“I need to send this to Thorne,” he muttered, skimming the carefully detailed dates, amounts, names.
“Thorne?” she inquired. “I don’t know that name.”
“You wouldn’t. Most of his dealings in Parliament go through me. Nicholas Thorne has a great deal of influence in the criminal underworld. He’s the one who helps me remind men of their loyalties when bills come up for a vote.”
“I see.” She pressed her lips together. “You must tell him to take care. If my father catches word—”
“I know,” he assured her. “Trust me.”
“I don’t know how to trust people, Mr. Grey,” Anne said.
“Richard,” he corrected. He reached out and grasped her hand. “And I’ll teach you.”
Chapter 7
“Where is that foolish man?” Anne muttered over breakfast.
The Duchess of Hastings was there, reading the newspaper and consuming what had to be her third cup of coffee — or maybe it was her fifth. Anne lost count after a servant kept refilling it.
Anne had been up for several hours, eager to begin her lessons for the day. But Richard had yet to make an appearance. There was no sign from the servants that he was even awake, and Anne was beginning to lose her patience.
Men are useless, Anne thought, setting down her teacup. Rakes worst of all.
“Hmm?” Caroline sipped her coffee. “Did you say something, dear?”
“Mr. Grey. Richard. He’s absent.”
Caroline looked over the newspaper at Anne and laughed. “Yes, absent is the word I’d use for him at any time before the clock strikes noon. Rather like describing the sky as blue, and this coffee as necessary.”
Anne pinched the bridge of her nose. “Don’t tell me this is a habit of his.”
“It isn’t a habit.”
“Thank goodness.”
“If he rose before noon, it would be an anomaly on par with me being struck by lightning, right now, in this very breakfast room, at this very moment.”
Anne gulped her tea. “I have sixteen days to find a husband. He ought to understand the difficulty in getting a gentleman to propose when most of them are so useless that they can’t even tie their own boot laces.”
And he ought to have told her of any habitual tendencies to behave like a common rake so she could criticize the usefulness — or, rather, uselessness — of such behavior. How on earth did these men get anything done?
Caroline grinned. “You ought to go wake him up.”
“Yes, yes, I should. The cad.”
“You should stomp up there right now, barge into his bedchamber, and demand that he stop lazing about.”
“Yes, I—”
“And if he resists, give him no peace. Open the curtains. Force him to see sunlight. Burst into song.”
Wait, what?
Anne looked at her suspiciously. “You seem very determined I do this. Why?”
“Because torturing Richard is a hobby of mine, and he’s not going to leave that bed unless you give him hell. Good luck.” Caroline sat back and looked over her newspaper again with a small chuckle.
This is unacceptable, Anne thought as she strode towards Richard’s bedchamber.
She was paying him in blackmail information. What sort of political schemer lounged around in bed until noon? Even her father understood that sleep, despite being necessary, was a hindrance. It took up too much time.
Anne threw open the door.
She opened her mouth, fully intending to demand he get out of bed, but then she caught sight of him.
Oh. My goodness.
Now she understood how he had gained his reputation. The ladies at garden parties had sighed when they spoke of him, and Anne often thought they were exaggerating. Noblemen were rarely attractive; such plain, soft creatures, arrogant and stupid, relying on money and titles rather than wit.
Their assessment of Mr. Grey, however, had been accurate. He was worthy of being gawked at — not just his body, but his mind, his intellect. He was also the most beautiful man Anne had ever beheld. It certainly didn’t help that — right now — he was unguarded and vulnerable, the way he might be in the aftermath of lovemaking.
Fucking, Anne corrected. That was what he preferred.
Such a word fit his state of undress. It was indecent, the way he reclined in bed without a shirt, the blankets hung low on his hips. Sinful.
Were gentlemen supposed to be so . . . muscled? She didn’t think so. Kendal certainly wasn’t, and she doubted he had been in his youth. The sunlight peeking through the curtains left just enough light to caress the musculature along Richard’s chest and stomach, the lines of his hips that lead down to—
For god’s sake, she did not have time for this. Attraction was an inconvenience that served no purpose. Certainly, it would not help her now.
“Richard.”
“Mmm?”
“Richard.”
“Mmmmmmmmm?”
“Stop making that ridiculous sound and get up.”
Richard eased open one eye, then the other. “What time is it?”
“One in the afternoon.”
He bolted into a sitting position. “What?”
“I’m lying. It’s ten in the morning.”
Richard fell back with a groan. “You deceitful vixen. Come back in two hours.”
Anne made a frustrated noise and came closer. “Do you really lie in until noon every day?”
“Every damn day there isn’t a woman pestering me,” he muttered, covering his head with a pillow. “Go away, Miss Sheffield.”
“I shouldn’t need to remind you that I am in a precarious position. I need a husband. You’re here to help me. I refuse to indulge your . . . your . . . rakish whims.” When he didn’t respond, she patted his shoulder. “This is an emergency.” She heard his mumble something from beneath the pillow. “What was that?”
He uncovered his head. “I asked if the building was on fire.”
“Of course not.”
“Is the duchess severely injured in such a way that suggests imminent death or dismemberment?”
