The Notorious Scoundrel (8 page)

“H
ere it is!”

Quincy entered the sitting room with a thick book in his hands. He seated himself in a brown leather chair next to Amy, and smiled.

Edmund frowned. It was his responsibility to look after Amy’s needs, to see her well established, and yet he had been usurped of the duty by his cheeky younger sibling.

“What is it?” said Amy, leaning closer to Quincy as she peered at the tome with curiosity, arousing Edmund’s hackles.

Quincy lifted the green leather binding and blew away the layer of dust, the particles swirling in the air. “
The Book of Etiquette
. My sister, Belle, gifted it to me about five years ago when I first entered society.”

“It appears new.”

“It is. Look.” He turned the spine. “Not a crack in the binding. I’ve never even opened it.”

Edmund snorted.

Quincy glanced at his brother with a mischievous expression. “I don’t need a book to teach me about proper manners and charm. You, on the other hand…”

Amy disarmed the darkening temperaments when she gathered the heavy tome into her hands and set it in her lap, leafing through the pages in an idle fashion.

Edmund followed her artful movements with keen interest, dismissing his brother from his thoughts. He watched her as she caressed each corner page, genuinely engrossed by the words on the sheets of paper…that she couldn’t read. It must be so unsatisfying for her, he mused, to have the knowledge literally at her fingertips, and yet be unable to access the information.

Amy carefully closed the book and returned it to a puzzled Quincy.

“You’ll need to read it,” he said, “if you intend to be a lady’s maid or companion.”

Edmund gauged the direction of the conversation, and curtailed it with a sharp “Amy is fine. There’s nothing the matter with her manners or charm.”

In truth, she already acted with too many airs.

Quincy looked horrified. “I didn’t mean to suggest there was anything wrong with her, but there are so many finicky rules she needs to remember.”

“I can’t read,” she confessed stiffly.

Amy next offered Edmund a cutting glance as if she was vexed that he had made such a fuss about her illiteracy. He glowered back at her, slighted. He had only
wanted to spare her any embarrassment. He folded his arms across his chest and vowed to sit quietly in the plush chair beside the window, and refrain from uttering another word.

“Oh…well…we’ll teach you letters some other time.” Quincy opened the book. “I’ll just read the passages to you now and we can practice the mannerisms and movements.”

Amy looked back at him and nodded, smiling slightly. “I’m good at memorization.”

“Splendid!” He flipped through the pages. “Let’s begin with conversation. The book is divided between the sexes, for there are different tenets for men and women. Ladies ‘must exhibit sensibility and tact. Be sure to inquire about your partner’s interests, for one always loves to comment about one’s affairs.’ Now”—he closed the book—“we’re seated together at supper. How will you begin the conversation?”

Amy straightened her spine and folded her hands in her lap. “I…” She slumped her shoulders in defeat. “I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you know about me?”

“You’re a sailor and a gentleman.”

He chuckled. “I’m not so sure about the latter.”

She made a wry face.

“Let’s keep to the topic of sailing, shall we? How will you exhibit tact and sensibility, while inquiring about my interests?”

She sighed and primped herself for another attempt at polite conversation. “Good evening, Mr. Hawkins.”

“Good evening, Miss…” He frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”

Edmund mulled that over, too, concluding he wasn’t familiar with her surname, either. There was still so much he didn’t know about the lovely Amy. He found it surprising that he was eager to learn more about her, for he wasn’t the sort to fret about details…especially when he was already privy to the woman’s most salacious secret.

“It’s Peel,” she whispered, as if Quincy had made a genuine social blunder.

Quincy grinned. “Good evening, Miss Peel.”

“I understand you are just arrived from a long tour at sea?”

“That’s right, Miss Peel. I’ve spent the last six months off the coast of Africa.”

“Africa, really? Have you ever been to Madagascar?”

Edmund suspected Amy had suddenly overlooked her lessons in favor of a more earnest, even sensational interest in the wicked queen’s sordid past. He observed her arched spine as she leaned more closely toward Quincy, seeking answers.

“I’ve been there once,” he admitted.

“What was it like?”

The couple prattled on for a few more minutes before Quincy grinned, bringing the conversation to an end.

