A Matter of Scandal (17 page)

That was the closest thing to a compliment she’d ever sent in his direction. Grey lifted an eyebrow, but she had suddenly become occupied with her dinner. If he’d been removed from her all-encompassing category of useless males, he wanted to know about it. “Thank you, Miss Emma, though your admission doesn’t bode well for your success in our wager.”

Finally she lifted her gaze to his. “I said your insights were enlightening, Your Grace. I didn’t say they were helpful.”

“A good point, Emma,” Lady Haverly said with her faint smile.

“My goodness.” Alice fanned her face with her napkin. “I fear for our entire civilization when a headmistress is allowed to speak to a duke in such a tone.”

Emma smiled. “I was merely clarifying my
statement, Miss Boswell. I didn’t intend to offend His Grace, and I apologize if I’ve done so.”

Damnation, he wished the rest of the guests would just vanish for five minutes so Emma could insult him in peace. “I assure you, Alice,” he drawled, “I can speak for myself. And I wasn’t offended.”

“Will we be dancing after dinner?” Lizzy asked.

Grey nodded. “I thought it might be good practice.”

“My goodness,” Uncle Dennis said, chuckling. “I haven’t waltzed in ages. That should be fun, eh, Regina?”

“Indeed. I have to say,” the countess continued, “it’s delightful to have a houseful of guests again. Haverly has stood quiet for too long.”

“I’m happy we could oblige,” Emma said with a warm smile that made Grey shift in his chair. “The two of you have done so much for the Academy over the years. I wish there was more we could do to repay you.”

“You might try paying your rent,” Blumton said, chuckling to himself as he slathered a biscuit with honey.

Grey wanted to throttle him. If there was one thing he didn’t want to do this evening, it was to remind Emma that they were on different sides of the chasm. “She
is
paying the Academy’s rent,” he broke in. “Whether that amount will be reassessed remains to be seen.”

“My goodness, Grey, that’s quite a change from the bellowing you did a few weeks ago.” Sylvia waved her fingers at Emma, leaning to
ward the headmistress as though the two of them were old, dear friends. “You should have heard him. He insisted that the Academy only taught females to lie and cheat and trick men into marriage, and that it should be burned to the ground.”

He was going to have to murder half of Haverly’s house guests before the evening was over. “Sylvia,” he murmured, “if you want to—”

Utensils hit the table with a loud clang. “He would not say such a thing!” Lizzy stated, her face a mask of fury. “That’s just mean. Why are you trying to cause so much trouble?”

Sylvia looked startled. “Well, my dear, perhaps you should ask His Grace what he
did
say about your school.”

Lizzy looked at him, her round brown eyes begging him to call Sylvia a liar. He wished he could. “Elizabeth, when I came to Haverly, I didn’t—”

“We all came to the Academy to learn things we didn’t know,” Emma interrupted in a quiet voice. “I would like to think that His Grace has been educated, as well.”

This time when he met her gaze, she didn’t look away. She’d spoken for Lizzy’s sake, of course, but she’d also made it possible for him to continue working with the girls and to make a go of winning the wager—which at the moment he had no intention of doing. “I admit,” he said slowly, “you ladies have surprised me. And I would like to think I’ve been able to teach all of you a little something, as well.”

A blush crept up Emma’s cheeks. He was glad she understood that he considered her his pri
mary student—and he was aching to continue her education.

“Admirable speeches all the way around,” Blumton acknowledged.

Throughout the meal, Sylvia and Blumton took turns trying to pry information from Emma about her part in the wager and how it was progressing. More troubling, Lady Sylvia seemed fascinated with gleaning details of Emma’s past and upbringing from every sentence the headmistress uttered. Emma turned all but the most inane questions aside with no visible effort, but the interrogation had Grey near to grinding his teeth.

“You know, Sylvia,” he drawled, when he couldn’t stand it any longer, “I’ve been wondering. When was it, precisely, that you developed a tendre for Tristan?”

Sylvia’s mouth snapped shut before she managed a serene smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Wycliffe, but that seems rather…personal.”

He held her gaze. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”

Tristan cleared his throat, his expression unreadable except for the twinkle deep in his light blue eyes. “This banter is all well and good,” the viscount said, “but I think we need to keep in mind that the contest has only two weeks to go before the judging.”

“Then perhaps we should begin the dancing.” Relieved that no one had been killed over dinner, Grey pushed away from the table.

