Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) (13 page)

"You need not fear," Stephen continued. "I want to understand."

It was impossible to resist such gentleness, and so she nodded and spoke in a near whisper, choosing to confess what she could and hide what she could not. "All my life I have dreamed about this, about dancing and attending balls. But now..." Her voice trailed away, but Stephen would not let her stop.

"But now...?" he prompted.

"Now I find myself completely bored," she finally admitted. "I have no time to read or simply be by myself. I am to practice silly conversations about empty topics. I cannot play cards except for a few paltry pennies. Even the dances are dull."

Behind her she heard the countess sniff in shocked disdain, but Stephen silenced his mother with a pointed look before turning back to Gillian. "The dances are merely opportunities for eligible ladies and gentlemen to converse."

"Converse? How can one converse sensibly while being constantly interrupted to walk in a circle or curtsy? If we are to dance, then let us dance. If we are to talk, then we should talk."

"You see!" exclaimed the countess horn her position on the couch. "You see what ridiculousness I am forced to deal with?"

"On the contrary, Mother, I find Amanda's ideas eminently reasonable. Perhaps the problem is the choice of dance." Taking Gillian's hand, he guided her to the center of their makeshift floor. "Mr. Flauterre, a waltz, if you please."

"A waltz!" exclaimed his mother. "But Stephen—"

"Three steps, Amanda," he said, effectively silencing her. "Like this." Then he pulled her into his arms, and the music began.

It started awkwardly as she tried to adjust to the strange rhythms of the dance, to their constantly shifting direction, and to the overwhelming sensation of being in Stephen's arms. But then he leaned closer, whispering into her ear.

"Do you trust me?"

She was so startled by his odd question that, for a moment, she forgot everything but the gleaming light in his eyes, dating her to refuse.

"You think I cannot do it," she challenged.

If anything, his eyes turned even bluer as they sparkled with mirth. "You are doing it. The question is whether you trust me enough to truly relax and enjoy yourself."

"I..." But she had no opportunity to answer as he spun her into a dizzying turn. It was so fast she clutched on to him to keep from falling. Then it was as if she really had fallen, for suddenly she felt herself spinning along with him. She felt the strength of his thighs, which propelled them around and around the floor, the heat of Stephen's arm as he pulled her ever closer, and the mesmerizing beauty of his blue eyes as they focused wholly on her.

She smiled up at him, and he returned the gesture, his face softening into almost boyish lines. Then they spun again, and for the first time in her life Gillian completely relaxed, trusting Stephen to keep her from falling flat on her face. She gave herself totally to the music and completely to him.

They spun and whirled in glorious abandon, and she laughed from the sheer pleasure of it all. She never felt so free, yet she was totally dependent on Stephen. His arms tightened around her until the two of them seemed to be one person, one body, one glorious expression of joy.

Until the music ended.

He guided her to a stop, gently slowing their bodies until they stood, still touching, their gazes locked together. His eyes seemed impossibly blue, incredibly intense. She was breathless and her pulse pounded through her body, but her heart still soared with his, and she could do nothing but stand and stare at his chiseled features and his dark, masculine lips.

"Well, I certainly think we have had enough dancing for one day." The countess's clipped tones felt like a bucket of chill water in their faces, and Gillian felt Stephen start in surprise. He abruptly dropped his hands from her sides, and Gillian stumbled slightly as she suddenly supported her own weight.

"Thank you, Mr. Flauterre," continued the countess. "I shall contact you when we next require your tutoring."

"Of course, madame," agreed the thin dancing master. Then he and his assistant quickly bowed their way out.

"As for you, my girl—" The countess rounded on her, but could not continue as Stephen interrupted.

"I believe Amanda is entitled to a rest, Mother. And as I have promised her a trip to the crypts, now is a perfect opportunity."

"But—"

"I shall call around to the mews for Tom. Amanda, can you be ready in—"

"Five minutes," Gillian said with a gasp. "Just five minutes to get my wrap." Then she dashed up the stairs, still breathless, her head spinning with a kind of mindless joy. The waltz was the most fabulous dance ever invented! And now she would go to the crypts!

What a wonderful day this was!

Oh, she knew it was dangerous to spend more time with Stephen, especially after that incredible, heart-stoppingly scandalous dance. But how could she regret anything so wonderful? And how could she resist spending time with the one person who made her feel so free?

* * *

"Stephen, have you taken leave of your senses?"

"I beg your pardon, Mother?"

"We have only a week left before the Season begins. Surely you cannot mean to take her on such an expedition now."

Stephen brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from his coat sleeve while covertly studying his agitated parent. Her hands clutched her glass of sherry, and her eyes narrowed, seeming almost frightened.

"Mother, I do believe you are distraught about something."

"Do not be ridiculous, Stephen. I am merely concerned about how it might seem."

"A guardian taking his ward on an outing? Whatever is wrong with that? We will bring along her maid and everything shall be fine."

"Do not be obtuse, you stubborn boy. I am concerned about Amanda. You must see how she looks at you."

"Me?"

"Gracious, Stephen. Use your head. She has spent her entire life in the country. Likely the only men she has known are farmers and vicars. You overwhelm her."

"Really," he drawled. "I rather thought she was too willful by half. A stubborn chit who has not the intelligence to pretend otherwise. That is what you said last evening, was it not?"

"Do not throw my own words back at me!"

She stood and grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her while she drove her point home. "The girl is falling in love with you, and if you cannot see that then you are more daft than the thieving boy you are so fond of."

"I have found Tom quite intelligent."

