A Matter of Scandal

by Suzanne Enoch

  Chapter 9

  Emma sat on a stump and looked through her notes as the duke and his students waltzed and did a great deal of chatting and laughing across the clearing. Even with Miss Perchase there, she had no intention of letting the group out of her sight.

  “That’s the most pleasant I’ve seen him behave toward females in over a year,” Dare said, as he pitched stones into the small creek.

  “You mean he used to be nicer?” she asked, glancing at the tawny-haired duke for the hundredth time.

  The viscount shrugged. “Not by much. To be fair, though, I suppose it’s not entirely his fault. Women have been trying to waylay him into marriage since he turned eighteen.”

  “Which explains his attitude of superiority toward females, I suppose,” she mused, “but not his dislike.”

  Dare skipped another stone across the water. “For that, Miss Emma, we can all thank Lady Caroline Sheffield.”

  Emma paused in her note-taking. “The Lady Caroline Sheffield? The one who attended—”

  “Your Academy. Yes.”

  “Did she break his heart?”

  With a short laugh, the viscount sank into the grass beside her. “Worse than that. She came within a whisker of trapping him into marriage.”

  Emma had never liked Lady Caroline. Now, she liked her even less. “He dislikes all women because one female was dishonest? That’s absurd.”

  “You’d have to ask him about that. Now, why all the questions about cattle?”

  To her annoyance, she would rather have continued discussing Wycliffe and what, exactly, constituted a whisker. Blinking, she returned to her notes. “It’s just that I don’t see why Lord Haverly’s set on Sussex cows. They’re not particularly good milk providers, and the beef is merely palatable. In addition, they require a great deal of grain for fattening.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about cattle. Dare Park is squarely in the middle of sheep country.” Tristan looked over his shoulder at the group of dancers. “I hate to say it, but Grey’s the expert where cattle are concerned.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Ask me about brickworks, though, and I can make your head spin with my bounty of knowledge.”

  Emma laughed. “I may risk it, my lord.”

  “Call me Tristan. Everyone does.”

  She wasn’t certain whether he was simply being friendly or whether he had something more on his mind, but he’d been helpful thus far, and she did like his easy manner—especially in comparison with Wycliffe’s antagonistic, seductive one. “Tristan it is. And I suppose you should call me Emma.”

  He smiled. “With pleasure, Emma.”

  “Have I missed anything interesting?” Wycliffe asked, strolling over with his students trailing along behind him.

  Not even glancing over his shoulder, Tristan resumed tossing rocks into the creek. They plopped rather than skipped now, but aerial acrobatics probably weren’t the point.

  “We’ve just been discussing cows,” she said.

  “Ah.” He turned to his students. “Ten minutes’ rest, ladies. I need to let my toes recover.”

  As Emma expected, they didn’t need a second request. The girls scampered off along the creek. “Stay in sight of the carriages,” she called after them.

  Wycliffe put one of his booted feet on the stump beside her and leaned over her shoulder to view her notes. She resisted the urge to cover them up; as he’d said, the majority of his plans for improving Haverly were already completed, and she didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. Some of her initial ideas seemed diabolically clever, if she did say so, herself.

  “You don’t like Sussex-bred cattle?” he asked, flicking the notes with his long fingers.

  “I’m considering the suggestion of selling them and acquiring a stock of Herefords.”

  He leaned closer, tucking a stray strand of her hair back behind her ear. “A Hereford will cost you three times the price of a Sussex.”

  “But they’ll fatten on grass, and fertilize a fallow field.” She consulted her notes, trying to ignore the disturbing tendency to lean toward the large male presence beside her. “And they’ll sell for four times what Sussex beef will bring.”

  “You’ve been studying.”

  Emma scowled. “That would seem to be a necessary part of winning the wager.”

  “Might I suggest keeping the cows and adding a Hereford-bred bull into the herd? That would cut your expense, and in the next few years increase the value of the beef.”

  She met his gaze. “Yes, but how much credit will I get for improvements that won’t be born until next spring?”

