A Matter of Scandal (5 page)

“Ah, yes.”

“And when I do that, we will be back in the same exact situation we are now—except that you, Miss Emma, will have no legal recourse but to pay your rent.”

“I’m not as certain of that as you seem to be. I’ve been thinking of having Sir John draft a petition for presentation to Parliament,” she said, still backing away from him, “with the goal of having the Academy declared an historical building. This will give me special dispensation in paying—”

“Why, you little—”

“Your Grace!” the solicitor protested.

“So you would rather see Haverly bankrupted than pay another shilling,” he snapped, clamping a fist over his temper. No one outmaneuvered him. And certainly not this sprite of a headmistress. “Just to keep this trivial pretty-house open.”

She lifted her chin. “You’re rich;
you
pay to keep Haverly solvent. And this is a place of learning, not a ‘pretty-house,’ as you so inaccurately term it.”

“‘Inaccurately?’ I hardly think—”

“No, you don’t, do you?”

Women never argued with him. They sighed and agreed and tittered and talked of inane non
sense until his head was ready to explode. This was exceedingly…invigorating. “What would you have me call it, then? You refuse to pay rent to Haverly, all the while playing dress-up and looking for rich husbands for your so-called students.”

She advanced on him, looking angry enough to spit nails. “That is
not
the function of this Academy, and I will
not
tolerate your insulting these young ladies when they have worked so hard to—”

“—to learn how to discuss the weather?” Grey suggested, folding his arms across his chest. “Name one
practical
piece of knowledge your girls acquire.”

“As if you know how to do anything but bellow and order everyone else around. Ha! Who shaved you this morning, Your Grace?”

“I shave myself, Miss Emma.”

“Good for you. How many people helped you dress, excluding the servants who polish your boots?”

Grey narrowed his eyes. “I believe we were discussing the uselessness of this school, not your fascination with my morning toilette.”

“Your Gr—”

“Quiet,” Grey snapped at the solicitor, not bothering to glance in Sir John’s direction.

“You do not fascinate me in the least,” Emma stated in a loud voice. “I am making a point.”

The idea that he didn’t affect her was even more annoying than her absurd stance in defense of females. “And just what do your students learn here that is more significant than the knowledge they could acquire from a fortnight in Whitechapel or Covent Garden? All you do is
provide a stamp of respectability for their seductions.”

The solicitor stepped forward. “Your Grace, I must warn you—”

“Get out,” Grey growled.

“I will n—”

“Please, Sir John,” the headmistress said unexpectedly, her voice tight. “I am quite capable of fighting my own battles.” To Grey’s surprise, she escorted the solicitor to the office door and ushered him out.

“Close it.”

“I intend to,” she said, complying. “I really didn’t think you wanted anyone else to overhear your ignorant prattling.”

Despite the bold words and the closed door, Emma was white-faced. If not for the unmistakable fire and fury flashing in her eyes, Grey would have ceased his attack. That realization surprised him. The imminent collapse of his opponent was generally his signal to go in for the kill. “We were discussing the difference between graduates of a finishing school and…actresses, we’ll call them.”

“Why not say what you think? I find innuendo tedious and the forte of simple minds.”

So now he was a halfwit. Grey crossed the room toward her. “Whores, then,” he said distinctly.

“Ha.” Though her cheeks flooded with color, she stood her ground. “You’ve destroyed your own argument again. Obviously, Your Grace, you don’t have enough people around you informing you when you’re not making any sense.”

Grey couldn’t remember the last time anyone had dared insult him so directly. Anger coursed
through his veins, accompanied by a darker, equally heated sensation. Good God, he wanted her beneath him. “Pray explain,” he ground out, wondering if she realized just how much peril she was in.

“Gladly. You have several times insisted that the Academy’s only
raison d’être
is to produce wives, presumably for you and your peers. Men of your station, to be blunt, don’t marry whores. Ergo, my school does not produce whores.”

“A flower, sweetly perfumed or rotting on a trash heap, is still a flower.”

“I pity you if you can’t tell one from the other. A stinking bog and a fertile field are both pieces of dirt, yet I would think you, as a landowner, would find them more different than similar.”

“As if a female would know the difference between mud and cow dung, if not for the smell.”

Emma wrinkled her nose, though he couldn’t be sure whether the expression was for him or for his allusion. “Better than you could tell a whore from a lady, obviously.” She put her hands on her hips.

