The Making of a Gentleman

by Shana Galen

Armand turned to the stairs and began to ascend them, taking one at a time.

  “Whatever it is, he either can’t or won’t remember. Leave him be.”

  “I’ll make him remember.” Julien lunged for him, and Armand paused. He wouldn’t fight anymore tonight, nor would he talk. There was nothing left to say.

  “No, you will not.” That was his mother. Now she, too, stood in the gap between the two brothers. “You are doing more harm than good. Let him go. He will talk when and if he is ready.”

  He should have felt grateful to his mother, but he was beyond caring what happened to himself. This was his fault, and everyone knew it. He had not protected them; maybe he could not. He couldn’t stop his gaze from seeking Miss Bennett. Would there be disgust on her face, fear, revulsion?

  She had not risen from the table. She sat there, hands folded, worry in her eyes. And she looked—what was the word? He had heard Julien use it with Sarah—beautiful. She looked so beautiful it made him hurt.

  But she did not look disgusted. She did not look at him as though he were to blame. That was, at least, something. And he continued upstairs to his bedroom, silently closing the door and blowing out the light.

  For once, he wanted darkness.

  ***

  Felicity did not see the comte for two days. In that time, she felt increasingly useless. The duc and duchesse were paying her to tutor the comte, but how could she do so when he would not leave his room?

  And yet no one said anything to her. No one questioned her position. But without a pupil, she could hardly ask for an advance on her salary. At one point she received a note from Charles. It was riddled with threats and demands for money. She burned it in the hearth before anyone could see it and prayed he would stay away. But she was distracted and worried.

  “Are you well, Miss Bennett?” the duchesse asked on the afternoon of the second day without the comte. She was serving tea, and Felicity realized she had not taken the cup the duchesse had held out to her.

  She took the cup now. “Quite well. My head was somewhere else.”

  “We are all distracted of late. It will ease my worries when the comte rejoins us. When he does, I would like you to focus your studies on the social graces. I have accepted an invitation to Lady Spencer’s musicale next week. Armand will be attending.”

  So the hunt for the comte’s wife was to begin. Felicity set her tea cup on the saucer. It rattled slightly, and she quickly put it on the table. “Certainly, Your Grace.”

  “I thought a musicale would be the best place to begin, as we all know the comte’s love of music. Also, he need not worry about dinner conversation or dancing, though that will come eventually. Do you know how to dance, Miss Bennett?”

  Felicity swallowed. An image of the comte holding her in his arms while she showed him a dance step flashed through her mind. And after that, another image from two nights ago materialized—the comte, his shirt open to midchest, his blue eyes burning like those of an avenging angel. Never had she seen a man who was so powerful, so intense. When he had grabbed his brother, she had been terrified and also strangely aroused. What would it feel like to have that intensity focused on her—not in violence but in passion? After all, were they not two sides of the same coin?

  The same hands that circled the duc’s neck in rage could stroke her skin until it heated and burned. He had done it before, but he mustn’t ever do so again. And she would speed that along when she helped him find another woman to marry, to bed, to put his hands on…

  The duchesse was looking at her expectantly, and Felicity cleared her throat. “Pardon, Your Grace, what was the question?”

  The duchesse gave her a quizzical look then repeated, “Do you dance?”

  “Ah, yes, but not very well. I have never taught anyone.”

  The duchesse nodded, and Felicity could almost see her mental list of tasks growing. “Then I shall hire an instructor.”

  “Do you think the comte will agree to dancing lessons?”

  The duchesse shrugged. “I have no idea. He can be stubborn, as you have seen.”

  Felicity thought of him closed in his room, refusing to come down, even after she had played for hours in an attempt to lure him. And then she thought of him the night the brick came through the window. “But I do not think it is all stubbornness, Your Grace. I think there are some things he cannot tell us. Some things he cannot allow himself to remember.”

  The duchesse set her cup and saucer aside now. “I agree, Miss Bennett. And I know the duc agrees, as well, but he feels so helpless to protect his family, and that frustrates him.”

  “I believe it frustrates the comte, as well.”

  The duchesse smiled. “You protect him. I like that, but I wonder if he needs our protection any longer. Perhaps we have protected him too long? Perhaps it is time some of the doors he has closed were reopened. They may open whether he wants them to or not.”

  “I saw him last night,” Felicity said, not knowing why she revealed this now. “From my window,” she hastily added when the duchesse’s eyes widened. “He was in the garden, pacing, watching the gate and the house.” She had been worrying Charles would make an appearance and had seen the comte instead.

  The duchesse frowned. “It was pouring rain last night. I wish he would not do that. The duc hired extra men to watch the house. The window has been repaired, and we have ordered another table.”

  “Yes, but that does not erase the threat, not truly. Those men will not go away so easily. If we close one door, they will find another somewhere else. The comte knows this, and even so, whatever secrets he harbors, whatever secrets are hidden in his mind are too painful to bring to the forefront. He is willing to guard the house all night, to stand in the rain and the fog and the cold to protect us. That must tell us something about the severity of what he hides.”

