A Matter of Scandal (8 page)

“God bless,” everyone uttered in near unison.

“Thank you. We don’t want you to lose your wager because of us,” the little one continued, then turned to look up at him from beneath her drooping bonnet. “And His Grace saved my life.”

He didn’t feel very heroic. “I wouldn’t go
that
far.”

“Oh, no,” Lady Jane piped up, “it was magnificent.”

Tristan cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should get everyone back to the Academy.”

Emma, a blush creeping up her damp cheeks as she continued to glare at Grey, turned her back on him to face Dare. “Yes. I’m afraid, though, that the girls won’t all fit in the phaeton.”

“I’d like to walk,” Mary Mawgry said in a dull voice, her face white.

“Me, too,” Elizabeth echoed immediately, taking Mary’s hand in hers.

The rest of the girls followed suit. Grey eyed them, surprised. Mary’s reluctance to climb back
into a carriage, he could understand. The rest of them, though, should have been clamoring for a chance to ride back to the Academy with Tristan and change out of their wet, muddy, and now decidedly unbecoming gowns. Yet they elected to trudge back with their travel-troubled friend.

“We’re walking,” he said. Lifting an eyebrow at Tristan’s skeptical expression, Grey scrambled back down the slippery bank to where Old Joe stood chest-deep in the pond, guzzling water happily. The overturned cart wedged against his backside didn’t seem to bother him in the least.

As he ducked into the water to unfasten the harness, footsteps splashed into the pond behind him. Even with the lemon scent of her hair doused by pond water, he knew who it was. The hairs on his arms prickled. “Stay out of the water, Emma,” he grunted.

“It’s a bit late for that,” she said in the practical tone he’d already become used to hearing from her.

“You shouldn’t have jumped in before, either. I had the situation well in hand.”

“It didn’t appear that way to me. And just how is this preparing them for a London ball?”

He hadn’t quite figured that out himself, but neither did he have any intention of confessing that he’d been prowling for her. “Where did you get this damned mule?” he asked instead.

She stiffened. “Old Joe is a gift from a dear friend. The Academy took him in to save him from the slaughterhouse—and he’s been a valuable asset.”

Grey grunted as he pulled the last fastening free. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”

“
I’ve
never had any difficulty with him.”

“Of course not. The two of you have the same temperament.” Before she could respond to that, he grabbed Old Joe’s halter in one hand and her elbow in the other, and hauled both of them up the bank to dry land.

“Please do not drag me about. I am not a…a horse.”

Wycliffe only grunted, but Emma thought she had made her point. As soon as she got her feet under her, she pulled free of his grip, and without so much as an “I beg your pardon for being so rude and strong,” he let her go.

The sight of her girls thrashing about in the deep water had terrified her to her bones. Knowing now that they were safe filled her with a kind of giddy relief, even though she wanted to be furious at Wycliffe.

“Ladies,” she said, gathering the shivering girls around her again, “why don’t we put our hats and shawls in the phaeton? If Lord Dare doesn’t mind transporting them back to the Academy, that is.”

Lord Dare, the only dry person among them, stood glaring at Wycliffe. “Of course I don’t mind. I feel shabby, though, driving off alone.”

Miss Perchase coughed. “If I might, my lord, this has been quite enough excitement for me.”

“Splendid.” Grey walked over, handed the instructor up into the seat, and then tethered the cart horse to the back of the phaeton. “There. Miss Perchase and Old Joe can keep you company.”

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” the viscount muttered, so quietly that Emma barely made out the words. With a glance in her direction he
climbed back up into the high seat. “We’ll alert everyone about the emergency.”

The look the two men exchanged as the phaeton rolled down the road made Emma blush. They couldn’t be fighting over…her, of all people. True, Wycliffe had kissed her once, but he had done that just to distract her from the wager.

“Shall we?” Wycliffe asked, looking elegant despite his dripping tawny hair, soggy cravat, muddy boots, and missing coat. Emma blinked. His damp lawn shirt clung to the muscles of his strong arms and chest, revealing them in clear detail. She doubted there was a spare ounce of fat on his tall frame.

As she lifted her face, he was looking straight at her. Her blush deepened, and he raised an eyebrow. “Is something wrong, Miss Emma?”

“No. Of course not. No thanks to you, though. Come along, ladies.” She looked over her shoulder at him, clenching her jaw against the lure of his raw masculine beauty. “I’m sure you’ll wish to return to Haverly at once and change out of those wet clothes.”

