“I wish you’d take credit for these,” he told her. “Rather than use a man’s name.”
Caroline laughed. “Don’t you know? If a man paints a naked body, it’s art. When a woman does it, it’s pornography.” She began gathering her things. “I’ll send those invitations now. I do hope you know what you’re doing.”
Chapter 4
Dear Miss Sheffield,
I cannot express how delighted I am to hear from you. First, let me offer my most sincere felicitations on your betrothal. I know the difficulty of growing up without a woman to offer guidance on our roles after marriage. I am pleased to provide any assistance before your impending nuptials. I hope that once we are through, your husband will appreciate the time and effort you have put into pleasing him. You may visit my country residence at Ravenhill next week and stay for a time. I think you will find we have much to discuss.
Sincerely,
Caroline Stafford
The Duchess of Hastings
“What is this?” Stanton Sheffield asked, frowning down at the duchess’s letter.
For once, Anne was glad for her father’s rule about not meeting his eyes; she wouldn’t have been able to hide her delight.
Mr. Grey had done it. He had stayed true to his word, and the invitation was more than Anne had hoped — her father could not turn down a summons from the Duchess of Hastings. Though her husband was often at odds politically with Anne’s father, the duchess herself was too influential. She'd built her reputation over the years as a sterling example of gentility. Every mother in the aristocracy pointed to the duchess and said, That is the woman you want to emulate. She is perfect.
She is perfect, Anne thought. How had Mr. Grey managed to obtain her help after such a scandalous request? Surely she couldn’t know all the details, or—
“I didn’t realize you were on such familiar terms with the Duchess of Hastings.”
Stanton Sheffield’s sharp voice snapped her from her thoughts. She peeked up to find him watching her closely, as if searching for an answer to an unasked question.
Her father was a large man, more burly than most gentleman, with ink black hair and equally dark, cold eyes. His build betrayed common stalk. For although their family came from country gentry, he was only the second son of a poor viscount. His humble beginnings hardly commanded the sort of respect his wealthier peers received. No, his money came through marriage to a rich merchant’s daughter, and his status as a politician was gained through fear, intimidation, and blackmail. He had earned nothing in his life through honest means, not even Anne’s mother.
“I met with her at a few social events, and I also greatly admired her paintings when we went to visit the Rivington Estate last year,” Anne said quietly, lowering her gaze. “I asked you then if it was all right to send her correspondence to say so. Do you remember, papa?”
She wasn’t lying. The country ball last year had been one of the few outings her father had allowed outside the City, and only to soften his image for a bribe. A man who publicly doted on his daughter couldn’t be such a monster, people believed. They were so willing to accept their public lie: he, the devoted father committed to keeping his daughter safe; and she, the pretty imbecile who enjoyed shopping for hats and little else.
Such identities maintained the status quo. They were easy. Uncomplicated. No one wanted to know about what went on behind closed doors.
Stanton waved a dismissive hand. “I remember. What does she wish to discuss with you?”
Anne tried not to let her hands shake. If he said no, that was it. She had to be careful. “Kendal and I are to marry in three months—”
“What of it?”
“As duchess, my responsibility will be his happiness,” she said in a low voice. “I sought to ask Her Grace for advice on how I might . . .” She paused, glancing up to see if he was still paying attention. His eyes were almost overly focused on her, as if he were waiting for her to slip up. She hid her gaze again. “. . . be the perfect wife for him.”
“Kendal has given you instructions on how to please him. He has for years now.”
Anne held back a flinch at his words. Yes, she had been betrothed since she was twelve. Yes, he had sought to carve her into his ideal woman, controlling every aspect of her very existence. The duke had been a constant presence in her life since that fateful day when Stanton announced Kendal was to be her husband.
A man thirty-one years her senior.
For a girl of twelve, it had been frightening. For a woman of nineteen, it was the way of the nobility. A young woman simply did not turn down the chance to be a duchess over silly things like age or the kindness of her groom. What did those things matter when there was the coronet to consider?
Yes, many women were willing to sacrifice their happiness for that title, but Anne wasn’t one of them.
“Yes, papa. His Grace has instructed me in the ways of a man seeking a wife. I’d like instruction from a duchess on how I might succeed in the role she has accomplished very well.”
Stanton tapped his finger against his desk. He seemed to consider her statement, but then shook his head firmly. “I can’t escort you, and I’ll be leaving to the country for a few days before Parliament is back in session. I have business to attend up north.”
Anne’s hope deflated. Though she treasured the time he spent away from London, his servants would report any suspicious activity while he was gone. If she didn’t leave for the duchess’s estate, she would have to come up with another plan.
You don’t have time for another plan. Think!
She pressed her lips together, as if embarrassed. “It’s only that other women have mothers and aunts to counsel them before marriage . . .”
Stanton’s gaze swung back to hers. “Ah. I see.” He let out a breath, considering her words. “All right. You may seek Her Grace’s counsel. I think Kendal will be pleased at you receiving advice from a woman so above reproach. Were it anyone else, I would not be so lenient with you.”