  The duchesse looked past her, her eyes seemingly focused on something in the past. “I wonder if he will ever be healed, Miss Bennett. I wonder if anything—or anyone—can heal him.”

  Their eyes met, and then the duchesse rose. “I must speak to Cook. Please finish your tea. I shall see you at dinner.”

  The next morning, the sun was bright and warm, and when Felicity opened her drapes, the day seemed a reflection of springtime. She knew it was late November, but it did not look or feel so, and she donned a white day dress with yellow flowers then tied a yellow ribbon in her coil of hair. The dress was not nearly warm enough for winter, but Felicity did not care. It matched her mood.

  She had taken her time dressing and knew she missed breakfast. It was no bother, because she was not hungry anyway, and so instead of making her way to the dining room, she went straight out to the garden. The air was crisp but not uncomfortable, and the sky was an endless sea of blue. She looked up, turning as she did so. No, she could not see a speck of white in the sky—not a cloud to mar the beauty of the day. She craned her neck farther to see if the moon had yet faded from sight and turned right into a very solid, very familiar form.

  She almost stumbled back, but the comte caught her before she lost her balance. To her disappointment and relief, his hands did not linger.

  Felicity stood and straightened her dress. “My lord, it is good to see you out and about.”

  “Miss Bennett,” he said with a nod. She smiled at his politeness, glad her lessons had taken root. But she also mourned the reserve in his eyes. Had she taught him that reserve?

  “It’s a beautiful morning,” she said, looking at the sky again.

  “Yes, beautiful.”

  She glanced sideways and saw his eyes were not on the sky but on her. Perhaps she had been too quick to think him reserved.

  “What I mean to say,” he added, “is indeed. It is indeed.”

  Still without looking at him, she said, “I have not seen you for some days, and yet our lessons are far from complete. Do you think
you feel up to continuing them today?”

  He sighed, and she could hardly blame him. A day of study indoors did not suit her mood either. “Perhaps we could have class outside this morning.”

  When she glanced at him, he was smiling. “I would like that.”

  “Good. Then shall we begin? The duchesse says you will be attending a musicale next week.”

  “A what?”

  She smiled at him. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. It’s a party where music is played. Often there is a singer or singers who perform. Light refreshments are served.”

  “Light—”

  “Tea, punch, small sandwiches, and such. I think you will enjoy the music. I thought we might discuss how the evening will go in order to prepare you.”

  “You will be there.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m afraid I have not been invited.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She bit her lip, gave that vast blue sky one last glance. “I am not of your station, my lord. I have no money, no title, no connections. You are the comte de Valère, and as such, you have all three. I cannot go where you go, but I can make sure you are prepared for each event.”

  He frowned, the look on his face fierce. “But I want you there. I will go and speak to Ju—”

  She reached out, touched his arm to stop him. “Please don’t.” She could think of nothing worse than having to tag along where she was not invited, being forced to watch the comte interact with other women who were more beautiful, more accomplished, and more wealthy than she would ever be. “I don’t want to go. In fact, I think this is a good opportunity for you to meet other ladies. Do you remember our last conversation about marriage?”

  The way his eyes darkened said he remembered perfectly. And the way his gaze flicked to her mouth told her the passions that had led to that discussion had not really waned either. “This might be your chance to meet a woman you would marry, a wife.”

  His eyes turned cold. “My brother has spoken to me of this, but I told him I would marry you.”

  Felicity’s heart stopped long enough for her breath to catch in his throat. “My lord, that’s not possible.”

  “Not possible?” He moved nearer, closed his warm hand about her wrist. “Or not desirable? Tell me which.”

  Twelve

  “That is not an easy question, my lord,” Felicity said. Her wrist tingled where his hand had closed around it. His fingers were rough and callused, not at all the smooth, effeminate fingers she would imagine an aristocrat to possess.

  But then this man was not some refined aristocrat. He was feral, untamed, passionate. She glanced up into his eyes and saw all of that and more. She saw longing there—longing for her. He wanted her, and the thought made her shiver. She wanted him, too, but she was no wild creature. She knew the rules and knew she had to obey them, despite what her emotions of the moment told her.

  “It is easy,” he contradicted her. “Do you want me? Yes or no?” He was close to her now, and she could feel the heat from his body through her thin dress. Why had she not worn a cloak? Her head was spinning, and she felt faint from his closeness. She was no ninny who would really faint, but she had a feeling the sensation might be due to the blood rushing from her head to lower regions of her body.

  “The question,” she managed to whisper, “concerned marriage, not desire.”

  “What is the difference?”

  For a moment, she almost wished they could return to the time when he could not speak. It seemed dealing with him was simpler then. Now he had so many questions, and she felt ill-prepared to answer them.

  “Marriage is a contract, a legal joining,” she said, even though she doubted he would understand all of the nuances of what she told him. “Desire is something fleeting. It comes and goes.”

  His hand moved lower, his fingers caressing the inside of her palm. Curses! She had forgotten her gloves, as well!