  “I’d take it into account,” the viscount said, his back still to Wycliffe.

  “As would I. But it’s still not enough to win you the wager, Emma.”

  “As I recall,” she said, trying not to sound haughty, “your plan calls for adding a Hereford bull. Obviously duplicating what you’ve suggested wouldn’t help me in the slightest, either.”

  “And adding an entire herd of new blood will increase Haverly’s debt, not its solvency.”

  Finally Dare climbed to his feet. “It’s an idea, Grey,” he said, facing them, “not a definite plan. The rest of us are allowed to have ideas. We don’t all know the answers from birth.”

  “And I do?”

  Emma looked up as the two men locked eyes. An odd, heavy disappointment touched her, and she lowered her eyes before either of them could notice it. They weren’t quarreling over her, after all. It was too silly, really, to think that these two splendid males might be at odds over her.

  “So,” she said aloud, reminding herself that she was practical, and that logic dictated this turn of events was for the best, “this isn’t about me.”

  They both looked at her. She stood, brushing the leaves from her skirt.

  Grey lowered his boot from the stump. “What are you—”

  “Excuse me,” she interrupted, heading toward her students. “The girls and I will take the barouche back to the Academy for luncheon.”

  “I brought luncheon,” Wycliffe said behind her.

  She continued along the creek, trying to decide when she’d become such an idiot that she believed her own daydreams. “Vanity, thy name is woman,” she muttered.

  A hand gripped her elbow. “And why do you suddenly admit to that?” the duke’s voice rumbled.

  She felt her cheeks turn crimson. “Excuse me?” she stammered, and pulled free of his grip.

  “You’re probably the least vain female I’ve ever encountered,” he said, moving up to walk beside her. “What did I miss back there?”

  Emma quickened her pace, though she knew she didn’t have a hope of outdistancing someone with a stride as long as Wycliffe’s. “You didn’t miss anything. We all simply have too much to accomplish to allow time for dilly-dallying. Ladies?”

  He was silent as her students stopped gathering flowers and assembled before her, but she could feel his gaze on her face, trying to figure out why she’d suddenly begun behaving like a madwoman. Even if she managed to figure it out for herself, she had no intention of enlightening him.

  “You said this wasn’t about you,” the duke finally stated. “To which ‘this’ were you referring?”

  “Miss Emma, may Jane and I put the lupines in our room?” Elizabeth asked, lifting a handful of the pretty blue flowers.

  “Of course you may. Are you ready to return to the Academy for luncheon?”

  “Grey hasn’t shown us how to gratefully decline an invitation to dance.” Henrietta adopted her familiar stubborn expression. “And I’m to dance with him next.”

  Emma looked at her charges, all of whom had their eyes on the Duke of Wycliffe. His large, virile presence had immediately attracted her notice; she didn’t know why she should be surprised that he had caught the girls’ attention, as well. The realization, though, complicated the situation immensely. Enough about her own uncertain heart—she had five young ones to protect from a jade
d rake. And fifty more back at the Academy, all susceptible to his charms. She didn’t think their infatuations would cost her the wager, but the more serious possibility of young, broken hearts gave her pause.

  “We’ve already discussed how to gracefully decline an invitation. Come along, back to the barouche.”

  “Not ‘gracefully,’” Julia said. “‘Gratefully.’”

  Emma stopped. “‘Gratefully?’” she repeated. Certain she must have heard wrong, she turned to the duke. “‘Gratefully?’”

  Despite the arrested look on his face as he gazed at her, he didn’t appear to have heard a word of the conversation. “You meant that you thought the disagreement between Dare and myself was over you,” he announced.

  With effort she didn’t turn tail and run. “That is not what I meant. I am quite capable of elucidating my own thought processes, thank you very much.”

  “Then do so. Explain.”

  She squared her shoulders. “Your conversation over who was born with which knowledge had nothing to do with the wager, and was therefore a waste of my—and my students’—time. Now, what do you mean, saying these young ladies should learn to ‘gratefully’ decline an offer to dance?”