Anne crossed her arms. “I can’t believe—”
“Are you, personally, dying?”
“No. But I’m about to commit a murder.”
At that, he smiled a slow, lazy smile. “You’re quite feisty in the morning, Miss Sheffield.” Then, he shoved the pillow over his head and said, “It’s excessive. Go away.”
“Ooooh.”
Anne curled her hands into fists and stared down at him. If he thought she was about to walk out that door, he didn’t know how stubborn she was.
Seeing no other choice but to take Caroline’s advice, she stalked over to the curtains and tore them open. It was a sunny day outside, certainly bright enough to penetrate his feeble attempt at shutting her out. And in case that wasn’t enough, Anne burst into a rendition of “Rule Britannia” that would have woken the dead.
Richard tore the pillow off his head. “What the bloody hell?” Anne smiled and kept singing. “Stop that. Stop.”
“No,” Anne said before launching into the second verse.
“You sound like a cat howling in the street!” he shouted over her singing.
“Better get up then, or I’ll sing it again,” she shouted back.
“All right, all right, all right.” Richard tossed the pillow off the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m awake.”
“Wonderful.” Anne grinned. “I’ll send up the valet to get you dressed.”
“I liked you yesterday, but I do believe I may hate you now, Miss Sheffield.”
“If you feel so strongly about it, you ought to curse me by my given name. Anne.”
“I curse you, Anne,” he muttered, rising from the bed. “I curse your firstborn child. Every firstborn child after that, through the generations. May they never find sleep, now you’ve ruined mine. I hope they wake up to howling cats, or irritating women singing ‘Rule Britannia’ like howling cats.”
&n
bsp; “It got you out of bed, though, didn’t it?”
He threw his other pillow at her and she swept out of the room with a laugh.
“First you woke me up, now you’re going to make me walk?” Richard asked, trailing behind Anne as she started down the path in the garden. “There’s a perfectly good cottage here I’d intended for our use.”
Anne loved this property. At breakfast, the Duchess of Hastings had told her about all the different walks at Ravenhill; there were miles of hills and woodlands to explore, and she intended to make the most of her freedom. She missed that about Dorset: wandering for hours without a maid or bodyguard at her back, reporting her every move.
She could do whatever she wished. Speak on topics that would normally make her father backhand her later. There would be no retribution, not unless she failed.
And she would not fail.
“I don’t wish to spend the day inside,” she told him as they reached the start of the woodland path. She pointedly held up the picnic basket she carried. “Courting involves walks and picnics, does it not?”
“Not before noon,” he muttered.
“I’m rather surprised at you,” she told him. “For a man with such a fearsome political reputation, you’re quite pitiful when your sleep is interrupted.”
“I beg your pardon. I’m not pitiful. I’m ferocious.”
Anne flashed a brief grin. “Ferocious, then. I’d expect a ruthless man like yourself to be up at dawn threatening people.”
“Ah, see, the sleep is what allows me to maintain such a fearsome political reputation. You can’t manipulate people without it. And the men who try make too many mistakes.”
She paused and stared at him. It was easy to forget the sort of man he was when they were like this. Richard Grey looked like a rake. He spoke like a rake, smiled like a rake, walked like a rake, and stood like a rake.
Even now, he was leaning against a tree in that lazy fashion of scoundrels, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His hands were thrust into his pockets, and his handsome face was schooled into an expression of polite indifference — that is, until the smallest of smiles touched his lips.
Then? Oh, then he looked like a man whose foremost concern was his own pleasure. Nothing else.
“I see why politicians underestimate you,” she said, studying him. “You appear non-threatening. Your reputation is deliberate.”
Richard flashed his teeth, as if her observation had pleased him. “Every politician thinks if they put a half-naked woman in front of a rogue, he’ll be so distracted by a cockstand that he’ll forget his purpose.” He shrugged. “It’s an easy enough role to play, when it suits.”
Anne frowned. “What about when it doesn’t?”
“The people in Whitechapel don’t care how I lie to help them, Anne. They care about wages, food, shelter, and a vestry council that actually gives a good goddamn about their problems. It’s no hardship to play the scoundrel when they have it worse.” He pushed off the tree and approached her. She stilled when he placed his palm on her cheek. “You?”
She held her breath. “Me?”
“In the carriage, you told me of your role. Beauty, not brains. What was it you called yourself? ‘An especially shallow idiot’? Is that role easy?”
Oh god, was it easy? That was like asking if a dance was effortless after breaking an ankle. She could make every step with her eyes closed, for she had put on that performance every day and night for the whole of her life. But she was hobbled by it. There was no enjoyment in taking each step when it pained her so.
“It’s an obligation, Richard.” Anne captured his wrist, intending to push him away, but found herself holding on. Why? She didn’t know. “That is how my father expected me to behave. Ease has never come into it. I told you about his rules.”
“So Sheffield is aware of this clever mind of yours? And I’m not speaking of your memory. I mean your wit. Your candor.” At her silence, he murmured, “I thought not.”
Now she found the will to push his hand aside and step back. “It’s easier that way. I couldn’t plan for an escape if he knew I was intelligent enough to pull one off. I had to play the fool for everyone.”
