A Matter of Scandal (6 page)

“You’ve heard of me, eh?” Far from being dis
couraged at the cool reception, Freddie smiled. “I told Jane I’d made something of a name for myself in London, but I had no idea even the likes of the Duke of Wycliffe knew of me.”

Grey sent him a dismissive glance. “Actually, I saw your performance last night at the Academy.”

Freddie’s confident smile twitched. “Oh.”

“For your future reference, Mr. Mayburne,” he informed the pompous oaf, “the trick is never to let a chit know you’re the least bit interested.”

“Hmph.” Emma sniffed, and clucked to her horse. “Tricks. I would suggest sincerity.” With a lurch the cart began rolling down the road again.

Freddie urged his mount closer to Cornwall. “Actually, Your Grace, I’d been hoping to have a word with—”

“Excuse me,” Grey interrupted. Leaving Mr. Mayburne in the middle of the road, he set off after Emma again. Following her around while she stampeded across Hampshire was
not
going to become a habit. Women pursued
him
, not the other way around. “You forgot something,” he said as he rounded a turn and drew even with her.

“Yes, I know, but I had already stormed off.”

“So you admit that you turned tail?” he asked, surprised.

“I departed your conversation, in which I had little interest. So, do you intend to insult me further before you hand over your notes, or do you intend to be honorable?”

She looked sideways at him from beneath the brim of her straw bonnet, the closest he’d yet seen her come to actual flirtation. Lust hit him again like a hot breeze. Burningly aware of Emma
Grenville’s upturned face, and her full, slightly parted lips, he leaned down and touched his mouth to hers.

At the feather-light contact, lightning shot down his spine. He straightened, startled. Emma’s eyes were closed, and he was abruptly torn between the desire to join her in the cart and see how well sprung the vehicle was, and the gut-wrenching need to flee. Grey blinked. He didn’t react like that to a kiss. He liked kissing, and had been told he excelled at it, but a simple touching of lips did not turn him addle-brained.

Her eyes fluttered open, startled and wide. “What…what in the world do you think you’re doing?”

Using every ounce of hard-earned self-control that he possessed, Greydon shrugged. “You said you gave lessons about men like me,” he drawled. “What do you think I was doing?”

A delicious blush crept up her cheeks. Grey followed her flushed skin down to the prim neckline of her gown and shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.

“I will not…dignify that with a response,” she stammered. “If you will please give me those papers, Your Grace.”

Wordlessly he reached into his coat pocket and handed the bundle over, brushing her fingers as she took it from him. Not even sparing it a look, she set it on the seat beside her. Then Emma cleared her throat, her eyes on the road in front of her, and scarlet still staining her cheeks.

“Thank you.” With a weak cluck she flicked the reins and the dilapidated cart and horse lurched into motion again.

Grinning, Grey fell in beside her. However much the kiss had startled him, she’d obviously been even more affected. She probably was unused to having males about. Now that she’d begun to figure out what benefits his masculine presence could provide, this was going to be the easiest seduction—and thereby the most satisfying wager—he’d ever won. He’d be surprised if she managed a mile before she threw herself on him.

They’d only gone half that distance when she looked over at him. “Why are you still here?”

That was unexpected. “You’ve begun work on your part of the wager,” he improvised. “I would like to begin on mine, as well.”

The cart jerked to a halt. “What?”

“I would like to meet my students, Miss Emma. If you don’t mind.”

From the look in her eyes she clearly did mind, but he had little sympathy for her. Emma pressed her lips together, then nodded. “We do not allow men on Academy grounds, but I suppose I will have to make an exception this one time.”

“At least this once,” he agreed.

“You will be supervised—at all times.”

He gave a slow smile. “By you?”

She faced forward again. “I am the headmistress. Competent instructors staff the Academy, Your Grace. I will look in on your progress when I can, but winning this wager will occupy most of my time.”

Grey scowled at her profile. Perhaps she hadn’t been as affected by the kiss as he’d thought. He would put more effort into the next
one. “You may be occupied, but you won’t be winning anything.”

“Well, one of us is wrong, and I’m fairly certain it’s not me.”

They could continue their little disagreement all day, but in truth, Grey was curious to meet the small females who were going to help him triumph over Miss Emma. Training girls to enter Society successfully would have been at the top of the list of things he’d thought never to do, but teaching a few chits to flirt and twirl would be a small price to pay for bringing the Academy—and Emma Grenville—to her knees.

A troll stood guard at the front gate. At least he looked like a troll, old and gnarled and seated on a stool which leaned against one side of the old wrought iron. All he needed was a pipe to complete the image. As they approached, the troll unfolded surprisingly long legs and stood, doffing his malformed hat.

“Morning, Miss Emma.”