  “That’s for my class to know, and for you to discover once you’ve lost the wager.”

  “I thought you had nothing to hide,” she protested, putting her hands on her hips and wishing he didn’t tower over her so effectively.

  “No, that was you. I have hundreds of secrets.”

  Several of them, she very much wanted to know. “It’s a shame, then, that you have no one in whom you can confide. Ladies?”

  She turned on her heel, only the sound of muttered protests and skirts swishing through grass telling her that they followed.

  “What time shall I come by for you in the morning?” the duke called after her.

  Drat. Seeing him every day was so…frustrating, but there was no way to avoid it. Even more annoying, she wasn’t all that sure she wanted to avoid him, anyway. “Nine sharp, if you please.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  “Yes, fine.” Seeing him at nine wouldn’t be the most aggravating part. Knowing that they would be spending the day together again tomorrow, she would spend the night tossing and turning while she tried not to think of him. That was even worse, because in her dreams he wasn’t nearly as annoying.

  “Are you going to make me walk back to Haverly?” Tristan asked.

  Grey turned around as the barouche rumbled out of sight. The damned female was always escaping before he was finished with her. “No. You’re the one with hornets in your hat. I’m as charming as always.”

  “Which isn’t saying much.”

  “Hm. Now you may walk.” Tristan didn’t appear at all amused by that, and with a sigh Grey relented. “For God’s sake, Dare, I was joking.”

  “You aren’t very funny these days.”

  The viscount was right, but Grey shrugged it off and climbed into the coach. After Tristan joined him, Simmons started the vehicle through the glade and back in the direction of Haverly.

  “How was your class today?” the viscount asked, after several moments of silence.

  “Interesting.” With a scowl, Grey leaned back against the plush black seat. “How was your conversation with Emma?”

  “Inter—”

  “Particularly the bit where you mentioned Caroline.”

  Dare’s expression became defensive. “That was just in passing. Emma wanted to know why you were so despicable, and I said she would have to ask Caroline. And you should be instructing your chits, not eavesdropping.”

  The remaining bits of Grey’s good humor faded. “She said I was despicable?”

  “Not in those words, but it was hinted at fairly strongly.”

  “How strongly?”

  “What do you care? She’s a female. And a headmistress.” With an exaggerated shudder of distaste, Dare pulled his pocket watch free and flipped it open. “Leave her to me, my boy.”

  “Ha. She’d flay you alive with that tongue of hers.”

  Dare frowned. “Emma? She’s one of the most warm-hearted females I’ve ever met.” The viscount’s expression grew more thoughtful. “Perhaps it’s just you she detests. You know, all that trying to ‘rob her of her livelihood’ business.”

  “I am not trying to rob anyone of anything,” Grey snapped. “I am attempting to make her realize her place and function in the world.”

  It sounded pretentious even to him, but the way his motives for continuing to antagonize her changed daily, he decided not to try rephrasing. It would likely only come out sounding worse.

  His uncle’s cook would be less than pleased that her splendid luncheon of baked chicken and peach pies remained uneaten, but Mrs. Muldoon’s good humor didn’t concern him overly much. He was less than pleased that Emma had whisked herself and her students away, and reason and logic didn’t help him justify his frustration in the slightest.

  “How long will you have Palgrove’s barouche?”

  Grey stirred. “As long as I want it.”

  “I thought so.”

  “You thought what?”

  “You bought it, didn’t you?”

  Damnation. “What if I did?”

  “For Miss Grenville’s Academy—which you’d like to see burned to the ground? You don’t see anything odd in that?”

  “It’s for Uncle Dennis. He can do whatever he likes with it.”

  “I’m sure he and your aunt will have daily occasion to tour the countryside in an eight-seater barouche.”

  Grey eyed him. “I liked you better when we weren’t speaking.”

  Tristan leaned forward. “Grey, I’ve seen you make business deals that left the losing side weeping. If you’re just playing here, then so be it, but I hope you’re aware of the consequences.”

