A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal (23 page)

One taste and Nell knew this was the stupidest rule she’d heard yet. The soup tasted of heaven, of rich
cream and cunning, savory spices and the tenderest mushrooms ever grown on God’s green earth. “Maybe,” she said after swallowing, “since this is only practice, we
could
ask for more—”

“Absolutely not.”

Nell glanced at St. Maur, but with a slight shrug, he ceded the ground to Mrs. Hemple. Smart man: he wasn’t wasting time talking with soup like this in front of him.

Nell went for another mouthful.

“My lady! Do not place the spoon into your mouth!” Mrs. Hemple looked shocked. “You sip from the side of the spoon, never from the tip!”

The best food in the world couldn’t hold up under all these pointless rules. “The spoon does its job either way, I expect!”

“Practice,” St. Maur murmured. “Practice and patience. She’s correct. One drinks soup from the side of the spoon, though God knows why.”

She
normally drank soup by picking up the bowl and setting it to her mouth. The technique had the happy effect of warming one’s hands to boot.

But she saw in St. Maur’s level gaze a reminder of her own goal, and her determination to succeed at it. On a deep breath, she forced herself to make her dainty way through the thin inch of ambrosia. Once finished, she reached for a large swallow of sherry.

“Don’t drink that until the soup is removed,” Mrs. Hemple hissed.

Nell set the glass down with a thump. What nonsense was
this
? “Why did they bring it out if it’s not meant to be drunk?”

“These rules have no logic to them,” St. Maur said. “Were they logical, anyone might deduce them, and
then how could we know whom to invite to our parties, and whom to shun?”

The trace of irony in his voice placated her. She sat back, eyeing the service door, willing the footman to reappear.

St. Maur leaned forward. “For our next discussion of the weather, I may introduce the topic of thunderstorms—but only because I like you, you understand.”

She managed a thin smile.

“Your
lordship
,” Mrs. Hemple began in aggrieved tones, just as the door swung open again.

Seeing her chance, Nell lifted her glass—saying, as her tutor fixed her with a frown, “They’ve come to clear the course!”

“Only a
sip
,” Mrs. Hemple said. “With a new glass for every course, you will
not
wish to become tipsy.”

Good God
. Nell couldn’t think of a better state in which to pass this dinner. But by sheer dint of effort, she kept the smile on her face and returned her glass to the table after a single—very large—sip.

Next came the fish course. “The fork,” Mrs. Hemple instructed when Nell picked up the knife to debone her fillet. “When in doubt,
whenever
possible, one uses a fork. The spoon is somewhat vulgar, the knife
definitely
so.”

Then what in bloody hell was it doing on the table? Gritting her teeth, now, Nell picked up the fork and began to pluck out the tiny bones. One popped off her fork and went flying away. Neither St. Maur nor Hemple seemed to notice—although when she took another peek to be sure, the corner of St. Maur’s mouth twitched suspiciously.

The beef course—little round patties cooked in a buttery sherry sauce—restored her good cheer. By God,
she’d do and say anything if she could eat like
this
every night. Spoons were vulgar? She’d swear never to touch one again, as long as
this
stuff—
lay-ree-doo-vo
, Mrs. Hemple called it—appeared nightly on the table.

Her plate nearly clean, Nell had moved on to the accompanying vegetables when Mrs. Hemple struck again. “No, my lady! That is
asparagus
!”

Nell looked up. “Aye—yes,” she amended, “so it is.” And she meant to eat it. It was slathered in butter and cream sauce. The kitchen wouldn’t be having it back.

“One doesn’t eat the stalk,” said Mrs. Hemple.

Still giddy on the flavor of the tenderest meat she’d ever tasted, Nell stared across the candlelit table at a woman who’d clearly eaten more than her fair share in this life. “That’s … nonsense.”

Mrs. Hemple’s large bosom swelled. “It is good ton. One eats the
tips
of the asparagus, no more.”

Nell turned toward St. Maur. “I want the stalks.”

He lowered his fork back to his plate and considered her squarely. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll never tell.”