“Tobias.”

As the cart passed him, the troll moved into the center of the carriage path, blocking Grey. “Sorry, yer lordship. No men allowed.”

Grey lifted an eyebrow as Cornwall snorted beneath him. “What are you, then?”

The troll grinned. “Employed. An’ I intend to keep it that way.”

“It’s all right, Tobias,” Emma called. “His Grace may enter—today. I will give you a written schedule detailing when he will be at the Academy.”

Doffing his hat again, the troll moved out of the
roadway. “You must be the duke of all dukes, Your Grace, t’be allowed beyond these gates when it ain’t visiting day.”

Glancing ahead at Emma’s disappearing figure, Grey leaned down. “Is she always this strict?”

“Where outsiders and rules ’re concerned, aye. She’ll do anything for those girls, though. Miss Emma’s tough on the outside, but she’s got a heart bigger than west Hampshire.”

Somehow, knowing that Emma was so well regarded didn’t leave him feeling particularly masterful. He wasn’t necessarily putting her out of business, though, he decided as he tapped Cornwall in the ribs. He was teaching her a lesson about a chit’s proper place in Society. And, hopefully, in his bed.

“Are you coming, Your Grace?”

Emma had hopped down from the cart and stood, arms folded, waiting for him at the main building’s front entrance. Behind him the gate clanged shut. Grey stifled a scowl as he swung down from Cornwall. Here he was, locked in a girls’ school. If his mother knew, she would be faint with laughter. Lady Caroline and the hounds, on the other hand, would probably be suffering a collective apoplexy. That particular thought made him smile. In some ways, this wasn’t such a bad way to spend his time, after all.

E
mma smoothed her skirt and tried to keep to a normal pace as she led the duke into the depths of Miss Grenville’s Academy. Her London Social Graces students would be waiting for her already, probably wondering why in the world Miss Emma was late. And she had no idea what to tell them.

She couldn’t blame it on Freddie Mayburne, that blasted rakehell. As if she would ever permit him to call on Jane. No, annoying as Freddie was, today she barely spared him a second thought. Today, her problem was much larger. Several inches over six feet larger.

The Duke of Wycliffe had
kissed
her. Why in heavens would he want to do such a thing? Greydon Brakenridge might indeed be a rake, but he
was a wealthy and exceedingly handsome one. The most lovely ladies in London probably surrounded him at every soirée, and he could kiss anyone he wanted.

Now, as his gleaming black Hessian boots stalked down the hallway behind her, all she could think of was how good it had felt when he kissed
her
. Her first kiss, given by a duke. She wondered whether he intended to do it again. The next time she would pay more attention to the warmth and the firm yet soft feel of his lips, and how she had wanted to melt like warm butter into his arms.

She suddenly realized they had reached her classroom, and stopped so quickly he nearly ran into her from behind. Not daring to look at him in case her befuddlement showed on her face, she marched to the front of the room as her five handpicked students stopped chattering and turned nearly as one to look at the large golden lion behind her. She’d meant to meet with them first and explain the situation, but the duke had outmaneuvered her.

“Ladies,” she said, in her most matter-of-fact tone, “allow me to introduce His Grace, the Duke of Wycliffe. He will be taking over this class for a short time.”

“Gadzooks,” Jane whispered, sinking into her chair.

Emma should have made Lady Jane amend the vulgarism, but given the circumstances, it seemed appropriate. “Please stand and introduce yourselves.”

Jane shot to her feet again. “Lady Jane
Wydon,” she said, curtsying. Her voice shook only a little, and Emma relaxed a fraction. They were her best and her brightest; whatever the outcome of the wager, they would do themselves proud.

“Lady Jane,” the duke repeated, his tone tight.

Emma risked a sideways glance at him. His stance was easy and relaxed, but she could have sworn that his tanned face had grown several shades paler. His jaw also seemed to be closed rather firmly. In fact, he almost looked as though he wanted to flee.

Mary Mawgry managed to utter her name without fainting, and neither Henrietta Brendale nor Julia Potwin so much as giggled during their introductions. So far, so good.

The petite, freckled figure sitting to Jane’s right climbed to her feet and curtsied in distinct military fashion. “Miss Elizabeth Newcombe,” Lizzy enunciated. “Did you lose your land?”

“Elizabeth!” Emma chastised, unsurprised that the Academy’s young imp was underwhelmed by the golden nobility in their midst.

Wycliffe straightened almost imperceptibly. “No. Why do you ask?”

“I’m trying to discover why Your Grace would want to teach at Miss Grenville’s Academy.”

“Ah.” He rocked back on his heels. “Miss Emma and I made a wager.”

