The Earl's Wager (4 page)

“No,” he said, “absolutely not. You need to keep your proper distance.” He couldn’t believe they were having this conversation—they’d met only a few hours prior. He needed more time to prepare his lessons and made a mental note to discuss the appropriate distance when sitting and standing. “Suitability is beside the point at the moment. Right now, we are discussing the basics of what your lessons should entail. Who you select as a possible match will come later on. But who is the gentleman you are interested in? I should know who he is. Tell me his name.”

“His name is Sir Richard Hamilton.”

Will bolted to his feet in indignation. “Sir Richard Hamilton has a son older than me. He’s old!”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I guessed as much.”

How was she so calm? What was her game? “He’s likely twice your age, maybe even thrice.” He strode to the books lining one wall and placed a hand on the edge of a shelf to steady himself. “You can’t possibly be interested in him. What of children? Surely you want children.”

Shrugging, she said, “I don’t require children, my lord. Unlike yourself, I don’t need an heir to carry on with my title and the property it entails.”

“What are you about, Miss Duvall? None of this makes sense. Unless a woman is destitute, or craving a title, why would she willingly marry a man old enough to be her grandfather?” Truly, he was perplexed. With a sister as clever as Arabella, he’d thought he’d seen all there was to see when it came to women and mischief.

She stood, tipped up her chin, and glided across the room like she was skating across an ice-covered lake. Again, she put herself in his personal sphere, when there should’ve been a greater distance between them. “I don’t require an heir. I don’t have to marry a man who requires a child. It’s very simple.”

“It’s not simple at all.” He crossed his arms. “A woman should want children.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want children. There are just other things I want more.”

“Such as?”

“My lord, we seem to be getting off track. You are supposed to be tutoring me in whatever you feel is going to make me more marriageworthy or attract the right kind of suitor.” She flipped her hand in the air. “My personal wishes or interests concerning children have nothing to do with you and me.”

Although she was right, he found it peculiar. He did recall a similar discussion with his sister, and her ambivalence toward being what she deemed “becoming a brood mare.”

“Perhaps this is a discussion for another time,” he said, “but I assure you Sir Richard Hamilton is not the right choice for you.”

“Excuse me, my lord, but you barely know me. We’ve only met today, so how can you have any inkling as to who is the right choice for me?”

“He’s near doddering,” Will stated emphatically.

“Many women marry someone well beyond their years.”

His ire was building, but he suppressed the urge to tell her the way it was going to be. Yes, she was correct that many women did marry much older men, and it wasn’t as if society frowned upon it—
he
just frowned upon it. “All right. I am here to help you in your debut, not debate the merits of marriage to Sir Richard Hamilton.”

“Yes, and I’m here to tell you that there’s really no need to tutor me because I’ve already found the man I want to marry.”

“Regardless, I’ve agreed to do this for Marsdale. He feels you need to have some basic lessons. And I’m here to provide them.” He strode to the writing table and retrieved the parchment, as though showing it to her made their agreement more official. “I’ve started a list. The first thing we should consider is your clothes. I know a modiste in London who’s quite good and very sought-after.”

She sighed as though she might finally be resigned to her fate. “Fine. Whatever you want. If clothes made by your modiste will help me get what I want, then so be it.”

“I’m glad we’re finally in agreement, Miss Duvall.”

“What else do you have on that list?” she asked.

“Dancing, the use of proper utensils, proper dinner conversation.” He looked up from reading. “Or, in your case, proper conversation in any circumstance.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s inappropriate to speak of someone’s pregnancy.”

“How else are you supposed to say it?”

“You can say she’s increasing or expecting a child,” he replied.

“Fine. What else is on that list?”

“If time will allow, we should consider a voice coach to help you with your accent.”

She gaped. “My accent? As far as I’m concerned,
you’re
the one with the accent.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “This is where I draw the line. I am not seeing a voice coach.”

All right. Maybe for their first day he’d pushed a little too hard. “Fine. I’ll take voice coach off the list. I was thinking maybe we’d go to the theatre, if you’d like. I’m not sure if it might be different here than in America. Is that acceptable to you?”

“I suppose that would be all right. I might like the theatre.” She pressed her lips together in a hard line before gazing up at him. “But I’d still like to know a little bit about flirting.”

His stomach churned, and he questioned whether he might be hungry. Growing up with Arabella should have prepared him for the likes of Georgia Duvall and her impertinent line of questioning. “When Oliver asked for my assistance in teaching you our customs, I don’t believe flirting was one of his objectives.”

At least she had the decency to blush, although she didn’t look away. “No. I suppose not.”

