The Making of a Gentleman (6 page)

She reached the top of the stairs and turned into the corridor leading to her room. It was dark, and she did not see the shadow move before her until the hand reached out and caught her wrist.

She gave a brief shriek before she was pulled hard and fast against a man’s chest. She did not need to look to know he was the comte. She did not need to look, but she did. Her gaze traveled up his stark white shirt, over his smooth, bare throat, around his strong jaw, lingering on his soft mouth. Her heart sped up, pounding inside her ribcage like a trapped bird. Heat, white and razor-sharp, sliced through her.

She forced her gaze to jump to his. His eyes, deep and dark, met her gaze, and Felicity felt all the air in her lungs rush out in a sudden gust. They stood in the corridor gazing at one another for hours, or so it seemed to Felicity. But finally she pried her locked jaw open, parted her lips, and whispered, “What do you want?”

Images assailed her. His lips meeting hers softly, roughly… The comte bending her back, kissing her throat, caressing her hair, caressing…

Oh, dear. The heat burned, setting her on fire, making her breath come quickly. Did she actually want those things? If not, why was she imagining them—and why was she still standing in his arms?

And then, quite abruptly, she wasn’t. He released her—all but her hand—and pulled her after him.

Felicity could not have said why she followed. She didn’t usually follow men she did not know, especially those who pulled her into their arms, leaving her breathless. Not that that happened to her very often. Actually, it had never happened to her before today.

It would definitely be best if she continued along her way, retired to her bedroom, and locked the door. That would be the sensible thing to do.

Of course, that was not what she did. Instead, she followed the mysterious comte deeper into the darkened corridor and then down a back stairs, probably the one reserved for servants. The stairs were steep and narrow, and the faint light from the comte’s candle did little to dissipate the shadows around her.

The stairs finally ended, and the comte pushed through a door. He did not hold it open for her, and it slammed closed in her face. “Cursed man,” she muttered, opening the door and emerging to find him waiting on the other side with an impatient look on his face.

He turned his back to her and continued walking through a second door, which Felicity could now see led outside. What was this? It had to be past ten. Where could he be taking her? And
why
was she still following? If he ended up strangling her and leaving her for dead in the garden, she would have only herself to blame for behaving as such a brainless ninny.

Then again, perhaps strangling her was not his plan, at all. Twice he had taken her into his arms. Perhaps his motives were more romantic in nature. And now that the possibility had occurred to her, hadn’t she better turn back immediately? But of course she didn’t because, to be honest, had the idea really just occurred to her? Hadn’t she been hoping all along his plan was to kiss her? And what would her father, the poor vicar, think of her now? And Charles, her betrothed—well, she did not care what he thought of her. One day in London and already she had become a wanton.

She stepped outside, feeling the crisp night air quickly envelop her. It was cold, but not uncomfortably so. She had forgotten her cloak, and it occurred to her that fetching it might serve as an excuse for escape. But when her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she found the comte standing a few feet in front of her, he did not appear overly anxious to either strangle or kiss her.

He was staring up at the sky.

Felicity stood behind him and stared up, as well. The view of the night sky was certainly nothing compared to what she was used to in the country. The stars in London were muted and sparse, only the brightest managing to shine through the haze of lamplight and coal smoke that hung over the city. Remarkably, it was the same night sky she had seen a hundred times. Strange that she should be so far away from home and yet be standing under the same sky.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she turned to the comte. He was watching her, his eyes dark and intense. She did not think he wore any expression that was not intense. She cleared her throat. “It’s pretty outside,” she said, realizing it sounded trite but knowing not to expect a response in any case.

He continued to stare at her, giving no indication he had heard her. And she was supposed to coax him to speak? The dowager had wanted progress in a week. Felicity was not feeling optimistic.

“Do you like the stars?” she asked because he was still looking at her, and that look made her tremble inside. But she didn’t want to think too much about whether the sensation resulted from discomfort or attraction. Perhaps a little of both.

“The stars,” she repeated and gestured at the night sky. “Do you like them?”

He followed her gesture and looked up, and now she had a chance to study his profile. His face was classic in structure—straight nose, strong cheekbones, full lips. She had to stop staring at those lips. Or, if she could not, she should focus on how set they were. How hard. He might have the face of an aristocrat, but the way he stood, the way he moved, was primeval. No, there was nothing refined or elegant beneath the surface of this man.