Richard made some noise. “That’s the difference between us, Anne. I have friends to be myself around. Who do you have?”
His eyes were so intense. This was the bit of truth behind that rakish facade — they were too astute, too keen. They missed nothing.
Anne couldn’t bear it. She lowered her gaze. “I have you now,” she murmured. “Don’t I?”
“For now. What of your future husband?”
She didn’t reply. She started down the path, calling back, “I won’t have one if we don’t have a lesson.”
Chapter 8
“Tell me how you flirt, Anne.”
Richard was sitting within the chapel ruins at the top of Ravenhill, where they had stopped to picnic. He was trying not to stare at Anne as she climbed up the steps to the old archway and stood silhouetted against the sun there.
His breath caught. For there, in that moment, she did not appear to be some common woman, but a goddess sculpted of light. The breeze picked up strands that had fallen loose from her chignon, and her red hair was a halo of fire.
Christ, she was lovely.
She could not be aware that he desired her. Right there. Now. Oh, he’d felt stirrings earlier, of course. Last night when she spoke of the sea, it took all his control not to kiss her. She was beautiful, and he was a man with a healthy appreciation for the female form.
But what he felt was more than just appreciation.
Need. Hunger. Lust. None of those words seemed right, either. They captured the same base emotion he’d felt many times before bedding a woman.
No, they would not suit Anne — nor would any word in his vocabulary, he suspected. Richard had an image of stripping her clothes off right there, just beneath the stone arch. He’d take his time, kissing each bared inch of skin — every part the light had so lovingly touched. And when he had her naked, he’d whisper his intent, telling her everything he could do if she asked it of him . . .
“Richard?”
“Hmm?
Anne tilted her head. “What were you thinking just now?”
Anne. Naked. Kisses. Licking down her curves. Christ god, everything.
And now he had a cockstand. Wonderful. Just wonderful.
“Nothing,” he said awkwardly, leaning back on the blanket. He crossed his legs and took a grape from the basket of food.
If he looked casual about the whole business, she would assume he was thinking of something boring. Like Latin conjugations. Or Roman history. Not how he’d pleasure her.
“You were staring at me with the strangest expression on your face,” she said, coming back down the stairs from the archway. “Like you were . . .”
“Yes?” Dear god, what was she about to say?
She shrugged and settled next to him. “Nothing. I don’t understand such things, which is what I was just telling you. I can’t flirt. I don’t even know what flirting is.”
Oh, thank Christ.
Now he was back on familiar ground.
“Surely you know what flirting is. You own a dictionary, don’t you?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “If I recall — which I do, because I am me — its description was simply, playing at courtship; coquetry. Which is so unhelpful it could only have been written by a man.”
“It’s a dictionary, not an instruction guide.”
“Be my guide, then. How does one flirt?”
She wanted to know how to flirt, did she? Right, then.
“Flirtation,” he said, “is easy enough with physical attraction. How does a man express his interest in a woman without saying so? How does she do the same? They flirt.”
Richard smiled and leaned toward her. Not enough to crowd her, but just enough so she knew the whole of his attention was fixed on her. He knew the effect that look had. She’d seen it before on
her maid, hadn’t she? Well, she was going to get the full force of his rakish—
“What if she’s not attracted to him?”
Richard pulled back. “Sorry?”
“What if she’s not attracted to him?” Anne drank her wine as if Richard hadn’t just given her his best smoldering scoundrel look. “If it’s only one sided, and he’s the flirter, and her, the unwilling participant?”
He certainly wasn’t expecting that question. “If she puts more physical space between herself and him, it’s a clear indication of disinterest. He’ll understand the message, god willing, if he’s not a buffoon, a villain, or a complete imbecile.”
Anne nodded. “So space is involved with flirtation? I had no idea. How?”
All right, this was not going how he’d planned. “If they’re both interested, they tend to shift closer or touch in small ways. She might rest her fan against his arm, for example. Did you not learn the language of fans?”
Anne let out a small, frustrated breath. “No. What use is fan flirtation for a woman betrothed from the age of twelve?”
Twelve? What sort of foul cretin willingly offered himself to a child? What sort of father allowed it? “I wasn’t aware you were so young,” he said tightly.
He’d never liked the Duke of Kendal. Aside from being arrogant and unpleasant to interact with, the duke had always given Richard some terrible impression. And his instincts about men were usually correct. He trusted them.
“Yes,” Anne said. Richard hated how distant her expression became. “My father did not wish to risk him marrying before I became of age. So he allowed him to have a hand in my upbringing.”
An unpleasant sensation stirred inside Richard. “What sort of hand?”
Anne looked away. “I was shaped into his idea of a perfect wife. But not enough, somehow. He’s always resented me.”
Was there some word for rage and sadness? Richard didn’t know it. But how could he feel anything other than both? He longed to pummel Kendal with his fists. And when he finished with the duke, he’d start in on Anne’s father.
Since he could not resort to violence, he’d settle for destroying Sheffield using Anne’s information. Kendal, too, if he could.
His Scandalous Lessons Page 5