“What better way to ensure your safety?”
She wanted to point out that she’d be far safer were she not ensconced with him in a conveyance. Everything about him was large, and she was all too aware of the breadth of his shoulders, his distinctive shaving soap, and his long legs. The interior of the spacious carriage suddenly seemed very small.
“Did anyone see you leave?” he asked.
“No. My younger brother is asleep. So is his nursemaid. Father left an hour after dinner. I suspect he’s at the Raven Club as we speak.”
“Not tonight. I gave orders to my man, Brooks. If the baron appears tonight, his favorite faro table will be closed. That way he won’t think he is being denied entrance.”
Her voice rose in surprise. “Truly?”
“Gamblers take it as a sign of bad luck if their table is closed.”
“I’m surprised you instructed your man to—”
“Aiding your father was also part of our arrangement, remember?”
She did, but for some reason she didn’t think he would honor it so quickly. For a brief moment, she wondered if her father would come to his senses after learning his favorite table was closed and return home. Her heart lightened.
“He’ll go elsewhere,” Ian said.
His statement, simple and direct, served to effectively destroy her wishful thoughts. “How can you be certain? Maybe Father will lose his interest in gaming, at least for tonight, knowing he can’t frequent his favorite place.”
“Do you believe that?”
No. She didn’t. It was heart-wrenching to admit it.
The carriage came to a stop. She glanced outside the window to see the back of a large home.
“Even though it’s dark out, we’ll go in the servants’ entrance to ensure no one will see you.” Ian opened the door and hopped down. Not waiting for the driver, he lowered the step himself and held out his hand.
In her nervousness to leave her home, she’d forgotten her gloves. Nor was Ian wearing any. He grasped her hand, and the touch of skin upon skin momentarily shocked her. Strong fingers curled around hers. His hand was calloused, and a jagged scar ran the length of his thumb to his wrist. He certainly didn’t have a lord’s hands, but a fighter’s, and she wondered how he’d sustained the injury.
Was it from prizefighting or had he gotten it some other way?
She stole a glance at him as he helped her down the step and guided her to the servants’ entrance. His profile was rugged and boldly masculine. Her heart pounded an erratic rhythm.
The door opened and a butler stood in the back entrance. “My lord.” The servant’s gaze traveled to her face. He noted her hooded cloak, and she stiffened. No doubt, the man thought she was Ian Swift’s ladybird for the night. A shiver of dread traveled down her spine. She wasn’t expecting the butler to answer the back door.
Heavens, had all her discreet preparations been for naught? What if the servant whispered word of her presence here tonight? She had no chaperone, no possible reason to be alone with the master of the house at such a late hour. Was all lost before it began?
She stood frozen, her eyes wide, as icy fear filled her veins.
Ian Swift must have finally noticed her demeanor.
“That will be all, Jenkins,” Ian said.
The butler nodded and departed, and Ian guided her inside. She vaguely realized they were in the kitchens. Large pots and utensils hung from hooks above a rough-hewn work table, and the dark shape of a stove filled a corner. The scent of lamb lingered in the space.
Ian touched her sleeve. “What’s wrong?”
She frowned up at him. “Your butler. Why in heaven’s name did you bother to escort me to the servant’s entrance if you knew he would answer the door?”
“What does it matter?”
He couldn’t be serious. “Servants talk. What if he whispers of my presence here tonight?”
“Jenkins won’t say a word. No one in my employ gossips.”
He spoke with such forceful confidence that Grace almost believed him.
“Trust me in this,” he said.
Trust him? He was far from trustworthy, but she didn’t have much choice.
“Shall we continue?” he asked.
A part of her wanted to flee back to her home and hide in her bedchamber until the sun rose. But she was no longer a child. She was a grown woman who knew her problems wouldn’t cease to exist in the morning, and she must face them head on. Teaching Ian Swift manners was the best solution to both of their dilemmas.
She nodded once.
He led her through the hallway and past a drawing room. She stopped at the doorway to glimpse a well-appointed room with flocked papered walls, an Oriental carpet, and quality furnishings.
She hadn’t known what to expect.
An unkempt home? A boxing ring in the middle of the parlor? But it appeared to be a proper bachelor’s residence complete with a butler.
She waited for him to motion for her to enter the drawing room, but he continued past it. Frowning, she rushed to keep pace with his long strides. “Where shall our lessons commence?”
“Upstairs.” He stopped long enough to pick up a lit lamp resting on an end table at the bottom of the winding staircase.
Her brow furrowed. Perhaps the second floor contained his study. Many gentlemen spent hours in their studies going over ledgers or answering correspondence. Many gentlemen, that is, other than her father.
The baron preferred his clubs and left her with the running of the household.
Bitterness rose in her chest, and she pushed the disturbing thought of her irresponsible sire aside. She refused to wallow in self-pity; rather, she needed all her wits about her tonight.
They reached the staircase, and she gripped the winding balustrade as she walked up to the second floor and followed him down the carpeted hall. Lamplight illuminated artwork on the walls—George Stubbs, Thomas Gainsborough, Thomas Rowlandson. She stole a sideways glance at him. What kind of man owned priceless artwork and dressed as coarsely as he did?