And why did that make her heart race?

He was still staring at the night sky, and she turned her gaze back to the speckled inky black vastness above them. Safer that way. They stood in silence for some five minutes or more—long enough for her to feel the chill—before she wondered, once again, why he had brought her out here.

Thankfully, he did not appear intent upon strangling her. Nor did he seem to want to kiss her—which was a good thing, she told herself, ignoring the stab of disappointment cutting through her. So why direct her outside?

The breeze stirred the leaves in the trees, rustling them quietly, and she sensed the comte relax beside her. He seemed less tense, less fierce out here. She supposed that should make sense. After all, a man who had been locked up for twelve years would come to appreciate the freedom of the infinite night sky and the unpredictable evening breeze.

She turned and found him watching her again. It was dark now, the town house’s lights behind them creating just enough glow for her to distinguish the look on his face.

She could only describe the expression as one of longing. And because her heart constricted when she saw it and her belly pooled with warmth, she started to speak before she did something ridiculous like throw herself into his arms. “I can see why you enjoy the garden. After all those years in prison, it must be refreshing to step outside any time you please.”

He continued to stare at her, moving closer and studying her face. Felicity tried to ignore the heat she felt blossom in her cheeks and stared up at the stars again. The North Star was the most apparent, and she focused on its bright, steady glow. “I don’t know what you must think of London. I only just arrived this morning and find it quite overwhelming.” She knew she was babbling now, but he continued moving closer. She could feel his breath on her cheek.

“But I suppose if you were in Paris, the noise and…” She squeaked as he lifted her hand and cradled it in his. She still wore her gloves, but she could feel the warmth of his bare skin through the thin material.

“—and the lights and the general…”

He stripped off her glove, and now there was no barrier between his warm, calloused flesh and her own, which was cooler and surprisingly sensitive to his touch. As he had that afternoon, he lifted her hand and put it to his cheek. She could feel the stubble there, under her fingertips.

“The general, ah, general hubbub…” She tried to continue speaking as though what he was doing was not entirely inappropriate. As a woman betrothed to another man—however unwillingly—she should not allow this. In addition, as his tutor, she had more reason to stop him. This would be the perfect opportunity to teach him manners, but when she turned to rebuke him, those cobalt eyes were on her again, and her throat went dry.

There was curiosity in his expression, almost as though touching her hand to his face was an experiment. But there was passion there too. She had seen it this morning when he had interrupted her playing, and she saw it now. Saw he did not quite know what to do with it.

Oh, she could show him. She could lean forward and place her lips on his, and then—

And then her father would turn over in his grave! What was she thinking!

Summoning her father’s face before her eyes, she finally found the strength to tug her hand out of the comte’s grasp. Now she would go inside. She would go inside and go directly to her room and go to bed. Tomorrow they would start fresh and pretend none of this had happened.

“I’m going to go inside now, my lord,” she said quietly, stepping back. “I shall see you in the morning.” She said it forcefully, and she followed the words with a determined turn back toward the doors where they had exited. She had meant every word—until she felt his hand on her elbow.

Don’t stop. Keep walking, she told herself, but she couldn’t resist turning, just to glimpse the look on his face. Curses, but he had to be the most handsome man she had ever seen. How was she supposed to walk away from this wounded angel who aroused and unsettled her all at once?

How was she going to serve as his tutor if she did not start enforcing some discipline now—on herself, if not her pupil?

Be strong, she thought, and began to turn away again. She would have made it inside the town house at that point, too, if his hand had not reached out to stroke her cheek. The feel of his rough, warm finger on her cool cheek arrested her body and mind. It was one thing to have him scrape her fingers along his face and quite another to be touched by him.

Her knees went weak, her stomach fluttered, and she could not seem to find enough air to fill her lungs. Without her permission, her eyes closed, and absent her sight, the feel of his hand against her face was that much more exquisite, that much more seductive.

Did he even mean to seduce her? Did he have any idea the effect he was having on her?

“You must stop,” she breathed, trying to put some force behind her words. “This is not appropriate.”

