Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) Page 14

  "Amanda? Do you truly wish to be back home?"

  She took a deep breath, ruthlessly pushing her doubts aside. "No, my lord. I will not go back to York."

  He nodded, and she narrowed her eyes as she studied his face. It was cast half in shadow, emphasizing his harsh angles and dark eyes. But what she noticed most was his expression—or rather lack of one. If ever there was a moment she wanted to read his emotions or understand his thoughts, now was the time. But there was nothing to see. Nothing to read.

  Then suddenly he stood up, drawing her with him. "Come with me."

  "What?"

  He tugged the mobcap out of her hands and tossed it carelessly onto the dresser. "I have something for you."

  He drew her to the doorway, and then, after a quick glance to make sure no one was about, he pulled her down the corridor to his room. Then they ducked inside, and he quietly shut his door.

  It took a moment for Gillian to realize she was in his bedroom. She felt a tingle course down her spine. If she thought looking through his desk was intimate, it was nothing compared to standing in the center of his private chamber. She gazed around her, turning slowly as she absorbed the details. She did not know what she expected—something grand, maybe a little pompous. A great, huge bed with a raised platform and gilt posters. Maybe rich draperies with the earl's crest emblazoned all over them. But there was very little of that here.

  He had a large bed, one probably handed down through the generations, but the draperies and extra pillows were stripped away, making it seem bare, almost austere. There were the usual accoutrements of any modest bedroom—a wardrobe and a dresser—but both were bare of knickknacks, coins, or even a hairbrush. In fact, the only thing in the entire room that seemed uniquely Stephen's was a large leather chair pulled close to the fire, and a stack of books beside it.

  She crossed to it, running her fingers along the top of the chair, noting the unmistakable indents in the seat and back cushions. Like his desk chair, this one already bore his mark. It was all she could do to resist folding herself into his chair just to feel herself surrounded by his presence and the heady scent of leather and man.

  "Here."

  Gillian looked over to see him pull out a small box from a drawer of his dresser.

  "I intended to wait until your come-out ball, but perhaps it is more appropriate now." He held out the package to her, and she reached forward, gingerly lifting it from his hand.

  It was small and very light with a pretty silver ribbon, which she tugged open. Then, almost with a sense of dread, she pulled open the lid. There, nestled on a piece of white silk, was a delicate gold filigree necklace twisting around green stones shaped like leaves. Above them rested matching ear bobs. The jewelry was so beautiful and delicate she felt her chest constrict in awe.

  "Those are emeralds," she said softly.

  "Yes." He leaned over, reaching past her fingers to lift the necklace off the silk and hold it up to her face. "Almost a perfect match for your eyes," he said. "Except you sparkle more than they." Then he stepped behind her and brushed aside her hair to fasten the necklace. His fingers sent a tingle of awareness through her body, and she gasped as she felt the cool caress of the necklace contrasted with the hot press of his fingers.

  "Exquisite," he murmured, his gaze holding hers in the dresser mirror.

  Gillian raised her hand to touch the beautiful creation about her neck. He had given her emeralds.

  What was she, Gillian Ames, bastard and lowly housemaid, doing wearing emeralds? She should be thrilled at finally starting on the path to her dreams. She had wealth, support, and most of all, the opportunity for a fine marriage that would establish her and her mother for the rest of their lives. She should be dancing on the rafters in excitement.

  Instead, all she could think was that she was a thief and a liar living someone else's life. Her breath caught on a sob, and she felt Stephen's hands tighten on her shoulders in surprise, turning her around so he could look directly into her eyes.

  "Amanda? What is wrong?"

  "I... I do not belong here," she said, then felt her eyes widen in shock. Why on God's green earth had she said that? "I... I mean—"

  "Shhh, it is all right. You are Amanda Faith Wyndham."

  "No-"

  "Yes. Amanda, listen to me. You are an earl's ward and a beautiful woman who has already become an Original even before your come-out."

