The Making of a Gentleman (8 page)

But now she knew she had misjudged most unfairly.

She also knew, without a doubt, she was more alone than she had ever been.

***

Several hours later, Armand paced his room. He was exhausted, but he could not seem to relax enough to sit down. Before the afternoon was finished, he had spoken four words. Speaking each word had been a struggle. It was as though a massive rock rested on his tongue. All of his concentration and patience were required to move the rock, to force out even a single word. But he had forced them out.

And he was still standing. Nothing bad had happened.

Yet.

But he knew something could happen. The holes were a sign. If he said the wrong thing, if the wrong person heard… No! These were the thoughts of a child. He was not afraid anymore.

But one thing had changed.

Speaking even those few words had been like a key on the padlock of his mind. Now, unwanted words and phrases from his past rushed at him, faster than he could comprehend them. Some were in English, others French. He thought some might even be Italian or another language. It was exhausting, and now that the door in his mind had been unbarred, he did not know how to close it again—if even for a short time.

And while he did not mind the racing words and phrases, what he did mind was the assault of images and memories that flooded him. Voices and faces that were wholly unfamiliar to him suddenly appeared. He saw taverns and houses and streets he could not place, men he did not know, and yet all of them seemed in some way to relate to his life before—before prison.

Images of his time in a cell attacked him as well; those he had more experience controlling. But what were these new images? Were they real? Imagined? Why did they not make sense?

He put his hands to his head and squeezed, trying to stem the flood. “Damn it.” His raw, rocky voice broke the silence in his chamber, almost startling him. It did not sound like the voice he remembered. But then, the voice he remembered was that of a child’s. This was a man’s voice, and a raspy one at that. He knew with use it would grow stronger. Was that what he wanted? It was what Miss Bennett wanted. He had to give her credit. She was clever and inventive.

The music she had played this afternoon was an incentive, but that was not all that encouraged him to speak. Seeing her face, the way she smiled and her eyes crinkled at the corners, was more than enough to make him want to continue pleasing her.

No wonder he had said “Please,” “Thank you,” and “Yes” in addition to “Play.” At this rate, he would be the most polite man in all of England.

For the moment, he didn’t care. One thing he had no memories of was women. Oh, he could remember his mother well enough, and he thought a few of the fleeting images were also those of his nanny from years ago, Madame St. Cyr. But there were no other memories of women. Was that why Miss Bennett affected him so much? Was that why he could think of little else but kissing her?

Armand began pacing again. He did not think he had ever kissed a woman. He had seen Julien kiss his wife once, but even their very public affection had limits. It had been a short kiss on Sarah’s mouth. But Armand wanted something longer and deeper. He did not know how he knew he wanted this, only knew the idea absorbed him. When he was near her, there were times he could think of little else. Were all men this way, or was this once again the monster in him rearing its head? Either way, his lips ached to feel hers underneath.

And that was not all that ached. Other parts of his body, parts he had never paid much attention to in the past, had begun to ache. He clenched his fists, noting how often they tingled, wanting to touch Miss Bennett’s hair, her skin, her lips. He knew enough of Society’s Rules to know touching her in those ways was not appropriate, and so he knew even more fully his other fantasies were far beyond the pale.

He imagined stripping her of her clothes. He had never even seen a woman naked—no, that was not true. He had seen a painting of a partially clothed woman and a statue, as well. But those were artist’s renderings, not real women. Miss Bennett was real, with her curves and her softness. He wanted to see it all, to touch it all, to touch her.

But that would never be possible. Not with The Rules. He allowed the thought to sink in and to cool his heating blood. She was his tutor, nothing more. She thought of him as a pupil and probably as little more than a wild animal to tame. She would never allow him to touch her in the ways he wanted. Would any woman?

For now, he needed to clear his mind, to rid his head of the voices and images. He stepped out into the corridor and saw it was much later than he had thought. The wall sconces were already lit. Stepping back into his room, he realized he had forgotten to part the draperies and open the window. Amazing. The enclosure had not even bothered him. He parted them now. Dusk had long since faded into the dark night.

He had missed dinner and had not even known it. His stomach protested now, but he had long ago learned to control hunger and thirst. He ignored the sensations and made his way toward the servants’ stairs. He wanted to be outside, in the blanket of darkness. He wanted to feel free—and be free of these thoughts and feelings. He would have to deal with them all again in the morning, of that he was certain. But tonight, he would put them aside.

