His Scandalous Lessons

by Katrina Kendrick

  “Of course you are. You love her.”

  Richard paused. “I never—”

  Caroline’s expression gentled with understanding. “You didn’t need to.”

  Richard had refused to let his mind consider the word. It made things too difficult, complicated. In the past, women who claimed to love him only wanted the things he could give them: money, jewelry, fucking. He had appreciated women who were honest in their desires; love was not for them anymore than it was for him.

  Anne expected nothing. For her, kindness was the most basic requirement in a man, because she had never been taught to expect more.

  But Richard loved her because she was brave. She fought to save herself.

  She fought to save him.

  “I need to speak with her,” he said hoarsely. “And if not that, then at least see that she’s well.”

  Caroline let out a breath. “What would you like me to do, short of kidnapping her? That, I’m afraid, is beyond even my abilities.”

  “You’ve an established relationship,” Richard said. “Her father approved of you seeing her before. Bring her to your house. Host another party.”

  “No. You have to be smart about this,” Caroline said. “She’s just spent almost a month at my estate. Do you want her father to grow suspicious?”

  “She’s being forced to marry in a matter of weeks. It can’t be too long until the wedding is announced.”

  Caroline turned away and picked up her brush again. She began painting the waves along the coast, but he knew she was considering something. Over the years, he grew to understand that it helped the duchess think when she used her hands. Her paintings were the results of an active mind, not ennui.

  “Then perhaps that’s how we’ll allay suspicion,” she murmured. Then she snapped her fingers, dropping her paintbrush with a clatter. “The Ashbys’ ball.”

  Richard shook his head. “I’d already considered meeting her at events, but the plan is flawed. If her father is keeping Anne so close that she hasn’t left in days, then he’ll attend with her.”

  “Stop thinking like a politician and think like a nobleman. You used to be quite skilled at both.” At his glare, she rolled her eyes. “Lord and Lady Ashby host the first ball of the season and it would be advantageous for them to announce an engagement for a duke. They are good friends of mine. I’ll ask them to invite Anne under the pretense of making her engagement to Kendal public. He is, after all, Hastings’s cousin.”

  “Forgive me for not thinking like a bloody nobleman, but the entire point was not to marry him.”

  “She has to play along as if she’s delighted to become a duchess, Richard. You want to speak with her? This is the only way. An engagement announcement is a foregone conclusion as long as she remains in that house. At least this way you can reassure her that we are behind her.”

  “Very well.” Richard sighed. “Fuck. All right.”

  Caroline’s look was sympathetic. “Take heart, friend. We will find a way to fix this.”

  Chapter 24

  Anne hated pretending to be the dutiful daughter.

  Sometimes it astonished her how easily a house as large and elegant as the prime minister’s home could feel like a prison. It was her cage, prettied up with gilt and elaborate furnishings, but these were intended to make Anne forget that every moment of her existence was dictated by her father.

  The reminder of her purpose could not be more clear: he asked her to enumerate information whenever he asked. It mattered not the hour, or what she was doing. He kept her hidden away, available at all times for this singular task of recitation.

  He was growing desperate.

  Anne knew this. She could tell by the patterns of his behavior. Stanton locked her away like a precious artifact whenever a vote came close and he needed her information at any moment to sway someone into compliance.

  Everything about this vote was the same . . . and yet it was different.

  Anne had never needed to know Stanton’s motives before. He had always put together the scraps of intel she gave him like an inventor placing each cog in a contraption. Afterward, Anne would try not think about the life she had just destroyed, or how many she people she had helped ruin over the years.

  This time, she tried to recognize patterns in his questions. Each day he would provide her something new — an address, a name, a monetary amount — and then burn the paper on which he had written.

  It frustrated her that none of them had context. They were simply parts of a puzzle, but only he knew where each belonged. She was only there as a reminder, a recording of each fragment, for she served no other purpose in his life.

  She was not a son.