  "No, I am not who you think—"

  "Shhh." He pressed his finger against her lips.

  She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Then she felt his hands drop to her shoulders, drawing her closer to him as he tried to caress away her trembling.

  She meant to move away from him, to escape somewhere, anywhere. But her body would not obey her mind. Then he touched her, lifting her chin until she looked directly into his eyes, and she knew she was lost.

  "I believe in you," he whispered. "I believe that after tonight, all of society will be at your feet, and I shall be stepping over suitors three deep in the hallway."

  She blushed at his foolish image. "Do not be absurd," she whispered.

  "It will happen," he said, his voice unnaturally rough. "Then what will I do?"

  She did not understand the husky timbre of his voice or the almost desperate sound of his words. The mesmerizing golden flecks in his eyes filled her thoughts, and she felt her heart beat faster as he drew a ragged breath. He leaned down, his dark hair brushing against her forehead as his breath mingled with hers.

  "So beautiful," he whispered, and then without even realizing that she was the one who moved, she found herself in his arms, straining upward as his lips descended to hers.

  Their first touch was achingly tender, lips to lips, and through them she felt him shudder as if he struggled with himself and lost the battle. She opened her mouth to him, not knowing what to do, only wishing somehow to have him closer.

  He claimed her mouth, wrapping his arms around her and crushing her against him as his tongue invaded her. She let her head drop back, opening herself to him as he plumbed her very depths.

  She heard him groan. It was deep, guttural, almost animal, and it thrilled her to her toes. She felt the power of the sound, and strength in his arms, and, most important, the fierce, possessive way he explored her mouth.

  She mimicked his movements, learning from him even as she trembled from the wonder of it all. As he held her close, she arched even further into him, pressing intimately against him, feeling the heat from his form along the entire length of her body.

  And still she wanted more. So very much more.

  "Amanda!" The countess's strident tones pierced the air. "Where are you?"

  She and Stephen froze, their breath suspended, their lips less than a breath apart.

  "Stephen, have you seen that dratted girl? Stephen?"

  With a muffled oath, he pushed her away, and she nearly fell as she was forced to support her own weight. "Quickly," he rasped. "In here."

  She looked at him, her thoughts whirling, her mind in a daze. He pulled open the doorway to the corridor linking his bedroom with his future wife's, urgently gesturing her through. Gillian nodded, forcing her wooden feet to the dark hallway, stopping only after she was well hidden in the darkness.

  "Amanda?" he whispered.

  She turned, her gaze flying to his haggard features, framed in the doorway.

  "I... I am sorry," he said. Then he shut the door, closing out the last of the light.

  A moment later she heard his deep tones, smoothly sophisticated as he called to the countess, "I am right here. Mother. What did you need?"

  "Well, I am looking for that ridiculous chit. We should be leaving soon." The rest of the countess's response was lost to Gillian as the two moved down the hallway, the familiar creak of the stairs telling her they headed downstairs, probably for the front parlor.

  Gillian waited another few moments, her heart beating triple time, her breathing harsh and loud in the enclosed space. What
had she done? Her stupefied mind played over everything that happened, every sensation and trembling desire that coursed through her as she kissed Stephen.

  She had kissed Stephen!

  And it was wonderful and frightening and exciting and terribly, terribly delicious. Oh, heavens, she thought with shock. She had loved every moment of it!

  Men had kissed her before. More than one of the villagers had used her lowly birth as an excuse to take liberties. Without exception, each kiss had been horrible, starting from the blacksmith with his thick, meaty lips, right through his son's fumbling, wet affair. And most horrible of all, Reverend Hallowsby's sanctimonious cold pecks while his hands... his hands roamed places that had made her run to wash in the cold bite of the mountain stream.

  But this was different.

  With Stephen, she'd felt as if she flew, soaring through the stars like a fiery comet. Even now, after he left her dazed and trembling in a dark corridor, she still wanted nothing more than to run to him and throw herself at his feet.

  I am sorry.

