“Yes.”
She sat back. “Good. Then I believe we’ll have an equitable arrangement ahead of us.”
Ravenhill, the estate of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, took Anne’s breath away.
She’d heard it was considered to be one of the most beautiful houses in all of England, but the size was overwhelming, its features daunting. The portico at the front less resembled a family home than the entrance to some pantheon. Low towers were placed at each corner of the building’s central block, topped with stone belvederes and decorated with finials.
Truthfully, it appeared more like a bastion or a citadel than a house. Anne nearly leaned out of the carriage window in an attempt to glimpse the splendor of the place in full.
It was intimidating.
Anne hadn’t realized she’d expressed the thought aloud until Mr. Grey said, amused, “The duchess herself isn’t nearly as intimidating, I assure you.”
Anne sat back as they rounded the drive. “We’ve met. I doubt she was particularly impressed with me.”
“What makes you say that?”
She lifted a shoulder. “You know something of public roles, don’t you? Mine was an especially shallow idiot.”
To put it lightly. Anne would have preferred she not speak at all at events; better to play someone who was shy than play the idiot. But her father would not tolerate her silence at balls the way he did in his house. Her persona made him more sympathetic, for his public role was the doting father who did not let his daughter want for anything. If she wished to wear a different hat every day, who was he to deny her?
Anne eventually came to understand that even silence was its own refuge.
She ignored Mr. Grey’s pitying expression as the carriage slowed. She did not wish for pity. She was saving herself, being here.
The Duchess of Hastings greeted them with a smile as they exited the carriage. Anne had always admired the duchess, who was both beautiful and unfailingly polite. She held herself with a quiet strength that indicated an independence that Anne craved. She could only hope that, one day, she would be as self-determined.
The duchess reached to grasp Anne’s hands. “Miss Sheffield, it’s such a pleasure to meet you,” she said warmly.
“We’ve met, Your Grace,” Anne said. “Most recently at Lady Churchill’s garden party.”
“I believe I met another young woman there who spoke quite at length about her dresses. But from what Richard told me, she wasn’t you, was she?”
Oh, the duchess could not understand what those words meant. No, that woman wasn’t her. She wasn’t real. Anne was more than that. So much more.
“No.” Anne swallowed the emotion in her voice, trying again to sound calm. “She wasn’t.”
The other woman’s smile gentled. “Come. Let me show you my home, and you can tell me all about yourself.”
Richard let out a laugh. “And me? Do I not get a greeting?”
The duchess eyed him with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, hello, Richard. You’re always here, aren’t you?”
Anne laughed in surprise.
“Do you see the way she treats me, Miss Sheffield? Not even a proper greeting. No offer of tea or biscuits. No—“
“Yes, yes,” the duchess said dismissively. “You’ll eat my entire kitchen as you always do, I expect. Come along, Miss Sheffield. Richard can look after himself.” As the other woman led her towards the house, she said, “And please call me Caroline. I’ve the feeling we’ll be fast friends.”
Chapter 6
Richard began their lessons during dinner that night, at Anne’s insistence. If we have a mere seven days before Her Grace’s other guests arrive, then we must begin straightaway, she’d said. I haven’t the time for resting.
So when she showed up at the dining room, Caroline quickly ushered her to the seat beside Richard. “This arrangement will no doubt puzzle the servants, but let’s play as if we’re at a dinner with guests present. Anne, pretend Richard is a man you find intriguing and wish to learn more about.”
Richard raised an eyebrow as he settled back in his chair. Without anyone seated across from them, the table was rather lopsided. “Are these my lessons, or yours?”
“Oh, do excuse me. I forgot that you considered yourself an expert in the art of small talk.” She sipped from her wine and waved an encouraging hand. “Please continue.”
Richard shook his head and focused on Anne, who was staring down at her food with an intense, concentrating expression. He wondered if she were nervous. How strange that a woman brave enough to come to his home in the middle of the night should be flustered at the thought of a mere dinner conversation.
“All right, Miss Sheffield,” he said. “Treat me as you would any normal dinner conversation. Where did you grow up? London?”
She look a breath and turned to him, though her eyes remained downcast. “In Dorset,” she said. “We lived at my father’s estate there before he went into politics. He’s the MP of Dorchester.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Not at all. My father loves London.”
Richard frowned. Why wouldn’t she look at him? Why keep her eyes downcast, as if she would rather be anywhere else? “And you, Miss Sheffield? Do you love London?”
Her cheeks pinkened prettily. Was that unintentional, or part of a performance? He couldn’t tell. “Of course,” she replied. “I think it a very fine place.”
No, she had to be lying. There was little delight in her voice, no inflection or interest. She spoke as if by rote. Richard had done the same often enough to recognize it.
Still, he sought to make sense of her lies. See how far she’d go. “What about London do you enjoy most?”
“The events.”
Fair. He supposed that was why any debutante came to town. “And?”
