by Shana Galen
“Miss Bennett,” Armand rasped.
“Are you paying attention, my lord?”
It took him a moment to think how to respond, and then he nodded. “Yes.”
“Oh, really?” She tilted her hair so a yellow curl that had come loose from the ball on top of her head fell over her shoulder. His hand itched to touch it, to take it between two fingers and feel its softness, but he clenched his knee instead. She was unhappy for some reason. He could tell by the way she had put her hands on the soft, rounded part of her body below her middle. He thought about asking for the name of that body part, looked at her face again, and decided otherwise. “If you were paying attention, then what is it we were discussing?”
This was a more complicated question than he was used to answering, and it took him a moment to take the words in his mind and translate them into speech. She was, as ever, patient. “You want me to talk.”
“Yes. Could you be more specific?”
He frowned, uncomprehending.
“I mean, what word did I want you to say?”
That he did not know, and it came to him suddenly this was the source of her displeasure. He had not said the word she wanted. Damn. What was it? Finally, he shrugged. “The hell if I know.”
She blinked, and her mouth—God, he loved that mouth—dropped open. “Pardon?”
Her eyebrows were pulled down over her eyes, and those pretty blue eyes were now so dark they were almost black. “I said, hell if—”
“Shh!” She cut him off with an angry swipe of her hand. “Where did you hear that phrase? I certainly didn’t teach it to you, and it is not appropriate to use in the company of ladies.” She motioned to herself and the maid, who was dusting a lamp with much more energy than Armand thought the lamp deserved. She was standing over him now and moved closer. “Did your brother teach you that?”
“Julien?”
“Yes. Did he teach you that word?”
She had said quite a few words, and Armand was not certain which she meant. “What word?”
In obvious frustration, she threw up her hands. “Oh, never mind! The word I wanted you to say was carriage.”
Armand nodded. Why hadn’t she just said so? “Carriage,” he said. Now perhaps she would stop thinning her lips at him.
But his obedience did not seem to please her. She merely shook her head and sat on the furniture piece opposite him. Now was probably not a good time to ask what the name of it was. He would remember if he thought about it long enough. He supposed he should know what a carriage was, as well, but he could not picture the thing. Or perhaps it was an action—what Miss Bennett called a verb.
“What is carriage?”
Across from him, she lifted a brow, and he could see this had been the correct question. She appeared happier.
“It’s a moving vehicle, pulled by horses. It transports you from one place to another.”
He nodded as the picture formed in his mind. Of course. He’d known that. But sometimes he had so many words and images in his mind, it took a moment to sort through them. “Thank you.”
She bit her lip, sighed, and he wondered what he had done now. “My lord—”
But the door to the drawing room opened, and Mrs. Eggers poked her head in. “Excuse me, Miss Bennett, my lord. I need Jane here for a moment.” She pointed to the maid.
“Oh, by all means, Mrs. Eggers,” Miss Bennett replied, sitting straight in her chair. “We shall be fine without her for a moment or two.”
But Armand noticed the girl looked uncomfortable. She whispered to the housekeeper, “But Mrs. Eggers, the duchesse said I was not to leave them alone.”
Armand saw Miss Bennett turn red again, but she ducked her head and traced the pattern on the… chair! That was the word! She traced her finger over the pattern decorating the chair. She was obviously pretending not to listen to the whispered discussion on the other side of the room, so Armand pretended he could not hear, as well.
“It’s only for a moment. Do you want me to interrupt the duchesse to ask permission?”
The girl shook her head. “No.”
“Good, then let’s go.”
The girl followed the housekeeper out of the room, and the door shut behind them. As soon as they were gone, Miss Bennett looked at him. “My lord, I hope you do not think I am choosing words randomly just to hear you say them. I am trying to aid your conversation so you might, for example, ask a servant to fetch your carriage at a ball.”
Armand nodded, though he was hardly listening. It had occurred to him, as the drawing-room door closed, that for the first time since that night in the garden, he was alone with Miss Bennett.
It also occurred to him now might be a good time to have her answer some of his questions—questions, he imagined, that would make her cheeks turn that light shade of red.
Nine
The comte smiled at her, and immediately, Felicity felt the heat pour into her belly. Why did the man have to be so handsome? And why could she not stop noticing? She had worked for days—days—to forget the kiss they had shared the other night, and now all of those images and feelings were raining down on her as if it had been mere moments ago.
She cleared her throat. “As I was saying, it would be quite beneficial for you to be able to ask for your carriage.”
“There are other words I would like to know,” the comte said in his matter-of-fact voice. It was still raspy from years of disuse, but Felicity found the huskiness, combined with the infrequency of his speech, only made it that much more sensual when he did speak. But that was not what she should be thinking of now. She was his tutor, and she decided on the lessons, not the other way around. She found if she gave him too much freedom, he inevitably found a way to avoid the lesson.
“I’m certain there are hundreds of words we have yet to discuss,” she said, standing. “But we can’t go about our work in a haphazard fashion. Today we are discussing transportation and ballroom etiquette.” She almost wanted to laugh at that last bit. What did she know about ballroom etiquette? The few assembly-room balls she had been to would pale in comparison with what she imagined the balls of the ton were like.