"You will find your ward turning down every eligible offer this Season because she has convinced herself she is in love with you."

"Surely you exaggerate," he drawled, but he could not deny the icy chill gripping his spine at her words.

The countess narrowed her eyes. "Do I? Or perhaps I underestimate your feelings for her."

"Me!" he exclaimed, plainly shocked. "She is my ward, for God's sake, and a childish scapegrace to boot. How could I fall in love with her?"

His mother nodded, satisfaction relaxing her grip on his arm. "Good. I rather had a better bride in mind for you. Lady Sophia Rathburn, last year's incomparable. She is elegant, sophisticated, and everything a countess should be."

"I hardly expect to be setting up my nursery this Season, Mother." He kept his voice firm, hoping his tone would have some effect on his mother.

He was singularly ineffective.

"Piffle," she said with a dismissive wave. "Just make sure you recall your obligations to your title and do your best not to encourage your countrified burden."

Stephen sighed. "You can count on me to do what is proper by my name," he said stiffly.

Then he looked up as Amanda stepped into the room. Her face was unnaturally pale, and suddenly he had a panicked thought. Could she have heard their conversation?

"Are you ready?" he asked too brightly.

She smiled back, her features shifting into a demure, if somewhat lifeless smile. "Yes. Thank you for waiting, my lord."

She had heard. Stephen nearly groaned out loud. Deliberately forgetting to summon a maid, he counted the seconds until he could speak with her alone. He needed to explain his mother's words, perhaps—

He cut off his thoughts with a sigh. What would he say? If she were indeed falling in love with him, then his mother was correct. It would be best to dash her hopes now. And if she had not set her cap for him, she would find any explanation extremely embarrassing.
He
certainly would.

No, he suddenly decided, he would not speak to her. Instead he made an effort to keep the conversation moving, albeit along safe, mundane lines. Amanda responded in kind, slipping easily into the polite chatter she had disdained only minutes before. And all the while, Stephen watched her face for betraying hints of distress.

There were none. And yet she seemed so flat and dull.

"Are you feeling quite the thing, Amanda? We could postpone this if you are tired."

"Oh, no, my lord. Unless, of course, you would prefer to do something else."

"Of course not. I suggested it in the first place."

"Yes."

"Good." Stephen regarded his ward. "You will tell me if you tire."

"Of course."

"Good."

And that was that. Clearly she could not have heard any of his mother's absurd comments; otherwise she would be prostrate with distress, he told himself. Except that Amanda was not a typical girl. In fact, he realized as he let his gaze linger on her tight bodice, Amanda was not a girl at all, but a woman who kept her thoughts hidden deeply within herself.

Which only served to tell him she might or might not have heard his comments, and she might or might not be dying of mortification inside.

Unless, of course, his mother was totally out and Amanda had no tendresse for him whatsoever. For some perverse reason, that thought disturbed him most of all.

* * *

Gillian stared unseeing out the carriage window. She had waited an eternity to escape into London, and now she passed buildings and monuments with barely a sidelong glance. Beside her, Tom chattered about everything he had learned and done in the mews, but all she could hear were the countess's scathing comments and Stephen's shocked disdain.

Countrified burden. Stubborn chit.

Obviously he knew nothing of how she had changed, of all the things she had learned.

Childish scapegrace.

That one hurt the most. She had been a fool to think he would ever notice her. He was to marry Sophia Rathburn, a woman born to elegance, no doubt as different from plain, illegitimate Gillian as silk from sackcloth.

Gillian sighed and let her forehead drop against the window. At least she had one reason to be grateful for that little scene. The countess was right: Gillian had begun to fancy herself half in love with her handsome guardian. More and more when she dreamed of her first balls, Stephen was the one leading her onto the dance floor, dropping at her feet in admiration, showering her with tokens of his affection.

She snorted in self-disgust. What a foolish child she was. But now the illusions were gone from her eyes. She saw that whatever kindness or generosity of spirit she thought he possessed was in reality a lie. Beneath the urbane exterior, below the expert tailoring and muscled form, underneath his sensuous words and deep voice, Stephen was simply another callous, cruel member of the aristocracy.

How could I fall in love with her?
She could still hear the shocked outrage in his voice. Thank God she knew the truth now before the Season began, or she might have thought the gentry almost human.

But no more.

She rededicated herself to her goal. She would find a wealthy husband. She would become legitimate, titled, and revered. If that required endless rounds of French verbs, empty prattle, and haughty disdain, then so be it.

Countrified burden.

She would show him and his Sophia Rathburn. Bastard or not, Gillian Ames would create a future brighter than anyone could ever imagine.

Having made her resolution, Gillian felt immeasurably better. She lifted her head off the window and took stock of her surroundings. Nothing had changed, except perhaps the view outside. Tom still chattered away beside her, but when she turned, she saw Stephen's troubled gaze on her.

Suddenly a picture flashed through her mind. She recalled the countess giving a cheeky footman a set-down with a single look. Striving for just that air of disgust, Gillian tilted her head and sent Stephen an arch look followed by a superior smile.

She nearly laughed when she saw the flushed expression of surprise color his cheeks.

Feeling better than she had in two weeks, Gillian settled back against the squabs and gave her attention to Tom. Then, five minutes later, the carriage slowed to a stop before St. Mary-le-Bow church.

"We are here," Stephen commented unnecessarily.

"Yes, we certainly are," she answered. Then, without waiting for his assistance, she swept out of the carriage onto the street—and stopped dead, the view surprising a gasp out of her.