The Making of a Gentleman (14 page)

The idea made her heart beat far too fast.

***

Armand prowled the garden until the wee hours of the morning. He had not kept count, but he thought he had circled the town house at least one hundred times. On one of those circles, he had encountered his brother. Armand had expected Julien to ask why he was not in bed, but he did not. Instead, they circled the house together, and then Julien went inside.

But Armand knew even though it was very late, he would not be able to sleep. He could not get the image of the brick out of his mind. It had been a week since the incident. Why had the men not returned to carry out their threat? At his side, his hands clenched. If they did return, he would be ready for them.

When the pale colors of dawn lightened the shrubs of the garden, Armand finally abandoned his post to the hired watchmen and trudged to his chambers. His bed was made with fresh sheets and fluffed pillows, but he could not imagine crawling into it. For years he had slept on the hard floor, and with exhaustion setting into his bones, the familiar called to him.

Removing his shirt, he lay on the rug and stared up at the ceiling, watching the colors of the morning dance on the flat surface. In his cell, there had never been any light on the ceiling. He would go days, sometimes weeks, without light. He had become accustomed to it, and the light streaming through his window pained his eyes. And that was precisely why he refused to cover the windows. The pain of the light reminded him he was no longer in his cell. Not that he didn’t know that already. He had never had a soft, thick rug in his cell. And his prison had never smelled as clean as this room. Everything here smelled of soap or wax or polish. The smells were strong but so much more appealing than those of unwashed bodies and excrement.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift. As was becoming usual, the first thing he saw in his mind was Miss Bennett—Felicity. He liked that name. Someone had told him—or perhaps he knew it already—the name meant happiness. That was a good description for her. She was always happy, even when she was scolding him.

And how he liked for her to scold him, especially when it was because he was doing something to break one of her precious Rules. But then, he did not see the point in many of her Rules anyway. If he wanted to kiss her wrist—her small, sweet wrist—why should he not? He liked her reaction. He liked the way her sky blue eyes turned gray and smoky. He liked the way her cheeks turned not red—what was the color? Ah, pink. He liked that her blood beat faster. He could feel it against his fingers and lips when he put them to her wrist or her throat. She
wanted
him to break The Rules.

He began to imagine other ways in which they might break The Rules together and quickly had to turn his thoughts away. That path would only lead to frustration. Instead, he rehearsed the new words he had learned today, and gradually he began to drift off.

In the dream—Armand knew it was a dream, though he was powerless to end it or control it—he was a child again. He was walking through a crowded street in… Paris. Yes, he recognized this as Paris, though it was not the Paris he knew. This was a Paris filled with the hungry eyes of children and their mothers, standing on street corners selling their bony bodies for enough coin to buy a slice of bread. Not that there was any bread to be bought.

Armand picked his way through the crowds and the stench, keenly aware that though his clothes were soiled with soot and grime from his escape, they were still of better quality than any here wore.

He had paused once after escaping the château to turn around, and what he had seen had only made him run in the other direction. His home was on fire, flames shooting out windows and smoke billowing from the roof. He prayed Bastien and Julien had been away that night, out on one of their grand adventures, but he had no such hope for his mother and father.

Until the morning. He had hidden in the forest all night, and when sun rose, he had heard the unmistakable sound of his father’s voice. Following that sound, Armand had seen his father, hands tied, led onto a cart with several of their neighbors. His mother, Julien, and Bastien were not with his father. When the peasants, who were insulting and spitting at his father the entire time, began to follow the cart, Armand did so, as well. From a distance. He knew enough to keep himself hidden. He did not want to be recognized.

The cart led him to Paris, where his father was unloaded and taken inside a building. He could not follow his father inside, and so he had stood in the courtyard, watching.

“Little brat, move on from there,” a man in coarse clothing and with equally coarse speech yelled at him.

“Yes, sir,” he said quickly, then, “What is this place?”

The man gave him a long look. “It’s a prison. Don’t you know that?” He leaned closer, his breath smelling of old wine as he smiled, showing yellow and broken teeth. “Who are you? You sound like an aristo.”

Armand swallowed and stepped back. Something about the look in the man’s eyes frightened him. The man turned to another guard loitering nearby. “Hey, Jacques, come here. I think we have another aristo!” He turned and swiped at Armand, but Armand was fast. He ran until he could no longer breathe, finding himself among the hungry children and the bony women. There were men, too. Men with knives and bayonets. Men who would kill him if he so much as opened his mouth. He could not speak again. Speaking was a death sentence.