Anne had to stop herself from showing relief. He was going to let her go. He was going to let her go. She could hardly believe it.
“Thank you, papa,” she whispered.
She would not fail.
Chapter 5
Though Anne argued against the necessity of a bodyguard, her father forced her to take a maid.
As she settled in the private rail coach with Mary, Anne tried to hide her nervousness. The other passengers were boarding the train now. Any moment they would be leaving, and she couldn’t very well strand her maid in the middle of the country upon arrival.
No, she had to think of something.
Don’t panic. Think. Calmly.
Mary was an unobjectionable lady’s maid who always had a polite smile in the mornings as she helped Anne dress. Her pleasant demeanor, of course, served a purpose. It was easy to drop one’s guard around the only person who offered a smile — and part of Mary’s duties included reporting to Stanton about Anne's activities. Where they went during the day, how long they spent there, with whom she spoke, what she said. Every word meticulously controlled so that none of Stanton’s secrets would ever spill forth from his daughter’s lips.
Here on this train, she served as a reminder: even in Anne’s father’s absence, he was still watching her. Still listening. Still present by proxy.
Come now. A plan, any plan.
Anne considered her options. How long would a letter take to find her father? Could she strike up a deal with her lady’s maid in return for a future post?
As her thoughts whirled, the door of the coach opened and in stepped Mr. Grey.
Anne was caught momentarily speechless at the sight of him. It was easy to forget words in the presence of a man so striking, who commanded attention with an ease that frustrated her. Who was he to have such an affect on her?
His gaze sought hers and held it. Anne loosed a breath; she’d forgot the full force of those astute blue eyes. The full force of him, in fact. He was dressed
handsomely, wearing dark grey trousers and a matching overcoat that were tailored to show off his musculature, the breadth of his shoulders. No, his body was obviously not prone to leisure. Indeed, even his dark blond hair was slightly mussed, as if he had been running.
Or passionately kissing a woman, Anne thought with a glare.
Mr. Grey could not read her mind, but he grinned at her as if she had spoken the words aloud.
Anne gulped and looked away. She could no more hold that gaze than an oncoming army in battle, there to plunder her castle. How could he disarm her so, with no more than a mere expression?
It was alarming.
“Mr. Grey,” she said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Mary was watching both of them with a calculating expression. She’d know who Mr. Grey was; Anne’s father ranted about him often enough.
“Oh, I’m full of surprises, Miss Sheffield. You’ll understand that in time.” Before Anne could decide if that was a threat or promise, his attention shifted to her father-by-proxy. Anne noticed the almost imperceptible narrowing of his gaze. “And who is this?”
Her lady’s maid rose to her feet and curtsied. “Mary, sir.”
“Miss Mary,” he said. What was that voice? Good god, he sounded as if he were in a bedchamber, welcoming a woman to his bed. Anne could see the effect it had on her poor maid; she doubted there was a woman alive who could withstand it. “If I may speak with you for but a moment?”
Mr. Grey smiled a slow, utterly beautiful smile and beckoned with his fingers. The poor girl drew closer, helpless to resist. Anne watched in fascination. She wondered if it ought to disgust her how easily he was able to disarm a woman, but was this not the skill she sought him for? Was it not what she wished him to teach her? With only three weeks to snare a husband, she had little time. Certainly none to consider the morality of it.
He leaned down and whispered something in Mary’s ear.
“Oh, but I couldn’t,” she protested a moment later.
Mr. Grey whispered something else. Good god, was he trying to seduce Anne’s maid?
Then he took a bundle of bill folds out of his pocket and thrust it into her hands. “Yes?”
“And I’m off,” Mary said brightly. She looked over at Anne and winked. “Enjoy yer holiday, Miss.”
Anne only sputtered a response as the girl grasped her shawl from the seat and bounced out of the carriage. Mere heartbeats later, the whistle blew for the remaining passengers to board.
Without a single explanation, Mr. Grey settled across from her. He removed his hat and casually crossed his legs at the ankles.
The railcar was not big enough for him. He took up an excessive amount of space. Not just his body, which was not slight in the least, but his magnetism made the space seem too small. He had left Anne grasping for some semblance of control, and she had yet to find it. Instead, she was reduced to staring at him.
That was his intent.
No, she didn’t like this. There was . . . too much of him.
Drawing back as far as possible, Anne asked, “What did you say to my maid?”
Mr. Grey lifted a shoulder. “I told her that if she wished, there was a position waiting for her with a lady friend of mine. It has the benefit of holidays, increased wages, and an employer who wasn’t a complete monster. Then I gave her some money for more incentive to flee.”
“How do you know my father is a monster to his servants?”
“Easy,” he murmured. “Because he’s one to his daughter.”
Anne was glad she wasn’t looking at him, because otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to bear it. She was quiet as the train chugged forward. Her breathing didn’t sound right. Too quick, too ragged. It betrayed much of her uneasiness.
Take your time. Calm yourself.
After all, Mr. Grey seemed to be in no rush. He watched her as if amused by her discomfort.
“We will establish rules, you and I,” she said finally. “If we are to work together.”