Emma winced. Obviously Greydon Brakenridge didn’t have the slightest idea how to handle young, curious females—which boded well for her, but certainly not for him.

Lizzy nodded. “What did you wager over?”

Folding her arms across her chest, Emma sank back against the edge of the small desk at the front of the room. “Yes, Your Grace, what did we wager over?”

The glance he sent in her direction was full of annoyance. She hadn’t been the one to call half of the human species stupid and useless, though, so he could just fend for himself.

“Miss Emma wagered that she could manage my uncle’s estate better than I could,” he said in an over-loud, patronizing voice, “and I wagered that I could instruct you in ballroom decorum better than she could.”

“Well, that’s silly.” Elizabeth snorted. “No one can do anything better than Miss Emma. You’re going to lose.”

“I am certain your headmistress is quite competent in the instruction of embroidery and etiquette. However, my—”

“Actually, Your Grace, Miss Perchase teaches embroidery.” Mary bobbed another curtsy, her gaze on the hardwood floor.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you Miss…Mawgry, but my point is that my instruction will be more practical-minded.”

The girls looked baffled, and Emma allowed herself a small smile at Wycliffe’s broad back. All she had to do was estimate the market value of a few acres of barley and some cattle, and recommend their sale in the correct proportions. The duke’s task involved both communicating information to headstrong young ladies who weren’t nearly as dim as he seemed to think, and gaining enough of their respect that they would be willing to put into practice what he preached. Asking
them to declare that he was better at it than she was—well, he hadn’t a chance in Hades.

A movement in the doorway caught her attention. Students and instructors filled the hallway beyond, straining to catch a glimpse of the Academy’s unusual visitor. Emma straightened, walking to the door. “Back to your studies, ladies,” she told them, closing it firmly.

She could hardly blame them for their interest; other than fathers, brothers, and the visitors on performance nights, men did not set foot on Academy grounds. Having this particular magnificent, virile specimen in the midst of five dozen curious girls was rather like bringing a torch into a room filled with dry kindling. Heavens, even
she’d
allowed him to kiss her, and she knew better.

The classroom seemed very quiet, and Emma yanked her thoughts back to the present. The instructor and his students were clearly sizing one another up, and she knew from past experience that Lizzy, at least, was probably girding her loins for battle. Emma moved back into the room.

“I know this is odd, ladies,” she said, “but think of it as an experiment. His Grace has a great deal of…familiarity with the London Season and its regimens, and he wishes to pass some of that knowledge on to you.” Emma gestured at the duke. “His instruction could very well be helpful for those of you nearing your own debuts, Jane and Mary.”

There. That made them even for the notes he’d given her. He met her gaze for a moment, light green eyes assessing her. Then he took a slow step closer. For a heart-stopping moment she thought he meant to kiss her again. Emma took an un
steady breath. His back was to the young ladies, so they couldn’t see the slow, wicked smile that touched his mouth.

She belatedly backed away a step. “Not in front of my students,” she whispered.

The humor in his eyes deepened. “Later, then,” he said in the same low tone, and reached past her for the pointer resting across the desk.

“Miss Emma, does this mean we don’t have to do our French?” Julia asked.

She tried to ignore the warmth creeping up her cheeks, and hoped the girls wouldn’t notice it. “You will have to keep up with the rest of your studies, just as you would if I were instructing this class.”

“Do you all take French?” Wycliffe asked unexpectedly.

“Henrietta and Julia and I do,” Elizabeth answered. “Jane tutors me, but she can never remember the imperfect tenses.”

“Lizzy!” Jane blushed. “I do so remember them. You just never want to look them up for yourself.”

Elizabeth sighed. “I wouldn’t have to, if you would tell me what they—”

Emma returned to the door. This had deteriorated nicely—a good first lesson for the Duke of Wycliffe, if not for the girls. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some papers to look over.” She leaned out the door. As she’d already instructed in case of the duke’s appearance, Miss Perchase waited in the hallway, though the poor woman looked ready to faint.

“Miss Perchase will oversee your instruction today,” she said, pulling the gray-haired woman into the classroom.

“Ah. The embroidery instructor.”

“She teaches Latin, as well, Your Grace. I’ll return to escort you off the grounds at the luncheon break. You have…” She glanced at the small clock resting on a bookshelf, “…forty-two minutes. Good luck to you, Your Grace.” She gestured at a small bell sitting beside the clock. “Just for your information, that is there in case of emergency. Ring it if you need to be rescued.”

“Thank you, but I won’t be needing it.”

“We’ll see.”

Tristan waited for Greydon outside the Academy’s guarded gates as he made his exit precisely forty-two minutes later. “Thank God you’re still alive,” the viscount exclaimed, looking toward the school with eyes narrowed against the bright noonday sun.

