The Tutor (House of Lords)

by Brooke, Meg

  Charles followed her gaze and saw Miss Maris’s twin perched on the edge of a chair beside her mother. Down the row he heard the more vivacious Chesney twin’s laughter. “No,” he said, “I don’t think her brother would approve.”

  She gave him a penetrating stare. “What did happen between you two?” she asked.

  But then the music started and he was spared from having to explain as they moved apart. Away down the floor he saw Miss Endersby dancing with Beresford, her face alight. She seemed to enjoy dancing far more than she enjoyed history, for her expression was never so joyful when she was holding a book. Why, then, had she devoted so much time and energy to the study of politics and philosophy? She must have a singular will, Charles decided. Another quality he lacked.

  The dance ended and he led Imogen back to the edge of the floor, where the Earl of Stowe and his countess were standing. Charles greeted them both and Imogen asked after their babies. As the countess began to gush, the earl turned to Charles.

  “I heard you met with Brougham today,” he said.

  Were there no secrets in this city? “I did. It was...interesting.”

  Stowe grinned. “Did he share his vision for this year’s session with you? We are all wondering what it’s to be, and he and Earl Grey are being very tight lipped.”

  “I have very little information for you there,” Charles replied. “We talked about the Poor Laws Commission, of course.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. There’s been a need for reform there for decades. It will be good to have you with us, Bain.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said as the strains of the next dance began to filter through the crowd.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ve done my duty for the evening. I’m going to the drawing room.”

  “Coward,” Charles joked. He wished he could escape as well, but he had asked Miss Endersby for the dance after this one. He saw Imogen disappearing with her next partner, and just beyond them he spotted Miss Endersby herself.

  She was with Leo.

  Charles watched as they took their places. Leo said something to her and she laughed, her head tilting back a little. When they moved together for the first form, his hand slid a little lower down her back than was strictly proper. She didn’t protest. Was it Charles’s imagination, or were they closer together than the rest of the couples?

  It didn’t escape his notice that, when they moved apart, Leo’s eyes stayed fixed on Miss Endersby. Did they know each other? Not that Charles begrudged Leo a friendship with her. But there was something about the way his hand skimmed across her lower back that made Charles’s blood boil. What was the matter with him?

  He knew what was wrong, of course. He was attracted to her. And really, he asked himself, why shouldn’t he be? She was beautiful and accomplished. He told himself that it was only that an attachment to her would be inconvenient that gave him pause. But there was something else, something in her manner that troubled him, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. That elusive quality about her made him feel both protective and terrified at once. Perhaps that was why it made him so agitated to see her dancing with Leo.

  Perhaps not.

  When the dance ended at last, Charles watched Leo lead Miss Endersby to the edge of the floor, speaking quietly to her. She was looking intently at him, and as he spoke his eyes met Charles’s over her head. Charles could not see her face, could not imagine what was being said, but it seemed to him that her pale shoulders stiffened a little as Leo spoke.

  His heart sank.

  “Tell me,” Lord Sidney said as he escorted Cynthia off the floor, “do you know Lady Imogen and her brother well?”

  “Not very,” Cynthia confessed. “I only met Lady Imogen this week.”

  Lord Sidney nodded, but then his face turned grave. “I would caution you, Miss Endersby. I do not know you well, but I have noticed how Charles watches you. Be careful of him. He is not what he seems.”

  Cynthia gaped at him, unsure what to say. No gentleman had ever been so forthright with her, except for her father, of course, who rarely parsed words. “I...I understand, Lord Sidney,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. Whatever did he mean, the way the duke watched her?

  He smirked. “I see you mean to keep your own counsel. I respect that. But keep what I said in mind.” Then he inclined his head ever so slightly and was gone. Cynthia stood alone in the crowded ballroom, looking after him.

  What had he meant by telling her such a thing? Did he suppose the duke was courting her? Was he envious? For all that Cynthia had been trained to observe and make rational conclusions about human nature, she found herself completely befuddled by Lord Sidney’s behavior. She felt far out of her depth.

  “Miss Endersby?”

  “Oh!” She turned. It was the duke, of course, for the couples were assembling for the waltz. “I am sorry, I was...thinking.”

  “So it appeared,” he said with a wry smile. “It is my dance, I believe.”

  She forced herself to smile. “So it is.”

  He put his hand at the small of her back to lead her onto the floor. As he took her hand and pulled her closer, he asked softly, “What were you talking about just now, with Leo?”

  “With Lord Sidney?” she asked. He had noticed, then. “Nothing of consequence.”

  The music began, and he took a few steps to set the rhythm before turning her into the swirl of couples. His face was very close to hers, his mouth inches from her ear. “He told you something about me, didn’t he?”

  “N—no, Your Grace,” she stammered. So it was true, then. He had done something wrong. He wouldn’t be worried about her discovering it if he hadn’t.

  He chuckled, the low sound raising gooseflesh on the bare skin of her neck and shoulders. “Liar.”

  She was sure she was blushing again. “Is it true?” she asked as she turned her again. She was just barely tall enough to see over his shoulder, and just past him the Earl and Countess of Stowe were waltzing. “Did you do whatever it is he accuses you of?”

