Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) (4 page)

"No, my lord. Just this one today. I promise to leave the others for tomorrow."

He released a sudden bark of laughter, apparently surprising himself as much as her. "Very well, though damned if I know what I shall tell my mother."

Gillian grinned. "Just remind her it is her patriotic duty. I am sure she will understand."

The earl glanced down at the dirty boy still clutched in her arms, then closed his eyes with a pained expression. "Clearly you know as little about my mother as you did about me." Then he gestured her toward a waiting landau. It was a grand four-wheeled vehicle with the earl's golden crest emblazoned on both sides. Only a fool could have missed it, she realized with horror, but truly, she had not thought he would send anyone, much less come himself.

She was still ruminating on her stupidity when the earl shut the carriage door. Though the landau was quite spacious, Gillian suddenly felt short of breath. The earl seemed to dominate the interior of his carriage, looming large as he peered at her from the opposite seat. Unconsciously she pulled Tom closer, as though the boy could protect her. But the child was more interested in the novelty of riding in a richly appointed carriage than in comforting her. Currently he occupied himself by rubbing his hands across the burgundy velvet squabs, a look of ecstasy on his young face.

"Do not imagine for one moment I have forgotten." The earl's low voice filled the interior, sending a small shiver of awareness up her spine.

"Forgotten what, my lord?" She strove for an innocent expression and knew he was not fooled.

"I will demand an explanation for your outrageous behavior before this day is over." He spoke congenially, but Gillian knew he was as good as his word. She would receive a severe drubbing very soon. She sighed unhappily, knowing better than to rail at fate. After all, what was the worst that could happen? He could refuse to frank her Season, send her back to York, and thereby condemn her to a life of hardship and brutality, if not worse.

Gillian dropped her chin into her hand, her spirits lowering with every clip-clop of the horse's hooves. At the moment, York almost seemed preferable to a severe dressing-down by her formidable guardian.

Chapter 2

Rule #3:

A lady is always demure.

"But Stephen, I will not have it!"

Stephen Conley, the fifth Earl of Mavenford, took a long, sustaining gulp of his brandy and wished he could be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Even Spain would be better than this civilized torture known as polite society. But he was not in Spain. He stood in the elegant blue salon of his London home, staring into the gray ashes of a dead fire. Dinner was long since over, and rather than his comfortable brandy and Aristophanes in the library, he prepared to confront his willful new ward while his mother, the Countess of Mavenford, droned on behind him like a loud mosquito.

"Stephen, are you listening? We cannot have that... that... filthy child in our home."

"He is only a small child, Mother. True, he eats enough for three, but even you must admit he is a small boy."

"For goodness' sake, Stephen, you are an earl."

Stephen sighed and turned to face his small but imposing mother. "I am well aware of my rank."

She responded with an imperious sniff. Sitting on the couch in a voluminous gown of dark burgundy, his mother appeared no more than a puffed-up bird. At least until she opened her mouth and one heard her deep, aristocratic accents. She would have done excellently on the stage, he thought idly. Her voice and carriage befitted the most formidable of women, and it never failed to surprise him how dainty she could appear while ringing a peal over his head.

"Earls do not employ cutpurses," she said with haughty disdain.

"Neither do they have willful, disobedient wards, but I seem to have inherited one anyway."

His mother blinked. "Well, what is that to the point?"

"Amanda..." He paused to stare pensively into the amber depths of his brandy. "Miss Wyndham took a liking to the boy."

The countess waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Ridiculous. I have a liking for small monkeys, but that does not mean I keep them in the house."

Stephen looked up from his brandy in surprise. "Why, Mother, I never knew. Perhaps I shall buy you one for your birthday."

"Stephen!"

"Enough, Mother. The boy stays. At least for now. Later I will see what can be done. But at this moment my first duty is to Miss Wyndham."

"Well, as to that, she appears thin, old, and hopelessly countrified." His mother raised her chin, her pale blue eyes sparkling at the onset of a challenge. "Still, I believe there is a glimmer of beauty beneath the grime. It shall require monumental effort to unearth, I cannot doubt, but I expect I shall make a credible chit out of her eventually."

"Then you hope more than I do," he said grimly. "The girl is willful, cheeky, and has absolutely no understanding of how to go about. Do you know she rode from York on the top of the mail coach?"

"The top!" Lady Mavenford forgot herself so much as to let her teacup clatter into its saucer. "Good gracious, did anyone see her?"

"Half of London, I shouldn't wonder. Though I doubt any would recognize her once she is rigged out for the Season."

"But with that hair of hers, who would fail to remark it? Oh, we are undone before we even begin! Whatever shall we do?"

Stephen shrugged and looked away, his mind on the flashing mahogany tresses that first brought his disobedient ward to his attention. He had been contemplating the dismal London weather when he chanced to look up. It seemed at first an angel of the autumn had flown in to roll back time to a glorious fall.

Though her hair no doubt began the day in a tight chignon, at least half of it had escaped to curl and dance in the setting sun. Even from across the courtyard, he could see the healthy glow on her cheeks and full mouth, both grown red from the wind. Her gown was drab, the color of an old tree trunk, but nothing could dim the life pulsing just beneath her dull covering.