  His last words echoed in her mind.

  I am sorry.

  What was he sorry for? Leaving her in a dark hallway? Or kissing her? Was he sorry his mother interrupted them? Or that he'd given in to his baser instincts and used her for his own pleasure?

  Given his horrified expression as he shut the door on her, she strongly suspected the latter. The virtuous and oh-so-correct Earl of Mavenford had given in to lust and kissed his ward.

  Scandalous.

  Gillian bit the inside of her cheek for the umpteenth time today, and cursed herself for the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

  I am sorry.

  Was she sorry? Did she wish it had gone on forever? Or had never even begun? Did she want him to lay her down and teach her so much more of what went on between a man and a woman? Or did she want to scratch his eyes out for the audacity of his touch?

  She did not know.

  I am sorry.

  So was she. So very, very sorry, and she did not even know why.

  But she could not cry. She gripped her hands. She was about to go to her very first ball. She would soon be presented to the ton. This was what she had wanted, had dreamed, had prayed for.

  She would not cry.

  She would go downstairs and step into her dreams.

  I am sorry.

  Very well, she decided. He was sorry. And so was she. It should not have happened, and never would again.

  It did not matter the reason for their kiss, she decided. It did not matter if he had been swept away by her beauty, overwhelmed by love for her. If he even now was aching for her as only a lovesick swain could.

  Stephen would never break with society's strictures so much as to marry her. He was destined for Lady Sophia Rathburn in a brilliant match appropriate for an earl. For her part, Gillian did not want a man who made her knees go weak and her thoughts scatter. It made her too vulnerable to sudden confessional urges. Above all things, she could not have that.

  So the answer was clear. His feelings and motives made no difference. For that matter, her emotions and feelings were equally irrelevant. Gillian had to find a rich husband. Stephen would never marry her. Therefore she had to find someone else. She had to find that someone else soon, before this madness with the earl got out of hand.

  So what was her next step? She took a deep breath as she focused her thoughts. The next step was to dazzle the ton—tonight—and find a husband soon. Tonight. Perhaps within the first few moments of entering the ballroom.

  I am sorry.

  Biting back her tears, Gillian whipped her new resolve into a nearly tangible force. Forcing her feet to move, she slipped out of her hiding place and back into the earl's bedchamber. It was nearly dark now, the last of the sunlight giving a slightly reddish gold tinge to the room where she had so nearly been swept away.

  She had no doubt his kisses would have progressed to their natural conclusion. She was that weak around the earl. Unable to resist, she stepped lightly to his bed, laying a hand on the soft coverlet. Perhaps it was her bastard blood coming to the fore, but even now, her body still tingled with the memories of his touch.

  With a soft curse, she twisted away. She was a weak and foolish girl prone to the same lustful thoughts her mother had succumbed to with the baron so many years ago. Now her daughter was haunted by the same base desires, tempting her to throw away everything she had, everything she wanted, just to be with a man.

  Well, Gillian Ames was made of stronger stuff. She would not give in to her bastard heritage. She would be wise to push all baseborn thoughts out of her mind.

  But as she slipped down the stairs toward the front parlor, she heard Amanda Wyndham's mocking laughter following her. Gillian was a bastard, taunted her half-sister's ghost. All of her thoughts were baseborn by definition. And no noble intentions would change that.

  Or the fact that temptation lurked a scant few doorways down the hall from her own.

  Chapter 10

  Rule #11:

  A lady forgives and forgets.

  Gillian's first view of Lady Allardyce's ballroom was enough to make her lose the last of her courage. Stunning did not begin to describe the dazzling array of the fashionable haut ton arrayed about the room. From diamonds to dandies, they were all there.

  And she felt as if everyone had turned to inspect the earl's willful ward.

  Her first response was a sudden urge to grab Stephen's arm and hide in his embrace. But as custom dictated, he was ahead of her on the stairwell, escorting his mother into the ballroom, leaving Gillian to stand alone for a moment at the top of the staircase looking down at the glittering throng. Naturally he could not turn and give her one of his reassuring smiles. Of course, given the strained silence between them after their aborted kiss, a reassuring smile was the last thing she expected from him.