And yet he needed food. His stomach grumbled, and his throat was as dry as sand. He needed food, and then he would have to think of some way to free his father from that prison. He passed a tavern where men were drinking, and wandered inside. He was immediately pushed aside, cuffed on the side of the head, and kicked. But he was too hungry and thirsty to care. The tavern was dirty, and he could see the lone barmaid was overworked. She was thin but not as bony as the women he saw on the streets—and that gave him an idea.

She lackadaisically mopped at a spill on one of the tables with a dirty cloth then was distracted when a fight broke out among two of the patrons. She left her towel to watch the brawl, and Armand moved in and snatched up the towel. He began cleaning the table vigorously, and when the fight was over, he righted the chairs and the tables and wiped them down. Soon several of the men were telling him to bring them wine. At first, the barmaid tried to shoo him away, but he pretended he could not understand, could not hear. Eventually, she gave up, and he was soon sweeping floors, cleaning tables, and mopping up wine, among other liquids.

The tavern owner did not pay him, did not even acknowledge him, except to cuff him, but Armand was able to scrounge scraps of bread and sips of wine from time to time. It was better than nothing.

And every day he went to the prison, careful to stay away from the man who had tried to catch him that first day. He knew now that executions were happening in the square. Aristocrats were brought daily to lie down under a shiny silver blade. The men in the tavern called it Madame Guillotine, and Armand knew if he could not stop it, one day his father would lie down under Madame, as well.

It was in front of the prison that Armand first saw the little man. Despite his small size, he did not walk like a child, and he did not look like a child. He was old, even then, old and cruel. And his son walked behind him. His son was huge, three times the size of the father, and his eyes were glazed and stupid.

Those eyes met Armand’s, and he heard a crash.

“No!” He sat straight up, his hands reaching out for something… anything. They caught the covers of the bed, and he blinked in confusion at the softness in his hands. Where? What?

The fog burned away with the sun pouring in through his windows, and Armand was brought back to the present. He was in London. He was at his brother’s home. The tavern, the prison, the hungry children were far away and long ago. Those men were…

But they were not gone.

They were here in London, and they were looking for him. They wanted what was theirs, what they thought was theirs, and they would never stop until they had it.

Felicity felt as though she were the one who would be on display for all the
ton
to see. As she stood in the Valères’ ornate vestibule, waiting for the comte to join the rest of his family, her heart thudded, and her hands felt clammy.

She was nervous, and she was not even going anywhere! It seemed she had so little time to prepare the comte for the musicale. She had done all she could, but how could she be certain she had not forgotten something? Had she remembered to tell him to address dukes as Your Grace? She thought she had. What about daughters of dukes? Had she gone over their honorary titles?

Curses! She had forgotten daughters of dukes, and surely Lady Spencer would have one or two at her musicale.

“Stop looking so worried,” the duchesse of Valère said with a smile. “Armand will do fine.”

Felicity swallowed the lump in her throat. “Of course he will. I’m not worried at all.”

“You are pacing like an expectant father,” the dowager remarked as a maid draped a cape over her bejeweled black gown.

“Am I?” Felicity put a hand to her throat. “I suppose I am a tad nervous. Would one of you be so kind as to review courtesy titles for daughters of dukes with the comte? I don’t know how it slipped my mind.”

The duc raised a brow. “I don’t even know courtesy titles for daughters of dukes.” But Felicity knew that was not true. The duc of Valère was so refined, so elegant. She could not imagine he ever worried or stumbled through any type of social occasion. She, on the other hand, could sympathize with his younger brother. She turned and peered up the steps once again. Where was the comte? She was always nervous before any type of social gathering. Once she arrived, she inevitably relaxed and enjoyed herself, but there was always the worry her dress or her hair or her shoes would not be right.

Was the comte fretting over that now? What was taking him so long? Perhaps she should ask the duc to send a servant to assess his progress; the family was going to be late… could one be late to a
ton
affair?

Felicity couldn’t stop herself from glancing up the stairs once again, but this time she was rewarded. The most handsome man she had ever seen was strolling down them, one hand on the banister, one in his pocket, and rakish scowl in place. She blinked, and for a moment she did not recognize him. And then she all but gasped as she realized it was the comte!

Tonight he looked every inch the aristocrat he was. He wore a dark blue coat of superfine, tailored perfectly to show off his broad shoulders and wide chest. It fit tightly, skimming down to slim hips that were encased in dark breeches. The breeches were also well-fitted, showing off muscled thighs. He wore the requisite cravat, and it was starched to perfection, but most surprising were the pumps. He wore the black pumps every man wore with evening dress. Felicity thought this must have been the first time she had seen him with shoes on.

And actually, she preferred him without them. But she could not fail to admire the spectacle descending the stairs. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. She wished she could loosen that cravat and free his thick hair from its queue. She wished she had her comte back, but this was the one who would go to the musicale and who would woo all the ladies.