  “Not for me. Desire is…” He paused, and she could see him searching for the word. “Continuing?”

  “Constant,” she breathed.

  “Yes.” He was watching her now and judging her. She did not know what he would see, but she knew what he should see—a tutor who insisted he learn the lesson for today. Even if that lesson was how to catch a bride who was not she.

  “My lord…”

  “Why do you not call me my name?” he asked. “Is that another rule?”

  She wet her lips. How she would love to call him by his name. It was such a rich, sensual name. So French and exotic. How she would love to form her mouth around it. “Yes,” she said then had to clear her throat to make the word come out clearly. “It is a rule. I must call you my lord, and you must call me Miss Bennett.”

  “Call me Armand.”

  Oh, dear. She loved the sound of the word on his lips. It was so dark and sweet. The light French accent with which he spoke was more pronounced on his name, and it sent a shiver up her spine. “I cannot,” she whispered, trying not to allow him to feel her tremble.

  “Once,” he said, but he did not sound like he was pleading. He sounded almost as though he were commanding her.

  “My lord.” She glanced down, unable to hold out against the passion she saw in his eyes. “That would not be appropriate.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Miss Bennett.”

  His fingers trailed over the sensitive skin of her bare palm again. “Your given name. Please.”

  She glanced up at him quickly, saw the light in his eyes and knew he was teasing her. He hated all the polite terms she made him learn, and if he was using one now, it meant he was trying mightily to persuade her. And perhaps she could use that to her advantage—to turn this into her lesson and away from the dangerous path they were both skirting.

  “I will tell you, my lord,” she said, stepping back and disengaging her hand from his, “if we can pretend we are at Lady Spencer’s musicale.”

  His brows furrowed, making him look even more serious than usual. How she loved all of his looks—serious, passionate, intense, and now today, she had seen teasing.

  “Here, you stand over by that bench, and I will pretend I am a young lady the duchesse wants to introduce to you.”

  “I don’t want to pretend.”

  She gave him the same look she had given the girls who argued with her back at the small parish school in Selborne. “Go stand over there.” She pointed, and with a long-suffering sigh, he did so.

  But he was slouching, one hand in his pocket, and that would not do at all. “My lord,” she said, shaking her head, “that will not do. You must stand straight.”

  He raised a brow and continued slouching. Felicity sighed. She supposed this was the best she could do for now. Posture was probably not at the top of the duchesse’s concerns for the musicale.

  “All right. Pretend I am being led over to you by the duchesse or your brother. You don’t know me, but perhaps you have been admiring me all evening. And now is your opportunity to meet me.”

  “I do not understand the point of this pretend.”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “It is practice for the night of the musicale! Will you just try, my lord?”

  He threw up his hands in surrender and then, to her dismay, shoved them both back in his pockets. Undeterred, she made her way slowly toward him. “You might smile at me, my lord. If you look so formidable, you will scare all the ladies.”

  “What is this formidable?”

  “It means frightening and serious together.”

  “Hmm.” He actually looked rather pleased with that description, so she was not surprised when he did not begin smiling at her. Finally, she stood before him.

  “I am playing the duchesse now. Miss Felicity Bennett, might I introduce you to my brother-in-law, Armand Harcourt, the comte de Valère. My lord, this is—”
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  But he had reached out and taken her wrist again. “I like how you say my name, Felicity. Say it again, Felicity.”

  She gave him the stern look again. “You should be calling me Miss Bennett. Only men and women who are related or who are engaged to be married may call each other by their Christian names.”

  “Marriage, again,” he said, raising a brow.

  She extracted her hand and went on. “As I was saying, my lord, this is Miss Bennett. You see, a lady is always introduced to a gentleman, even if he ranks above her. If you were being introduced to another gentleman, the order would depend upon—”

  “Felicity?”

  She paused and had to stop her heart from pounding in her chest. She loved the way her name sounded on his lips, like a whisper of cool sea air on a warm day. “Yes?”

  “What do I do now?”

  “I suppose a bow would be appropriate. And I might curtsey.” She made a small one because she detested them.

  “A bow?”

  “Well…” She should probably not tell him this, but what if he saw others doing it and made some kind of wrong connection?

  “Yes?” He had that brow raised again. How did he manage to do that? And why did it make it so hard for her to breathe?

  “You could also kiss the lady’s hand.”

  “Show me.”

  She cleared her throat and took a step back, recognizing that look in his eyes. “It is one option, my lord, and generally used more by men who are trying to be charming.”

  “What is this charming?”

  “The opposite of formidable.”

  He nodded, and she was not certain what he made of her explanation. “Show me the hand kiss.”

  Now she had to pause. “I don’t really know how to show you. I’ve never done it.” Or had it done to her. She was simply not that irresistible. Either that, or she didn’t know enough charming men. “But what I have seen men do is to take a lady’s hand lightly, lean over—like a bow—and gently kiss her knuckles.” At least she thought it was the knuckles. Perhaps it was the back of the hand?

  “Knuckles?”