But of course he ignored her, and the finger trailed across her lips, sending a zing of pleasure coursing through her body. Oh, curses… She gulped in a breath and wheezed it out again. It seemed London was deficient in air, and she had inhaled the last of it. Her head was pounding, or was that her heart in her ears?

“You must…” But he was not going to stop. He had begun to trail that tantalizing finger down the slope of her opposite cheek. And here she had stood for a good three minutes and allowed him to touch her so intimately.
She
had to be the one to stop this.

Drawing upon reserves she did not know she possessed, Felicity wrenched herself away, stumbling back unsteadily. She would have caught herself, would have regained her balance and arrowed for the door but for the lump of dirt that caught her heel and sent her sprawling.

The comte made a sound of distress and rushed to her aid, but Felicity was no longer paying attention to him. She was studying the ground where she’d tripped. She had plopped in a neat, tidy garden. Granted, it was November, and much of the garden’s blooms were dead or hibernating, but she could see where pin-straight rows had been planted and waited for spring to come again.

Except that amidst the rows, in what seemed to her a haphazard fashion, holes had been dug. They were quite deep but not evenly spaced. They appeared more destructive than anything else. The comte leaned over her, grasped her arm, but Felicity shook him off.

“Look at this.” She pointed to the mound of dirt she had tripped over, leaning forward to peer inside the hole. The moon had not yet risen, or was shrouded from view by London’s pervasive fog, and she could make out very little. But from what she could see, nothing had been planted inside the hole. Besides, who dug a hole, planted something within, and then left it exposed?

She glanced up at the comte and saw he had finished studying the hole she pointed to and now seemed to be cataloguing the others. She saw his gaze dart from one to the next and the scowl that accompanied what he saw reminded her of the duc, his brother.

“It’s strange,” she murmured. “Why would anyone dig holes like these? Certainly your gardeners…” She bolted up, her mind rushing back to earlier in the evening. “Those two men!” She glanced at the comte and saw he was watching her with interest. She did not know if he understood, but she continued anyway, working it out in her mind.

“I saw two men earlier from the window in my chambers. I assumed they were gardeners, but then they acted so suspiciously. I wonder if they were out here digging these holes. But why would they do this?”

It was a question apparently the comte had no answer for either. He merely glanced about the garden one last time, then took her hand and pulled her forward.

“Now where are we going?” she asked, slightly breathless as he pulled her along. But once they reached inside the house, he released her and gestured toward the stairway, indicating she should go up—back the way they had come. “But perhaps I should speak with your brother about what I saw earlier. It might be something of importance…”

But the comte knew what he wanted from her. He pointed to the stairs again and made a shooing motion with his hands.

Felicity clenched her teeth. Was she some child to be hurried off to bed? After all, if that was what he had wanted, then why had he dragged her outside? She opened her mouth to protest, to begin what she was certain would be the first of many, many lessons in manners, but he simply turned on his heel and walked away.

“Wait!”

But her command was ignored. Without looking back, the comte raised a hand and shooed her, once again, away.

And then he was gone, and she stood alone. She supposed she could search out the duc and duchesse, tell them what she had seen, but where to begin? And what if they were already abed? She was not going to wake them or risk rousing the house.

She would just mention it tomorrow at breakfast. And then, after breakfast, her lessons with the comte would commence. And she knew just where she would begin.

***

Armand hated going inside again. He felt free outside. He could breathe outside. Months ago his brother had taken him to a house in a place called Southampton. The house had a name: The Gardens. Armand understood the words and the reason for it—the house had at least a dozen gardens, some wild, some straight and tame.

When Julien made him leave, Armand fought. He would have done anything to stay in that place, to work outside in those gardens. He had seen dogs on the property. He had always wanted a dog. But Julien had forced him to come back to London, and though this house had a small garden Armand enjoyed, he could not stop thinking of the house in Southampton. He needed to find a way to get back. And he would… after he had spent more time with Miss Bennett.

But tonight, escaping to The Gardens was not his problem. The garden here—what he thought of as his garden—had been violated. His brother must see it.

Armand found Julien in the library. Sarah had taken to retiring early, and after dinner, Julien could usually be found at his desk, pen scratching in his ledger.

Armand entered, but Julien did not look up from his work. “Give me five more minutes,
chérie
. This deposit doesn’t add up…”