Rules for a Lady (A Lady's Lessons, Book 1) Read online

  Before, she had thought him large, powerful, and elegant in a dark way. Today she saw how truly handsome he was. He was dressed immaculately in a dark blue that matched his eyes to perfection. With the sun streaming in behind him, she saw the full width of his broad shoulders and the lighter blue highlights in his smooth black hair. She lowered her gaze and nearly gasped in surprise at the muscles clearly defined by his tight buff pantaloons. How could a town dandy be so well defined, so clearly masculine in every way?

  Disconcerted by the odd tingling in her breast, Gillian turned away to the sideboard.

  "Good morning, Amanda," the earl said, and Gillian felt a shiver of delight at his rich tones.

  Then his mother spoke. "Humph. I am pleased to see you rise early, my girl. I have always abhorred the town habit of sleeping in past noon. I find so much more can be accomplished when one rises early enough to read the post before breakfast."

  Gillian kept silent. If this was what the countess meant by rising early, then Gillian could sleep in every day! Careful to dim her smile to a demure half curve, Gillian carried her full plate to the table. The countess, she noted, eyed the heaping mounds of food with dismay, but Gillian did not care. She was hungry, and had no intention of viewing London's premier sights on an empty stomach.

  "So have you plans for the day?" asked the earl.

  Gillian brightened at once, unable to keep the excitement from animating her entire body. "Oh, yes. I hoped to take Tom to see the Norman Crypts below St. Mary-le-Bow Church. Boys always like crawling about in dark, dusty places."

  "You cannot be serious," came the countess's shocked tones. "Stephen, tell me she is not serious."

  "She seems serious enough, Mother." The earl looked up, his blue eyes warming as he gazed at Gillian. "I think she does not yet realize a lady never travels alone."

  "But I will not be alone. I will have Tom with me—"

  "The cutpurse!"

  "Well—" Gillian bit her lip, trying to find the best way to phrase her thoughts. "Who better to spot trouble than a former cutpurse? He will know all the tricks to avoid."

  The earl made a peculiar choking sound, and he hastily reached for his tea. His mother, however, was not so polite. "If you think that... that jesting about a thieving boy is appropriate breakfast conversation, then you are sadly mistaken."

  "But it was not a jes—"

  "And as for going out, you shall not set one foot outside this house until I am sure you will do us honor as the ward of an earl."

  "But—"

  "Enough. We have an appointment at Madame Celeste's in an hour. That should take most of the day." She stood, looking down her dainty nose at the food piled high on Gillian's plate. "I do hope you will not overindulge in food. You are already too old. To add a heaviness in the jowls would be ruinous."

  Gillian stared at the dainty woman with open resentment. Perhaps the countess's tiny figure did not require sustenance, but God had built Gillian on sturdier lines. She speared a large kipper with her fork, then looked up with an innocent smile. "Oh, I should not worry about jowls, my lady. I find I can eat almost anything without detriment to my figure. How unfortunate you must be wary of yours."

  She expected an angry hauteur from the countess, but was shocked to catch a gleam of appreciation in the woman's eyes. "Your tongue is most sharp," the countess said without heat. "It is a good thing your lessons begin tomorrow. If you work very hard, and I am very diligent, I might just allow you to be seen when the Season begins." Then she turned and sailed out of the room, leaving Gillian to stare openmouthed at the door as it slipped shut on all her plans.

  "When the Season begins? But that is not for—"

  "Three weeks," finished the earl.

  Gillian set down her fork as her food turned into a heavy lump at the pit of her stomach. "Three weeks? But when will I see the crypts?"

  "Poor Amanda," he said softly. "Did no one tell you of all the work in preparing for a Season?"

  She shifted her attention to the earl, angered more by the tears of disappointment blurring her vision than by the thought of her ladyship's plans. "What lessons do I need?"

  The earl shrugged, his tight waistcoat shifting in distracting patterns along his chest. "Deportment, dancing, music, that sort of thing. Never paid much attention to it myself, but Mother seems to think it important."

  "And she would know best," Gillian added with a bitter twist of her lips.