From the speed with which Emma and her students vacated the dining room, he’d said the right thing—for once, anyway. She crossed in front of
him on the way back to the drawing room, and at the lemon scent of her hair, his mouth went dry.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, taking her arm and grateful for the dim light of the hallway. “The girls needed to experience this, but you didn’t.”

“It’s nothing new to me, Your Grace.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The girls and Miss Santerre preceded them, and the Haverly house guests had yet to emerge from the dining room. “I want to kiss you, Emma,” he whispered. “I want to run my hands along your skin, feel you against m—”

“
Stop it
.”

He slowed, trying to read her expression in the lamp light. “You want me again, don’t you?” he said fiercely. “I know you do.”

“Half the time I don’t know whether I’m angry with you or in lust with you.” Emma blushed.

“In lust with me,” he repeated, chuckling softly. “The feeling is mutual.”

“Don’t look so pleased. I wish I wasn’t.”

Elizabeth reappeared in the drawing room doorway and grabbed Emma’s hand. “Come and look!”

He had no choice but to relinquish her to the little chit. He hadn’t expected Emma to acknowledge such a base emotion as lust. The idea that women wanted him was nothing new, but having Emma Grenville admit to it left him feeling oddly…triumphant.

The orchestra had relocated to the grand ballroom. Though they hadn’t had much time for decorating, Haverly’s servants and the Basingstoke villagers had acquitted themselves well. Stream
ers and bows decorated the pillars and the windows. A few more balloons would have been nice, but Hampshire didn’t have much of a supply.

“Isn’t it splendid?” Elizabeth said, spinning.

“It’s lovely.” Emma motioned the girls to one side of the room and faced Grey again. “Thank you. They won’t forget this.”

“Neither will I,” Tristan said, strolling into the room. “I would never have imagined. No wonder you’ve decided against marriage, Wycliffe; you’re a splendid hostess all on your own.”

Emma looked sharply at Dare, then returned to assembling her charges. Grey scowled. He supposed that she would hear the tale eventually, but he preferred that it not be tonight—not even while he remained in Hampshire.

“Grey, may I have the first dance?” Henrietta pranced up to him while Julia giggled behind her hand, obviously at her friend’s daring.

“No, you may not, Miss Brendale,” Emma said sternly. “This is an exercise in manners and propriety. You must wait to be asked onto the floor.”

“But there aren’t enough men,” Henrietta whispered loudly.

“I’m afraid you’ll find that happens more often than not, Miss Brendale.” Tristan approached, bowing at the curly-haired chit. “Which is why it’s always wise to have a secondary plan. May
I
have this dance?”

She curtsied. “Yes, you may, Lord Dare.” She glanced at Grey. “I would be honored.”

Thank God for Tristan. Even if he was merely trying to remain in Emma’s good graces, he had freed Grey for the first dance of the evening. Deciding right then to make it a waltz, Grey headed
for Emma. Her gaze, though, was on Dare, her soft mouth curved in an obvious smile of gratitude for his saving Henrietta from embarrassment. Damn Dare, anyway.

Blumton brushed past him. “You—little chit—what’s your name again?”

Lizzy stood on her tiptoes. “Elizabeth Newcombe, Lord Charles, though you may call me Lizzy.”

“Do you dance?”

“Exceedingly well, my lord.”

“All right, come along, then.”

She pursed her lips. “I think you should ask me more nicely than that.”

Blumton rolled his eyes. “Gadzooks.”

“Lizzy,” Emma said in a low voice.

The little sprite grimaced, then held out her hand. “Very well, but I don’t feel all that honored.”

Someone in the direction of the orchestra choked out a laugh, and the players launched into a country dance. Determined not to be outdone by Blumton, Grey inclined his head toward Jane. “Would you do me the honor, Lady Jane?”

She dipped in a graceful curtsy, taking his fingers. “The honor is mine, Your Grace.”

Uncle Dennis paired with Aunt Regina. Obviously used to the dearth of male partners, Julia grabbed Mary Mawgry by the hand and pulled her into the line of dancers. Alice took one look at Emma and turned her back to chat with Sylvia.

All the young ladies were skilled dancers, and he couldn’t help feeling a measure of pride at the way they conducted themselves. They were a spirited lot, and there was something refreshing
in engaging in a conversation with a female who might actually say something unexpected.