He stepped into the garden and inhaled the night air. It smelled like London, like the city. He compared it to the country air at his brother’s house in Southampton. He preferred the fresh smell of grass and hay to that of coal and too much horse manure, but the London garden was better than the house. He stepped out farther, looking up at the stars, and then remembering the night before, he glanced down at the ground.

The holes had been refilled and covered over. There was no trace of them now, and the earth appeared undisturbed. Maybe that would be the end of it. Maybe the holes were not what he feared. He wondered if Miss Bennett knew the holes were covered, wondered what would have happened last night if she had not tripped over one of those holes. Would he have kissed her?

He knew he would have. And he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if given the opportunity to kiss her again, he would take it. Society and its Rules be damned.

Something moved in the path ahead of him, and he froze, his senses alerted to danger. He felt the instinctive need to crouch, but he held himself stiff and upright, a growl rising in his throat. This was his home. The garden was his territory, his to protect. He would stop any intruder.

And then the shape became more defined—a long white gown like a beam of moonlight floated on the path. He squinted, and a yellow-haired woman walked slowly toward him.

Armand was almost convinced his mind was once again throwing images at him, but he knew this woman, knew she was no figment of his imagination.

Miss Bennett was still moving toward him, and he saw the moment she realized she was not alone. She stiffened and paused, her head tilting to get a better look. And then he heard her breath whoosh out, and she murmured, “Oh, it’s you.”

Since none of the words he had practiced seemed appropriate for the moment, he remained silent, watching her move slowly closer to him. His eyes were on her lips, and he almost willed her to walk away, because he knew if she continued on her current course, he would not be able to resist kissing her. But, of course, she did not walk away. She continued toward him, smiling because she did not know the danger she was in.

“I heard a noise and thought—” She waved a hand, dismissing the idea. “Well, I didn’t realize it was you, my lord.” She stopped before him now, and his hands began to itch. He had to clench them at his sides to keep from reaching out to touch her hair. It was so much like sunlight. Even in the moonlight it managed to shine. “We missed you at dinner.”

“Yes,” he rasped out. He was not certain what she was speaking of—he wasn’t paying close enough attention—but in his observations, people often nodded and murmured, even when they were not really paying attention.

His efforts did not go unrewarded. She smiled at him, obviously pleased by what he knew were poor attempts at speech. “Very good. Soon we’ll have you speaking in sentences.” She was wearing some type of blue outer garment, and she pulled it closer around herself now. He was supposed to say something. He could tell by the way she watched him. He did not know what to say, so he stood mute. Feeling like a fool.

“It’s cooled off quite a bit, so I suppose I had better go inside,” she said, looking past him. He realized she must be looking at the house. “I’ll see you in the morning for another lesson.”

She started to move away, and he knew he should let her go. He should stand still and allow her to walk inside.

But he was not going to be able to do that. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and caught her arm. She looked back at him, her face showing surprise but not worry. He thought she should be worried.

“What is it?” She raised her eyebrows—a sign of interest.

“Yes?” he rasped out.

Now she frowned. He had confused her. “Yes…?”

He grasped her free arm and turned her toward him, pulled her close enough so he could smell her scent and feel the warmth of her body. She was so warm. He wanted to pull her closer.

“No?” he said, his voice husky and low but less scratchy. She had to know what he wanted now. She was almost in his arms. Armand was painfully aware of how easily he could have her fully in his arms.

“I’m not sure what you’re asking.” Her voice was low and trembling, but he did not think it was from fear. He narrowed his eyes and studied her face. No, she was definitely not afraid. Should he take that as a yes?

He wrapped an arm about her body, pulling her hard against him. The sensation was so strong, he almost gasped. Her heat and her softness burned into him. Yet, he did not feel pain. He felt only longing for more. His eyes were on her lips now, and his hand had made its way into her hair. It was thick and soft. He had imagined it might feel warm, like sunlight, but it was cool to his touch.

He felt its fastenings and wanted to tug them out. He wanted that hair free, but he feared he had gone too far already.

“I think I know what you’re asking me now,” she said, and her voice sounded different. It was as dark and low as the night closing in around them.

“Yes. No,” he repeated.

“Oh, dear. You don’t make this easy. I should not say yes, but—”

He heard the word he wanted, and that was all it took. He lowered his mouth and touched his lips to hers.

The feel of her mouth against his was a shock at first. Her lips were so soft and so pliant—not at all what he had expected. He felt he could explore that mouth forever and, acting on instinct, he coaxed her lips open so he could explore further.

