the battle. She opened her mouth to him, not knowing what to do, only wishing somehow to have him closer.

He claimed her mouth, wrapping his arms around her and crushing her against him as his tongue invaded her. She let her head drop back, opening herself to him as he plumbed her very depths.

She heard him groan. It was deep, guttural, almost animal, and it thrilled her to her toes. She felt the power of the sound, and strength in his arms, and, most important, the fierce, possessive way he explored her mouth.

She mimicked his movements, learning from him even as she trembled from the wonder of it all. As he held her close, she arched even further into him, pressing intimately against him, feeling the heat from his form along the entire length of her body.

And still she wanted more. So very much more.

"Amanda!" The countess's strident tones pierced the air. "Where are you?"

She and Stephen froze, their breath suspended, their lips less than a breath apart.

"Stephen, have you seen that dratted girl? Stephen?"

With a muffled oath, he pushed her away, and she nearly fell as she was forced to support her own weight. "Quickly," he rasped. "In here."

She looked at him, her thoughts whirling, her mind in a daze. He pulled open the doorway to the corridor linking his bedroom with his future wife's, urgently gesturing her through. Gillian nodded, forcing her wooden feet to the dark hallway, stopping only after she was well hidden in the darkness.

"Amanda?" he whispered.

She turned, her gaze flying to his haggard features, framed in the doorway.

"I... I am sorry," he said. Then he shut the door, closing out the last of the light.

A moment later she heard his deep tones, smoothly sophisticated as he called to the countess, "I am right here. Mother. What did you need?"

"Well, I am looking for that ridiculous chit. We should be leaving soon." The rest of the countess's response was lost to Gillian as the two moved down the hallway, the familiar creak of the stairs telling her they headed downstairs, probably for the front parlor.

Gillian waited another few moments, her heart beating triple time, her breathing harsh and loud in the enclosed space. What had she done? Her stupefied mind played over everything that happened, every sensation and trembling desire that coursed through her as she kissed Stephen.

She had kissed Stephen!

And it was wonderful and frightening and exciting and terribly, terribly delicious. Oh, heavens, she thought with shock. She had loved every moment of it!

Men had kissed her before. More than one of the villagers had used her lowly birth as an excuse to take liberties. Without exception, each kiss had been horrible, starting from the blacksmith with his thick, meaty lips, right through his son's fumbling, wet affair. And most horrible of all, Reverend Hallowsby's sanctimonious cold pecks while his hands... his hands roamed places that had made her run to wash in the cold bite of the mountain stream.

But this was different.

With Stephen, she'd felt as if she flew, soaring through the stars like a fiery comet. Even now, after he left her dazed and trembling in a dark corridor, she still wanted nothing more than to run to him and throw herself at his feet.

I am sorry.

His last words echoed in her mind.

I am sorry.

What was he sorry for? Leaving her in a dark hallway? Or kissing her? Was he sorry his mother interrupted them? Or that he'd given in to his baser instincts and used her for his own pleasure?