  Stanton had begun to remind her of her duty to the Duke of Kendal, as if she would forget. He had suggested they renew their acquaintance before saying their vows. Just the thought of Henry — his hands, his lips, his words — made Anne wish to run again. But she could not escape.

  Not even from the man her father had instructed to do whatever he willed to make a decent wife of her — from the age of twelve.

  Her father had sold her. Before now, Anne had never considered using such a damning description of her relationship with the duke, but this was the truth. Kendal had bought her — against his will, for Stanton had information to force his hand — but she was a product purchased to use how he wished.

  A pretty, hollow vase for his mantelpiece.

  Anne had been tense all morning, knowing Kendal was due to arrive. The new lady’s maid Stanton hired was not versed in Kendal’s very singular preferences: hair tightly bound in a chignon, dresses buttoned up to her chin, muted pastels rather than bold colors. In short, nothing that would make her stand out.

  Her style was to be a reflection of their marriage: unremarkable and boring.

  “Tighter,” Anne said as the maid cinched her corset. The maid complied, but not enough. “Tighter than that, Aileen.”

  Aileen worried over the laces. “Miss, if I cinch it any tighter ye won’t be able to breathe.”

  Anne shut her eyes briefly. “Yes,” she murmured, as if to herself. “I believe that’s rather the point.”

  Aileen looked surprised. “Miss?”

  “Tighter,” she said softly, with finality.

  The maid let out a breath and did as Anne asked. The young girl was right — Anne could hardly breathe. But Kendal wished her to be slender, like a reed close to breaking in the wind, and she had a performance to put on.

  Hours later, she waited in the drawing room, dizzy from the corset’s restriction.

  Calm, she told herself. You’ve survived this before. You will again.

  The room was quiet when Kendal entered. Anne rose from the settee with a forced welcoming smile. He didn’t smile back, simply strode over to where she stood and pressed a kiss to her cheek with hard lips.

  He was old, true. But no matter how finely coiffed, Kendal was no gentleman. Just the sight of him nauseated her. It wasn’t his looks — cold blue eyes, tall and thin, wrinkles forming around his forehead and mouth. Truthfully, his features that might have been handsome had he smiled, despite his age. Perhaps if he’d had a kinder heart, one that allowed him to love.

  But he was not kind.

  He was not gentle.

  “Anne.” Though he used her name, it sounded so formal. “I feel it’s been an age.”

  His eyes went to her body, clad in the morning dress that she had chosen for his benefit. That corset dug so hard into her ribs, like walls compressing around her heart. Kendal made some noise of satisfaction — the nearest estimate of appreciation she would ever receive from him. It made her want to commit violence. She hated this, wearing the things she knew he liked. Richard would have loved her in rags.

  “Are you quite well?” she asked.

  “Well enough.”

  Kendal gestured for her to sit beside him. Anne tried to hide her wariness as she poured his tea, placed two scones on a plate, and settled next to his thin f
rame. Too close. He loved her to be too close. She used to set the tea service between them in the hope that he would act a gentleman and sit across from her — but he never did.

  After all, he owned her. A man never parted easily from his property, regardless of how he came by the purchase.

  “We’ve been invited to Lord and Lady Ashby’s ball,” Kendal said, settling a hand on her thigh. He squeezed hard.

  “Have we,” Anne murmured demurely.

  Blue eyes, as cold as her father’s. If her father wielded most of his power in the Commons, Kendal did in the Lords. Anne often wondered what information Stanton had on the duke to ensure his utmost compliance over the years. She had gone to Richard for help because Kendal would never cry off, even if she were ruined.

  He'd already ruined her. Oh, Kendal might not have raped her — he’d considered her virginity a prize for their wedding night — but her father had allowed him liberties no man ought to have with a daughter before she came of age to marry. He said it was incentive.

  An exchange.

  Kendal had purchased her, and as her owner was to touch and test and fondle her in all the ways he deemed fit.

  “It seems you’ve made good friends with the Duchess of Hastings,” Kendal said, barely looking at the tea she set before him.