The sound she made in the back of her throat—a low moan—made his heart race and his blood thrum through his veins. He wanted… something. He didn’t even know what he wanted, but his body hungered for it more than it had ever hungered for food or water or companionship in all twelve years of prison.

And then, quite suddenly, he realized he was hard, hard and straining almost out of his breeches. He wanted to push himself closer to Miss Bennett, to push against her. He struggled for control, grasped it.

And it was that moment she began to kiss him back. Up until that instant, she had allowed his kisses, but now she returned them—her tongue twining with his, her mouth locked with his, her arms around his neck.

His blood ran so hot and so heavy he feared he might lose his hard-won control. He was already thinking of pushing her onto the ground and then—what? He knew what he wanted to do next—was uncertain exactly how it would all work, but he had no fear instinct would show him.

And then another instinct kicked in—one he was familiar with from long years in prison. The hackles on his neck rose, and his body tightened, wanted to crouch. Something or someone was watching him.

He yanked himself away from Miss Bennett, tearing his mouth from hers and whipping around to scan the garden.

“What’s wrong?” she breathed. “What—”

He saw it then. Saw the eyes watching him. Human eyes. No animal.

And he knew those eyes. Remembered them from another time, another life. With a howl, he charged.

Felicity jumped back in surprise as the comte released her and charged toward the garden’s gate. “My lord, where are you going? What’s—”

And then she saw him—the small, gnarled man she had seen out of her window only last night. He was at the gate, at least until the comte charged him. She had to give the comte credit. He was quick and agile, and he almost caught the small, wrinkled man, but the intruder was quick and crafty himself. He ducked under the comte’s arm, circled behind him, then darted back out the gate at a full run. The comte went after him, and Felicity, hand to her heart, hesitated between running to the gate and running inside to fetch the duc and duchesse.

Finally she pivoted and raced for the town house, entering through the first door she found open—a small, feminine parlor. Once inside, it was only a moment before she encountered a startled servant and made her request known. She bent to catch her breath and still her pounding heart, and then the duc threw the door open.

“Where is Armand?”

“He’s—” Felicity tried to breathe, couldn’t, and pointed at the garden. Without waiting for further direction, the duc slammed through the French doors and disappeared into the night. A moment later, the duchesse floated into the parlor. She was wearing a white silk robe, and her hair was a thick chocolate wave across her back. “Is something wrong? Where is the duc?”

By now Felicity had her breath back and was actually anxious to return to the garden. “His Grace went after the comte. There was an intruder in the garden.”

“An intruder?”

“Yes. I must take my leave, Your Grace.”

As she stepped back outside, she heard the duchesse call, “If there’s an intruder, stay inside!”

But Felicity could not bear to stand idly by if something exciting was happening elsewhere. She raced to the garden gate, reaching it just in time to encounter the two brothers. Both looked winded, but neither seemed harmed. She looked at the duc. “Did you catch him—the intruder?”

The duc opened his mouth to answer, but the comte was the one who spoke. “Bad man,” he said, his voice considerably less hoarse than earlier that day. Felicity blinked in surprise, and she and the duc exchanged a glance.

“I didn’t teach him that,” she said.

The duc was looking at his brother. “Who was it? A thief?”

The comte seemed to think for a moment, and then he repeated, “Bad man.”

The duc sighed, looked at Felicity. “Did you see this man?”

“Yes. In fact, this was the second time I saw him. The first was last night. I saw him from my bedroom window. He and another man were digging in the garden. I thought they were the gardeners. I suppose that was a rather foolish presumption, now that I think of it. It was far too late in the day to be gardening.”

But the duc was nodding. “The holes we found.” He glanced at his brother, and Felicity felt her cheeks grow warm. Obviously, the duc did not know she had been present at the comte’s discovery of those holes. But the comte had not seen the man that night, only his handiwork. Did he somehow recognize him from an earlier meeting?

She almost opened her mouth to speculate, then realized doing so would indicate that tonight was not the first time she and the comte had shared a stroll in the garden after dark. And tonight—there had been more than just stargazing.

Had she really allowed the comte to kiss her? Had she really just stood there while he pulled her against him, wrapped his arms about her, and ravished her mouth? There was no other way to describe the kiss. She had been kissed before—innocent pecks and even one or two more passionate embraces. But none of those kisses had moved her like this one. None of those kisses had claimed her mind and body so completely. She could still feel the last remnants of the fire that had pooled in her belly. Even the appearance of the intruder had not been enough to dispel it completely. The feel of the comte’s arms around her and his mouth on hers lingered, as well. She had known his lips would be enticing, and they had been. Her mouth still tingled, and she ran the back of her hand along it to try and quell the sensation.