“The…” She seemed to be grasping now, as if she had not been asked to explain her answers before. “The parks.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed. For anyone raised in the country, a London park proved barely adequate. A pale imitation of countryside so wealthy peers could enjoy nature in the middle of a crowded, filthy metropolis. They were but patches of green separating rich from poor, for the lower classes had little opportunity to see grass, let alone take time to rest their weary bodies upon its soft surface.
“Parks and events?” Richard asked casually. “Imagine being so easy to please.”
Her gaze flickered to his and her expression tightened imperceptibly; she must be catching on to his game. “There isn’t a thing wrong with being easy to please, is there?”
“I suppose not. Tell me what else you like? The theater, perhaps?”
“I’ve never attended.” Her voice was sharper now. “The weather in London is lovely.”
Oh, he’d had enough. The bloody weather? The weather? Of all the damned answers.
“And I think,” Richard interrupted mildly, “that you’re lying.”
That caught her attention. She must have expected him to keep playing at this, pretending as though her answers were not some mockery of a conversation, where she gave no insight to her character at all.
But he was here to teach her, was he not? Anyone but the simplest of men would know immediately that she was dishonest.
What a pretty liar she was, though. Her wide brown eyes flashed up at him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“Richard,” Caroline said sharply, signaling for the servants to bring the next dish.
“My lesson,” he reminded Caroline. To Anne: “Now, are you telling me the truth or are you telling me what you think a man like me wants to hear?”
Anne made a frustrated noise. “People like London. A lot of people like London.”
“You said your father likes London, not you. And no one — and I mean no one — likes London for the damn parks or the weather. You grew up in Hampshire, for god’s sake. I’m not a complete idiot.”
“Fine.” She threw her hands up. “I loathe London. It’s terrible. It’s
smelly and dirty and crowded and ugly. Are you pleased with that?”
Oh, she was angry now. That steel was back in her gaze, and he was glad to see it. Here was the woman who had come to his home in Bloomsbury to save herself. Here was the woman who had demanded there be rules between them. She was not some coquette at a party, but a woman who had survived and honed her mind under the watchful gaze of a father who believed women should have no thoughts of their own at all.
“No, I’m not pleased. Back to the lesson. Do you miss Dorset?”
Her attention returned to her meal. He watched as she slipped back into her performance, and something about it angered him. The light went out of her eyes. It was like watching a candle being snuffed out.
She took a small bite of fish. He hadn’t been paying attention, but how much had she eaten? It didn't seem like much at all. No wonder she was so slight.
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. That sound was the most honest thing he’d heard all dinner. “I miss Dorset.”
Yes, this longing in her voice was real. No one could feign that sort of yearning, even the cleverest of liars. A girl who loved Dorset would not thrive in London, she would be smothered by it.
“What do you miss?”
Another small bite, slow and deliberate. “It was so warm there in summer. The gardens on the estate were especially lovely.”
Lies again. She returned to them so easily, as if they were a blanket, a comfort. And how could he blame her? For Stanton Sheffield’s daughter, lying must have felt safe.
He gritted his teeth. “And did you have any hobbies? Riding? Gardening? Anything?”
“Some days, I would go shopping for the prettiest fabrics. I enjoy shopping for fabrics and ribbons, new hats and shoes. I ought to tell you about this hat I bought—”
“That’s enough.” Richard put down his fork with a clatter and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could bear this no longer. “Stop there. Don’t talk.”
“Richard,” Caroline hissed.
Anne flushed with embarrassment and shoved her chair back from the table. “Excuse me,” she said shakily. “I find I’m more tired than I thought. I’ll just . . .”
She strode out of the room without finishing. Richard felt like the biggest arse.
Caroline shook her head in disgust. “You are the biggest arse.”
“I know.”
“That girl has been taught her entire life that sort of dull conversation was ideal. She gave you the best she could, and you tossed it back in her face.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you doing still sitting here? Go after her and fix it, you great bloody oaf.”
Caroline was barely through her last insult before Richard was on his feet.
Richard knocked on Anne’s bedchamber door and heard exactly the response he was expecting: “Thank you, but I don’t need any help tonight.”
He turned the knob and shoved open the door. “And yet here I am, ready and willing.”
Anne gasped, lurching off the window seat. “You can’t be in here. This isn’t—”
“Proper?” Richard shut the door. “What an interesting observation coming from the woman who demanded her way into a bachelor’s residence after midnight.”
She sputtered, and Richard couldn’t help but think of how adorable she looked. How vulnerable, with her red waves coming loose from her chignon as if she had run her fingers through it. Disheveled, that was the word. Was there anything more lovely than a woman caught off guard? He didn’t think so.
“That was different,” she replied. “You told me to stop talking. You said—”
“I was an arse.”
Anne’s eyebrows went up. “I — I mean. Well, yes, you were.”
“And I’m sorry for it.”
She shook her head, resuming her perch in the window seat. “I can’t say I blame you. I failed to tell you about my father’s rules.”
“Rules?”