  “Her Grace has been most kind to me.”

  “What did she teach you?”

  Anne tried not to show any emotion. “Wifely duties. Things my mother would have told me, were she alive.” At Kendal’s intense gaze, Anne looked away. “Here, why don’t you have—”

  His hand shot out as she reached for the scone, clamping tight enough around her wrist to hurt. Anne bit her lip to hold back her gasp as he pulled her into his lap.

  “Your Grace—”

  “Henry.” His hand was around her upper arm now. Rough. Too rough. She’d be bruised tomorrow. “I’ve given you leave to use my first name.”

  “Yes, of course. My apologies.”

  But he didn’t seem to hear her. His eyes were on her body, her curves, where her corset bit so deeply into her ribs that every new breath seemed a gift. “You fill out that dress,” he said. “It’s vulgar.”

  Anne tried to keep her breathing even. “Yes.”

  She hated to agree with him. Hated that her own body was criticized and disparaged as if it were a mistake. A reminder of whatever weakness the prime minister had used to blackmail him.

  “Yes? Is that all? Has the duchess reversed all my teachings?

  “No, of course not. Henry —”

  His lips were hard on hers. Not coaxing. Not a conversation. Not intended to leave her wanting.

  No, intended to brand her. To show her who held power. To show her that there was no question here, no right of refusal, nothing. When his hand squeezed her breast, it was with no tenderness or care for her person. She had asked Richard if kissing hurt because this was how Kendal kissed: his lips on hers, pillaging as if she were a village in the way of a conquest.

  He bit her lip hard enough to make her flinch, then said, “Did she tell you what happens on the wedding night?”

  Anne could only lie. She refused to cry, to show any weakness — any emotion at all. She would not give him this. So she nodded.

  Kendal’s grip on her tightened. “Disregard it. I’ll teach you the way I like it.”

  “Yes, Henry,” Anne whispered.

  “Good.” Kendal shoved her off his lap and reached for his tea. “Until then, we’ll attend the Ashby ball. We’ll announce our engagement there for a fortnight from today.”

  Anne went cold. “But—”

  Kendal turned that hawkish gaze on her. “But what?”

  Anne looked down. “I had assumed it wasn’t until the end of the season.”

  “Your father wants our alliance cemented before the ballot act comes up to vote, and I see no reason to wait. A fortnight.” He grasped her chin and gave her a last bruising kiss. “Then you’re mine to do with as I please.”

  Chapter 25

  Richard spotted Anne with Kendal even before they were announced at the Ashby ball. He could find her in a crowd anywhere: the elegant sway of her hips, the graceful lines of her body.

  He had become so aware of her.

  He’d sought her smile once, a secret message shared between them that spoke of a meeting later, some silly conversation, a kiss. There were whole stories in her eyes at Ravenhill, emotions that made them light up during a dance, or glaze over with desire.

  But these messages were not there now.

  Wariness had returned to her gaze, and his chest ached at the sight of it. She looked as she did the night she asked for his help: desperate, and trying her very best not to show it.

  Brave Anne. Beautiful Anne. God, how he admired her.

  Beside Richard, his sister Alexandra made a frustrated noise. “Have you spoken with our brother? Look at him. He’s danced with at least five ladies and I swear, it’s as if he sees not one of them.”

  He glanced at James, who was dancing the waltz with some debutante Richard couldn’t name. The earl did indeed look distracted. Before Richard left for Ravenhill, James had received an invitation to the Masquerade — where gentlemen and ladies met to conduct affairs in anonymity — and met some woman who had him besotted.

  Richard knew the feeling.

  “He has his reasons,” Richard said shortly, focusing his attention on Anne again. He strove not to stare at her — that would only lead to gossip — but tried to look as if he were scanning the room for a new dance partner.

  More than one lady preened during his search, and several mothers attempted to wave him over.

  He pretended not to notice.