  He glanced up at her. "About how to go about in society? Yes, Mother knows best, and you would be wise to listen to her."

  Gillian sighed, realizing he was probably right no matter how much it galled her to think of it. "But when will I see the Tower and the menagerie or—"

  "The crypts?"

  "Yes. And what about Tom?"

  He smiled gently at her. "I have already taken care of Tom."

  "What? How?"

  "And as for the crypts," he continued as if she had not spoken, "perhaps if you work very hard with Mother, I could take you to all those places. We have three weeks, you know. Surely we can manage to find you a free moment somewhere in that time."

  She looked up gratefully at him, reassured she would eventually see the attractions touted in her London guidebook. And somehow the thought that he would accompany her made it easier to bear a delay.

  "Oh, all right." She sighed. "I have waited to see London for five years now. What could another three weeks be?" She dropped her chin on her hand, her joyous mood now colder than her morning chocolate.

  "Five years. As long as that?"

  "And time goes very slowly in York," she intoned, remembering all too well the cold nights in her mother's cottage when she had nothing to do but recall bitter memories and empty dreams.

  Suddenly she felt his hand on hers, covering it with a warmth that tingled up her arm. She glanced at him, unexpectedly lost in the deep sea of the earl's gaze.

  "I will speak to Mother about Thursday next."

  "We will go to the crypts?"

  He nodded, though his expression looked pained. "I promise we will go there, if you wish it. In the meantime, try to get along with Mother. She absolutely delights in shopping, you know, so you should have an easy time of it."

  Shopping. The word penetrated her disappointment like a ray of sunshine cutting through the fog. Shopping! "I shall be able to get rid of these awful clothes!" She lifted her chin off her hand. "What do you think, my lord? Shall I choose red or blue for my first ball gown? Or maybe a shimmering orange-red. I saw a fall leaf one day of that color and thought it the most stunning leaf in all the world. I dipped it in wax to preserve it and brought it along. I passed so many nights imagining dresses made in that very color."

  She was so caught up in her dreams of her first ball, she did not at first notice his uncomfortable silence. But when she did, it brought her back to the present with an awkward thud. "My lord?"

  "Perhaps you were unaware..."

  Gillian felt her spirits sink with his every word. "What?"

  "Well..."

  "Oh, for pity's sake, do not drag it out. What horrible shock am I in for now?"

  He sighed, and for a moment he seemed sorry for his words. "I think the orange-red would look wonderful on you, but all girls in their first come-out wear white."

  "White!" She could scarcely believe her ears. "White? But I hate white. I can never keep it clean. I am always smudging it somewhere or another. Surely you must be mistaken."

  The earl shook his head sadly, denying the words even as he spoke them. "Maybe you are right. You must take it up with my mother. Now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment to attend to." He rose from the table and gave her a quick bow before disappearing out the door. Gillian watched him go, then slowly let her gaze drop to her cold plate.

  White? She despised white. And as for speaking to Lady Mavenford, Gillian suspected the woman would take great pleasure in dressing her from tip to toe in that hateful color.

  Oh, her Season was already curse
d from beginning to end. And what had they done to Tom?

  Chapter 3

  Rule #4:

  A lady is grateful for a man’s protection and assistance.

  Stephen did not wait for his mother and ward to depart. He made his escape directly after breakfast, heading straight for Oltheten and Kersten, Solicitors at Law.

  He did not suspect anything out of the ordinary, he told himself as he rode down Broad Street. It simply behooved him to learn as much as possible about his new ward. Any good soldier knew that seeking knowledge was always advisable. Unfortunately, his solicitor, Mr. Jeremy Oltheten, was distinctly unhelpful.

  True, the offices of Oltheten and Kersten had assisted the earl's family for years. However, Mr. Jeremy Oltheten, a young lad of twenty-seven, had not helped Stephen's father with the terms of his guardianship of Miss Wyndham. That task had fallen to Mr. Oltheten's father, James Oltheten, who had retired last year due to serious illness.