Ian stopped outside a door and turned the knob. Seconds later, it swung open and Grace glanced inside. The butler must have left another lantern here, for the room was cast in a warm glow, which revealed masculine furnishings and blue silk drapes. But it was an enormously large four-poster that drew Grace’s attention.
Her heart jolted in her chest and she shot him an incredulous look. “You plan on beginning your lessons in your bedchamber?”
Half of his face was illuminated by the lamplight. “Yes.”
“I cannot.”
Ian scowled. “Now that you are here, why worry about propriety?”
“Still I—” She couldn’t put into words what she was thinking. It wasn’t just about her reputation. She’d taken that risk as soon as she’d left her home unchaperoned in the middle of the night.
No, that wasn’t the entire source of her discomfort.
How could she put into words that she couldn’t step into his bedchamber, his intimate space? His scent, his large bed, his private room was too overwhelming.
She raised her chin and met his eyes. “You must choose another room.”
He scowled. It was clear he was used to getting his way. She was upsetting his plans, and he didn’t like it one whit.
She refused to be intimidated. He was upsetting her plans as well. If they were to work together, then he would have to become accustomed to being challenged.
Let the battle of wills begin.
Chapter Five
Grace stiffened her spine. She would not begin her lessons in Ian Swift’s bedchamber. He could consider her resistance the first step in his lessons.
Never make a lady uncomfortable.
She allowed herself another glimpse of the bed. Heavens, it must have been custom-made to fit his large frame.
“Will the library be a more acceptable choice for your delicate sensibilities?” His tone was caustic, not at all accommodating. She’d have to work on th
at as well.
“Yes.” Any place was better suited to her than his bedchamber.
He closed the door and steered her down the hall. She wasted no time in keeping up with his long strides. He stopped at another door at the end of the hall and held it open for her to pass. “I hope you find this more to your liking, my lady.”
Grasping her skirts, she swept inside, then stopped short to gasp in wonder. Row after row of books bound in supple leather lined the walls. Tall mahogany shelves held volumes on history, art, ancient Greek, and Roman architecture, even economics. One entire shelf held works of fiction by Jonathan Swift, Grimms’ fairy tales, and many others. Another held Shakespeare’s plays. A wheeled ladder hung on runners that could be moved back and forth to reach the books on the highest shelves. Two leather chairs were arranged before a fireplace, and a pearl-faced ormolu clock rested on the mantel. A desk sat before a tall bay window, and its surface looked similar to the desk she’d seen in his office at the Raven Club. Stacks of papers and ledgers were piled in the corner. A blotter and inkwell stood ready.
Grace imagined sitting in one of the leather chairs and reading as natural sunlight streamed through the window and illuminated the room.
“You read?” she asked incredulously as she stepped close to run her finger down the spines of a row of books on a shelf. Most of the aristocrats she’d met owned books, but they never bothered to read them.
One dark eyebrow shot upward. “From your tone, I take it you thought I didn’t know how.”
She pulled a book off a shelf. Hamlet by Shakespeare. “It’s just that…that I never pegged you as a scholarly type.”
He came close. “I don’t deny my club’s finances are of the utmost importance, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a good book.”
She met his gaze. “I suppose I owe you an apology. My opinion of you was a bit different.”
“An apology is not necessary. I cannot fault you for your opinion.” He stepped forward. “May I take your cloak?”
She allowed him to help her remove the garment. His fingers brushed her shoulders and seemed to linger a moment longer than necessary. His touch upset her balance, and she took a deep breath just as he whisked the cloak off her shoulders and draped it across one of the chairs.
To put distance between them, she stepped to his large oak desk. Her eyes were drawn to the stacks of papers and leather-bound books. “What are all these?”
“Club ledgers and correspondence. A ceaseless stream of work.”
Her fingers itched to open one of the ledgers, to study the figures and learn the true worth of the Raven Club. The value of his library alone was enough to pique her curiosity. She dropped her hand. Other than her maid, Rose, and her friend, Prudence, no one knew about her secret bookkeeping work for the widowed milliner, and she wasn’t about to enlighten him.
He motioned to the pair of leather chairs before the fireplace. “Please sit. Let us speak of how you plan to teach me.”
She felt safe discussing the topic, and she sat and smoothed her skirts. Instead of joining her, Ian walked to a sideboard and lifted a crystal decanter. “Would you like a drink?”
Grace didn’t normally imbibe in alcohol, but she needed all her nerves to be alone with him all evening. The simple brush of his fingers on her shoulders had been enough to disturb her senses. “Yes, please.”
He poured two fingers worth in a glass and offered it to her, then poured himself a full tumbler. “Brandy.”
Grace sipped the drink. Smooth and sweet, the brandy went down easily. She may not be a connoisseur, but she could appreciate fine French brandy.
He sat across from her and crossed his long legs at his ankles. “Where do we begin?”
She’d had a well-thought-out plan for her lessons, but as he sat across from her, his dark gaze watching her, her thoughts fluttered like leaves in a strong wind.