  Kendal led Anne onto the dance floor, where they joined the waltz. God, she was lovely. But it was a reserved beauty that bordered on cold. It wasn’t true coldness — for Anne was not made of ice, Richard could attest to that — but the same false calm of someone being hunted and taking utter care not to make a mistake.

  For that single lapse would result in harm.

  Richard settled a brief glare on Kendal. He wanted to smash the duke’s face in.

  “What is that look?” Alexandra wanted to know.

  Richard smoothed his features to indifference. “Nothing.”

  “That wasn’t nothing.” Her blonde hair tickled his nose as she leaned closer to scan the crowd. “You looked like you wanted to throttle someone, but I couldn’t tell who. Give me details. Whisper it in my ear if you must.”

  “I’m not going to gossip with you, Alexandra. Go dance with someone.”

  “My dance card is empty,” Alexandra said brightly. “Every man here is terrified of me — except you and James, of course.”

  “Oh, we’re terrified of you. We just have a healthy appreciation of fierce women.”

  The swirl of Anne’s skirts returned his attention to the waltz. It was a demure dress, subdued, a veil intended to brighten a star. For him, it failed utterly. She fair shined.

  “You dance with me, then,” Alexandra said.

  “Not interested.”

  “What are you staring at? Or, should I ask, who?”

  Anne’s gaze collided with his. He felt the breath expel from his lungs. By god, he wanted her. He wanted her safe. He wanted—

  She shook her head, barely a movement.

  Hell no. Did she think he would ignore this? Ignore her? He inclined his head slightly to the terrace doors. Meet me. We need to speak.

  She glanced at the terrace doors, at him, and then, very deliberately, trained her gaze on Kendal.

  Fuck.

  “Richard,” Alexandra snapped.

  “Excuse me,” Richard said sharply. “I need to be elsewhere.”

  Ignoring his sister’s slack-jawed astonishment, Richard circled the dancers and waited. He would find a way to be alone with her. At the moment, he didn’t give a damn about her father’s determination to ruin him, he only wanted to be sure that she was well. He wanted to kiss an
d comfort her and let her know that he would always be here, whenever she needed.

  What followed was a good hour of Anne avoiding Richard, even as Kendal danced with other women. While the duke eventually retired to the salon to play cards, Anne engaged in conversations that resulted in more dances.

  Another.

  Another.

  Richard would wait for her all bloody night if he had to.

  He stalked over to where Alexandra and James were standing by the refreshments table. Scowling, Richard said, “I need a drink. Where is that goddamn waiter?”

  Alexandra, who’d been in the middle of angrily lecturing their brother, glared at him. “And you. You have been surly since returning from that house party. Good god, I’m the one dealing with gossip surrounding some newspaper drawing that depicts me as — yes — the literal devil, yet you don’t see me brooding.”

  Enough of this. He was not in the bloody mood for another of his sister’s reprimands.

  “Shut up, Alexandra,” Richard said, grabbing the flute from James’s hand. He downed the champagne in a single gulp. “For once in your life, stop talking. You’re not the only one with problems.” He caught sight of Anne over Alexandra’s shoulder. She was alone this time, and he was so damn angry he barely cared.

  James and Alexandra followed his gaze. As soon as they did, Anne flushed and strode out the door.

  “Miss Sheffield,” Alexandra murmured in interest. “I’m surprised to see her here; her father usually keeps her sequestered inside. I’d heard a rumor years ago that she’d been promised to the Duke of Kendal.”

  “And he’s thirty years older than her,” Richard snapped. “I’m aware.”

  James, who was no idiot, leaned in and murmured, “If you’ve compromised the damn prime minister’s daughter . . .”

  “Oh, sod off, Kent. Just mind your own fucking business for once.”

  Richard shoved the champagne flute into a shocked waiter’s hands and went to follow Anne.

  She was leaving the ballroom at a casual, yet hurried clip, massaging her temples as if she had a headache. He watched her slip into a room at the end of the corridor. Richard followed, closing the door softly behind him. The gaslights hissed as he turned them up.