  “So he didn’t tell you?”

  “No. Only warned me against you.” She could not quite explain why she was telling him this. Hadn’t her father always said that deception could be a useful tool? Where had the skills bred by his careful teaching gone?

  He sighed, his breath brushing her ear. She shivered involuntarily, knowing that he felt her do so. That low laugh again, and then he let out another slow breath, this one more deliberate. Then his lips brushed against her earlobe, just for a split second, but it felt as though lightning was dancing along her skin. Here was the man she had seen, that first day in the library. Since then he had behaved himself impeccably, but she had not forgotten that moment when he had smiled with the sun gilding his hair, looking every inch the rake he was reputed to be. What had brought that man out again? Whatever it was, she felt sudden panic rising up from her stomach, even as her whole body sang with electricity at his touch, his nearness.

  She must stop this, now, before it went too far. Perhaps it already had.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please, don’t.” She had no idea how her feet were still moving. She felt dizzy.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to?”

  She thought she might cry. “Yes,” she managed.

  “Very well,” he said, but she felt the firm pressure of his fingers on her back increase, and he pulled her a little closer. She clung to him, sure she would topple over if she didn’t.

  They finished the dance in silence. When the final strains died out and they had come to a stop, she let him escort her to the edge of the floor, but then she fled. She didn’t stop until she was in the carriage and headed for home.

  EIGHT

  “Damn,” Charles muttered as he waited for Imogen to bid farewell to her friends. He had certainly made a muddle of things. He could not understand what had possessed him, out there on the dance floor. Had he actually allowed his lips to touch her? It was a bit of a haze, but he thought
it might have happened. No matter what, he had behaved like the rake she thought he was. But there had been something so enraging about Leo’s smirk, about the way she had refused to look at him. Is it true?

  When they were in the carriage, he could feel Imogen staring at him in the darkness. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. He could feel her reproof in the thick silence that hung between them, and when they reached Danforth House she stormed upstairs without speaking to him, slamming the door behind her.

  It was only the next morning, when he came down to breakfast, that she glared at him across the table and said, “What were you thinking, Charles?”

  He sipped his coffee sedately. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

  “You must have done something to upset her,” Imogen insisted.

  Determined now to be as much of a nuisance as possible, he asked, “Who?”

  She groaned. “Miss Endersby, of course. Everyone saw her fleeing the ballroom after you danced with her. It was the supper dance, Charles. They all expected you to lead her in, and instead she disappeared. What will they think?”

  “Oh, for the love of everything holy, Imogen, it isn’t as if I’ve ruined her reputation,” he ground out.

  “No, you’ve ruined yours,” she shot back.

  He stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone thinks you’re a rake. They’ve only been polite to you because you’re a duke and they haven’t had proof until now. But you showed them. What will people say now? How can I show my face around town when my brother is a shameless libertine who embarrasses gently bred young ladies on the ballroom floor?” She pushed away from the table, stood, and swept towards the door. “I’m going to call on her this afternoon, to beg her forgiveness for your behavior,” she said. “I only hope she will forgive me, for she is a decent, lovely young woman.” Then she was gone.

  Charles stared after her.

  Had it really been as bad as all that? He tried to picture now how they must have looked, waltzing across the floor, his lips so close to her ear that he could almost taste her smooth skin. What must people have thought when she rushed from the ballroom like that? It had been rather startling, even to him. Still, it was not quite bad enough to ruin her reputation.

  His, on the other hand...well, Imogen had been correct.

  Gillian came in, glowering at him. “What did you do to Imogen?” she demanded.

  Charles shrugged. “She’s upset about something that happened at the ball last night.”

  “Oh?” She raised one dark, delicate eyebrow.

  He gave her a condensed version. He was sure that Imogen would tell her the whole tale, sooner or later. When he had finished, she said, “Oh, Charles. You’re not an idiot, you know, and yet sometimes you can be so...so...stupid!”

  “I have already been informed of that fact,” he said evenly.

  “Have you offered for her yet?”

  He nearly spit coffee all over the tablecloth. “I don’t think it’s quite that bad yet, Gilly.”

  She buttered a piece of toast and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. At last, she said, “Perhaps not yet. But you mark my words, by this time tomorrow, it will be.”

  Charles groaned and ran a hand over his face, as though he might wake himself up from this nightmare. “I think I’ll go to Spitzer’s,” he said, and he escaped before Gillian could make another pithy comment. It was only when he reached the hall that he began to imagine the scene that would unfold at the fencing club should he show his face there.

  He would give it a little more time, he thought, and he turned up the stairs instead.

  “Lady Imogen Bainbridge is here,” Mallory said. Cynthia looked up at him, then over at the clock above the library mantle. It was not yet noon.

  “Where is she?”

  “I have put her in the parlor, Miss.”

  “Well, I suppose I shall have to go down and see her. Tell her I shall come directly.”

  Mallory nodded and went out.

  Cynthia stood and crossed to the shelf to replace her book. She had not really been reading it, anyway. Her mind had been otherwise occupied. And now the sister of her preoccupation was in the parlor. Cynthia smoothed her skirts and went downstairs.