Richard lowered himself onto the seat beside her, taking care not to crowd her. She may have given him permission to touch her, but he would not use such a thing to his advantage. She deserved more care.
“Yes. He has a great many of them,” she said bitterly. “One of his most important is that I never offer any insight beyond the weather and lady’s fashion.”
Richard made a noise. “Why the hell not?”
Her eyes meeting his were like a flame lit and put out far too quickly. Just a brief flicker of contact — enough to feel the heat — then gone again. “He did not wish to risk me sharing political information. So I was to give no information at all.”
Damn Stanton Sheffield for treating Anne like a pawn in his political scheming. Who did that to a child — to his own family — as if she didn’t matter? Richard hated the prime minister for smothering his daughter's thoughts, and he admired Anne more for not yielding to such manipulations. He couldn’t imagine the strength of will it must have taken to reach out to her father’s adversary for help.
“Let’s try again,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. Her palm was warm, smooth, so small compared to his own. “What do you miss about Dorset? Be honest with me this time, Miss Sheffield.”
“Honesty, Mr. Grey? Sometimes I feel as if I’ve forgotten it.”
“Try. I heard longing in your voice earlier. What was it for?”
She loosed a breath and shut her eyes. “The sea cliffs.”
There now. This was a start. “Go on.”
“On sunny days, I’d walk along the sea cliffs, and I felt as if I were gazing across the whole of the world. I could see for miles and miles. When it stormed, I often watched as the rain came in from the distance. The pace of the waves changed with the wind. Have you ever seen such a thing?”
He shook his head. At that moment, he would have given anything to imagine that sight with her. When had he ever known such peace? His life was often chaotic as he switched between playing the rogue and making demands of politicians. No time for appreciating something as uncomplicated as a summer storm — not that he would have stopped to notice. He had never learned how to slow down and appreciate such simple pleasures.
He regretted not stopping, now, as she gave a small smile at the memory. “No? It seems a shame. Nothing is more beautiful than the scent of the sea during a storm.”
No, there was something more beautiful. It was her, with her head thrown back, speaking in her voice like smoke. It was low and almost husky at the memory. She had him mesmerized.
“Tell me more,” he said, wanting her to keep talking. “Did you walk every day?”
“Most days,” she replied. “Even when it rained. I love the rain.” She opened her eyes and now he knew why she looked away so often. Because a man could drown in that gaze. He could lose himself in her so easily. “Do you?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “I am not fond of sunshine.”
She tilted her head as if that was the strangest thing she’d ever heard. “Why not?”
“My mother died on the nicest day I can recall.”
Anne reached for him, her fingertips grazing his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago. I barely remember her.”
What he recalled the most was how selfish she was. How she was more concerned with punishing the old Earl of Kent for his indiscretions than taking care of her offspring. Their father was equally selfish. He didn’t come back until they were lowering her coffin into the ground. There was some tragedy, he supposed, in having two parents who worked more at hating each other than loving their own children.
“Even so,” she said, “it has made you hate sunny days. Seems a shame, I think, when they’re so rare.”
How had he not noticed before how lovely her voice was? There was a kindness to it, a warmth when she became comfortable. He could listen to her speak for hours.
“What of your mother?” he asked. “I can’t say I know much about Sheffield’s personal life.”
Anne dropped her han
d from his face and looked away. “She died when I was an infant. She and my father were in a carriage accident. He lived; she didn’t.”
“It must have been difficult, being a young woman without a mother. My sister struggled a great deal with it.”
“Perhaps it would have been easier,” she murmured, “if I had a father who loved me as much as he loved his money.”
“Miss Sheffield—”
“If you’re about to apologize to me, I’d rather you didn’t. You have nothing to be sorry for, and I don’t particularly fancy the idea of being pitied.”
There was that other voice again, the one from that night in his home. It was steel scraped across stone to sharpen a blade. He loved it just as much, for that voice had caught his attention. He would never forget it as long as he lived.
“I was going to say that your father’s a damned fool. I admire the hell out of you, Miss Sheffield. How could I reduce those thoughts to pity when you inspire such awe?”
She lowered her head, but not before he saw her smile. “Thank you.” She reached for the small table beside her to collect the stack of papers there. “These are for you. Information on Mr. Charles Alston. His reputation in the shipping business is, to put it lightly, very criminal. He hides his dealings with false names.”
Richard stared down at her neat handwriting and glanced through the pages. “My god, this is thorough. You recall the amounts?”
“Of course.” Anne straightened. “If my father needed to know any information quickly, I was there to provide it. He burned a great deal of documentation so the things he knew could never fall into the wrong hands. He relies almost entirely on my memory.”
She had told him Stanton used her memory to record his dealings, but this was remarkable. She had this man’s entire history laid out. Now that he knew about Anne’s memory, it was little wonder her father had such an iron grip on his allies — and little wonder he wanted to keep his daughter so close. She was a walking, talking book of his blackmail information.
At his silence, she asked. “What do you intend to do with it?”
His Scandalous Lessons Page 4