A sharp breath gusted out of her. She wasn’t a child to be humored. But she supposed that was how she was acting. These lessons were for her benefit, not theirs. Heart sinking, she cast her own fork to her plate.

It clattered, causing Hemple to perk up like a dog on the scent of rubbish. “One doesn’t—”

“Make a noise,” Nell sighed. “I know. Quiet as mice, we lot.”

Mrs. Hemple sat back, visibly mollified.

And so it went for the next half hour. One did not butter her bread. One did not use a spoon save when one simply did
not
use a fork, as in the case of pastry;
then,
of course
one used a spoon, otherwise how would one capture the sauce?

“Do not eat the cheese,” Mrs. Hemple instructed. “Only the fruit.”

“With a fork,” Nell predicted wearily. “Or—no, a spoon.”

“Indeed not. Use your fingers! Really, my lady, did you not read the books I provided? No, not like that—your hand should not close completely around the grape. Yes, very good. Now return the seed to the plate very discreetly.”

One didn’t fold one’s napkin at the conclusion of the meal. “Lay it beside your plate as it falls,” said Mrs. Hemple. “And now we shall leave his lordship to his port and cigars, and withdraw to the drawing room for coffee and pleasant conversation.”

Nell, having just let go of her napkin and turned away, stopped dead in her tracks. No, no,
no
. She’d surrendered the asparagus stalks. She’d resigned herself to a fifth of a bowl of soup. She’d looked longingly on but not touched the fine, creamy cheeses. She’d managed to restrain herself from eating her peas with a knife; she’d not even tipped the pastry bowl to her lips to capture the last sips of raspberry liqueur. Another minute of this and she’d—she’d—

“I think that’s enough for one night,” said St. Maur. He’d risen as they had and now, suddenly, was taking her arm. “That will be all, Mrs. Hemple. Thank you.”

Nell found herself overcome with gratitude at the sight of Hemple’s exit. She laid her hand over St. Maur’s where it cupped her elbow. “Thank you,” she said fervently. “
Thank
you.”

He laughed down at her. “Believe it or not, you did well.”

She let go. “And pigs are flying. No matter. So long as your cook keeps making that beef, I’ll gladly practice till I’m the Queen of the World.”

“How very good to know,” he said. “For such diligence, I think you require a reward.”

“Oh?” Interested, she tipped her head. “So long as it’s not another etiquette manual …”

“You tell me,” he said. “What would
you
like to do?”

The white ball cracked into the red, sending it spinning into the top pocket. Nell straightened with a broad grin. She had an unlighted cigar clamped between her teeth, and as she cast down her cue, her hand went to the glass of whisky she’d balanced on the table’s edge. “Three more strokes to me,” she said. She plucked the cigar from her mouth and pointed it at his eye. “How’s that feel, laddie?”

“I’m trembling,” Simon drawled.

“As you should be.” She winked at him, then tipped back her glass for a long, unfeminine swig. Simon’s gaze wandered down the line of her throat to the low neckline of her golden gown. The lean, graceful tension of her bare upper arms fascinated him. He regretted the long white gloves that disguised the tender curve of her inner elbow. Uncreative schoolboys might dream of orgies featuring nuns, but the truly precocious dreamed of a woman like this: bohemian and endlessly surprising. Self-possessed and quick-witted enough to keep any man on his toes.

Generally boys grew up to realize that such women existed only in dreams. Finding one in his billiards room somewhat took his breath away.

Her swallow was noisy. She smacked her lips as she set down the glass. He’d invited her to behave without
a care for propriety, and she’d spent the last half hour testing the sincerity of his offer. “A dead heat,” she said gleefully.

He retrieved his cue, grabbing a length of sandpaper to roughen the leather tip. “Not for long, of course. But by all means, enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Oh, I expect it won’t be long,” she said comfortably. “You’ll be fouling, this next strike.”

He snorted. “My dear, misguided twit, you’re playing the top scorer in the Oxford-Cambridge matches of seventy-five and seventy-six. I never left St. James’s Hall that I wasn’t carried out shoulder-high.”