He glanced at Emma, seated on one of the chairs at the side of the room. When she wasn’t lumping him with the rest of the boorish males on the island, she was by far the most refreshing, riveting female he’d ever encountered. He might have been somewhat in error in calling all females empty-headed, marriage-hungry charlatans, but at least he had a reason for his misconception. What was the reason for her negative views toward his gender?

He paused in the dance as a wide circle brought him before the orchestra. “Your next piece will be a waltz,” he said, and continued back around to Jane without waiting for an answer.

“Oh, a waltz would be splendid,” Jane said, smiling. They parted, circling, and then returned to join hands again. “You should ask Miss Emma to dance,” she suggested. “Otherwise she won’t have any fun tonight.”

“That’s a good idea,” he said, applauding his own cleverness. “And Jane, don’t say anything, but I have a little surprise for you this evening.”

“For me?” She blushed prettily.

Grey chuckled. The soirée was proceeding swimmingly, and the best was yet to come. Tonight he would dance with Emma Grenville, and tonight he would get some answers or die trying.

I
f Elizabeth didn’t stop putting extra flourishes and turns into her dancing, poor Lord Charles was going to break his neck trying to keep up with her.

Emma hid a smile behind her hand. Lizzy was far too exuberant, but once she left the Academy for her career as a governess or a companion, she would never be permitted to fling her arms out and spin like a top. And everyone should have the opportunity at least once in her life to spin.

As the dance ended, she stood to collect her charges. Supposedly any poor behavior would be to Grey’s detriment, but she knew quite well that the Duke of Wycliffe wasn’t being judged tonight.

“Did you see me?” Elizabeth gave another spin.

“Yes, I did.” Emma tugged on the girl’s sleeve to straighten it. “Just try not to kill anyone, dear.”

The air stirred behind her, and she turned, from her quickened pulse knowing who it must be. “Your Grace.”

Grey looked down at her, a great tawny lion playing with the Academy’s little lambs. “May I have this dance, Emma?” he asked, holding one hand out to her.

She flushed. “Oh, no. It’s the girls who need the practice, Your Grace. I couldn’t.” But she’d been watching him almost every moment of the country dance, and her protest lacked heat.

He lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you led by example.”

“I do, but—”

“Then let’s show them how it’s done, shall we?”

She eyed him, and then the excited faces of her students. “Oh, very well.” Hopefully it would be a quadrille or another country dance, and she wouldn’t have to spend a protracted time in his company. Just touching his hands was torture enough. To be in his arms…

The orchestra began playing a waltz. With a shiver, Emma allowed him to draw her out onto the dance floor. She closed her eyes as he slid one hand around her waist and pulled her closer to him.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered.

“Do what?”

“Don’t close your eyes. It makes me want to kiss them.”

Her eyes flew open. “Well, don’t.”

He swung her into the dance. “I’ll attempt to
restrain myself. I think you should know, however, that—”

“Please tell me you aren’t going to spend the entire waltz telling me how much you desire to touch me and kiss me.”

A slight grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “We’ve already established that you’re in lust with me; I’ll save that bit of dialogue until we’re somewhere more private.”

Even the mention of being alone with him made her feel weak-kneed. “Did you say something to Lady Sylvia?” she asked instead. “Something about…what happened?”

“Are you referring to the other evening, when I stole into the Academy and made love to the headmistress?”

“Grey, please,” she hissed.

A slight frown furrowed his brow. “No, I didn’t say a word to her, nor would I ever. Why?”

“She’s been looking at me rather oddly.”

“You’re not from London. Everyone who doesn’t have a home in London is an oddity.”

“It wasn’t that kind of look.”

Grey regarded her with a mix of curiosity and exasperation. She’d seen that expression on his face quite a few times over the past few weeks. “What kind of look was it, then? Or are we going to play charades so I can guess?”

“You saw it, as well, or you wouldn’t have stopped her from questioning me.”

“Maybe I like to be the only one questioning you.”

Emma cleared her throat. “I’m attempting not to jump to conclusions,” she pointed out. “She
just seemed…to know something. About us. And not to be happy with it.”

His expression became more somber. “You may be right. I’ll find out.”

She tightened her grip on his shoulder, digging her fingers into the iron-bound muscles there. “No!”

For a moment they waltzed in silence. “I’ll tell you what,” he said finally, gazing down at her from scant inches away, “I’ll be subtle, if you’ll tell me something.”