“Well done, Amy,” he praised. “You maintained the conversation in a pleasant manner and demonstrated true intelligence with your questions.”

She beamed—and it squelched Edmund’s heart to know Quincy had made her feel proud of herself, and he had not.

“I don’t see what any of this has to do with being a lady’s maid or companion,” Edmund groused, breaking his vow of silence. “Amy needs to know how to look after her future mistress, is all.”

“A woman expects her companion to be a proper young lady.” Quincy eyed his brother in a critical manner. “Amy needs to meet her employer’s expectations or she won’t make much headway in the field.”

Edmund quieted at that sound reasoning, however much it irked him.

Amy, meanwhile, narrowed her scintillating green eyes on him again, clearly cross, before she looked away. “I appreciate your help, Quincy.”

“Not a’tall.” He smiled. “Someone should get some use out of this book.”

“At least you’re willing to offer me assistance,” she said to the scamp, though she looked pointedly at Edmund once more.

“Don’t mind Eddie.” He chuckled. “He was born with a frown. It’s like pulling teeth to get him to say a few meaningful words.”

“What do you mean?” Amy appeared confused, her eyes still fixed firmly on Edmund. “He talked
too
much when he stayed with me.”

“He did?” Quincy looked at his brother. “You did?”

“Piss off,” returned Edmund.

Amy gasped.

“I was talking to Quincy,” he snapped.

“Lesson number two.” Quincy lifted two fingers in the air. “A lady doesn’t curse, nor does she keep company with men who do.”

Amy humphed in compliance, and returned her attention to Quincy and their slowly developing lessons.

After another half hour of mock conversation, Quincy shut the book. “Let’s learn about something more fun…like ballroom etiquette. Do you dance, Miss Peel?”

The provocative images stormed Edmund’s brain: a firm, supple body spinning across the stage, hips rolling, silky fabrics swooshing, gold coins softly clashing as the veiled figure gyrated and twirled in erotic splendor.

Edmund eyed the lovely Amy from across the sitting room, the blood in his veins pounding. He observed the woman’s deep flush, sensed her warming flesh. She was seated with poise, yet a wild, exotic creature dwelled secretly within her heart…and he ached deep in his bones to lock limbs and dance with the beautiful, sensual Zarsitti.

“Aye, she dances,” said Edmund in a quiet yet assured voice, still staring at Amy.

She glanced at him with fire in her eyes. “I don’t know the most current, fashionable steps, though.”

Swishing her round hips and undulating her tight belly was rather scandalous, he reflected with growing carnal hunger. It was a private dance: one reserved for a lover.

“Like the waltz?” wondered Quincy.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said in a rushed manner, twisting her fingers together in her lap as if she might tamp down her dark secret, send it into oblivion. But only Edmund was privy to her true nature as a dancer. His brothers assumed her a barmaid from the club.

Quincy placed the book aside and bounded to his feet. “Well, I’ll teach you that.”

“No,” barked Edmund, drawing the couple’s prompt attention. He wasn’t about to let his flirtatious brother touch Amy in an intimate manner. He’d break all of Quincy’s fingers first.

He said with less bite: “I’ll teach her the waltz.”

Quincy shrugged and returned to the chair. “She still needs to practice good manners in public.” He snapped his fingers. “I know! We can take her to the fete at Chiswick on Friday.”

Edmund cocked a brow. “We?”

“You’ll need a chaperone,” he said with a boyish smile.

“I don’t think you qualify as the chaperone,” Edmund remarked in a dry tone.

“Fine. I’ll ask Belle—no, she’s too busy with the children.” He stroked his chin. “How about James and Sophia?”

Amy visibly shuddered at the mention of his brother James; the notorious captain often elicited that sort of response from women.

“I’ll pen Sophia a note right now.” Quincy was back
on his feet and heading for the door. “I know she’ll consent to their being chaperones.”

“James will be here later today,” said Edmund. “He’s coming to ‘visit’ with me, remember? Why don’t you just ask him about the fete when he arrives?”

The scamp flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture. “If I ask James, he’ll say no. However, Sophia will be much more agreeable.” He winked. “She likes me, after all. Oh, and I’ll inquire about a new wardrobe for Miss Peel. She needs to look the part of a lady, too.”

