Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) (7 page)

It was another five minutes before the man could speak, his voice paper thin, though still filled with his own dry humor. "Could use some of that witch's brew now."

Stephen nodded politely, completely uninterested in his uncle's old scandal. His thoughts were on Amanda. "Sir, is there anything you can tell me about Miss Wyndham? What do you remember of her?"

The old man frowned, screwing up his lips in distaste. "Not much to remember. Last time I saw her was a little over two years ago. Bitter, sickly little thing all encased in white. Said it made her feel more holy. I thought it made her look like a shriveled-up mummy." His next cackle brought on another, more severe coughing fit that left the man gasping for breath, too pale to do more than blink his watery eyes.

The interview was over, Stephen realized with an inward sigh. Though he wanted to press for more information, he could see that the elderly gentleman would not stand the strain. Standing, he hastily summoned the woman and took his leave.

Five minutes later he was once again outside, frowning at the beautiful London day. The solicitor had described Amanda as bitter and sickly, two adjectives he himself would never choose. Then there was that odd reference about her being shrouded in white, and yet Amanda professed a hatred of the color.

Clearly something momentous had happened to the girl to change her into the generous, vibrant woman she now appeared. A religious conversion, maybe? Stephen shrugged. Whatever occurred, it must have been dramatic.

Perhaps he should take a trip to York just to look around. A few discreet questions, perhaps a guinea or two, and he would surely know the whole tale. He squinted at the sun, noting its position in the sky. He still had time to leave today. He could be in York tomorrow night. Unfortunately, his other estates required his attention more than the Yorkshire properties. His father had neglected too much during his long illness. And his brother Harry had left things in chaos. Stephen simply could not spare the time for a trip to York.

With a sigh, Stephen pulled out his pocket watch and planned the rest of his day. He had lost so much time tracking down the elder Mr. Oltheten that barely a half hour remained to make his appointment with Perry, Viscount Derbarough, his sheep-farming mentor. With a muffled groan, Stephen kicked the sides of his black stallion while trying unsuccessfully to push his young ward from his mind.

She was an odd one, strangely intriguing, infuriatingly forward, and hopelessly direct. A mystery surrounded her, and he was determined to solve it. Perhaps he could get the answers from the girl herself. She certainly was not hard to read. Little more than an hour of his directed attention should get the information he sought.

Stephen smiled as he felt his spirits lighten for the first time in a week. Yes, he thought, just a little more time with the intriguing Amanda, and he would possess the key to handling the puzzling spitfire.

* * *

Gillian stared out the window at the gentle night. More than anything she wanted to disappear into the darkness, wandering the wild moors of her childhood, trying to quiet the restlessness within her.

But she could not. This was London, and despite her urge to throw off the earl's restrictions, she was not completely stupid. To go out alone into a London night would be foolish—not to mention useless. She could not think of anything less quiet, less soothing than the city.

When she had conceived her plan to impersonate Amanda, she had dreamed of ardent suitors, elegant ball gowns, a few months of the joys and laughter that came with being rich—and legitimate. No one had mentioned corsets, prune-faced maids, and restrictions designed to frustrate any sane person.

White! She had to wear white. She could not walk alone. She had to wear a hat and speak softly and only about polite inconsequentials. Yes, she had heard the earl list these ridiculous rules last night, but she'd given them little heed. They were the result of his pique and not really intended to be followed.

Then she'd discovered to her shock that the countess firmly supported each of his wild dictates, not to mention adding some of her own. Gillian might have pushed those aside as well—after all, Lady Mavenford seemed to enjoy Gillian's discomfort—but the modiste was frankly shocked that anyone would question the rules.

"But of course you must wear white," the modiste exclaimed in a thick French accent. "Did not your mama tell you this?"

"Her mother died in childbed," the countess responded in her usual haughty tone. "I fear Amanda did not learn the niceties of polite society."

"Ah," the modiste responded, nodding her head in condescending understanding. "Then you are fortunate to have Lady Mavenford to teach you the ways, non? She is very wise and never mislays a step."

The countess, of course, smiled beatifically at the compliment, and the modiste bowed while Gillian nearly choked on her disgust. The modiste's overflowing admiration was merely to ingratiate herself with the countess. Any fool could see that. Once, Gillian would have laughed at the display, but the flattery solidified the two women's mutual admiration, and Gillian lost any hope of enlisting the dressmaker's aid for at least one bright ball gown.

All too soon, Gillian gave up trying to make her opinions known. She even stopped paying attention to the myriad fabrics held up to her face or draped across her body. She became a human doll. She closed her eyes and pretended she was in York in her secret place by the old tree.

Nothing else existed. Not even her dreams.

Gillian and the countess returned home after what seemed like years of shopping. The older lady took immediately to her rooms for the night, pleading exhaustion. Gillian took one step into her own room, met the prune-faced stare of her new maid, and fled downstairs. There she ate a solitary dinner, oddly piqued that the earl had not deigned to return.

At nearly midnight, she had passed hours of solitude in thought. Never suppressed for long, her dreams returned hill force, along with a new determination to make them come true. If the real Amanda could not daunt her spirit with constant insults, then how could the earl's absence be anything more than relief? If Reverend Hallowsby could not shame her with entire sermons devoted to the taint of illegitimate blood, then how could the gift of an ugly maid be anything more than a godsend?

She would not cower or be ashamed. She was Amanda Faith Wyndham, she reminded herself, not a self-effacing by-blow surviving on the grace of a bitter girl. And as Amanda, she would truly and totally get her way. But first she needed to have a frank discussion with the earl.

Assuming that he ever returned home.