This was the comte who would find a woman of his station to marry. If she had ever thought she deserved or should aspire to that position before, looking at the comte now relieved her of that flight of fancy. She would never be anything more than a tutor, and he would always be an aristocrat—whether his title was revoked or not.

She realized quite suddenly she had been staring and his eyes were on her. His scowl had grown fiercer. Quickly, she stepped forward. “My lord, you look perfect.”

He faltered, glanced down at his attire. “I feel…”

She could see him grope for the word.

“Ridiculous.”

“Oh, no!” His mother rushed past Felicity and closed the distance between the family and where he still hovered on the stairs. “Miss Bennett is quite correct. You look just as you should. Are you ready?”

His eyes cut to Felicity’s, and she knew he was asking her the question. Was he ready? She took a deep breath. “Of course he’s ready. My lord, have a wonderful evening.”

He allowed his mother to take his arm, the tightening of his jaw the only sign of his discomfort at her touch, and descended the remaining stairs. Then he paused in front of her and offered his other arm. Felicity drew back. “My lord, we have been over this. I am not attending Lady Spencer’s musicale. The invitation was for family only.”

There was a long silence as the comte seemed to digest this information and find it distasteful.

“Armand,” the duc said, his tone full of warning.

But the comte waved a hand at him. “I remember.”

“Good. The carriage is waiting. Let’s go.”

The duc gave his wife his arm and led the four of them through the door opened seamlessly by the butler. Felicity stayed rooted in place, hands clasped, watching them go. This was her place, she told herself. This was her duty. She had tutored the comte in all he would need to know, and now she was to stand here while he went off and showed all he had learned. That was how things should be—and yet it hurt when he did not look back at her. It hurt when the door closed on his back and she was left standing alone in the vestibule.

She had a book in her room and had thought she would spend the evening reading or perhaps writing letters to her aunt or her friends in Selborne. But she did neither of those activities. Instead, she closed herself in her room, lay on her bed, and thought about the future. She didn’t like to think about the future. There was nothing to be gained by traversing that path. Up until this point, she had focused on preserving her position as the comte’s tutor. But now that he was progressing—speaking correctly, dressing correctly, hopefully addressing dukes’ daughters correctly—how much longer could she expect this position to last? A month? Two?

At the most, three, and that was if the comte did not find a bride before then. And what would she do at the end of three months?

If the comte’s appearance at the musicale tonight was successful, she might be justified in asking for an advance on her salary. Even ten pounds might be enough to hold off Charles a little longer. But if her position lasted only a few more months, would she receive her entire year’s salary? What would she do if she could not pay Charles the twenty-five pounds in January?

He did not really want to marry her. Perhaps if she promised him more, he would give her a few more months. And perhaps the duchesse would help her find another position—one far away from London and the comte.

She might work for a wealthy family in the country, people who avoided Society and did not care about balls or musicales or gowns. She would be happy there, teaching cherub-faced children, and she would only occasionally think back on this position and the strange, handsome comte de Valère.

And that was the biggest lie she had ever told herself.

She knew that not a single day would go by that she would not think of the comte.

Armand.

She would think of him every hour, every minute. How could she ever forget him? Forget his eyes, his lilting speech, his mouth… oh, the things he could do with that mouth.

But, of course, by that point he would not be doing them to her. No, he would be married by then. He would be kissing another woman, the daughter of a duke, most likely. He would have children. Perhaps one day he would even engage a governess for those children, but it would not be she. She would be an old spinster by then. She would never have children. She would never…

Felicity closed her eyes. She did not want to think of the future any more. She would focus on the present. And at present, she was living in a duc’s town house in Berkeley Square. She was tutoring a comte. She was in love with—

Felicity sucked in a breath of air and sprang to her knees. Where had that thought come from? That was a dangerous thought. She could not be in love with Armand—the comte. She would not be in love with him.

It was not love she felt. It was only lust. She wanted him to kiss her, touch her, and that was all there was.

And she would not allow any other thoughts—no matter how much they wanted to intrude—to enter her mind. She was not in love, and certainly not with an aristocrat! A man she could never hope to marry, even if Charles wasn’t determined to ruin her.

There was a knock at the door, and Felicity quickly smoothed her skirts and grabbed her book, trying to look occupied. Trying not to look like a woman in love.

The door opened to reveal Gertrude, the maid who often helped her undress for bed. Felicity smiled at her, thinking an early night was probably just what she needed. After all, one could not think about—anything—when one was asleep.

“Gertrude, I’m glad you’re here. If you could just unlace me, I can do the rest.”

“But, Miss Bennett, I haven’t come to help you undress. I’ve come…” She bit her lip and looked uncertain.