  So nearly three hours later, after one traffic upset, two wrong turns, and an interminable wait in a dimly fit drawing room, Stephen finally stepped into the sickroom of his father's former solicitor, squinting through the gloom to make out the details.

  His first impression was of austere simplicity. From the rich furnishings of the house, Stephen expected the man's room to be similarly grandiose. It was in fact, quite plain, with only the absolutely necessary accoutrements, and it spoke well of the owner's practical inclinations.

  As he entered, his gaze connected with a young woman, presumably a daughter. She wore a simple dress over a modest figure. Her hair was neatly plaited and her face remained calm, if a bit sad. She stood immediately upon his entrance, gliding silently forward as she dropped into a demure curtsy before him.

  "He woke not more than five minutes ago and wished to see you directly," she said. "But please, my lord—he tires easily."

  "I understand," Stephen responded. The woman nodded, then quietly withdrew, leaving Stephen to step closer to the large bed, which held a small, frail man. "Good afternoon, Mr. Oltheten. I appreciate your time."

  "Not at all, not at all, my lord," the gentleman said in a wheeze. "Always a pleasure to receive a visit, especially from your lordship. Tell me what has happened to your family."

  Stephen settled into the nearby chair and embarked upon an edited recitation of his family's recent losses, much as he would for an elderly aunt. He spoke of his father's death and his brother's more unexpected one. He mentioned his hasty return from Spain and of how much the younger Oltheten was helping him adjust to the responsibilities of the earldom.

  As he spoke, he carefully watched the man his father once depended on so heavily. The solicitor's hair was a dull gray where it wisped about his head. He was impossibly thin, his bony hands like long spindles where they rested on the coverlet. But what most concerned Stephen were the man's eyes. They were large and brown despite the wrinkles surrounding them, no doubt made from years of squinting at documents. But Stephen could not help but be dismayed at the vague cloudiness hovering there. Occasionally they would narrow, and Stephen would catch a glimpse of the man he must have been. But then the next moment Oltheten's glance would turn vague, and he knew the solicitor's attention wandered.

  I had better get on with it before I lose the man entirely, Stephen thought grimly.

  "Mr. Oltheten, sir, do you perhaps recall a Miss Amanda Wyndham in York some years back? Her father, my uncle, died, leaving a small estate that you supervised."

  The man's eyes glazed over, and Stephen feared his trip wasted; then suddenly they cleared and the old solicitor let out a loud wheeze. "Oh, yes, Wyndham. One daughter. Bitter little thing. All encased in white." He glanced up, his face twisted in a short cackle. "Sort of like me in this damn shroud."

  Stephen smiled, unable to deny the man his sickbed humor. "She is in London now as my ward. We are to sponsor her Season."

  The old man pursed his face, frowning in confusion. "Miss Wyndham? For a Season? I never thought she would make it here."

  "Sir?"

  But the man was already lost in his own thoughts as he released another cackle. "Sort of gives me hope, if that girl could survive."

  "She was very ill?"

  "Death's door, I thought. You say she is here for her Season?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well," he said with another wheeze. "Maybe I ought to send for that by-blow girl myself."

  Stephen blinked, wondering if the old man had faded into some imaginings of his own. "I spoke of Miss Wyndham, sir. Miss Amanda Wyndham."

  The old gentleman twisted around to glare at Stephen. "I know who you meant. I am talking about her half-sister, the one who knew herbs. She made me some tea, as I remember, on my last visit. Helped the lungs, she said." His last words were more of a wheeze than words, and he soon descended into a coughing fit. Glancing at the side table, Stephen grabbed a cup of tepid water and helped the old man drink, his heart twisting within him at the nearly fleshless feel of the solicitor's heaving shoulders.

  It was another five minutes before the man could speak, his voice paper thin, though still filled with his own dry humor. "Could use some of that witch's brew now."

  Stephen nodded politely, completely uninterested in his uncle's old scandal. His thoughts were on Amanda. "Sir, is there anything you can tell me about Miss Wyndham? What do you remember of her?"