Miss Duvall was well past Arabella’s level of precociousness. And considering the first time he laid eyes on her she was wearing a jockey uniform, he didn’t know why she kept surprising him. “The first item on our list to accomplish is to learn what are, and are not, appropriate things to discuss with a man, and talking about flirting isn’t one of them.”

“That makes absolutely no sense at all. How else am I to attract Sir Richard’s attention?”

“No.” He distinctly smelled the scent of lilacs. He backed up. Whatever perfume Miss Duvall wore certainly didn’t matter. This conversation was too much. She had latched on to wanting knowledge about flirting like a hound with his favorite bone, and Will could see he’d have a hard time releasing the bone in question from her grasp. “I am not the right person to be having this conversation with. Discuss it with Arabella if you like. I’ll come by tomorrow morning, and I’ll have another list with me. A list of appropriate topics to discuss with a man, and it most certainly won’t include flirting.”

“All right. We’ll discuss it later then. But I don’t understand. I can’t talk about pregnancy or flirting, but hounds are all right?”

“Yes. I think that’s quite enough for the day. I must say hello to my sister, then I need to return to my estate.”

“And what did I learn today, exactly?” she queried. “That I’m supposed to ask Sir Richard if he has hounds?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” It was an imbecilic answer to her question, but he didn’t have time to reassess his project. “Tomorrow we’ll discuss dining and the proper use of utensils. I will arrive in time for luncheon. Later in the week, we’ll go to London to see the modiste.”

“Arabella has spoken of her childhood at Black Pine Hall, but I haven’t been there yet. It’s not far, is it?”

She asked entirely too many questions. Although he imagined Arabella would be no different, since he’d been gone for several months.

“It’s an hour’s carriage ride. I must leave now.” He should get Arabella’s take on the chit. Then again, maybe he didn’t want to know how much of a
project
he’d undertaken.

“Good day, my lord, until tomorrow then.”

He’d taken on much more than he’d comprehended when he agreed to tutor the American, Miss Georgia Duvall. But he’d made a wager, he’d given his word, and he wasn’t backing down.

Chapter Four

Georgia spent the next morning with Harland and the horses like she usually did, but she couldn’t linger at the stable because she had to prepare to meet with Grandleigh for luncheon. From her room, she’d seen his carriage pull round to the front of the house.

She’d hoped her questions about flirting would have scared him off, but unfortunately her brazenness hadn’t appeared to work. Of course, she knew she didn’t need to flirt with someone to get them to notice her, but she’d hoped to shock him into rethinking his tutoring plan and resigning from his position before it began.

If she had anything to do with it, she’d have Lord Grandleigh so frustrated with her that he’d quit his matchmaking position by the end of the day. Better yet, in less than an hour.

She’d instructed Eloise to fetch her rose-colored day dress. The dress was old and too small. She didn’t even know why she’d packed it all the way to England, except a part of her loved the feeling of the worn cotton fabric against her skin, and perhaps a reminder of home would give her the confidence to thwart the earl and his tutoring agenda.

Eloise secured the row of buttons in the back. “My lady, the dress appears to be awfully small.” It was obviously the maid’s proper way of telling her the dress showed too much cleavage, especially for a day frock, but it worked perfectly into Georgia’s plans. If he thought she needed instruction in eating and the proper use of utensils, then by God, she’d give him that, and a lot more.

Once downstairs, she found the earl in the dining room speaking with the butler. When she approached, he immediately turned his attention to her. If she hadn’t been watching for it, she would have missed his quick glance at her cleavage before he snapped his gaze to her face. In a completely composed voice, he said, “Ah, there you are. I trust you’ve had a good morning with the horses, Miss Duvall?”

She didn’t think for an instant that the earl cared one way or the other about her morning in the stables. Still, she couldn’t resist adding cheekily, “It went fine. Thank you for asking. How was your morning?”

“It went well. I spent more time considering our lessons, and, well, I don’t want to overwhelm you on the first day, so I’ve instructed the kitchen staff to keep the meal simple. No courses.” Georgia noticed how his gaze moved from her face to the front of her dress, or lack thereof, but to his credit, he kept to the conversation at hand. “S-soup and biscuits. Will that be acceptable?”

“Perfectly acceptable.” She enjoyed a private chuckle at his slight stutter and guessed it was because of her dress. “Will Oliver and Arabella be joining us?”

“No, they’re eating at the inn in the village today.” He strode purposefully to the opposite side of the dining table. “Do you need instruction in regards to where everyone usually sits at the table, according to rank and whose household you belong to, or do you have a clear understanding of these English standards?”

“My lord, need I remind you my mother was an Englishwoman?” She bit down on her lip, resisting the urge to smirk.

“No, but from what Marsdale said, she died when you were quite young.”

“I was twelve, so not quite that young.” The death of her mother, even twelve years later, still stung.

“I was seven,” the earl said quietly.