Then he drew near and saw the warmth of her green eyes. In that moment he knew he had misjudged her. She was not an angel of the fall, but of the spring, of new life throwing off its heavy winter covering. Her eyes were lush and dark like a primordial forest. And when she became angry, they darkened like a spring storm flashing lightning bolts of fury at him.

In short, she was magnificent. Within seconds of seeing her, he had decided to bed her—until that horrible moment when he discovered she was his ward. Life was indeed cruel.

"Stephen, you are not attending!"

"Of course I am," he responded evenly. "You spoke of how we are undone."

"Do not make light of this situation," his mother snapped. "It is touchy enough with us just out of mourning. But to sport an aging spinster who goes about on the top of mail coaches... well!" She placed a delicate hand on her breast. "I shall have to get my vinaigrette."

"Yes, ma'am," he responded automatically, handing her a glass of sherry instead. "Tell me what you know about the girl."

She took a long, fortifying drink from her glass, then cradled it protectively in her lap. "Well, as to that, you already know as much as I do."

"Humor me, Mother."

She glanced up, clearly trying to gauge his mood. He kept his expression bland and excruciatingly polite, and so eventually she had no choice but to continue. "Very well. Amanda is the daughter of my sister and her husband, that wastrel George Wyndham, Baron Thews. Marie died in childbed and George proceeded to carouse himself into an early grave. A common brawl, I think, finally did him in. Most vulgar."

She gave a delicate shudder while Stephen toyed with a tiny china shepherdess on the mantel. "How long ago was that?"

"Eight years."

"And the girl has lived alone in York all that time?"

"Well, your father hired a companion for her—"

"She did not come with Amanda."

"And, of course, there was that other girl."

From his mother's disdainful tone, Stephen knew she would give him a ripe tale. Twisting around, he gave the countess his full attention. "Other girl?"

She leaned forward, keeping her voice low while her eyes sparkled with a gossip's delight. "Well, it seems George got a brat on some maid, but rather than pay to have the woman removed from the household, he let both maid and child stay on. Apparently George was quite fond of the little girl. Amanda was not yet born, and so she was his first. Mr. Oltheten, your father's solicitor, told me she is quite bright. Studied plants or some such thing and became the local physic. That is how she came to tend Amanda."

Stephen nodded. This was familiar territory. "And did Amanda resent having her half-sister tend her?"

His mother shrugged. "As to that, I cannot tell. According to Mr. Oltheten, they had little choice, as Amanda was quite ill and the closest doctor resides miles away." She furrowed her brow in concentration. "Consumption, I believe. It is quite remarkable, really, that she made such a recovery. I understand she was ill for many, many years."

"She certainly did not seem sick this afternoon," he commented dryly.

"Just as well. A few more years and there would be no hope for a respectable match. She is nearly cast away as it is."

Stephen nodded, his mind still on her strange childhood. "Whatever happened to the girl, the by-blow?"

His mother stared at him, her eyebrows arched in surprise. "I have no idea. Whatever difference does it make?"

Stephen shrugged, then drained the last of his brandy. "None, I suppose. I was only curious."

His mother watched his movements with a careful eye. "Will you speak with her now?"

Stephen set his glass down with an audible click. "I shall speak
to
her, Mother. If she wishes to remain in my house enjoying our sponsorship, then she had best listen."

He did not miss his mother's self-satisfied smile. "Excellent. Between you and me, I have no doubt we shall make Miss Wyndham toe the line."

"Precisely my thought. Mother." Then, with a respectful bow, he made his way to the library, already rehearsing his words to the headstrong Miss Wyndham.

Thirty minutes later he finished delivering his speech. His hands remained firmly at his sides, and he made sure to maintain his cold gaze on his ward's face. It was one of his better speeches—clear and to the point, with just the right touch of outrage, anger, and a healthy list of cut-and-dried rules. Perfect. Except he had the distinct feeling he had made no headway at all.

He had watched her closely from the moment she entered the library. Since she had taken dinner in her rooms, pleading a headache, he had pictured her appearing for her scold with drooping shoulders, a sullen expression, and perhaps a faint sheen of illness coloring her skin.

Instead she'd arrived at the library neatly attired with her riotous curls pulled into a tight coil at the base of her neck. Her face remained as clean as her freshly pressed dress, although this, too, was as drab as her traveling outfit.

He told her rather curtly to sit down, and she obeyed with the demure courtesy required. She even kept her brilliant green eyes lowered, respectfully shielded by her thick lashes throughout his speech. Yet he had the distinct impression Miss Wyndham was anything but docile.

"Furthermore," he began again, "you shall follow my mother's fashion dictates to the letter, including wearing a hat at all times outdoors. You will never venture out without the company of a maid or a groom, you shall not dance or comport yourself with anyone of whom we do not approve, and you shall speak softly at all times. In short, I expect you to act with the decorum befitting the ward of an earl."

He stopped his speech, having said everything he planned and a few things besides. Now was her chance to speak, to assure him with soft phrases and sweet smiles that she would make him proud.

He waited. She looked up and blinked.

He raised his eyebrow.

Finally she found her voice. "Is that all?"

"What?" He was so startled by her odd response that he was momentarily stupefied.

"Is that all?" she continued. "No hair shirt, forty lashes, maybe a ritual sacrifice of my scandalous underclothes?"