  The instant she walked into the parlor, Lady Imogen was on her feet. “Oh, Miss Endersby,” she cried, taking Cynthia’s hands. “I’ve come to apologize for Charles’s shocking behavior.”

  Cynthia stared at her for a moment. She had expected Lady Imogen to demand an apology from her, or to inform her that her services were no longer required by the duke after last night’s unfortunate events. “I...Lady Imogen, there really is nothing to...that is, I do not require an apology.”

  “I am relieved to hear you say that, and yet you must accept it. Charles was a cad, and he knows it.”

  Cynthia could not resist asking, “Then why are you here and not he?”

  Lady Imogen colored prettily. “Because he is—”

  “A cad?”

  “Yes!” she cried.

  “Lady Imogen, please don’t trouble yourself. I assure you, I am not offended,” Cynthia said, though it was only a half-truth. She wasn’t offended, not really, but she was having a hard time putting her finger on what she was. “What happened was as much my fault as your brother’s. I am quite prepared to forget the whole thing.”

  Lady Imogen frowned. “Might we sit?” she asked. Cynthia nodded and joined her on the sofa. “Miss Endersby—might I call you Cynthia?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Cynthia, then. You must call me Imogen.”

  “As you wish.”

  “My brother is a duke, about to take up a very powerful and visible position. You and I have been seen together about town more than once, and people have already begun to speculate about your connection with our family. After last night’s display, I am afraid that a simple apology will not solve the problem.”

  “Then I will write to your brother and tell him that I can no longer assist him in a professional capacity,” Cynthia said. “I will sever our ties, and soon everyone will have forgotten about it entirely.”

  Imogen bit her lip. “I’m afraid it will not be that simple. Let me be quite plain, Cynthia: by tomorrow, if this story has not died down, it will become a scandal. People will begin to speculate about your relationship with my brother. You will be ruined. And you will no longer be able to do the work you have been doing. Whatever plans you have, whatever you hope to achieve through this enterprise of yours, it will all be lost. I have been in society almost as long as you, and have nothing like your intelligence. If I know this to be true, you must also see it.”

  Cynthia had to admit that she had also reached this conclusion.

  “Then surely you see what must be done as clearly as I,” Imogen said.

  Cynthia shook her head. “It is not possible, Imogen. Even if he should offer for me, I could not in good conscience accept him. I am not...I would not be a good match for him. And I hardly know him.”

  “Well I do, and I have to disagree with you. I think the two of you would do well together. Why shouldn’t you accept him?”

  “I am not of noble birth,” Cynthia argued, grasping at straws.

  “Rubbish,” Imogen said. “No one cares about that sort of thing nowadays.”

  “All the same,” Cynthia said, “I won’t marry him. He doesn’t deserve that.”

  “You mean he doesn’t deserve you,” Imogen said, standing. “I am inclined to agree with you. But I can see we will get nowhere today. Wait until tomorrow. If this breaks the way I expect it will, you may expect my brother by two o’clock. I will see to it myself.”

  Then she swept out, leaving Cynthia speechless in her wake. She sat a few moments longer on the sofa, allowing the conversation to replay itself in her mind. Despite what she had said, she could not really believe that a scandal so great as to force the duke to offer for her could arise from such a little thing. Surely it would blow over by tomorrow, and she wo
uld be able to go on as she had been.

  Just as she was about to go back up to the library, Mallory came in. “The Countess of Stowe,” he announced.

  Cynthia almost said she was indisposed, away from home, anything to keep from seeing Clarissa at this exact moment. But then Clarissa herself appeared behind Mallory, looking elegant in a pale blue day dress, her strawberry blond hair dressed to perfection.

  “Close the door, please,” Cynthia said, rather unnecessarily as Mallory was already doing it. The latch clicked and she was alone in the parlor with Clarissa.

  For a moment neither of them said anything. Then Clarissa said, “Let’s sit down.”

  “All right,” Cynthia replied weakly, dropping back onto the sofa. Clarissa joined her.

  There was silence for another long moment. “Until this week, we have not seen each other since the night of my wedding ball,” Clarissa said at last. “It has been almost a year.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet every moment of the conversation we had that night is still fresh in my mind.”

  Cynthia nodded. She had not forgotten, either. How could she? She would never be able to erase the memory of how Clarissa had looked, how pale her face had gone when Cynthia had told the story of what Roger Endersby had done, not just to her but to both of them. For it was not just Cynthia who had been paid for and taken from that brothel. Roger Endersby had gone expecting to find one baby, but in a rare moment of human kindness had come away with two. And, not knowing what else to do, he had forced Clarissa’s weak-willed father into his scheme. Clarissa had been part of the experiment, too.

  When her father had first told her the tale, Cynthia had felt so ashamed, so disgusted with herself, that she had not been able to summon the courage to tell Clarissa the truth. She had always regretted it, never more so than that night, when she had gone to Stowe House knowing that the truth could be hidden no longer.

  She had crushed the spirit of the only friend she had ever had.