Grey studied her for a moment, his lust for this assertive woman warring with his exasperation at her for daring to think she could stand toe to toe with the Duke of Wycliffe—though she was making a damned fine show of it. “Care to wager on that?” he asked.

She blinked. “What?”

It was ingenious. The impertinent chit—he’d prove to everyone that she didn’t have the dimmest idea what she was talking about. “I’m talking about making a wager, Miss Emma.”

Her hazel eyes narrowed. “A wager over what?”

“Rent,” he said promptly. The more he thought about it, the more brilliant it seemed. If she thought she had all the answers, she could damned well try to prove it. “If you lose, you pay the new rent. No more arguments.”

“You’re mad,” she said, looking at him warily. “What are you proposing we wager over? I have better things to do than sniff manure.”

He shook his head. “No. Much better than that.” This would need to be official, or she’d find a way to slip out of his grasp before he could make his point. He strode past her to the door and yanked it open. “You—Sir John. Get in here.”

The solicitor practically fell into the room; obviously their conversation had been overheard. Well, that would leave him less explaining to do.

“Humph,” the headmistress snorted, her color still high. “What in the world are you talking about, Your Grace?”

He gestured at the solicitor. “Sit down and take notes.”

“Please stop ordering my solici—”

“Excuse us,” Tristan’s voice came from the doorway, “but I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

Barely sparing a glance at the Haverly party as they crowded into the room, Grey nudged the solicitor toward the tiny desk’s chair. “Glad you’re here. We’re making a wager.”

“We are
not
making a wager!”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Why, because you can’t support your silly claims of superiority?”

“Not superiority.” She hesitated, the first time he had seen her struggle to find the right word. “Equality.”

“Excuse us, Grey,” Lady Sylvia said in her silky voice, “but whose equality are we discussing?”

“Miss Emma’s to mine, obviously.” He circled the headmistress, his plans falling into order.

“Surely not.” Alice tittered behind her fan, the expression of innocence on her face ridiculous. He didn’t know why she bothered with it any longer, unless she hoped to fool some unsuspecting halfwit. “Everyone knows a duke outranks a headmistress.”

“Not that kind of equality,” Emma snapped, obviously so out of patience that she was neglecting her own rules of politeness. “
Mental
equality.”

And the trap clicked shut. “Then prove it,” Grey murmured, stopping directly before her and holding her hazel gaze.

“How?”

“As I mentioned,” he began, “I’m looking for a more efficient and profitable way to manage Haverly. I propose that you attempt to come up with a better plan than mine.”

“An estate plan,” she said dubiously.

If he didn’t secure her agreement quickly, she would realize he was trying to bully her into a corner, and she would escape. “If you can do it,
I’ll
pay your damned Academy’s rent,
ad infinitum
.”

Emma pursed her lips, which made Grey want to kiss them. “All right,” she said slowly, “but I don’t see why I should be the only one to have to prove anything. Otherwise, when I
do
come up with a better plan than yours, we will simply
have to assume that I am more intelligent than you are.”

Uncle Dennis drew in a breath. “Sweet Mary,” he muttered, and Grey distinctly heard Tristan snicker.

Accepting his challenge was one thing; insulting him while doing it was something else. “I don’t think you have a prayer of devising a better plan than mine,” he said.

“Yes, but you’re wrong, Your Grace.”

“I see. What do you suggest, then?”

She looked at him speculatively. “As it happens, I take personal responsibility for a small group of students at this time each year. The topic of this special class is London Social Graces. You seem to have very definite ideas of what makes a young lady successful in London.”

Grey’s chest began to tighten. “And?” he ground out.

“I suggest you attempt to pass on your expertise to my students. Perhaps in ballroom decorum, as that discussion is to begin on Monday, anyway.”

“Excuse me for interrupting,” Tristan said in a choked voice, “but wouldn’t that be rather like putting a fox in charge of a hen house?”

Emma blushed prettily. “His Grace and my students would be well chaperoned, of course.”

“That’s ridiculous.”
Socialize with schoolroom chits?

“If you back down,” she returned, “I will consider myself removed from any obligation to pay your absurd rent.”

Damn. She’d certainly managed to raise the
stakes easily enough. “And just who would judge this?”

“I imagine you and your male friends will be assessing my estate plan,” she said airily, waving her hand in his companions’ direction. “I think it’s only fair that the students involved should judge your abilities as a teacher—in comparison with mine.”

“Schoolroom girls?” Sylvia cooed, while Alice stifled another bout of grating giggles. “That should be simple for you, Grey. Just charm them into voting for you.”