Gertrude was young, probably no more than seventeen, but she did not usually seem so unsure of herself. Felicity jumped off the bed. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?” Immediately the image of the shattered window and the brick on the floor of the dining room flashed in her mind.

“No, nothing bad has happened,” Gertrude reassured her. “But I was told to come and help you dress. I was told to have you wear this.” Now the door yawned open, and Felicity could see the dark blue gown that had been concealed behind it. Felicity frowned at it.

“What is that?”

Gertrude shook it out. It was silk and rippled like the waters of the ocean. “The dowager sent word you are to wear it. It was in her room.”

Felicity laughed. “Why would I wear that? It’s a formal gown, and I’m just going to bed.”

Gertrude shook her head. “No, Miss Bennett. You see, the carriage has returned, and the footmen have a note from the dowager, requesting your presence at Lady Spencer’s musicale.”

“What?” Felicity groped for the bed behind her and sat heavily.

“I know! Isn’t it exciting, Miss? They want you at the musicale?”

Felicity did not think it was exciting at all. Terrifying was probably the word she would have used. “The dowager sent word?”

“Yes, miss.” Gertrude held out a slip of paper, and Felicity forced her wobbly legs to hold her long enough to stand and retrieve it. Now that she was closer to the gown, she felt her stomach clench. She remembered that watery blue material. The dowager had picked it out when they were shopping in Bond Street. Felicity had thought she was just being kind when she had mentioned a ball gown. Now, she could see the dowager had been more than serious.

Her hand shook a little as she flipped open the note.

We have need of Miss Bennett. Please dress her in the blue gown hanging in my room, and send her posthaste.

It was signed with the dowager’s initials, but they were unnecessary. The commanding tone was quite enough. Felicity looked up at Gertrude, and the maid held out the gown. “Are you ready, Miss Bennett?”

“No.” Felicity shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

“But, miss, the note said posthaste. The carriage is waiting.”

“But my hair.” Felicity chanced a glance in the mirror across the room. Her hair was a mass of untidy curls and rumpled coils. “And I don’t have any suitable gloves.”

Gertrude waved a hand, obviously unconcerned. “I can take care of your hair, and I’ll ask one of the other maids if there are some spare gloves you might borrow.”

“But…” Felicity tried desperately to think of another excuse, but none came to mind. Curses! She was actually going to have to attend Lady Spencer’s musicale. As Gertrude helped her change into the gown, Felicity reflected it was not so much the idea of the musicale that alarmed her. She knew she would enjoy the entertainment. And it was not even the prospect of spending a whole evening among the cream of the
ton
that discomfited her, though she hardly relished the condescension she knew would be forthcoming.

What really bothered her was she would have to watch Armand—the comte—be introduced to other ladies. Would he flirt? Hold their hands and kiss their knuckles as he had hers in the garden? How could she stand seeing that?

“Miss Bennett, are you all right?”

Felicity blinked. “Pardon?”

“You’re clenching your fists,” Gertrude pointed out, fastening the last of the gown and bending down to straighten the skirt. Felicity carefully uncoiled her hands and peered in the glass across the room. Her hair was still rumpled, but the tutor in her serviceable beige gown was gone. Even without gloves, the blue gown made her look like a princess. Well, maybe not a princess but definitely a duke’s daughter. She turned from side to side, admiring the way the gown shimmered and rippled. With its scooped neck, it showed off just enough shoulder and bosom to look interesting, but not enough to raise even the most conservative eyebrows.

Of course, the expanse of white flesh called out for adornment of some kind, but Felicity had no jewelry.

“You look perfect,” Gertrude said, standing again. “Who would believe you were one of the staff?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, begging your pardon, miss.”

Felicity laughed. “I
am
one of the staff, and I’d much rather stay here with you.” But that wasn’t quite true anymore. Now that she was in the gown, could feel its silky texture on her skin, she was eager to see and be seen.

And there was one man in particular she wanted to see her.

Gertrude guided her to the dressing table, and Felicity sat patiently as the maid pulled and combed and twisted her hair into some semblance of order. The style was simple, which Felicity preferred, and when the maid was done, they both studied her reflection in the mirror.

“It needs something around the neck,” Gertrude remarked.

“I was thinking that myself, but I don’t have any jewels.”

“Me neither, though I do have something. Wait here!”

Before Felicity could ask what the maid meant, she was rushing from the room. A moment later, she returned with long gloves over her arms and a blue ribbon in her hand, almost the exact color of the dress. “Here, try this.” She leaned over and fastened the ribbon about Felicity’s neck, tying it with a small bow at the back. Then she held out the gloves and helped Felicity put them on.