My Unfair Lady (5 page)

   He sighed in frustration. "You're passable. Almost. Now, I want you to tell me what you said to Lady Windolm."

   Summer shook her brown curls, caught a glimpse of Chi-chi and India whipping past the open door, playing their usual game of tag. "First, you'll admit you're a liar. I could tell by your reaction that I knocked your spots off."

   "Spots? What kind of ridiculous American saying is that?" He raked his fingers through his golden hair, causing those constantly falling curls to tumble over his ears. It was most annoying to Summer, who seemed to notice those curls all the time, making her fingers twitch to smooth them back into place.

   She balled her hand into a fist. "Spots, you know, from a playing card. Diamonds, hearts… you shoot them off a card nailed to a tree. It means—"

   "I get the drift of its meaning. I'll have to excise those ridiculous American sayings from your vocabu lary, especially 'tarnation.'" Byron's hand slashed through the air like a knife. "What exactly does that mean anyway? No, wait, don't answer. You will not distract me from my query, madam. I want to know exactly what you said to Lady Windolm."

   Summer blinked her large amber eyes at him. "Why, nothing important. You can't possibly think that I had anything to do with your, er, breakup."

   "That's exactly what I think…" His voice faltered as India, having finally quit his chase of Chi-chi and hearing his savior's voice, came skipping into the room and launched himself onto Byron's shoulder. He couldn't ignore the loving greeting the monkey gave him, his furry cheek rubbing against his own. So he awkwardly patted the animal, and Summer could see that his anger had diminished since he'd stormed into the room. She released a sigh of relief.

   "Lady Windolm said," he continued, narrowing his eyes at her as if she'd purposely set out to weaken his temper and he'd rather have held on to it, "that you and that black-haired vixen friend of yours made her reassess our relationship. Now what exactly does that mean?"

   
Uh-oh
, thought Summer. "We did ask her… that is to say… we just mentioned that she might be, er, afraid of you."

   The duke scowled. "Regardless of the provocation, I've never hit a woman in my life."

   Summer shook her head, wisps of golden brown curls tickling her cheeks. "No, no. Not afraid of you physically, rather, fearful of your tongue and what might be said if she didn't… give in to your demands."

   "My demands?" His face flushed a flattering shade of pink. "You… you… American! It is quite unneces sary for me to make demands, I assure you. I generally find most women quite willing to…"

   Summer leaned forward, eager to hear what most women were willing to do with him. She knew about the act of love herself, but only what she'd overheard and seen from the "light skirts" in Tombstone. Surely there had to be more to it than that! And wouldn't she be able to captivate Monte if she just knew how?

   But the duke must've seen the interest in her eyes, for he quirked his lips at her and drawled: "I'm supposed to be teaching you how to be a lady, aren't I?"

   
He's so frustrating
, thought Summer. Always trying to shock her sensibilities with his nasty comments, and when he finally says something interesting, he clams up. She sank back into the velvet cushions and crossed her arms over her bodice. "Yes, you are." If he wanted to be persnickety, so could she. "And I just can't imagine a
lady's
feelings being changed by my harmless remark unless Lady Windolm had them to begin with, can you?"

   He froze, staring at her as if reassessing her char acter. He slowly removed India from his shoulder, and the monkey obligingly scampered from the room. With the air of a man hunting a tigress, he lowered himself onto the divan next to her, a bit too close for Summer's comfort, his thigh pushed so tightly against her skirts that she could feel the heat of his body. He draped his arm across the back of the curved cushions and leaned around to face her, their noses barely inches apart, his mouth a slight movement away from her own. Those blue eyes narrowed, and she could see them harden with a dangerous promise that spoke of a strength of character that Summer could only admire.

   "Don't pretend you're not frightened of me."

   "Oh but I'm not. I just noticed that your mistress might be."

   "You are the most frustrating…" His eyes strayed to her lips, and then quickly back up to her golden brown eyes. The depths of feeling this woman aroused in him… yet he still thought it better than being bored. Of which he was with Elisabeth, anyway. Still, the little American chit had no right to alter his life in any way. "Never interfere in my personal life again, do you understand? I am your sponsor, nothing more, and our relationship has no room for anything beyond our arrangement."

   Summer was wise enough not to tell him how conceited he sounded. She wasn't exactly frightened of him, but he did make her shiver with something, an excitement that she'd never felt before, and she still wasn't exactly sure if she liked the feeling. It'd be better all around not to annoy him too much.

   She shrugged, careful not to allow the gesture to move her body any closer to his. "I told you, I'm already in love with another man. Why would I have any interest in you whatsoever? I just made an observation to your mistress, that's all."

   "Do you call that an apology?"

   "No, Byron, I call it an explanation."

   Then he smiled, that rare curving of the lips that made the world light up and, for some reason, prodded Summer's heart to beat a bit faster. Elisabeth had been right; he was an extremely handsome man, and she guessed he had good reason to think any woman within ten feet of him would be attracted to him. He got up and moved to the chair facing her, the absence of his body heat making her sigh with relief, evoking a realization that her corset was laced too tight. Surely, that was why his nearness had made it difficult to breathe.

   "I accept your explanation." The duke adjusted his cravat and the sleeves of his black coat. "As long as it never happens again. Now, I still have a job to do, and we have little time left to do it in."

   Summer frowned. "What do you mean?"

   "I managed to procure you an invitation to my stepmother's annual ball. She rather launches the season, and first impressions are the most important, so we cannot afford any mistakes. When will your Worth gowns arrive?"