Her heart thumped. Despite her protests, she hoped the something would have to do with his wanting to be with her again. She wanted future lessons from Grey Brakenridge. As many as they could possibly fit into the two weeks he had remaining in Hampshire. She didn’t want him to know, though, that she yearned for his touch. He liked that she was strong; she liked it, too, and even more she needed to be that way. More even than she’d realized.

“What do you want me to tell you?” she asked cautiously.

“You said you’d experienced people like this before,” he said, nodding at the Haverly house guests, “but it wouldn’t have been at the Academy. Where, then?”

A different kind of nervousness ran through her. “London.”

“When were you in London? I don’t remember you being there.”

She would have remembered
him
if they’d ever crossed paths. Of that she was certain. “London is a large place, Your Grace. And I hardly think you would have noticed me.”

“Yes, I would have.”

She drew a breath, dismayed that she was leaning again. Hopefully in the middle of the waltz no one would be able to tell. “I was only twelve, anyway.”

For just a moment his expression darkened. “Twelve? What kind of bastard would hurt a twelve-year-old girl?”

His voice had taken on a low, dangerous edge, and that actually steadied her a little. “It was a long time ago. There’s nothing anyone could have done about it, anyway.”

“I could have,” he murmured.

“Oh, really? And just what would you have done, Your Grace? I imagine I would have been far beneath your notice.”

“I would have killed him.”

That stopped her. Something in the quiet words told her that he meant it, and she realized she never wanted to face him when he was truly angry about something. “Well, he’s been dead for six years, so thank you for the offer, but—”

“Who was he?”

“It’s not impor—”

“Who was he?” he repeated, even more quietly.

The flicker inside her veins heated. “He was my cousin—my second cousin, actually—and it’s not as sordid as you seem to think.”

“So tell me.”

“If it will make you quit prying, fine. He was my mother’s cousin. When my father died, my mother and I had nowhere to go, and he agreed to take us in. My mother was already ill, and two months later she died as well. While she lived, he
was kind and considerate, full of promises about how he would see that I was given a splendid debut in Society, and a dowry large enough to attract a good match.”

“He lied,” Grey said after a moment.

“Yes, he did. A week after my mother’s funeral, I went for a walk with a maid. When I returned, he was standing at the door with a bag stuffed full of clothes. He said he was not going to give a scrawny female like me any charity, and that I was too young to offer him anything in return. He yanked the maid into the house, dumped the sack at my feet, and closed the door.” Emma shut her eyes for a heartbeat, then looked up into his light green gaze again. “I’d never realized until that moment that people lied. Isn’t that silly? I had no idea.”

“What did you do?” he murmured.

“Within a week I was picked up by the constabulary for begging and vagrancy, and put into a workhouse. My Aunt Patricia, my father’s sister, tracked me down and found me six months later. How she managed it, I’ll never know, but it must have cost her a great deal to buy the information from my cousin’s servants.”

“Who was he?”

“The Earl of Ross.” Just saying the name again made her bile rise, and she clenched her jaw.

“Ross. I knew him, though not well. If it’s any consolation, the rumor is that he died of syphilis.”

She nodded. “I heard the same rumor. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.”

“A workhouse,” he whispered, anger touching his gaze again. “I can’t even imagine—”

“Be thankful you can’t,” she said crisply.

“Is that why you’re so concerned about Elizabeth? You don’t want her to end up where you did?”

“My concern isn’t only for Lizzy, though I do admit that she is special to me. I simply want these young ladies to be capable enough that they don’t have to rely on anyone else’s good graces to live decent lives.”

The waltz ended. Grey looked as though he wanted to continue the conversation, but she’d told him more than enough.

However compassionate he felt at the moment, and however her heart raced in his presence, she’d seen his haughty, arrogant side. And if word ever got out that the headmistress of Miss Grenville’s Academy had spent six months in a workhouse, she might as well go back to one.

Emma suppressed a shudder. She hadn’t used to be so foolish; what was wrong with her? “I think Lizzy would like to dance with you,” she said, freeing her hand from his warm grip.

“Em,” he said almost soundlessly, “you have my admiration. And my word.”

She swallowed. For a man, he was sometimes quite nice. “I thank you for both of them.”

Hobbes rapped on the floor with his staff, the sound echoing like thunder in the loud room. No doubt he was enjoying the formality of the evening, even if it was for the benefit of a handful of little girls. “Your Grace, ladies—”

“Emma,” Grey said again, taking a step toward her. He suddenly looked less confident, and dread touched her.

“—and gentlemen, may I—”

“Don’t rush to conclusions here.”