Quincy departed from the room, leaving Edmund alone with a scowling Amy in the spacious chamber.

“Ignore Quincy’s last remark,” he said. “He didn’t mean to insult you. He’s too forthright at times.”

He watched her in silence for a short time. Perhaps it was a long time. He’d neglected to observe the mantel clock or listen to its chiming bells. There was one thing he had not neglected, however: feeling the sensual pull Amy had over his senses.

“Alone at last, Miss Peel.”

She ignored him as he slowly crossed the room and settled into Quincy’s former seat. He picked up
The Book of Etiquette
and randomly turned the pages. “I wonder what the book says about a young, unmarried lady sitting alone in a room with a scoundrel?”

She eyed him sidelong with the characteristic glare that so often amused him, even aroused him.

“I thought you said no scoundrels lived in the house.”

He smiled at her.

She said stiffly, “I’m not to talk with gentlemen who curse.”

“And if I promise not to behave like a gentleman?”

She pinched her lips together, but she also took in a deep, audible breath through her nose. The slight blush that stained her cheeks was endearing…and ever so alluring. The impulse to whisper hot words into her delicate ear, and make her blush even more, gripped him with a savage hold. He had to curl his fingers more tightly around the book just to keep his wits in place and his hands away from her sweet skin.

The silence stretched between them. At length, she snapped, “Aren’t you going to teach me how to dance?”

“Do you really need lessons, Zarsitti?” She made a moue as he put the book aside and lifted from the chair, extending his hand. “Shall we dance?”

Amy firmed her lips again and accepted his offered hand, her warm fingers slipping across his palm. He grasped her hand with vigor, muscles stiffening, and he sensed the strong shiver that rippled through her extremities as he escorted her to the center of the room.

He released her hand and pressed the front length of his body against her. She was wearing a simple white day dress with thin bronze lines running all the way down her frame, making her figure look even more elongated. He glanced at her slippered toes, then studiously admired her lanky limbs and well-formed hips
before he lighted upon her piercing green eyes. Heartbeats boomed deep in his breast as she pegged him with such might, such vim. She stirred the gloom in his belly until it swirled away.

He circled her waist and cupped her other palm, the blood in his veins slowly heating at their close proximity. It was so right to hold her, he thought with zeal. It was so bloody right to keep her in his arms…tight in his arms.

“Should we be standing so close together?” she demanded, flustered.

It wasn’t proper, no. However, he wasn’t thinking about being proper right then. He was thinking about Amy’s lush body secured in his arms, her artful, supple body.

“Place your hand on my shoulder,” he instructed gruffly.

She obeyed the direction, licking her bottom lip. He shuddered at the teasing gesture. She hadn’t meant to be a flirt; he sensed that intrinsically. But she’d captured his imagination nonetheless.

He was half a head taller than she, so he inhaled the rich scent of her gold locks, twisted and pinned in a loose chignon. He matched her rapid breathing, her quick pulse.

“Now follow my lead.”

He stepped to the right. He next took a step back before sliding his left foot to the left side of the room. Taking a step forward, he completed the quadrangle.

Amy eyed his movements with obvious scrutiny, and
quickly learned the four basic steps. “Do we move in a square like this forever?”

“No, we can dance across the room, too, keeping the same rhythm and steps. I just wanted you to become accustomed to the movements first.”

“I think I’ve memorized them,” she said tartly, clearly underwhelmed by the simplicity of the waltz, which paled in comparison to the lavish dances she was wont to memorize and perform, he surmised.

“I like watching you dance,” he remarked in a soft voice as he whisked her across the wide room, avoiding the furnishings, keeping her secured in his embrace.

She loosened her grip on his hand as soon as he’d made the intimate confession, but he held her fast despite the resistance. He wasn’t ready to let her go just yet.

“You keep a pet snake in the house, do you?”

The flutter in her voice betrayed her unsettled disposition. He smiled inwardly, knowing he’d struck a powerful chord within her, so much so that she prattled about more mundane topics in order to keep from thinking about his touch, his presence.

“Aye, a Jamaican yellow boa. She belonged to my brother James. But his wife wouldn’t permit the snake inside their house after the wedding.”