The comte frowned at her. “Carriage. Horse. I know these words. I want to know the word for that.”
He pointed at her hands. She lifted them. “You know that word, my lord. It’s hand.”
He stood, and she felt the room tilt slightly. He did not appear quite so tall and magnificent when he was seated. “I know that word. I mean that place. The place for your hands.”
She frowned at him. “The place for your hands? You mean the end of the arms?”
“No. Here, I’ll show.” He held out his hands in a universal gesture for her to place her own hands in his. She felt the room tilt again and knew the lesson was sliding away from her.
Wary, she placed her hands in his, and he then directed them back at her body, toward her hips. Oh! She understood now. She had inadvertently placed her hands on her hips, and he wanted the word now. Oh, dear. She could give him the word, but then she risked the very real possibility this lesson would turn into one on parts of the body. That she was not prepared to teach.
She lifted her hands away from her hips and shook them free of his light hold. “My lord, I think it best we adhere to our lesson on transportation. Perhaps another day we can discuss physical features.” Yes, a day when she was no longer so attracted to him. In other words, never. “So, since you seem quite familiar with the word carriage, why not try using it in a sentence? Pretend I am a footman and you want to leave a ball. What would you say?”
But she could tell all her efforts at redirection were for naught. He was still staring at her hips, and the more his gaze bored into them, the warmer she felt. “I know the word,” he said, gesturing to her hips, “but I cannot remember.” He touched his own hips, slim and clad in buff breeches, and
then, to her horror, he reached out and cupped hers.
“My lord, this is most inappropriate!” She tried to move back, but he held her firmly. She glanced toward the door, her heart pounding. The maid would return any moment, and then word of this would reach the duc and duchesse. The last thing Felicity wanted was another lecture from the duchesse. Especially when she had been trying so hard to keep her relationship with the comte purely academic. “Very well!” she said, hearing how breathless her own voice had become and hoping the comte did not notice. His hands on her body were burning into her, and her every impulse was to move into his touch, not away.
He glanced up at her now—thank God—his attention on her face rather than her nether regions.
“They are called hips,” she said, hoping if he received the information he sought, he would release her, and they could return to their safe, banal discussion of modes of transportation. “This is a hip.” She pointed to her right side. “And this is a hip.” She pointed to her left. “The plural is hips. All right?” She tried to withdraw again, but to her dismay, he did not release her.
“Hips,” he said slowly, his voice like worn velvet. The way he tasted words, rolled them over in his mouth, and then allowed them to drop from his lips like honey was far too sensual for her comfort. And did he realize despite all his years of silence, he still retained a French accent? She had never realized she was so attracted to French accents.
“My lord, truly, you should release me.” She tried to sound firm and commanding, but she knew words without actions would probably mean very little. She must push away from him!
“Your hips are different than mine,” he remarked, caressing her in a circular motion.
Felicity felt her breath come in a short gasp as liquid fire radiated from his touch.
“Yours are soft,” he said, still caressing her. “And… what is the word? Round.”
Now Felicity knew her cheeks were flaming—and not simply because his touch had that effect on her. “My lord, I am well aware that my hips might be a bit fuller than is considered ideal. However, it is most rude of you to point that out. In fact, it is usually best to avoid commenting on a lady’s appearance except in very general terms.”
But if he heard what she said, he made no show of acknowledging it. Instead, he ran his hands up her body to cup her waist. Oh, curses! This was really too much. Felicity tried to take a deep breath, to gather her strength to resist this sensual assault, but all the air in the room seemed to have evaporated. Perhaps she could open a window, anything to clear her hazy mind.
“And what is this part called?” the comte asked. “This part that is so little?”
Felicity narrowed her eyes at him. Was he doing this on purpose? Did he have some ulterior motive for complimenting her so, or was this his true opinion? The man was impossible to read. At times he seemed genuinely naïve and childlike, and at others he seemed to know far more than he appeared.
“That, my lord, is called a waist. Now, really, you should release me.”
“Waste?” He looked into her face, and she could not help but notice his eyes were dark, dark blue. He was definitely not as naïve as he would have her believe. “As in ‘do not waste the light’?”
She shook her head, tried to speak, and found her mouth was parched. “No,” she croaked. “The spelling is different. This waist”—she looked down at his hands, noticed how bronze they appeared against her pale pink and white gown—“the one you are holding is spelled W-A-I-S-T. The other is spelled—”
“I like to watch your lips move,” he said, lifting one hand to trace them and leaving a fiery path where his finger trailed. “They are soft and… more.”
“Are they?” she breathed. “I mean”—she shook her head—“my lord, you are not supposed to do this.”
He grinned. “I know, but I do it anyway. I can’t stop myself.” He leaned close, brushed his lips over hers, and Felicity felt all the air in her lungs trickle away. He pulled away, nuzzled her neck. “Do you want me to stop?”