“I beg your pardon?” Georgia asked. “You were seven for what?”

“When my mother passed,” he said simply.

Georgia never expected him to speak of something so personal. English lords weren’t supposed to be so forthcoming and vulnerable. His tone and the sadness therein caused her to question her original goal of taunting him mercilessly. “I see.”

She still wanted the man to quit this ridiculous matchmaking notion and leave her alone, but because he’d shared a small part of his past, she surprised herself by backing down a tiny bit. “Arabella may have mentioned this to me as well. You were both too young to lose your mother.”

“As were you.” He gazed at her so intensely she noticed the deeper gold flecks in his green eyes.

A twinge of something pulled at her conscience. It was bad enough losing her mother at age twelve; she couldn’t begin to imagine what having her for five fewer years would have been like.

She didn’t want to like Will Sutton or feel any level of sympathy for him and tore her gaze away, reminding herself she was here to make his job difficult. Surely he’d quit if he determined she was a lost cause.

He gestured toward the table. “Shall we take our seats?”

“Of course.” As she glided past him, she caught him gazing at the neckline of her dress again. His jaw tensed, and there was a definite tightening of the skin round his eyes.

Immensely pleased, she hoped this meal would end quickly and she could move on. They sat across from each other, and the footman placed a bowl of soup in front of each of them.

“If we were at a formal dinner party, you’d make conversation with the gentleman seated beside you. But because these are merely lessons, I chose to sit across from you this time.”

“I’ll never understand why so much fuss goes into where everyone sits,” she commented.

“Not only where we sit. Don’t forget the order in which we enter the dining room. I’m speaking of dinner parties, of course.” He lifted his spoon, so Georgia did the same.

“Yes, I know the gentleman of the house selects the highest-ranked woman to lead in first.”

“Not always,” Grandleigh replied. “It can be the most respectable according to age, or in some cases a stranger to the party who needs a proper introduction.”

“Well, hallelujah, I have a chance of being the first person escorted into a dining room at a dinner party. I never thought to aspire to such grand accomplishment before.”

He rolled his eyes upward.

She twirled her spoon before submerging it in her soup and was thrilled to see her comment annoyed him. Although, she couldn’t help noticing the unique green of his eyes—not sea green, and not mossy green, but something in between. “I fear you’ve given me something to pine over and wish upon a star for.”

“Go ahead and make light of our customs, but tradition is everything and of the utmost importance in England.” He set his spoon down with a slight thud. “Instead of being difficult about it, I suggest you accept it and immerse yourself in all I’m trying to teach you.”

“How am I being difficult about it?” she quipped. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Perhaps, but your tone suggests you aren’t entirely happy about it. And sarcasm doesn’t help your cause.”

Ah, yes, the cause. The cause to get her married off. Why would she want to make it easy on him by being complacent? If she was going to have to participate in this tutoring arrangement, then she may as well make it fun.

She scooped the vegetable soup into her mouth and purposely left some broth on her bottom lip. After setting the spoon down beside her bowl, she fixed her stare on Grandleigh. Slowly, she stuck her tongue out to retrieve the spilled broth.

“You might want to be a little more careful.” He stared at her mouth.

She tipped her head to the side. “About what, my lord?”

“Leaving food on your face. Decrease the amount of soup in your spoon next time.”

She blinked several times. Then she ran her tongue across her upper lip as well, hoping the motion would bother him.

Absently, he moved his hand toward his mouth. “Use a napkin to wipe it off.”

She slipped her tongue back into her mouth. “My tongue works.”

As though he needed to sit up straighter, he adjusted himself in his chair. “Yes, I can see that it does.”

Georgia couldn’t help letting a small giggle escape.

His extremely handsome eyes narrowed into slits. “You were doing that on purpose, weren’t you?”

Hmm, and smart too. Although she considered playing innocent, she didn’t think it would work. “Oh, my lord, you really think I need eating lessons, as well as dining-room etiquette?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I don’t know your schooling history. America doesn’t have the kinds of rules we do. I assume you’ve not been to a boarding school?”

She placed her elbows on the table, intertwined her fingers, and positioned them under her chin. “And why would you assume that?”

“One, because you’re putting your elbows on the table; two, you licked food off your mouth with your tongue; and three, both actions are entirely unacceptable.”

“Oh, please.” Trying to gain some sense of composure, she gazed upward. No matter what she did, she doubted he’d retire from his tutoring obligation. She didn’t know why she’d even crafted such a plan—Englishmen were all about duty and responsibility. And although she’d be loath to admit it to this man, she did appreciate someone who made a commitment to something and stuck with it.

“Do you want to embarrass Marsdale? Is that your intent?”

“How would I embarrass him?” She clutched her hands tighter and set them in her lap.