Fortunately, the duc did not notice her action. He was looking at his brother. “Did you see that man last night when you discovered the holes?”

The comte shook his head. “Bad man,” he repeated, and Felicity was certain he must have seen the man before.

“I suppose I’d better station some footmen about the perimeter of the house tonight,” the duc said, motioning for Felicity to precede him back to the house. “I don’t want to take any chances. In the morning, I’ll speak with some of the neighbors and see if they’ve had similar problems.”

They entered the parlor, and the duchesse pounced on them. “Did you catch the intruder?”

The duc scowled. “You should be in bed.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not tired. And how am I supposed to sleep with an intruder about?”

“He’s gone now, and I’ll station some footmen outside tonight to keep watch. I may hire some professional watchmen tomorrow.”

“Bad man,” the comte said again, and the duchesse’s eyebrows rose considerably.

“Does Armand know this man? I’m still not entirely sure what happened.” She looked from the comte
to Felicity. “Our servant said Armand had gone after an intruder, but how did you know about the intruder, Miss Bennett?”

Felicity could feel the duc and duchesse’s eyes bore into her and knew they were beginning to put the pieces together. She glanced quickly at the comte, realizing belatedly the gesture would only incriminate her.

“Oh, hell,” the duc said under his breath.

Felicity was not certain if the comte understood the full conversation, but he understood enough to look chagrined. Still, he would not have to be the one to explain.

“I was walking in the garden after dinner,” Felicity began, trying to decide how much to tell. In reality, she had been afraid Charles might make good on his threat of an appearance in the garden, and she’d hoped to shoo him away before anyone in the family saw him. She could hide her reason for being in the garden, but she could not deny she had met with the comte. The kiss they had shared, on the other hand, would remain their secret. “I was on my way inside, in fact, as it had grown dark. On the path to the house, I passed his lordship. I suppose the comte
was planning to take a stroll himself. We stopped for a moment to… exchange pleasantries…”

Beside her, the duc blew out a breath, and she continued quickly, not wanting to look at him. She had a feeling he had guessed more occurred than just a stroll in the garden.

“And as we were… communicating, the comte seemed to notice the intruder. He stiffened and yelled, then ran after him when the man fled the grounds.”

“Were you able to see the man, as well?” the duchesse asked.

“Yes. In fact, as I told His Grace, I saw him last night from my chamber window. He was digging in the garden with another man, and I assumed he was one of your gardeners.”

“Are you certain it was the same man?” the duc asked.

Felicity nodded. “Perfectly. His appearance is quite unique. He’s small—the size of a child, but his face is wrinkled and gnarled. An old man’s face, though I don’t think he could be over fifty. And his eyes—well, as I looked down into the garden last night, he looked up at my window. The look in his eyes was nothing short of malevolent.”

“Really?” The duchesse shuddered.

“You should retire now,” the duc all but ordered his wife.

“And the man who was with him? What did he look like?” she asked, ignoring her husband.

“He was tall and muscular. His arms were huge, like ham hocks. I didn’t see his face as clearly, but I believe him to be younger.”

“Very bad man,” the comte said now.

Felicity glanced at him, then the duc and duchesse. “I really do believe his lordship recognized the man he chased tonight. He may also be familiar with that man’s accomplice, the larger man.”

“I agree,” the duc said brusquely, “but unless Armand can give us more information, he’ll be of little help to the magistrate.”

“Perhaps I might work with him on that point tomorrow.”

“That might be a better use of time than a stroll in the garden.”

Felicity felt her cheeks flush but forced herself to meet the duc’s eyes. She needed this position and could ill afford to give the appearance of any wrongdoing. She could ill afford to
engage
in wrongdoing! What had she been thinking in the garden? It was wrong to kiss the comte, for so many reasons. It would
not
happen again.

The duchesse laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “It’s been a long day, and I fear we are all over-tired. Why don’t you and Armand retire, and I will see Miss Bennett to her chambers?”

“Fine,” the duc growled, and Felicity could tell by the look in his eyes he wanted to say more but held back for his wife’s sake. “Don’t be long.”