“Rules,” Mr. Grey echoed. “What sort of rules?”
“For how to conduct ourselves, of course. The first is that I do not wish to discuss either my fiancé or my father, unless it is useful to your cause or I choose to bring up the matter.” She flicked her gaze up. “Is that understood?”
He nodded once. “Quite.”
“The second is that for every lesson you give me, I will provide information on my father’s colleagues, including men he has purchased and blackmailed. Who it is will be at my discretion. At the end of the house party, I will provide the rest of the information regardless of whether I am successful at securing a husband.”
Mr. Grey tilted his head slightly. “You would give me so much in the event of failure?”
Anne pressed her lips together. Perhaps she should not have made such a concession at first. Were she a man, her father would have lectured her on showing her hand too early. One cannot make demands when one had given the game away.
But Anne was not her father. She was not heartless, and she would not be as ruthless, either.
“My father's allies force tenants to vote against their best interests or risk being thrown into the streets. They deserve to have their say in a private ballot. I could not live with myself if I didn’t do everything possible to ensure that right.”
Mr. Grey stared at her; she could not tell if it were in astonishment or suspicion. “You care?” he asked in a low voice.
“My father might be a monster, sir, but I am not. I only ask that you not take advantage, and be honest with me in all things.”
“Is that rule three?”
“If you like.”
Mr. Grey outstretched his bare hand, pausing just short of touching her. Asking for permission, she realized. As if she were a wild animal he was allowing to scent him, to gain his trust. Anne slid her hand into his, but was surprised when he proceeded to slowly remove her glove, finger by finger.
“Rule four is by your permission,” he murmured. “I can’t conduct lessons in seduction without touching you. Will you let me?”
His bare palm pressed against hers, warm and light and gentle. She had never been asked for consent before intimacies. Permission, warm regard . . . these were not things that Anne had been taught and she feared her lack of knowledge in this area. It left her too open, too vulnerable. Anyone could take advantage, and men were used to getting what they wanted.
Anne swallowed. “What if I don’t like it? You touching me.”
Without hesitation, Mr. Grey removed his hand from hers. “Then I stop.”
Anne was afraid to look at him now. Afraid of her next question. “What if I don’t want you to stop?”
Now he reached for her again, lightly grazing his fingertips along her jawline. “Then I continue.” Fingertips down her throat, so slowly. “Perhaps that ought to be our rule four: Consent can be withdrawn at any time.”
She caught his wrist, torn between wanting him to continue, not wanting him to. She didn't understanding these feelings that stirred in her gut and . . . lower. A heat she had never felt before. It was too much. She did not like it.
Distractedly, she looked down at his hands and noticed that his knuckles were bruised and flecked with dried blood. “Have you hit someone, Mr. Grey? Several times, from the look of things.”
“No one who didn’t want to be hit.” At her confused expression, he offered a smile. “My brother and I are in the same boxing club. He was in a mood to punish himself yesterday.”
Anne didn’t understand what made men want to pummel anyone, let alone for amusement. “Over what?”
Mr. Grey shrugged. “A woman.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Can’t say I do, either.” His fingers found her own knuckles. “Smooth. Unscarred. Never dealt violence.”
No. That had only been received, never dealt. She did not like violent men. But she did not come to Mr. Grey for his morals, but rather his lack of them. What he did to his own sibling did not co
ncern her so long as he never treated her the same during their lessons. This she would not tolerate from any man.
No longer.
“Rule five,” she said, gently pushing his hand away. “You will be honest with me about my suitors. I do not wish . . .” At his frown, she cleared her throat. “I do not wish for a younger version of my fiancé. To trade one prison cell for another.”
“I can’t attest to how they treat women privately, but I’ll do my best to advise you. I’m sure Caro will too.”
Anne drew back slightly. He must know the duchess well to be on such familiar terms with her. She trailed a finger along the wooden edge of the window as the train barreled across the meadows and farm fields.
“Caro? Is the Duchess of Hastings your lover, then?” Anne asked this quietly, with great hesitance. She was not usually so vocal, so forward.
Yet with him . . . well, he had touched her, hadn’t he? They were in this partnership. He had promised honesty.
But perhaps she shouldn’t test that vow so soon.
At his silence, Anne pressed her hands together. “I’m sorry, I should not ask such things. I merely wondered how you managed to persuade her to do this. She does understand the reason for my coming, yes?”
“She does.” He sounded amused. “And no, Caro and I aren’t lovers. We’re friends. The rest is not my secret to tell.”
“I see.” She didn’t, not really. But it didn’t matter; he was hers for only a short period of time. “Rule six,” she said. “Last rule.”
Mr. Grey spread his hands. “I’m listening.”
“At the end of this fortnight, we will again be strangers to each other. No one is to know about—”
“I assure you,” Mr. Grey interjected, “I know how to maintain discretion.”
Unable to stop herself, Anne leaned forward. “Let me finish. What I mean is that you will not use this against my father. I know how men in politics work, Mr. Grey. The ruthless games they play. I will give you enough information to destroy my father, but you will not use me, do you understand?”
His Scandalous Lessons Page 3