Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) (8 page)

Suddenly the mystery became too much for him. He needed to know the secret behind his strange ward. He took a step closer to her, forcing her to look up into his eyes. "Amanda, Mr. Oltheten said you were very ill the last time he visited York. You were sick and encased all in white. And yet I cannot imagine a healthier person than you, and you voiced a strong distaste for white. What happened?"

She winced, but he touched her arm, preventing her from turning away. When she at last spoke, her gaze wandered over his shoulder to the dark night. "I healed," she whispered, "and formed a severe distaste for my sick-clothes. There is nothing unusual in that."

"He also said you were very bitter."

She shrugged and made to draw away, but still he held her, now with two hands resting gently on her shoulders.

"You seem sad for Mr. Oltheten."

"He is a kind man who is dying of a horrible, wasting disease. I have seen many people carried off by such an ailment." Her thoughts were clearly turned inward to sad memories. As a gentleman, he should leave her alone, Stephen thought. But he wanted more information. He needed to understand.

"That is not the reaction of a bitter woman, Amanda," he said. "Was Mr. Oltheten wrong about that?"

She bit her lip, and the sight of her even white teeth distracted him for a moment. "No," she finally said on a soft sigh. "He was not wrong." She took a deep breath. "The Amanda in York was angry and jealous. She wanted..." Her voice trailed away.

"What? A Season? A husband?"

The girl shook her head. "She wanted everything she did not have. Little things would infuriate her. A smile. Laughter." She stepped away from him, putting a single hand on the windowpane as if reaching for something but barred from having it. "I tried to be understanding. I tried compassion, gentleness, even friendship. But always there was anger simmering inside. And jealousy."

"But you changed."

She turned back to him, her eyes hard and challenging. "A new vicar came to our little village. He was responsible."

His eyebrows raised in skepticism. "A religious conversion?" He'd thought as much earlier, but somehow it did not match his image of her.

"Religion is a powerful force, my lord. If it were not for Reverend Hallowsby, I believe I would still be in York, sitting by the fire, counting sins."

Stephen frowned, trying to picture the scene she described. It did not fit.

"Reverend Hallowsby preached, my lord. He preached obsessively, fervently. And if he felt you had sinned, he would punish you."

He stiffened, his senses suddenly wary. "What manner of punishment?"

She stepped backward into the shadows, but he followed her. He did not touch her, but angled himself so he could see her expression reflected in the window.

"He punished in public first, cataloging sins before the entire congregation. And then later he would visit in private, finding me alone so he could suggest ways to redeem my soul."

Her words chilled him, but more than that, it was her face. Her expression was cold and hard, and for the first time he saw the bitterness within her. Then suddenly she spun back toward him, her expression washing away into a blank facade.

"He did not succeed in his intentions, my lord. In fact, I should be grateful to him. If it were not for his actions, I would never have resolved to come to London. I would not now be standing in a warm home about to embark on the greatest adventure of my life."

Her statement should have reassured him. Her words should have rung with optimism and hope, but instead he heard a fierce determination that defied all who opposed her. She should not be this way, he thought. She was too young to have such anger within her.

Instinctively he reached out to comfort her. She was stiff, shying away from his touch. But he persisted, not with firmness, but with a gentleness that seemed to crumple her resolve.

"Whatever our differences, Amanda, know that I am your friend. I will help you." His words were a whisper, and as he spoke, he drew her closer until he could feel the brush of her breath across his face.

"I do not trust you." She said the words, and he believed she meant them. But rather than pulling away from him, her body relaxed, swaying forward as if part of her wanted to trust. Part of her, he knew, needed to believe what he said was true.

"I am your guardian," he responded. "You can trust me with anything."

He thought to comfort her, and truly for a moment he saw a need to confide shimmering in the dark green of her eyes. Now he would know what secrets she guarded so closely. But even as that thought entered his mind, other wholly irresponsible thoughts crowded them out.

She was so near, her lips so close. His body tightened, responding with eager delight to the soft feel of her beneath his fingertips, the heady scent that was uniquely hers. Oh, how he wanted to kiss her. He knew it was impossible, but the need burned within him, startling him with its intensity. She looked at him, her eyes growing soft, her pupils dilating as he lowered his head.

"Amanda—" It was half groan, half plea.

"No!" Suddenly she twisted away, her hands clenched at her sides as she whirled out of his reach. "I thought you were different, but now I can see you are all the same! Reverend Hallowsby, you, every man, and I despise you all!"

He pulled back, hearing the accusation in her words, knowing now with a sick horror exactly what punishments the Reverend Hallowsby had tried to mete out.

"No," he said. Then he repeated it more firmly, denying both the thought and the accusation. "No, Amanda, it is not true." And yet, even as he said it, he knew it
was
true. Had he not just been thinking of kissing her? And when he had first seen her on the coach yesterday, wasn't his first thought a plan for when and how he would bed her? "I am not like that!" he exclaimed, both to himself and to her.

She lifted her chin, her entire stance one of furious defiance. "It is the nature of man to sin, my lord. It is his nature to lust and desire and covet. Isn't that what the church teaches?"