“By acting unseemly at Lady Laurel’s dinner party, that’s how. You are a reflection of him and his family. And, therefore, my sister and me as well.”

“Give me some credit, my lord. I’m four and twenty. Even though my mother died twelve years ago, do you think my father would let me run wild?”

He shook his head and arched a sardonic brow. “I’m not at all certain.”

“Trust me, he didn’t.” She scooped soup into her spoon, moved it to her lips, and swallowed. “I was given many freedoms, I’ll grant you that. I didn’t have a chaperone with me every second, but luckily, Oliver has come to some sense of reason, so I don’t have to have Eloise glued to my side. He’d given me some space, until you came into the scene.” She bit into a biscuit and stared at him. “In fact, I have to ask why, all of a sudden, he’s so determined to marry me off? This has come about since you arrived.”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Doesn’t every woman of your age and rank wish to make a good match?” He lifted an inquiring brow.

She gave him a blank stare but was compelled to study his eyebrows. They were so expressive and revealed his annoyance with her. Chewing two more times, she swallowed and thought better of leaving crumbs on her lips. “No.”

“Perhaps he was giving you time to acclimate to your new surroundings?”

The earl drank water from his glass, and she watched the muscles of his throat flex with each swallow. Strange how she’d never made note of such a benign movement before. Maybe she noticed because his cravat was tied so perfectly straight, and the linen of his shirt was starched to near perfection. She had the intense urge to pull the confined fabric free.

“Miss Duvall?” He raised both brows. “You’re staring.”

“Am I?” She dipped her spoon back into her soup.

“Since I am trying to help you, truly I am, one piece of advice would be not to stare. Unless there is something wrong? Did I manage to spill soup on myself?”

“Of course not,” Georgia muttered. “You’re perfectly put together, just as I would expect. Not a speck of soup on you anywhere.”

“Good. It’s not appropriate to glare either, you know.”

“I wasn’t glaring.” She looked at him in disbelief. “I was simply making an assessment of your cravat.”

“And do you find my cravat agreeable?” He spoke in such a calm, sedate manner, Georgia wondered what it would take to make him less agreeable.

“Oh, yes.” She took her glass in hand. “Everything about your attire is impeccable. From your pressed shirt to your polished boots, you are a proper English gentleman through and through.”

A fluttering, tingling sensation rooted itself in her chest, and she couldn’t understand why the feeling kept taking hold of her. She was not interested in his ever-so-proper appearance, nor his perfect diction, nor his unflappable demeanor. Behind his unruffled facade was an arrogant peer who considered himself above her.

He cleared his throat. “If we are speaking of clothing, then I think we should discuss the dress you’re wearing. While it may be acceptable in America, here in England, it’s not the preferable style.”

“What style is that?” She decided she wanted his staid countenance to crack. She wanted to wrinkle his perfectly crisp shirt and yank the knotted cravat from its hold to see exactly how he might react, but instead she just sighed.

“What’s wrong, Miss Duvall? Have I offended you?”

“Why would you think I’m offended?” She sipped her water and set the glass back down.

“Because you sighed.”

“Did I? Am I not allowed to sigh at a dinner party either?”

The truth of the matter was that maybe she was offended. Not only by him, but also by herself. Because why she had the sudden urge to mess up his shirt and cravat, and even his hair, was beyond her. It made no sense whatsoever. She didn’t like to annoy Oliver, so why was Will Sutton different?

“You may sigh at a dinner party, but it’s probably not the best way to attract an eligible gentleman.”

“No, I suppose not.” She resisted the urge to sigh again.

“I inquired with a reputable modiste, and I’ve made arrangements for us to see her tomorrow. And, given the state of your current dress, I don’t think we’ve a moment to waste.”

Instead of sighing in frustration, perhaps she should push the matter a little farther. “You said my dress is not the preferable style. What is not preferable about it?”

“The fabric looks quite worn. Certainly you might like something new?”

“No.” She sat up straighter, leaning forward at the same time. “Actually, I like the fabric quite well.” Glancing down at her chest, she said, “It’s a fine color for my skin tone.” She looked up at him again and widened her eyes. “Perhaps you are biased against the color is all.”

“It has nothing to do with the color.” He coughed.

“But you said the fabric looks—”

“I said the fabric looks quite worn, but the problem is the size. It doesn’t fit you properly.” He threw down his napkin.

She innocently blinked several times, feeling a bit smug to see she’d ruffled him. “I see.”

He pushed back his chair. “I beg your pardon. I neglected to tell the cook we’d like dessert as well so I’m certain you know which utensils to use.”

In an instant, he departed, and Georgia smiled. Perhaps she was goading him a bit more than necessary, but she had hoped he’d give up this ridiculous plan by now.