“My students are more sensible than that, I assure you.”

His amusing little plan suddenly didn’t seem so amusing. He faced the headmistress again. “If you lose—
when
you lose—you will agree to pay the new rent, retroactive for the past…two years.”

She looked as though she couldn’t decide whether to be angry, horrified, or amused. “Then you should have an additional penalty, as well.”

“We already discussed that. If I lose, I will pay your rent every year.”

Emma shook her head. “That’s not good enough.”

He tilted his head at her, surprised she hadn’t immediately backed down, and in fact was still negotiating with him. “What do you propose, then?”

“If you lose, Your Grace, you will establish a fund to sponsor three young ladies to attend the Academy for the entire period of their enrollment.”

She was setting him up to be humiliated. Ev
eryone knew what he thought of finishing schools, and of this one in particular. To pay the rent
and
to sponsor chits to attend Miss Grenville’s Academy…

A ridiculous prospect. She would lose and he would win. Besides, this was beginning to sound much more interesting than he’d anticipated. Perhaps he could even persuade her to make a small personal wager on the side, just between the two of them. He knew precisely what it would entail. “Done,” he said.

“Emma,” Sir John murmured, his expression grave and worried.

She lifted her chin. “Done.”

“E
mma, you have to call off this wager. Immediately.”

Emma sighed. She had spent the entire night pacing up and down her small bed chamber telling herself the same thing. Every time she decided to back down, though, cynical green eyes laughed at her for being a coward. The dratted Duke of Wycliffe thought that she—and her students—were stupid and useless, and he didn’t make any secret of that fact.

A great many men thought that way; she knew that. And convincing one out of thousands would hardly make a dent in their thick, ignorant skulls. At the moment, however, logic could go hang itself. She was deuced well going to convince this one, and bring three more students to the
Academy. More than that, if he truly paid her rent as he’d said he would.

“I am not here for advice, Sir John,” she said with as much bravado as she could muster, pulling another book off his crowded office shelves. “Tax research.” She held it up for his inspection. “Estate taxation?”

“Goods and property. Emma—”

“You don’t think I can win.” She placed the book on her rapidly growing pile of research materials.

“You’ve never attempted anything like this before. Wycliffe was practically bred to it. Pay the new rent. It’s high, but you can manage it.”

She flipped through another book and replaced it on the shelf. “No. That money is needed elsewhere. Some things simply cannot be compromised, no matter what.”

“And if you lose the wager?”

“I won’t. You know I rarely fail at things when I set my mind to them, and believe me, this wager has my complete attention.”

She dusted her hands off on her skirt. Despite her bold proclamations, her confidence felt ready to crumble. Ignoring Sir John’s advice was difficult, especially since she had invited herself into his Basingstoke office to look through his research books. Another warning from him would probably cause her to burst into tears, and she couldn’t afford to show weakness now.

“I know nothing about estate management,” he continued. “I can’t give you any more assistance than the loan of these books—and my advice, which you obviously aren’t going to take.”

Emma forced a smile. “Would it compromise
your principles if I asked you to help me carry the books to my cart?”

“Allow me,” a low, masculine voice drawled.

She jumped. For a mountain of a man, the Duke of Wycliffe seemed able to sneak up behind her without any noticeable effort. “Your Grace,” she said, running her conversation with Sir John through her mind and deciding she hadn’t given him anything to use against her, thank goodness. “What are you doing in Basingstoke?”

Wycliffe leaned in the office doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the opening. His tight-fitting buckskin breeches and rust-colored riding coat made him look even more like a great African lion, golden, powerful, and confident—and looking for a gazelle to snack on. Emma swallowed.

“I was looking for you, Miss Emma.”

Gazelle or not, she had no intention of giving up without a fight. Or of showing this lion anything but her horns. She had an entire herd of little gazelles to protect. “Oh? And why is that? To apologize?”

The duke pushed away from the door frame. “Not me. I will, however, still accept an apology—and payment—from you. There is no need to involve Sir John.”

“I’m not involving Sir John;
you
did that.
I
came here,” she said, gathering an armload of books, “for research materials. Nothing more.” Brushing past him, she went outside and placed the books on the floor of the Academy’s small horse-pulled cart, usually used for transporting students into the village or out to Haverly’s pond for flora and fauna lessons.

As she turned around to collect the rest of the heavy tomes, she nearly collided with Wycliffe. Leaning past her, he took one of the books from the cart.

“‘Entailment Laws’? This isn’t going to help you.”