  The old man frowned, screwing up his lips in distaste. "Not much to remember. Last time I saw her was a little over two years ago. Bitter, sickly little thing all encased in white. Said it made her feel more holy. I thought it made her look like a shriveled-up mummy." His next cackle brought on another, more severe coughing fit that left the man gasping for breath, too pale to do more than blink his watery eyes.

  The interview was over, Stephen realized with an inward sigh. Though he wanted to press for more information, he could see that the elderly gentleman would not stand the strain. Standing, he hastily summoned the woman and took his leave.

  Five minutes later he was once again outside, frowning at the beautiful London day. The solicitor had described Amanda as bitter and sickly, two adjectives he himself would never choose. Then there was that odd reference about her being shrouded in white, and yet Amanda professed a hatred of the color.

  Clearly something momentous had happened to the girl to change her into the generous, vibrant woman she now appeared. A religious conversion, maybe? Stephen shrugged. Whatever occurred, it must have been dramatic.

  Perhaps he should take a trip to York just to look around. A few discreet questions, perhaps a guinea or two, and he would surely know the whole tale. He squinted at the sun, noting its position in the sky. He still had time to leave today. He could be in York tomorrow night. Unfortunately, his other estates required his attention more than the Yorkshire properties. His father had neglected too much during his long illness. And his brother Harry had left things in chaos. Stephen simply could not spare the time for a trip to York.

  With a sigh, Stephen pulled out his pocket watch and planned the rest of his day. He had lost so much time tracking down the elder Mr. Oltheten that barely a half hour remained to make his appointment with Perry, Viscount Derbarough, his sheep-farming mentor. With a muffled groan, Stephen kicked the sides of his black stallion while trying unsuccessfully to push his young ward from his mind.

  She was an odd one, strangely intriguing, infuriatingly forward, and hopelessly direct. A mystery surrounded her, and he was determined to solve it. Perhaps he could get the answers from the girl herself. She certainly was not hard to read. Little more than an hour of his directed attention should get the information he sought.

  Stephen smiled as he felt his spirits lighten for the first time in a week. Yes, he thought, just a little more time with the intriguing Amanda, and he would possess the key to handling the puzzling spitfire.

  * * *

  Gillian stared out the window at the gentle night. More than anything she wanted to disappear into the darkness, wander
ing the wild moors of her childhood, trying to quiet the restlessness within her.

  But she could not. This was London, and despite her urge to throw off the earl's restrictions, she was not completely stupid. To go out alone into a London night would be foolish—not to mention useless. She could not think of anything less quiet, less soothing than the city.

  When she had conceived her plan to impersonate Amanda, she had dreamed of ardent suitors, elegant ball gowns, a few months of the joys and laughter that came with being rich—and legitimate. No one had mentioned corsets, prune-faced maids, and restrictions designed to frustrate any sane person.

  White! She had to wear white. She could not walk alone. She had to wear a hat and speak softly and only about polite inconsequentials. Yes, she had heard the earl list these ridiculous rules last night, but she'd given them little heed. They were the result of his pique and not really intended to be followed.

  Then she'd discovered to her shock that the countess firmly supported each of his wild dictates, not to mention adding some of her own. Gillian might have pushed those aside as well—after all, Lady Mavenford seemed to enjoy Gillian's discomfort—but the modiste was frankly shocked that anyone would question the rules.

  "But of course you must wear white," the modiste exclaimed in a thick French accent. "Did not your mama tell you this?"

  "Her mother died in childbed," the countess responded in her usual haughty tone. "I fear Amanda did not learn the niceties of polite society."

  "Ah," the modiste responded, nodding her head in condescending understanding. "Then you are fortunate to have Lady Mavenford to teach you the ways, non? She is very wise and never mislays a step."

  The countess, of course, smiled beatifically at the compliment, and the modiste bowed while Gillian nearly choked on her disgust. The modiste's overflowing admiration was merely to ingratiate herself with the countess. Any fool could see that. Once, Gillian would have laughed at the display, but the flattery solidified the two women's mutual admiration, and Gillian lost any hope of enlisting the dressmaker's aid for at least one bright ball gown.