He fell into step beside her as she started up the road. “Not at all. I left my horse at the Academy, anyway.”

“Oh.”

With their bonnets and shawls missing, and in the company of a hatless and coatless man, the lot of them looked like gypsies. Yes, Wycliffe had acted in a heroic manner, and yes, he had in all likelihood saved Lizzy from grave injury or worse, but this was certainly not what she had bargained for when she had agreed to the wager.

“I think we need to revisit the rules of this contest,” she said, in her calmest and most reasonable tone.

“Don’t be a coward.”

“I am
not
a coward! These girls are my responsibility, Your Grace, whoever is instructing them. Aside from that, your—”

“Call me Wycliffe,” he interrupted, tucking her hand around the damp arm of his shirt.

“I don’t want to call you Wycliffe. And please do not interrupt me.”

“Uh, oh,” Henrietta said from behind them. “The last time Miss Emma told me that, I had to write a five-hundred-word grammatically correct essay on the virtues of not interrupting people.”

Wycliffe lifted an eyebrow. “Is that to be my punishment, Emma?”

His amused expression made it seem an improper question. Everything he said to her, though, seemed to have some underlying scandalous meaning. “You aren’t one of my students. If you were, you would be in danger of failing out of the Academy.”

The girls giggled. The duke only tugged her a little closer.

“So you teach impertinence toward one’s social superiors?” he asked mildly.

Emma clenched her jaw. “I teach that there are moments when a woman must stand up for herself—particularly when there is no one else to do it for her.”

Wycliffe looked away, apparently engrossed by the flock of crows settling into a nearby birch tree. “Which rules do you wish to alter, Emma?”

She didn’t know when he’d given himself per
mission to use her first name, but she liked the way he said it, and the drawl in his deep, cultured voice. Drawing a breath, she increased the distance between them, though she didn’t remove her hand from his arm. That would have been rude.

“I worry that whatever wisdom you impart to these students,” she began, searching for the words that would convince him without leaving her open to a counterattack, “will be less significant than the fact that you, the Duke of Wycliffe, sat in a room with them for an extended period of time.”

He was silent for a moment. “We’re fully chaperoned. And I’m not about to damage my reputation
or
theirs.”

He was right—but she couldn’t tell him her real reason for objecting to his continued presence when she didn’t know it herself. “I don’t think having a chaperone present will matter, Your Grace,” she said doggedly.

“Ladies hire male dance masters, for God’s sake,” he retorted, scowling. “Men hire them for their daughters.”

“And we want to learn about London Society and ballroom decorum,” Julia put in.

Emma glanced over her shoulder at the five girls walking close—far too close—behind them. “Learning about Society won’t do you any good if you’re too ruined to join its ranks. His Grace is a…single gentleman.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I suggest that you do the honorable, gentlemanly thing and concede,” she said.

“No.”

She frowned at him. “That’s not very helpful.”

“I’m not here to be helpful—except to my students.”

“Considering your first outing with them ended with several near drownings, I have to express doubt about your helpfulness.”

“It was my fault, really,” Mary said in her quiet voice from behind them.

The duke turned, walking backward to face the girls. “Nonsense. That damned mule is entirely at fault.”

A wave of tittering giggles brought Emma to an abrupt halt. “You meant to say ‘that unfortunate horse,’ I’m certain,” she stated, glaring at him.

He looked straight back at her. “I believe I’m capable of expressing myself without your assistance.”

Elizabeth tugged his damp sleeve. “We don’t use profanity at the Academy,” she whispered.

His expression softened as he looked down at Lizzy, and Emma’s heart gave an odd flip-flop. The Duke of Wycliffe did possess compassion, even if he rarely chose to show it.

“Is ‘deuced’ acceptable, then?”

“I think that’s a vulgarism.”

“And common,” Emma added. “But better than profanity, I suppose, if you can’t do without one or the other.”

“Am I a student or an instructor, then? It’s deuced confusing.” As he turned to face forward again, she caught the wink he gave the girls.

“I don’t find it confusing in the least,” she retorted. “You are neither.”

“Then you concede?”

Emma wanted to growl at the impossible man. “All I concede is that the contest is untenable! Win or lose, I see no benefit for the Academy or its students!”

The duke was silent for a long moment. She had been insane to ever agree to such a wager. And now she couldn’t seem to rid herself of it, or him.

“All right,” he said finally.

She blinked. “I’m…glad you see it that way,” she said, trying to hide her surprising disappointment.