“—present, Mr. Frederick Mayburne.”

Freddie strolled into the room. He was dressed conservatively, for him, with only the painfully intricate knot of his cravat marking him as a dandy and a rake. Otherwise, in his gray suit and Wellington boots, he looked nearly as austere, if not nearly so compelling, as Grey.

Trying to keep her jaw from dropping in angry astonishment, Emma spun on her heel to face Wycliffe. “What is he doing here?” she enunciated.

“We needed more men,” he said, shrugging. “I thought he might—”

“I will
not
have him accosting Jane here or anywhere else,” Emma snapped back at him. “We are not a matchmaking facility. We are a teaching Academy, with a reputation to maintain. No one would send their daughters here if they knew we had men waiting nearby to snatch them up before their debuts.”

Grey stepped past her to greet Freddie. “I wouldn’t wager on that,” he murmured as he walked away from her.

Oh, this was too much. Emma knotted her skirt in her hands and stomped toward the intruder. “You are a bachelor, Your Grace,” she said over her shoulder as she passed him by. “In this instance, I can assure you that your opinion doesn’t matter in the slightest.”

Freddie saw her coming and took a step backward. “Miss Emma, good evening,” he said, his confident expression fading.

“Out,” she said, continuing to advance.

“I was invited.” Still retreating, Freddie threw a hopeful glance beyond her.

“He won’t dance with Jane,” the duke said from behind her, closer than she expected.

She slowed, abruptly conscious of the scene she was making. “Nor will he speak with Jane.”

“I won’t.” Freddie stopped his retreat in the doorway, the farthest away he could get from her without exiting the room.

“Nor will he give letters to anyone else to be passed on to Jane.”

Mayburne shook his head. “I won’t.”

Emma turned on Grey again. “I have your word.”

He inclined his head. “You have my word.”

“Very well.”

She would rather have had Freddie Mayburne thrown out of Haverly, but with a last warning glare she returned to her charges. Despite her annoyance, she understood the reasoning behind the young man’s presence. Grey had several times mentioned the threats of the outside world and how ill prepared her students might be to meet them. Freddie was definitely a threat, but having him here, outnumbered and under the watchful eyes of the duke, Isabelle, and herself, could be good practice for the girls.

The orchestra, apparently noticing the cessation of bellowing among the guests, launched into a quadrille. Lord Charles claimed Jane, though Emma suspected it had more to do with the young lady’s title than any chivalrous impulses to protect her from Freddie’s attentions.

Boots tapped up behind her. “Miss…Mawgy, may I have this dance?” Freddie asked slowly.

At Emma’s nod, Mary curtsied and took his proffered hand. “I’m honored, Mr. Mayburne.”

“Frederick, if you please.”

“You see?” The duke brushed her elbow with his fingertips. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“You should have warned me that he was coming.”

“I had no idea even rakes were terrified of you, Miss Emma. I thought for a moment I might have to loan Frederick a dry pair of trousers.”

“Very amusing. Please tell me that you do at least understand why I protested.”

“I understand perfectly well why you protested. And I assume you understand why I wanted him here tonight.”

“Yes.”

Lizzy was bouncing up and down on her toes, looking as though she was about to burst. Grey lifted an eyebrow, his green eyes dancing despite his stern expression.

“Hm. I was going to ask you to dance, infant, but you appear to be having an apoplexy.”

The sprite snatched his arm and tugged him onto the floor to join the other dancers. “I’m honored. Come on, Grey!”

Emma chuckled. When he allowed his arrogant shell to crack, Greydon Brakenridge could be very warm and amusing. And if he continued giving and then keeping his word, she was going to be dangerously in peril of liking him too much.

“Emma, may I—”

She leaned toward Lord Dare as he stopped be
side her. “Ask Julia,” she murmured almost soundlessly.

“—Interrupt to ask Miss Julia out for the quadrille?” the viscount continued smoothly.

“Oh, yes,” Julia said, practically leaping to his side.

“Julia, decorum,” Emma reminded her.

“Lizzy doesn’t have any.”

“Lizzy is twelve. You are sixteen.”

“Yes, Miss Emma. Thank you, Lord Dare; I would be honored.”

Lord Haverly had snagged Miss Boswell, and Emma led Henrietta to the chairs at the side of the room. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked.

“Yes. Very much.” Henrietta glanced toward Lady Sylvia, who was gazing at them coolly over Lady Haverly’s shoulder. “Except I don’t think the other ladies like us.”