The library was intimate in a different way from his bedchamber. She couldn’t cease envisioning him here—sitting in the large leather chair before the hearth, reading a book with his stockinged feet resting on a stool.
She blinked, trying to erase the image. She didn’t want to think of him that way.
Approachable, likeable.
“Well?”
She cleared her throat. “A gentleman is expected to be elegant in both manner and dress.”
Elegant, yes. That was the first item on her mental list.
He tapped the edge of his glass. “I watch the men in my club. Most slouch over the tables. Drink in excess. Curse when they lose. I wouldn’t call their behavior ‘elegant’ by any means.”
“Perhaps. But do you believe those same men behave in a similar fashion in the ballroom?”
“Good God, I hope not.”
“Appearances are important,” she said. “We should begin with your clothing.”
“I’m aware my clothing is not as fashionable as you are accustomed to seeing on a man.”
“It’s far from fashionable. You dress like you stepped out of a boxing ring.”
He scoffed. “That’s because I frequently do. There’s no better way to judge a man than by his footwork in the ring.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Your dress is one of the first items on my list. Please stand.”
“Your wish is my command.” He downed his glass, set it on an end table, and stood.
Grace set her half-full glass beside his and rose. She slowly circled him, noting the jet shirt and trousers. The material appeared costly and the clothing well-made, but the shirt was outdated and not acceptable for a gentleman, certainly not an earl.
She continued her perusal. Without a coat and waistcoat, his broad shoulders were clearly delineated. She realized he didn’t need the padding that most men required in their garments. Despite her resolve, she felt a sweeping pull in her stomach. There wasn’t an inch of softness about him. He was all hard angles, sinewy and unforgiving.
She stopped circling him. “As I said, entirely inappropriate.”
“Truly? I thought I was appropriately dressed to meet a lady in the middle of the night.”
“How often does that occur?” she blurted out, then bit her lip. “No. Please do not enlighten me.”
He chuckled, and she spotted a teasing gleam in his eye. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears.
“It’s not just tonight, but what you wore the first evening I saw you at the Raven Club,” she said. “Entirely inappropriate.”
“Something tells me you are going to enjoy insulting me during my lessons.”
Her lips twitched with the urge to smile. “I must receive some satisfaction from agreeing to tutor you.”
“Splendid. I shall have to instruct Jenkins to keep the brandy decanter full.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “Who is your valet?”
His brows slashed downward. “I don’t need a valet. I can dress myself.”
She looked at him in surprise. “All gentlemen have valets.”
“All the men of your acquaintance, perhaps.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You will need an entirely new wardrobe. You must arrange to see a tailor. It will take numerous fittings over the course of several weeks.”
“Jenkins will see to it.”
She didn’t think that was in the realm of a butler’s duties. “Where did you get Jenkins? He seems a proper English butler.”
“He came with the home, along with a cook and most of the furnishings. The books are my own.”
That explained the artwork and the elegant drawing room. She hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject, then decided straightforwardness was best. “Now that you are the earl, have you thought of living with your mother, the Dowager Countess?” She knew of Lady Castleton, of course. Ian’s mother had been a well-known hostess of the ton when her husband had been alive.
He looked at her incredulously. “No. I’m my own man. I haven’t lived with family for years. I left a decade ago when the old earl was alive.”
“Your father?”
“We never saw eye to eye.”
The bitterness in his voice made her wonder what had caused it. She bit her tongue to keep from asking. It was not her affair.
His brow crinkled. “Although I would prefer for Olivia and Ellie to live with me.”
“Olivia and Ellie?”
“My two younger sisters.”
She tilted her head to the side and regarded him. “I didn’t know you had sisters. Have they had their debut?”
“Ellie is seventeen and will have her debut next year. Olivia turns sixteen next month.”
Something about his tone aroused her curiosity. “You care for them, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
His answer was unhesitant and sure.
Her thoughts spun. “They are the reason you agreed to attend Lady Crowley’s ball and take your place as the new earl?”
“Yes.”
Again, no hesitation. She had thought his motivations were different. Never had she suspected he was going through with his lessons because he cared for his sisters.
“Now as for the tailor, will you accompany me?” he asked.
She turned her attention back to the matter at hand and what he was asking. “I cannot. Surely you realize we must not be seen together.”
“The tailor will come here. As for tattling tongues, money will buy his silence.”
“A good tailor does not make house halls.”
“He will for me.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “How can you be so arrogant?”
“It’s not arrogance. In my experience, tradesmen will accommodate a customer who pays them for their work rather than take months or even years to compensate them, like many members of the aristocracy tend to do.”
She couldn’t argue with that assessment. Creditors had been hounding her father for over a year to pay for their services.
“You speak so confidently as if people can easily be bought,” she said.
His gaze wandered to her face. “In my experience, most can, although there are exceptions.”
She felt her cheeks grow warm. She lowered her gaze and pretended interest in his clothing. “Your dress is only a start. It’s not just the clothing, but how you wear them. A gentleman must move gracefully.”
How to Tempt an Earl_Raven Club Page 4