“You have no idea how I see anything,” he retorted. “And I’m not suggesting you’ve won anything, my dear headmistress.”

“No?”

“No. Since I am a…single gentleman, this,” and he gestured back at the girls, “shall remain
your
class.
I
, however, will be your guest lecturer. You can dawdle about Haverly counting sheep, and we shall be close beside you, conducting class.”

“How does that—”

“
Your
class, in the open, with witnesses. As far as anyone else is concerned, I will merely be escorting you on my uncle’s property. And
you
will be there to witness personally that nothing improper occurs.” He eyed her. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

She could think of myriad things wrong with that, including the obvious fact that he would likely attempt to disrupt her estate studies at every possible opportunity. On the other hand, she could just as easily do the same thing to him.
And all of the other participants—Lord Dare, Lord Haverly, and the girls—were
her
allies, really.

“I think that would be acceptable,” she said slowly.

The girls cheered. The Duke of Wycliffe had the poor manners to look smug, but Emma wasn’t so certain he hadn’t just lost himself the wager. She dearly hoped so, anyway.

T
he ladies abandoned Grey on the Academy’s front steps. He glared at the closed door, his stiffening cravat beginning to scratch him, and his fine Hessian boots squishing and caked with mud and algae.

“Rotten luck,” Tristan said from behind him.

He’d forgotten the viscount was in the vicinity. “How so?” he asked.

His damp coat smacked him in the chest as he turned around, and he caught it reflexively. Dare, dry and comfortable and not footsore from having trudged a mile and a half in wet boots, sat on the phaeton’s high seat.

“Well, you know what they say about first impressions,” the viscount drawled. “Starting with a swim in the duck pond and nearly killing the lot
of them wouldn’t be my preferred way of teaching young ladies their place in the world, but you’re the expert.”

Grey opened his mouth to reply, but with a flick of the ribbons Tristan sent the phaeton down the drive. Someone—the troll, probably—had left Cornwall tethered to the post at the foot of the steps. He leaned back against the animal’s warm flank. Obviously no one wanted him at Miss Grenville’s Academy. He didn’t particularly want to be there, himself. If not for his odd attraction to the headmistress, he would have been back at Haverly, interviewing potential estate managers, dodging Alice and Sylvia, and perhaps spending the afternoon fishing.

He shook out his coat. When little Elizabeth Newcombe had slipped beneath the pond’s surface, he had been terrified. It was something of a surprise, really. In that moment, Lizzy had ceased to be one of the enemy and had become a helpless, frightened little girl.

Grey pulled his pocket watch free and flipped it open. It had stopped, the hands stuck at half past eleven. By now it was well past noon, and he had accomplished nothing except to demonstrate his fallibility to both Emma and his students. She hadn’t even informed him where or when they would be conducting class tomorrow.

Hm. The troll was nowhere in sight. Grey draped his coat over Cornwall’s saddle and strolled up the front steps. He half expected armed guards to appear as he pushed open the door and entered the hallowed halls, but nothing so dramatic happened. In fact, if not for the faint sounds of female voices and footsteps on other
floors, he might have thought himself in an empty building.

Feeling more than a little like a burglar, he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Miss Emma’s office was on the near left side, the door slightly ajar. Taking a breath, he pushed open the door and leaned inside.

The small room was empty. Books, no doubt the ones borrowed from Sir John’s office, surrounded the desk. Open tomes cluttered the chairs, the desktop, and even a window sill. She’d begun her research, obviously. Closing the door quietly, he made his way to her desk.

Already, she’d made remarkable progress. Several pages of questions written in her neat hand occupied the middle of the desk. Queries about acreage, yield, irrigation, the current and future price of beef—she knew which damned questions to ask, even if she didn’t yet have the answers.

To his surprise, he found the profusion of notes and books…stimulating. He blew out his breath. This was positively insane. Women were nothing new, and he’d known many intimately. Emma Grenville was forthright and intelligent and independent, and quite unlike any other woman he’d ever met. And he found her damned arousing.

He heard a noise in the adjoining room. That door, like the one opening into the hallway had been, was slightly ajar. Glad he’d kept quiet to this point, Grey crept toward the opening.

Emma padded into sight and vanished again behind a wardrobe. Grey leaned against the door frame, watching, as she came into view again.
Her long hair hung in loose auburn waves down her back, and she wore only a shift, the damp material nearly transparent as she crossed in front of a window. He instantly went hard.