  So she stood at the top of the stairs alone, fighting the urge to flee. Then, for once, her miserable childhood came to her rescue. If there was one thing the real Amanda had taught her well, it was how to handle the hostile stares of a jealous tabby.

  Suddenly Gillian felt a smile curve her features, her confidence returning tenfold. Let them stare, let them gossip and nitpick. Nothing could change the fact that she, Gillian Ames, bastard daughter of a lowly baron, was finally among them, entering the hallowed portals of a haut ton ball. She felt her smile grow into a triumphant glow as she began her descent into the humid ballroom.

  Gillian Ames had arrived.

  At the base of the stairs, Gillian was introduced to her host and hostess. She curtsied first to Lady Allardyce and her daughter, surprised at how easy it was to perform the task. Buoyed by her confidence, she moved with a fluidity that had hitherto escaped her. Her knees did not creak, and her head did not drop too low. In fact, just to her right, she caught the countess's pleased smile. With a sudden start of surprise, she realized she had mastered the fine art of aristocratic carriage—complete and total arrogance!

  Except that Lady Allardyce and her daughter did not seem the least bit enchanted. They regarded her coolly, almost with hostility, barely forcing out their greetings. "I am so pleased you could come, Miss Wyndham," Lady Allardyce said, her tone heavy with sarcasm.

  Gillian was so surprised by their animosity she nearly missed Lord Allardyce's comment, though he spoke loudly, almost directly to her nose. "Save an old man a dance, what," he said with a broad wink, "before all the young bucks snatch them up." He completely missed the icy glare his wife shot him.

  "I would be happy to dance with any older gentleman who asks," Gillian bantered politely, stretching her neck to see behind him. "But whoever do you mean? I shall give him the dance directly after yours."

  Lord Allardyce chortled heartily at her compliment, patting her hand as he shooed her on. Then, just after she turned from him, she heard him say to his wife, "Definitely an Original, my dear."

  "She is nothing of the sort," snapped his wife. "Just another imperti
nent mushroom with a large dowry, and you would do well to remember it!"

  Twisting back, Gillian gave the pair a quizzical look. Lord Allardyce's comment confused her almost as much as his wife's shrewish response. How could one polite riposte make her an Original? Surely what she said was not nearly so unique as to give her one of the most valued female labels. And as for his wife...

  Unfortunately she was not allowed time to think on it, as Lord Tallis, mercifully without his sister, suddenly appeared at her side and bowed over her hand, neatly preventing her from joining the earl and his mother.

  "Ah, my lovely, it is a pleasure to see you. Please tell me you have saved two dances for me?"

  Gillian could not help but smile at his soulful look. He always reminded her of a sad puppy dog when he took that pose. "You know I have, Lord Tallis. You have reminded me every day for the last two weeks." She lifted her hand and dutifully showed him her dance card, where his name was indeed already penciled in next to two country dances.

  "What?" he said with mock horror. "Not a waltz?"

  She grinned. "That would certainly set the gossips' tongues wagging." As a girl in her first Season, Gillian would not be allowed to dance a waltz without special dispensation from one of society's matrons.

  "Very well," he said with a dramatic sigh. "I shall just have to be content with two country dances with the Season's brightest star." He lowered his voice and winked at her. "It is quite a sacrifice on my part, you know. I had my heart quite set upon a waltz. Not only would it steal the march on my competitors, but it would do wonders for my consequence."

  After two weeks of Lord Tallis's daily visits, Gillian was accustomed to ignoring his teasing comments, but this time it reminded her of what Lord Allardyce had just said, and even more of when Stephen had said she was already an Original. She narrowed her eyes, studying Lord Tallis as he struck a refined pose of casual disdain. It could not be. But then who else did she know with an interest in her success?