He matched her tone, making his voice as hard as hers, trying to show her he meant what he said. "I do not know of every man, Amanda. I only know that I am your guardian, and I will protect you. Whatever the circumstances, whatever your past sins, whatever you choose to confide, Amanda, I am pledged to protect you."

"Confide, my lord?" Her voice fairly dripped with sarcasm. "What is there to confide? I am here for the Season to catch myself a rich husband. I will wear my bonnet in public, I will spend your money on ugly clothes chosen for me by a shriveled crone of a maid, and in the end I will be rewarded with some old ogre of a husband so I can spend his money and adorn his arm. Years ago this was beyond my wildest dreams. Now I am living it. Confide, my lord? What could there possibly be to confide except that I am thankful for my opportunity?" Her voice rang with an anger that cut at him, tossing aside his offer of understanding, pricking at his guilt.

He raised an eyebrow. The natural disdain that came with his new tide surged forward. "Very well, Amanda. I concede to your greater understanding. You have nothing to confide. But let me tell you one thing..." His voice lowered with threat. "There is nothing I despise more than a liar. If you are hiding anything—a scandal maybe, no matter how small—you will wish you had never been born."

She lifted her chin, her raised eyebrows the perfect picture of haughty disdain. "I have wished that countless times already, my lord. Such a threat has no meaning to me."

Then with a swirl of her shapeless skirts, she disappeared, leaving him to curse his foolish brother for bequeathing him a defiant ward and a mystery all wrapped up in an enticingly beautiful package.

* * *

She'd almost told him!

Gillian ran up the stairs and dashed into her room, remembering out of long habit not to slam her door. She closed it silently, then sank to the floor, her back pressed into the hard wood.

She'd almost told him!

After months of planning, years of degradation and self-effacing humiliation, she had almost told the earl the truth. Here she was on the verge of her whole future, hers and her mother's, and what had she done? Weakened! Her mother's life depended on her success; how could she have just melted?

It was bad enough she'd nearly fallen into his arms. He was so powerful. The urge to let go was so strong, so alluring. She could give over her burden to him.

But that was madness. So she'd reached for her anger, using it to back away from him. Then he, too, had become cold and angry, seeming to tower over her even though he had not moved. And despite his fury, she had still wanted to confess!

How could she be such a fool? Stephen Conley was no different from the other pumped up, arrogant popinjays of the
ton
. He was kin to the man who had sired her, then threw her to the likes of Reverend Hallowsby.

What would Stephen do if he liked a maid's smile? If that little scene was anything to judge by, he would act just as her father had. Just like the old baron, he would lie with her, creating another bastard, then forgetting her, leaving the child to a life of humiliation and degradation.

To tell Stephen the truth would be like handing him the torch to light the fire by which to burn her at the stake. He would never understand what had brought her to such lengths. He would never even try.

She knew all this, and yet barely one day in his house and already she felt vulnerable around him, susceptible to his charm and mesmerized by his sheer presence.

It was insane!

Gillian let her head drop back against the door, her heart heavy. What did it matter why this was happening? For some reason, she was weak around the earl. For her own sake, as well as her mother's, she must find a way to stop his heinous influence. She must remain strong around the man.

Her only hope was to avoid him. True, he would pursue her. She saw that her past intrigued him. She would have to be very careful. Thank heaven Gillian knew how to fade into the woodwork when necessary. With any luck, the Season would keep both her and the earl so busy she would never see him except in passing.

Then if God smiled on her, she would be safely married before anyone discovered the truth.

Yes, she decided, it was a good plan. She could manage it. She must manage it.

Feeling better, Gillian stood and stripped off her dress, taking time to wash the perspiration from her face. She needed an ally. Someone quick, part of the earl's household, and totally loyal to her. Someone not strictly moral who would help her achieve her goals.

Only one person fit that description.

Tom.

Perhaps it was time to visit the mews.

Chapter 4

Rule #5:

A lady does not run barefoot after cutthroats.

Gillian went straight to the window and looked out to judge the distance to the ground. Although not an expert climber, she had extensive experience working her way over the rough Yorkshire terrain while looking for herbs. She would have no difficulty managing the trellis, assuming she could swing out through her window far enough to grab it.

She could, of course, try to sneak out of the house through the servants' stairways, but Stephen was still awake and about. She could not risk him finding her. It would have to be the trellis.

Gillian eased open the window and squeezed her way through headfirst and backward until all but her legs were outside. She sat there a moment, breathing deeply of the London night, then abruptly changed her mind. She was used to moonswept moors, the near silence of the country, and the sweet, fresh scent of heather. By comparison, London felt crowded, noisy, and choked with noxious odors. The buildings seemed to huddle together, trapping the stench inside. Even the moon had no room to peep through. The only illumination came from gas lamps, which shed tiny pools of greasy yellow light.

It was very much like those gothic novels Amanda had so loved, and Gillian repressed a shudder of mixed fear and excitement.

Then she shook her head. She was in a perfectly respectable area of London about to cross a cobbled back alley to sneak into the mews. There were no mad Bedlamites or hideous ghouls lurking about, and it was foolish to even imagine such things.