He did, at nearly one o'clock. And by then Gillian had worked herself into a fair temper.

"Good evening, my lord," she said from her window seat in the salon. "I suppose this is what you mean by town hours." She winced at her own shrewish tongue, but seemed unable to help herself.

"Amanda! I thought everyone would be in bed." Despite his quick recovery, Gillian did not miss his brief flash of chagrin at meeting her.

"Did you perhaps stay away just in that hope?"

Stephen gave her a rueful smile, making her heart beat double time.

"You have found me out." He crossed into the salon and poured himself a brandy. "I have learned in matters of female interest that it is best to hide until the fireworks fade to a dull roar."

"Your mother has tortured other girls before me?" Gillian's surprise softened her tone.

He grinned, and she looked away for fear her anger would fade under the power of his charm. "I have a sister, and believe me, before Catherine became Lady Waterson, this house was a pitched battlefield. They were the most stubborn pair of pugilists I ever met. It's a wonder I survived."

"You are incorrect, my lord."

He raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

"You have now met me."

He grinned. "Yes, but I have not yet survived your struggle. Let us hope we find you a husband soon, thereby shortening the war in my once peaceful household."

Gillian winced at his blunt words, wondering all the while why they should pain her. This was, after all, her intended goal—to find a husband and in one masterful stroke not only save her mother, but also become one of the peerage that had both created and spurned her. Except when Stephen said it aloud—that she was here just to find a husband—it chilled her blood and made her ashamed.

And that, of course, made her all the angrier.

* * *

Watching the emotions play across his ward's beautiful face, Stephen barely restrained a groan. He recognized the martial light in her eyes and knew he was in for a battle.

"My lord," the girl began, "I have some questions for you."

"I tremble with curiosity."

"Do not mock me," she snapped. "I want to know where Tom is. No one will tell me anything. What did you do with him?"

"I did not throw him into Fleet, if that is what you feared."

"Then where is he?"

"Asleep in the mews, dreaming of Cook's blueberry tarts, no doubt."

"The mews!" She practically bristled with outrage.

"I hired him as a stable hand in the mews. Simpton will keep a good eye on him, and at least out there I have less to steal."

"If you think you can hide him away for a few days, then toss him aside when you think I am placated—"

"I hired him as a coach boy," he snapped, feeling his temper rise. "He knows one false step will put him back out on the street. The rest is up to him."

"Oh, really," she said with a sneer. "And how long before something accidentally goes missing or perhaps a tack is damaged? How long before you find some excuse to throw him away?"

Stephen narrowed his eyes. "You have a cynical mind, Miss Wyndham."

"Am I wrong?" she challenged.

"Yes. And were you a man, I would call you out for what you just implied."

"Were I a man, I would not be here in your charge in the first place!"

He stared into her eyes, trying to see deeply within her, trying to guess the secrets driving this volatile woman. "Is that what upsets you, Amanda? That you are under my protection?"

She bit her lip and turned away, her movements impossibly stiff. "I lived under my own care for many years, my lord—"

"Please call me Stephen," he said, startling himself with his own comment. His title preserved some measure of authority with her, something he desperately needed. But already he could see how she chafed under the restrictions of polite society, a sentiment with which he readily sympathized. So he gave her his first name as a token of friendship.

She turned toward him, her eyes drawn wide with surprise at his friendly overture. "Very well," she said slowly. "Stephen."

He smiled, feeling suddenly happy.

"As I was saying, my—Stephen, I cared for myself for years. I do not need a servant constancy hovering about me, nor someone watching my every move. And I certainly do not need a prune-faced maid telling me which slipper to put on which foot."

"Ah!" Stephen leaned against the high table, crystal brandy decanters clinking with the movement. Now he understood some of his ward's frustration. "Has Mother assigned Hawkings to you?"

"She did if that is the name of the sour crone in my bedchamber."

He nodded, reaching again for his glass. "Sad case, that. She was very ill as a child. Obviously she recovered, but the sickness destroyed her looks. Mama brought her in, trained her as a dresser, and now she knows more about fashion than most modistes. Why, even my valet consults her, and in time, one gets used to her looks."

"Apparently not. The countess has assigned her to me."

Stephen shrugged. "Mother does not need the advice of an expert. Clearly she thinks you do."

Amanda spun around, pacing the room, her nimble body moving gracefully past the furniture. "But I do not! That is what I am saying. I have dressed myself since I was a child."

Stephen did not move, but suddenly his senses pricked as his mind spun back over everything he knew about her. "I thought your half-sister maided you."

Amanda slowed, her slippers catching in the carpet. "She maided me until she grew ill. And then I was forced to handle my own affairs."

He could not miss the sudden wariness in her voice. "That must have been very difficult for you," he said.

She shrugged. "I did what I had to."

"Of course. But you said you maided yourself since you were a child. Mr. Oltheten visited you a little over a year ago, and he said you were very ill."

She turned toward him, her eyes wide with surprise. "You have seen Mr. Oltheten?"

He nodded. "Early this afternoon. Unfortunately he himself is very ill, and he could not give me detailed instructions on your estate."

Amanda looked slightly distracted, as though her thoughts turned elsewhere. "I can tell you all you need to know about the Wyndham legacy. Was he very ill? Is it his cough?"

"I believe so. A coughing fit ended our interview."

Amanda nodded, her gaze shifting to the window. "I see," she said softly. "He was a nice man. I am sorry he is so ill."

Stephen fell silent as he studied the woman before him. Two minutes ago she was in a towering rage. Now all traces of it were gone, lost in her compassion for a dying old man.