He should have realized that someone as dedicated to her work as Emma was would locate her sleeping quarters close to her office; the arrangement was practical and efficient. Placing his hand against the door, he slowly pushed it further open. The arrangement was also nicely convenient.

“Emma,” he murmured, from the doorway.

She jumped, whirling around to face him. “Your Grace!”

“I told you to call me Wycliffe.” He allowed his gaze to travel the length of her and back. “You look delicious.”

Belatedly she looked down at herself. With a deep blush she hugged her arms across her chest. “What are you doing here? Get out!”

“That wasn’t the response I was hoping for. I don’t bite, for God’s sake.”

She scampered to the small bed and grabbed for an old robe which lay across the coverlet. “Out!”

“What is that?” he asked, gesturing at the dowdy covering. “Cotton? Wool?”

“It’s wool,” she snapped. “What do you care?”

“You should have a silk robe,” he said softly, taking a step forward. “I could buy you a dozen.”

“Mine serves quite well, thank you very much. Now, stop right there!”

He stopped, surprised. Women never refused pretty gifts when he offered them. He’d try some
thing else, then. “It occurs to me that there might be another way you could win this wager.”

He deliberately looked her up and down again, to make his intent perfectly clear. With the blasted robe shielding her, the view wasn’t quite as enticing, and he was becoming mightily annoyed at himself for being so unable to help his heated reaction to her.

Emma lifted her chin. “I presume you are talking about matters of the flesh?” she asked, her voice not quite steady despite the defiant stance.

A slow smile curved his mouth. She was undeniably bright, but at the same time exceedingly naive. “‘Matters of the flesh?’” he repeated. “You sound like a schoolgirl, Emma. What I’m talking about is warm skin and hot caresses.”

“Fornication.”

Grey lifted an eyebrow, surprised again when she didn’t give way. “To quote Shakespeare, ‘making the two-backed beast.’”

She cleared her throat. “I am not interested.”

“Liar. You’re trembling for it.” He leaned back against her chest of drawers, folding his arms across his chest. She couldn’t be uninterested. As badly as he wanted her, she
had
to want him, even if she wasn’t yet ready to admit it. Luckily, he was fairly patient.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she continued. “I
am
, however, supposed to be setting an example for my students. I will not tolerate having a man in my private rooms.”

“Men abound outside these walls, Emma. If you don’t know how to deal with them, how can you expect to teach your students to do so? I would think that would be your utmost concern.”

“You would be wrong. And I do not have to fall from a cliff to know it would be bad for my health.” She stalked forward, planting her bare feet in front of him. “I pity you,” she said.

Suddenly this little encounter wasn’t so amusing. “And why is that?”

“Your self-delusions must constantly get you into embarrassing situations.”

Grey lowered his brows. “Explain.”

“You came to the Academy for the purpose of shutting it down, you nearly drown several of my charges, you insult women with your every breath, and yet you expect me to swoon into your arms simply because you say it must be so.”

No one in Grey’s long memory had ever spoken to him like that. Anger coursing through him, he gave a stiff nod. “I see. Thank you for clearing up my misconceptions. Good day.”

Before she could respond with an even more insulting comment, he strode out the door. At the stairs he barged past a handful of schoolgirls. Ignoring their polite greetings and giggles, he continued down to the first floor and out the front door.

“Damned blasted female,” he muttered, yanking his coat free from Cornwall’s cantle and swinging up into the saddle.

He didn’t need to moon after Emma Grenville. At Haverly he had two females practically panting to service him. One woman would suit as well another.

He kicked Cornwall in the ribs and set the bay off at a canter, barely slowing to let Tobias pull open the gate.

Damnation
. He couldn’t even believe his own
delusions any longer. One female was not the same as any other; he’d discovered one who intrigued and enticed him as no other female ever had. And she was the one, of course, who didn’t want anything to do with him.

He really couldn’t blame her; he
had
been rather hostile from the outset—which didn’t change the fact that he wanted to bury himself in a woman who obviously considered him contemptible.
Pitiable
, she’d said. Following her earlier contention that he was unimpressive, he didn’t sound very tempting.

“Your Grace?”

Grey pulled up sharply on the reins, narrowly avoiding a collision with the fashionable young man who stood squarely in the middle of the road. “What in damnation do you think you’re doing?” he snapped.

Freddie Mayburne danced backward to avoid Cornwall’s sidestepping. “I was waiting for you. Your friend in the phaeton,” and he gestured over his shoulder toward Haverly, “said you’d be along shortly.”

“Why were you lying in wait for me?”