  “So now you’re my conscience? Leave off, Dare. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Are you certain about that? Sylvia and Blumton have already begun plying your relations for information about Emma and the Academy, and don’t expect Alice to sit by and say nothing about her cold bed while you’re out hunting other game.”

  That didn’t bode well. He’d been so distracted by Emma and the wager that he hadn’t even been aware of the maneuvering going on behind his back at Haverly. The fact that he was distracted at all was troubling. But Tristan was looking at him, so he shrugged. “I thought you were referring to the consequence of breaking underaged chits’ hearts.”

  “That, too. None of them are your typical hard-bitten wagering sorts.”

  Grey forced a grin. “So you think I’ll come out of this looking foul? It’s a price I’m willing to pay. How many people even know about it, anyway? You, me, Blumton, and a few dozen spinsters of varying ages.” The thought was actually comforting. “I really don’t have anything to lose.”

  Tristan didn’t look convinced, and in truth, neither was he. Obviously the fresh Hampshire air had rendered him completely insane. He’d lost the ability to separate business from pleasure, so he was making a muck of them both.

  The question, then, was how to clean up the mess.

  By the time they arrived back at Haverly, he’d come up with the beginnings of an answer, and he spent the next few hours mulling it over. It was astonishingly simple. Emma Grenville had a fine wit and a rare, lovely smile. She had a slender build and pert, beckoning breasts, and he desired her. He therefore merely had to accomplish one task: he had to make her desire him.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  Grey jumped. His entire annoying party sat prattling in the drawing room, and he hadn’t heard a thing they were saying. In fact, he couldn’t recall much about dinner, either, except that there had been boiled potatoes. Again—another product of his uncle’s economizing. If he didn’t get Emma out of his system soon, people were going to begin thinking him soft-headed—or worse, soft-hearted.

  “I occasionally smile just because I feel like smiling,” h
e drawled, leaning over to select a cigar from the box on the table.

  Alice scowled. “It’s not as if we don’t all know, Grey.”

  His smile faded. “And what is it you know, Alice?” Deliberately he lit the cigar and took a long puff, ignoring his uncle’s affronted look and Aunt Regina’s delicate cough. He didn’t care whether his smoking offended the ladies or not. He wasn’t teaching etiquette this evening.

  Hobbes entered the room. “Your Grace, my lords and ladies,” he intoned, “Miss Emma Grenville.”

  With a silent oath Grey snuffed out his cigar, rising to his feet in the same motion. The other gentlemen in the room followed suit a heartbeat later.

  Miss Emma glided into the drawing room. She’d dressed in a dark green gown with a rust-colored pelisse for the occasion; she looked well, if not quite as elegant as Alice and Sylvia. Grey wanted to devour her. Since he couldn’t, he settled for running his gaze along the length of her slender, curved form and imagining.

  “Emma, what brings you here at this hour?” Aunt Regina asked, her face concerned. “The Academy is well, I trust?”

  The headmistress smiled, reaching out to squeeze the countess’ outstretched hand. “Yes, everything is fine. Thank you for inquiring, my lady.”

  “You must tell us the reason for your visit,” Sylvia cooed, cupping a glass of Madeira. “We haven’t seen you since the evening you favored us with your…interesting rendition of Nurse.”

  “I apologize for not having you over to the Academy, but I’m afraid we’re not equipped to accommodate visitors.”

  “Hm. Dare and Wycliffe seem to visit often enough.” Sylvia sent Grey a sly sideways glance.

  Grey drew a slow, annoyed breath. He might hope to lure Emma into misbehaving, but she hadn’t done so yet, and he wouldn’t have them insinuating that she’d done something improper.

  Before he could give Sylvia a set-down, though, Tristan bent down, gazing toward Sylvia’s dainty feet. “What is that, my dear?” he asked, toeing something none of them could see. “Oh, my, it seems you’ve coughed up a hairball, Lady Sylvia.”