Now was the time to assert her authority, to put him in his place and reestablish their relationship as purely professional. “Yes, you should definitely stop.”
“Those are the rules.”
“Yes.”
“But that is not what you want.”
“It is. I want to follow the rules.” And she did. Truly, she did. It was only that he made her forget that from time to time.
“Then why does your breath come so quick? Why does your…” Now his hands traveled upward, and Felicity felt her heart ram against her ribs. The beating was so loud in her ears, she could hardly hear her own thoughts. And even as she knew she should wrench herself away from his explorations, her whole body yearned for his touch and actually leaned into it as he grazed her breasts and then cupped them with his hands. “What is the name for these?” he whispered.
She couldn’t answer him. His fingers were moving over her, teasing and exploring. She wanted to lean her head back and give in to the sinful sensations, but she had to be the one with some restraint.
“They are soft here.” He cupped the underside and traced the curve. “And hard here.” His finger brushed over her nipple, and she moaned slightly. She dared not look into his face, but she knew he was watching her intently. “You like that,” he whispered, his breath on her cheek.
“Too much,” she admitted. “You should st—”
“Kiss you again,” he interrupted, and then his mouth was on hers, his tongue exploring her as thoroughly as his hands. Her whole body was on fire, aching to feel his hands everywhere, his mouth everywhere. She wanted him more than she had wanted anything else.
But in the back of her mind, she knew they would be interrupted in mere moments. They were not alone—and thank God for small mercies—because she did not know what she would do, what she would allow him to do if they were.
With a force of will, she broke the kiss, and he was distracted enough that she moved out of his reach. He came for her, but she held up a hand. “My lord, we cannot do this. It is against the rules.”
“Because we are not married?” He looked as disheveled as she. His eyes were dark, and his hair, previously neatly tied in a queue, was slightly awry where she had run a hand through it.
“Yes. Kissing and touching is only for married people. Like your brother and the duchesse.”
“Then we should marry.” He moved close again. “I want to touch you more.”
Felicity blinked, shocked, but still managed to evade his hand as he reached for her waist again. “Y-you don’t know what you’re asking. We cannot marry.”
“Why not?”
She shook her head. For a thousand reasons she could not begin to explain. Oh, why could they not stick to her lesson plans? Types of carriages and horses were so much easier to clarify. “This is a question you should ask your brother,” she said finally, knowing it was the easy way out and not caring. “I can’t explain it.”
“I see.” He looked thoughtful for a moment then turned on his heel. “Julien!” he called.
Felicity blew out an exasperated breath and rolled her eyes. “Not this minute, my lord! We haven’t finished with our discussion!”
But just as he reached the door, it opened, and the dowager duchesse stepped inside. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
Felicity was never more thankful the comte was halfway across the room from her.
“Ma mère,” the comte said, bowing to his mother then glancing at Felicity over his shoulder. They had worked on bowing earlier this week, and he obviously wanted her approval. She smiled and nodded. How did she tell him that was a rather formal greeting for one’s mother? And yet she had noticed he was far more reserved with his family than he was with her. He never voluntarily touched any of them. Now that she thought of it, the few times she had seen his mother pat his hand or the duchesse touch hi
s arm, he had stiffened as though in pain.
“How is your lesson progressing?’ the dowager asked, still looking at her son.
He rose. “Very well. We are speaking transportation.”
“Ah.” The dowager met Felicity’s gaze over his shoulder. “A very useful subject. And yet you look as though you are done for the moment.” She eyed the space between them and the comte’s obvious path for the door. “Are you finished for the morning?”
“No,” Felicity said.
“Yes,” the comte answered. Ignoring her, he went on, “I want to see Julien.”
“Oh.” The dowager nodded. “I’m sorry, but I think he is out.”
“In the garden?”
“No, at his club or his solicitor’s or some such errand. But if you were planning to take a respite, I could use your company, Miss Bennett.”
Felicity raised her eyebrows. “Me, Your Grace?”
“Yes. I need to do a bit of shopping on Bond Street. I see your trunks have arrived, but no doubt there are a few necessities you need. Would you care to accompany me for a few hours of shopping?”
Felicity glanced at the comte then back at the dowager. It would indeed be a good idea to put some space between the comte and herself, especially after her latest lapse. And shopping would be a wonderful diversion. She had been to London once before but never to the shops on Bond Street. She imagined they were infinitely more varied than the one store in the center of Selborne. On the other hand, she did not have the funds to purchase anything. She had less than a pound to her name, and she could not justify parting with that on something so frivolous as a hat or a ribbon.
“That’s very kind of you, Your Grace, but I think we should continue with our lesson.”
The comte, however, had other ideas. He bowed again and arrowed for the doorway. Belatedly, he remembered to take his leave and called over his shoulder, “Excuse me.” And then he was gone.
Felicity grimaced. “I’m sorry. We’re still working on some of the finer points of interaction.”
The dowager waved a hand. “Oh, do not apologize to me. I’m amazed at the progress you’ve made. Armand is interacting with me. He is speaking. You cannot comprehend how long I wondered if he would be locked away in silence forever.”