“You’re instructing Lady Jane Wydon, and I would be grateful if you would deliver a note to her. From me.” He dug into his coat pocket and produced a folded piece of paper.

Grey looked at him for a moment. “I am not a letter carrier,” he said stiffly. “Deliver it yourself.”

“No men are allowed on Academy grounds,” Mayburne said, grabbing Cornwall’s bridle.

Grey was beginning to wish he wasn’t an exception to that particular rule. “Then send it by post.”

The lad gave a slight smile. “But Your Grace, then everyone will know about it. Surely you understand that my interest in Jane is a private matter.”

“Unless it’s to your advantage to impress her with your adoration in public.”

“Of course.”

For a moment, Grey felt as if he was talking to a younger version of himself. “If your interest is sincere, why not speak with her father about it?”

“I’m not trying to win Lord Greaves’s approval. Not yet, anyway. First I have to convince Jane.”

Greydon looked at him cynically. “And Jane’s money.”

The smile deepened. “You do understand.”

With a deep breath, Grey swung out of the saddle. He knew the Marquis of Greaves, and Freddie didn’t look like his idea of a son-in-law. “You do understand that Lady Jane is seventeen, and still in the schoolroom.”

“And next year, everyone in London will be after her. She’s lovely as an angel, and rich as Croesus.”

Greedy as he seemed to be, at least Freddie wasn’t after Emma. “What was your conversation with the headmistress about?”

“The iron maiden? She won’t let me anywhere near Jane; she even burned one of my letters right in front of me last month. That’s why I thought to take up my quest with you, Your Grace. In London, all the ladies seemed to delight in talking about you. Your advice would seem to be sound.”

Wonderful
. “Yes, I am frequently the subject of
gossip. Drop your trousers in public, and you could achieve the same.”

Freddie chuckled. “Actually, they talked endlessly about how they felt ready to swoon when you entered a room. And—”

“Women discussed this in front of you?”

For a moment Frederick’s smile became sheepish, the expression making his features look momentarily younger and more innocent. “I have five aunts.”

“I see.”

“And so, I humbly request your assistance in winning Lady Jane Wydon’s heart.”

At least he hadn’t made a secret of being equally interested in Jane’s—or rather, her father’s—purse. It was a bit mercenary even for Grey, and Emma certainly wouldn’t like it. On the other hand, Freddie’s success would undoubtedly cause further trouble for Miss Grenville’s Academy, and would give him another card in his deck against Emma. “Why don’t you join me for luncheon at Haverly?” he asked.

The lad gave a self-assured grin. “Splendid, Wycliffe. You won’t regret this.”

No, but Emma Grenville probably would.

For the first time in recent memory, Emma Grenville was late coming downstairs to breakfast. It wasn’t that she anticipated the meals too much to be tardy for them; rather, she was her students’ primary role model in politeness and propriety. If she were late, they would place less importance on being on time.

Isabelle Santerre looked up, surprise on her oval face, as Emma skidded into the dining hall
just as the most junior students rose to clear the tables. She stifled a grimace as she hurried to the front of the room.

“My apologies, ladies,” she said, trying to regain her breath. “As you know, our instruction routine has been upended over the past few days. I would like to assure you that this will not continue much longer, and that the end result should be more money for the Academy and its programs.”

Applause rippled through the hall, though she wasn’t certain whether it was in response to her speech, or in approval of the continuing presence of the Duke of Wycliffe. And the dratted thing was, she wasn’t certain which pleased
her
more, either.

“So, please proceed to your classes. My social graces students, Miss Perchase, if you will assemble on the front steps?”

Isabelle intercepted her at the door. “You are going to continue with this, even after yesterday?”

Emma took the French instructor’s arm as they made their way down the hallway. “I considered the dilemma all night, Isabelle,” she said in a low voice. She’d also spent a large share of time last evening contemplating silk dressing gowns and large, virile dukes. “The benefits of winning the wager are too great to pass by, whatever the inconveniences.”

“The inconveniences? You all nearly drowned, and then he practically assaulted you in your own bed chamber!”

“Hush. It was nothing near an assault.”

“What would you call it, then?”

“An argument. Unpleasant, to be sure, but nonthreatening.”

It hadn’t even been unpleasant, really. Of course, all Wycliffe wanted was to satisfy his base carnal desires, but she had never been the subject of any man’s base anything, before. It was…titillating, in a way, to be desired by such a fine-looking specimen—even if he was arrogant and condescending and patronizing.