Emma snatched the book back. “That really isn’t any of your business, Your Grace.”

She stalked back inside the office. Without looking, she knew he followed her. Goose bumps prickled up her arms. The sensation, and the heady anticipation which accompanied it, were so odd; she didn’t even like him. Despite that, his physical presence was…exhilarating.

“You might ask
me
your estate questions,” he continued. “I do have some experience in this area, after all.”

Emma glared up at him. “As if I would trust anything you told me—we both know you have no intention of losing to me. You’re only prattling on to hear yourself speak, again.”

Emma gathered another armful of books, but he pushed them back down against the tabletop. The duke’s hand fascinated her. Since he was large, she had expected him to have thick, heavy hands; instead, Wycliffe possessed the hands of an artist, long-fingered and elegant and graceful.

“I do not prattle,” he murmured, “and I said
I
would carry your books. Besides, it wouldn’t matter if I gave you every piece of knowledge and advice I possess. You would still lose.”

She met his light green eyes, shivers running all the way down her spine. “Fine. You may carry my books.” Tearing her gaze from his, she made
her way around the clutter to shake the solicitor’s hand. “Thank you for the loan, Sir John. I will return them shortly.”

“No hurry.” He looked from her to Wycliffe. “Your Mr. Blumton and I are setting down the rules and stipulations of the wager this afternoon. When is this business to conclude?”

“Four weeks—if that is sufficient, Miss Emma. If you requi—”

“Four weeks is fine.”

“Fine.”

Sir John cleared his throat. “I was about to suggest that you might wish to settle your disagreement now, rather than later.”

“I’ve already offered.” The duke hefted the heavy, cumbersome tomes effortlessly. “The decision, I believe, belongs to Miss Emma.”

Now he was just goading her. “I have no intention of backing down from a wager I cannot possibly lose. Good day, Sir John.”

“Sir John.”

As the duke followed her out to the cart again, that damned humming resumed in her veins. “Don’t you have things to do, Your Grace?” she said in her most flip, uncaring voice. “Tenants to evict from their homes, or cattle to count?”

He dumped the books onto the floor of the cart. “I counted this morning, just to stay in practice. With my uncle’s permission, of course.”

The duke had a sense of humor. If she didn’t have such a strong desire to kick him, she might have appreciated it. “What are you doing here, really? You can’t have expected an apology.”

“Walk with me,” he said, and offered her his arm.

The blasted shivers started all over again. “I don’t want to walk with you,” she forced out.

“You will when I’ve told you why I’m here.”

With a sigh to cover her perturbation, Emma set down the last book and folded her arms. “Then perhaps you should tell me, first. Otherwise, I must decline.”

He studied her face for a moment, while Emma did her best to think glacial thoughts and avoid another blush. She never had this problem with Sir John or Lord Haverly or any other man she dealt with in running the Academy. If she was acting so silly because of Wycliffe’s handsome face, then she was a fool. If it was because of some odd, deeper attraction, then she was worse than a fool. He meant her no good, and he’d made no secret of that fact.

“I thought we should begin the contest on an even footing,” he said. “With my uncle’s permission, I have copied down all the information regarding Haverly I thought might be pertinent.”

Surprise made her blink. “Such as?”

“Current crop acreage, head of sheep, cattle, pigs, etc.”

“Well.” Emma cleared her throat. “That’s very generous of you, I suppose.”

His lips curved into a wicked, sensuous smile. “I’ve also outlined my plans to date for improving Haverly’s finances. But I won’t give any of it to you unless you walk with me.”

“Isn’t that blackmail?”

“No. It’s bribery. Yes or no, Miss Emma?”

Emma hated being manipulated, even when it was as obvious as this. On the other hand, that information could save her a great deal of time in
organizing her strategy. If not for that little fact, she would have driven back to the Academy as fast as Old Joe could take her.

“Yes—if it’s a
brief
walk.” She folded her hands behind her back and started off along the cobblestoned street at a crisp pace.

A moment later he caught up to her. “I offered you my arm.”

“As we are not related or on equal social footing, and we are certainly not chaperoned, I must decline it.”

His lips twitched. “Is that one of your lessons?”

She slowed, irritated that he found her humorous. “My goodness. I had no idea you were so ill prepared to instruct my students. Are you certain you don’t wish to concede?”

He still looked amused, blast him. “I don’t believe in your topics of instruction, if you’ll recall.”

Suddenly she wasn’t so certain that giving him a class was a good idea. “Just remember, Your Grace, that your task is to enable your students to become successful
ladies
. If you stray one inch from that, I will consider you to have lost.”