“And why wouldn’t I be?” Grey asked, as the gates clanged shut behind him. The dull headache he’d acquired thudded in response.

“Good day, Your Grace,” the troll called from behind the fortress walls.

“Tobias.”

The viscount’s gray gelding fell into a canter beside Cornwall. “The first time you mentioned Miss Grenville’s Academy, you said something about becoming a rotting carcass before you’d go through those gates. When your valet said you’d headed in this direction for the second time in two days, naturally I feared the worst. I had no idea, of course, that you were on a first-name basis with the gatekeeper.”

The country air had apparently loosened his valet’s tongue. He and Bundle were going to have
to have a little chat. “Since when do you interrogate my valet over my whereabouts?”

“Since you’ve begun making wagers with pretty headmistresses and concealing their whereabouts from your closest friends.”

Grey glared at Dare, that odd, heated sensation running through him again at the mention of Emma. This was becoming bothersome. “You know where she is now,” he said stiffly. “Have at her.”

“
I
can’t get through the gates. That seems to be a privilege reserved for you, Your Grace. Have you charmed all of your students into voting for you, yet? If the wager’s over, you might at least have invited me in to view the resolution.”

He wouldn’t exactly say he’d charmed the chits; a more accurate description would be that he’d survived the first meeting with them—barely. “If you followed me here to complain, I’m really not in the mood, Tris.”

“Then you probably don’t want to go back to Haverly right now, either,” the viscount replied, undaunted. “Your Alice is convinced you’ve come to Hampshire to find a replacement for her, since you’ve apparently been celibate since we arrived. The entire scenario’s dissolved into something of a tantrum by now, I would think.”

Grey closed his eyes for a moment. “First of all, she’s not
my
Alice, thank you very much. She’s more like a…leech that keeps attaching itself to my nether regions.”

“Yuck.” Tristan grimaced, then took on a more thoughtful expression. “Or maybe not.”

“And secondly, I am not looking for a replacement anything—much less if it’s female. As far as I’m concerned, cousin William can have the dukedom when I’ve hopped the twig.”

“Then—”

“I am attempting to win a wager which will hopefully result in shutting down that damned Academy.”

“That’s exactly what I told Alice.” They made the turn up the road toward Haverly. “That does leave me with a question, though.”

He’d clenched his jaw so much today, it was beginning to ache more than his throbbing skull. “What question?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Emma Grenville’s whereabouts?”

Sometimes Viscount Dare’s enjoyment of pandemonium could be very tiresome. “I had more pressing things on my mind. You know where she is now. Leave off.”

“Fine. I only came out here to find you because I was concerned.”

“You came out to see how much trouble you could cause. What’s going on with you and Sylvia?”

A rare sneer appeared on Dare’s face. “Before she realized how limited my finances were, she thought she might wish to become my viscountess.”

“And when did she realize otherwise?”

“I told her the morning we left to come to Hampshire. Why do you think she wanted to ride with Blumton and your cast-off?”

“Hm. I thought Sylvia would know better than
to associate with you under any circumstances, anyway.”

Tristan put a hand to his breast. “Now I’m wounded. Direct me to the nearest inn and lend me a quid so I can drown my sorrows.”

Grey rubbed his knuckles against his aching temple. “If my finances were as limited as yours, I would be spending my time going over the new estate plans for Haverly and figuring out how to adapt some of them to Dare.”

The viscount rode in silence for a long moment. “Well,” he said finally, pulling his horse back around to face toward Basingstoke, “since we’re giving unsolicited advice, allow me to inform you that if you keep heading down this particularly obnoxious path, Your Grace, you may find the rest of yourself resembling the rotting carcass your insides have already become.”

As Dare disappeared back around the curve in the road, Grey slowed Cornwall to a walk. When Tristan had inherited Dare Park three years ago, the debts had been piled so high around the once-grand estate that he’d barely been able to see over them. Adding to that the rumor that the old Lord Dare’s death hadn’t been the accident the family made it out to be, and four younger brothers to be educated or in need of incomes, it was a miracle that Tristan Carroway hadn’t immediately become the cold, liquor-pickled mirror of his father.

“Damnation,” Grey muttered, and kneed Cornwall again. Apparently he was winning the race of which of them would first turn into their damned fathers.

He wasn’t going to take all the blame himself,
though. Not today. After meeting those outspoken school chits, he could almost believe the headmistress had maneuvered him into making the wager in the first place. He wasn’t sure whether he’d be better off trying to mold his so-called students into the sort of chits he could tolerate, or just shortening his sentence.

As he reached the manor’s front entry, the doors slammed open. Charles Blumton hurtled down the chipped granite steps toward him, approaching so quickly that Cornwall shied away from his flapping coattails.