The duc pushed his brother toward the door, but the comte shrugged him off and went through the French doors, into the garden again. The duc shook his head in frustration and followed his brother. Obviously the comte was truly concerned about the men he called
bad
. She wondered what precisely made these men so bad. It couldn’t be merely that they had dug holes in the garden. Those were easily refilled and restored. He must have recognized the men from somewhere else. But where? And what had they done that made them so detestable?

Could she manage to coax that information out of him?

“You and the comte have become quite close rather quickly,” the duchesse said, interrupting her thoughts.

Felicity bit her lip and tried not to sigh. She had thought when the duc retired she would be free from scrutiny and questioning. Now it appeared he had been dismissed so his wife might question and scrutinize in his place.

Felicity tried to smile. “I would not say we are close. We both happened to be in the garden at the same time.”

The duchesse raised eyebrows above eyes that seemed to know far too much. “Just this once?”

Felicity swallowed. “Perhaps twice.”

“Oh, dear.”

Felicity clenched her fists at the duchesse’s disapproving tone. “I assure you our meeting tonight was purely by chance. It will not happen again.”

The duchesse did not look like she quite believed her, and Felicity stood there, feeling like a small, disobedient child. “You are attracted to the comte.”

Felicity opened her mouth to protest, but the duchesse shook her head. “There’s no sense in denying it. I can see it quite clearly. He’s an attractive man.”

Felicity straightened to her full height, which was still a bit short of the duchesse’s. “Yes, but I am his tutor, and that is clearly a professional relationship.” Not to mention—and she would not mention it—she was technically betrothed to another man.

“Precisely. I am happy you understand the comte needs you to act as his tutor at all times. I fear if your relationship were to become… entangled, it might be to the comte’s detriment. He’s vulnerable.”

Felicity bit her lip to stop the retort on her lips from spewing forth. She did not think the comte was quite as vulnerable as the duchesse would have him appear. After all, it was he who, mere moments ago, had swept her into his arms and plundered her mouth with reckless abandon. Those steel arms holding her close had not felt particularly vulnerable.

Felicity cleared her throat. “I assure Your Grace the relationship will not become entangled. I know my position.” Perhaps a hint of the bitterness she felt was betrayed in her voice, because the duchesse reached over to touch her arm.

“You know I was once a governess, as well, so obviously I don’t mean to patronize you. I’m only thinking of what’s best for Armand. If your feelings will not allow you to act in a professional capacity—”

“My feelings are purely professional,” Felicity said, pulling her arm away. She could not afford for them to be anything more and keep this position. Not only that, but she would need another position in the future. For that, she would need the duchesse’s recommendation. “I assure you, once again, that I know what is expected of me. There will be no more strolls in the garden.”

“Miss Bennett—” the duchesse began, her voice beseeching.

“May I be dismissed?” Felicity asked, keeping her back ramrod straight, so straight she feared were she to bend, it might crack.

“Of course,” the duchesse said with a sigh. “I shall see you in the morning.”

Felicity nodded and strolled, head high, out of the parlor, into the magnificent vestibule, and up to her room. She managed to hold back her tears until she had shut the door, and then she could not stop them.

She had overreacted; she knew that even as she extracted a lace handkerchief from a pocket in her gown to dab at her tears. She sat on the bed and pressed the lace to her eyes. She had been in the wrong, and the duchesse had been kind enough to remind her of that gently. But the worst of it was she had put her position in jeopardy. She could not lose this position, and if she continued down her current path, that would be the inevitable outcome.

Foolish girl! she chided herself. Do you want to end up married to a drunkard who gambles away money and leaves you with a passel of hungry mouths to feed? Do you want to bring scandal upon your poor aunt?

No, and she should be ashamed of herself.

Then why wasn’t she? Try as she might, Felicity could not regret what had passed between the comte and herself. How could she regret a kiss that had all but melted her insides with a liquid fire? On the other hand, would it not have been better never to have experienced that kiss? Surely, no other could match it. She would be forever disappointed.

Surely Charles St. John would never make her feel that way. He had kissed her once. It had been about two years ago—a quick kiss but not altogether dispassionate. Still, it had set her young heart racing. She knew he was experienced, had kissed other girls. He was a popular man in Selborne, and he had many of the village girls in giggles when he walked by. She had always thought him the most handsome, most charming man of her acquaintance. She pined for his attention, but she had too much pride ever to chase after him. Not all the girls held back, and he had always seemed more interested in the girls who flirted and wore their bodices low than in her.