“Oh ho, a sharper!” She retrieved her glass to make him a toast. “My sympathies on your coming defeat, then, boy-o. Bound to be bitterer than your whisky.”

He laughed as he exchanged sandpaper for chalk. She was a sharp-toothed tiger wrapped up in silk. “I think I’ll make you pay for that taunt.”

“Will you, now! And what price for
your
arrogance, me pretty lad?”

He looked up from the chalk, smiling slowly. “I am pretty, aren’t I? High time you noticed.”

Color rose in her face, but she did not look away—not even as she returned the glass to the small shelf behind her and placed her cigar beside it. Eyes remaining on his, she came padding around the billiards table in her stocking feet.

It was he who broke the gaze to look downward, to the white silk stockings that revealed glimpses of the slim shape of her toes. Her small feet flexed gracefully, the arches deep, her ankles trim—she was lifting her skirts higher than her short steps required.

He felt his smile deepen. Oh, he knew what she was on about, here.

As she arrived at his side, the delicate scent of lilies reached him. Somebody, the French maid, had put perfume on her, and it seemed to spread tendrils that twined into his brain and tightened around it, strangling his good sense.

Her breasts brushed his arm as she leaned past him to set the red ball at the billiards spot. “You’re going to lose,” she purred, glancing up at him from beneath her long, dark lashes. “In that dining room, you may know what’s what, but this is
my
sort of table.”

“Hmm.” He held her eyes, arrested by the glint in them. That glint invited him to commit mischief: she wasn’t the only one intending to misbehave. “Perhaps we should make a wager on it.”

N
ell did not look impressed by the idea of a wager. Lifting a brow, she said, “Sure and we could bet on it. But I’d feel bad taking advantage of a duffer like you.”

Simon laughed. “Darling, you may take advantage of me whenever you like.”

Her lashes lowered, concealing her thoughts. “You remember you said that, St. Maur.”

“Simon,” he murmured. “If you mean to be bold, you might as well go the distance.”

“Simon,” she said. “You’re the striker.” Her head tipped toward the table.

“Growing impatient, are you? Or perhaps nervous,” he teased. “Very well. We agreed to play to a hundred strokes. Let’s add twenty to it. What are the terms?”

She set her cue to the ground with a thump, leaning into it as she looked him up and down. A smile began to play at the corners of her mouth. “What a world of possibilities,” she said. “All right: I’ll play for … the right to send one of my dresses to a friend.”

Her proposal served a neat blow to his growing intentions. He’d had in mind a wager far less noble. “Agreed,” he said. “But do add something to sweeten the deal.”

“That’s pretty sweet in itself,” she muttered. “But if you insist on being a victim—I’ll take a trip to a bookshop and the chance to spend twenty pounds from your pocket.”

Good God. “What a depressingly virtuous standard you set.”

Her smile sharpened into a taunt. “Oh, don’t mind me,
Simon
. Set any terms you like. You’re not going to win, so it makes no difference, you see.”

“Excellent,” he said briskly. “Then I’ll demand five minutes of your virtue.”

Her eyes narrowed. She pressed her cheek to her upright cue and scowled at him. “What does that mean?”

“Since I’m apparently bound to lose, it doesn’t matter, does it? I’ll decide what I mean during those five minutes.”

“Those five minutes you won’t have,” she retorted.

“That’s right.” With a grin, he turned his back on her, bracing his cue on the bridge of his hand to test his aim on the white-spot ball.

No challenge came in reply. It seemed she meant to accept the bargain. After a brief moment of amazement, he felt, all at once, very determined to win. He bent lower to the table. If he could hole the red by striking his ball off the white-spot—

“Sad to watch you,” came Nell’s idle voice from behind him. “I hope you won’t weep when you lose. This dress hasn’t the pockets for hankies.”

He didn’t look up. “My, such confidence. Didn’t Mrs. Hemple teach you of modesty? A very ladylike quality.” Perhaps the canon was overreaching. A losing hazard, to the middle pocket—