   "I was told within the week." Summer avoided his gaze, not wanting him to see the naked terror in her eyes, for the humiliating memory of the only ball she'd ever attended had been burned into her mind. She remembered the way Mrs. Astor had shunned her, how she'd made Monte ashamed of being with her because of the way she talked and dressed. The cream of New York society had whispered insults at her, saying that she was one of the nouveaux riches, a "climber," and had no breeding. At a nod from Mrs. Astor, she'd been suddenly cut off from Monte by a phalanx of giggling women, and she could think of nothing else to do but slink out the door, like some low-down coyote.

   Then Maria had come up with her plan. Summer sighed. No matter how much the duke prepared her, she didn't think she had the confidence to pull it off.

   "Excellent," said the duke, oblivious to her inner turmoil. "We'll have to study hard in the next two weeks in order to get that painful twang out of your voice. And I will provide you with more books"—and he nodded his head at the stack Elisabeth had already given her—"about how to address your betters. For example, no one calls me by my first name. Close acquaintances may call me 'Monchester.' But only those I'm on intimate terms with, and have given my leave to, may call me 'Byron.' Social equals I am not close to may call me 'the Duke,' but inferiors, such as yourself, refer to me as 'Your Grace.'"

   Summer squirmed with embarrassment. Had she addressed him by his first name? She'd tried not to think of him as Byron, but Maria, after being told not to call him "our Duke," had started calling him Byron herself, causing Summer to use it as well.

   "In America, it's customary to call someone by their first name. We don't put such importance on titles."

   "Well, in England, it's not. I can just imagine you being presented to the Queen and calling her Vickie!" His eyes widened in mock horror.

   Summer giggled. "I wouldn't—honestly. I'd prob ably call her Your Gracious Majesty of the English Throne, or some such nonsense. Whatever came into my head at the moment."

   He threw back his head and laughed aloud, catching himself in midguffaw and staring at her in shock, as if he rarely laughed and it had astonished him to hear it.

   Summer wondered about his mercurial moods. What had created such an armor-clad man? And why did she seem to have a rare ability to pierce that armor? Or did Elisabeth also make him smile, and that's why he was so angry at her comments to the lady? She felt rather badly now, that she'd caused him to lose someone who made him happy.

   She rose with her usual unthinking grace and melted to her knees in front of his chair, like she did with Pa when they needed to talk of something important. She did owe him an apology, as sincere a one as she could give. She took his hand, just like she'd take Pa's, feeling it was the most natural thing in the world to do. "I am very sorry," she whispered, eyes glowing with golden light, "that I caused your breakup with Lady Windolm."

   Byron stared at her small hand in his, then into her face. He leaned forward, as if he was drawn to kiss her, and Summer felt it, so startled that she jumped to her feet, the top of her head smacking his chin as the poor man gave a painful grunt. She hadn't meant to give him the wrong impression, just show him the sincerity of her apology. After all that talk of his about nothing personal between them, she thought she could at least treat him as she would a dearest friend.

   And she'd gone about it all wrong, just like usual.

   He hadn't raised his head, and she wondered if he'd bitten his tongue or something.

   "You can't," he gasped, "look at a man like that, nor touch him that way. Do you understand? Especially a man you barely know. He'd have you on your backside in less than…"

   Summer backed up, and Byron stood. "You don't know the least little thing about how to deal with people, do you? Were you raised by wolves or something?"

   She shook her head and tried not to giggle. Tarnation, he looked like he'd been smacked upside the head by a gun butt. He was awfully appealing when he looked like that. "Of course not. Mostly by an Apache injun and coatimundis."

   "What's a coat… Never mind. I don't want to know. Anything about you. We do not have that type of intimacy, and you need to keep your distance from people you don't know. This will be rule number one you must learn. Don't ever touch anyone."

   Summer looked at him incredulously. "Ever?"

   "You may give a gentleman your hand, when it's properly gloved, only to escort you to the dance floor, and you may touch him only as much as necessary while you're dancing. But that's all."

   "No wonder English women are so sad-looking," she blurted. "Touching should be as natural as breathing."

   "Not for a lady." The duke sighed and shook his head. "We have a great deal more work to do than I had thought."

SUMMER STOOD AT THE TOP OF THE LANDING WEARING a Worth gown that cost a small fortune, but one that brought out the golden highlights in her hair and eyes, emphasized her tiny waist, and made her bosom look two sizes larger. Gauzy white fabric draped her shoulders and cascaded down her arms, softening the planes of her face and the muscles in her arms. Ringlet curls framed her cheeks and lay down the sides of her topknot. She looked ready; she knew she did. Why then couldn't she take that first step down the stairs?

   Maria gave her a swat on the back of her enormous bustle. "Go on," she urged. "I can't wait to see Byron's face when he sees ya'."

   "His Grace," snapped Summer with enough irrita tion that she forgot how nervous she felt. "Would you stop calling him by his first name?"

   "Soon as ya' do, so will I."

   "Tarnation!"

   "You might as well come down now," commanded that deep male voice from the bottom of the landing. "I heard you, and I know you're up there."

   "See what you did," whispered Summer as she started down the stairs.

   "Well, ya'd have to go down sometime," answered Maria as she absentmindedly patted India's little head from where he perched on her shoulder.

   Summer had reached the third-to-last stair. "But only when I felt good and ready."

   And then she saw him, and he her, and time froze. He looked stunning, thought Summer, in his black coat and tails, with his snowy white linen ruffled shirt and matching cravat. A huge blue pin anchored his neck cloth, the hue of the stone exactly matching the color of his eyes. A black top hat held his blond hair back from his face, outlining the hard ridges of his jaw and the highness of his cheekbones. She shivered in her new gown.