“Thank you for your confidence in my lack of morality, but I do know the rules.”

“Good.” Even so, she would be keeping a close eye on him. “I instruct some of the more remedial young ladies in basic, common-sense etiquette, Your Grace. Perhaps you might wish to sit in on a class or two.”

“I’ll consider it,” he said dryly. “Perhaps you might wish to attend a class or two of mine.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

“Good. I may conduct private classes, as well.”

Emma stopped. His lascivious tone and what it
might portend were precisely what she’d been worried about. “Not with my students, you won’t.”

The duke halted directly in front of her, so she had no choice but to look at him. Her eyes were level with his broad chest, and with a sigh she barely remembered to stifle, she lifted her gaze to meet his.

“I wasn’t talking about your students.”

Emma swallowed again. “Oh.” She reminded herself that he was a practiced rake and probably flirted with every sentence he uttered in that deliciously low voice, so she’d have to be on her toes every moment he was near her students and herself, just in case. “Private classes are very well, I suppose, but what do they have to do with the number of pigs at Haverly?”

Wycliffe shrugged. “Just seeing how willing you are to be distracted.”

“I’m not.” Emma glanced through the window of William Smalling’s bakery and saw Mr. Smalling, Mrs. Tate, and Mrs. Beltrand staring back out at her.
Drat
. Mr. Smalling was such a gossip. “For your information, I teach an entire course about men like you. You aren’t likely to trip me up, at all.”

His teeth flashed in a wicked smile. “By that I assume you mean handsome, charming men?”

Her pulse sped up. “Yes. Precisely.”

“Then why do I still make you blush?”

Emma felt an even deeper flush creeping up her cheeks. “I may not be able to keep myself from blushing in sympathetic embarrassment at your exceeding arrogance, Your Grace, but don’t think that means I intend to turn tail and run.”

Wycliffe lifted an eyebrow. “But I don’t want you to run,” he said softly. “Where would the fun be in that?”

Oh, goodness
. She needed to attend her own class on rake avoidance again. Immediately. “F—fun? That is precisely why you are going to lose this wager, Your Grace: it’s a game to you. Allow me to assure you, though, that it is much more serious to me.”

The duke reached one hand toward her, and Emma froze. But instead of caressing her cheek as she’d expected, he merely lifted her slipping shawl back onto her shoulder. “Pity,” he murmured.

And she was even
leaning
toward the blackguard. “As I said, this is not a game to me,” she continued stoutly. “You, however, seem to be playing several, and none of them very well. I am unmoved by your seductions, and unimpressed with your…delivery.” With a sniff she turned around and strode back to her cart.

Grey watched her recede into the distance and wondered when, precisely, he’d lost his mind. This wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with a defiant tenant, for God’s sake. Bellowing ultimatums without listening to opposing arguments, though, and making wagers with them—that was new. And tenants—even impertinent hazel-eyed ones—did not boldly face him and inform him that he was rude and unimpressive.

“I’m not finished playing yet, Emma Grenville,” he murmured, as her cart bumped down the lane toward the small stone bridge which marked the east border of Basingstoke. “And neither are you.”

With a slight grin, he returned to his horse to go after her. She’d stalked off before he could give her the notes about Haverly. And she wouldn’t have the last word this morning, if he had any say in this little farce—which he did.

As he rounded the curve in the road, though, he reined in the gelding. Emma’s cart sat in the middle of the track, a mounted figure beside her.

At first glance he thought it was Tristan, but the rider didn’t have the viscount’s easy line. Viscount Dare had practically been born on horseback. This fellow looked as though he’d be much more comfortable with both feet on the ground. Seeing the way he was leaning over the headmistress, one hand gripping the back of Emma’s seat, Grey abruptly wanted to set his backside in the dirt.

Narrowing his eyes, he urged Cornwall forward. “Emma, what a coincidence,” he said in a carrying voice.

The other rider straightened and turned. As he did so, Grey recognized him—the dandy from the theatrical audience. He clenched his fist. No upstart was going to ruin his plans for the headmistress.

“It’s hardly a coincidence,” Emma said, not looking at all pleased to see him again. “I only drove away from you two minutes ago.”

“I say, you’re Wycliffe,” the youth drawled.

“And you’re…” He scoured his memory for the name Uncle Dennis had mumbled at him last night. “…Freddie Mayburne.” Whoever he was, Grey wished he would take the hint and go away. He had a conversation with Emma to finish.