A Matter of Scandal

by Suzanne Enoch

  Grey lifted an eyebrow at Sylvia’s affronted expression. “Don’t look at me for sympathy,” he said. “You began it.”

  “Actually, Your Grace,” Emma said briskly, “you began it. As the host of the party here at Haverly, you should be attending to their entertainment and comfort. Given the amount of time you’ve spent instructing my students, I’m not surprised Lady Sylvia—and your other esteemed guests—should feel slighted.”

  She was in fine form this evening—both physically and mentally. “I appreciate your concern over the minimal time I’ve been able to spend with my guests,” he returned smoothly, “though it behooves me to point out that you have interrupted a pleasant evening we’ve been spending in one another’s company.”

  “Greydon,” his uncle chastised.

  Emma only nodded. “Indeed I have, Your Grace, for which I apologize. I shall be as brief as possible.”

  Damn. He’d wanted her to stay. Emma was far too clever for him to be fencing with her without first considering her reply.

  “But you still haven’t said why you’re here,” Alice said, her lips curved in a smile that looked closer to a snarl.

  “Alice, you have all the subtlety of a dog bite,” he returned. “I’m sure she’ll tell us when she’s ready to do so.”

  To his surprise, the headmistress blushed. “I’m afraid it’s a personal matter. I require a word with you, Your Grace.”

  That was more like it. Moving forward, he gestured her toward a side door. “After you.”

  “Grey, what about—” Alice began in a whining voice.

  “Excuse us for a moment,” he said, cutting her off.

  He shut the door behind him, watching Emma as she turned to face him. Her hands were clasped firmly behind her, and unless he was greatly mistaken, she was nervous.

  “What can I do for you, Emma?” he asked in a low voice.

  “First, open the door.”

  Damnation, lusting after a proper chit was frustrating. Reaching back, he cracked open the door. “There.”

  “More.”

  Swallowing an oath, he pushed it another inch. “Enough?”

  “A foot at least, Your Grace.”

  “Fine.”

  When he’d complied she lifted her chin, finally meeting his gaze. “Thank you. With my students present, I haven’t had an opportunity for a frank discussion with you.”

  If she began chatting about farming, he wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences, open door or not. Her presence alone was enough to leave him aching. “Discuss, then,” he said, taking a step toward her.

  “Very well. I haven’t seen much of the world.”

  He took another step closer. “I know.”

  “And you’ve seen a great deal of it, I suppose.”

  “I have.” Three more steps and he would be close enough to touch her.

  “I am aware, however, of the way the world works.”

  “Good.” One step down, two to go.

  Finally she seemed to notice how close he was getting. Shifting her hazel gaze between his feet and his face, she cleared her throat. “I know, for instance, that when compared with London, Hampshire must seem very dull.”

  “Not entire—”

  “And that you, as a duke, do not like and are not accustomed to boredom.”

  With a slight smile, Grey shook his head, noting that they were at least out of the line of sight of the drawing room occupants. “I am frequently bored, and prefer to be challenged, though I believe we’ve had that discussion already.”

  “Yes—yes. That’s my point, in fact. In order to keep yourself from being bored, you’ve convinced yourself that I’m some sort of…of a challenge.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, wondering which of them she was actually attempting to convince. “And you’re here to inform me that you’re not a challenge. Is that it?”

  “Well, yes. I am a headmistress at a girls’ school.”

  Her full, slightly parted lips beckoned to him. “Emma,” he murmured, “you are a very great challenge.”

  “But—”

  Grey leaned down and captured her mouth.

  His warm lips teased and pulled, until Emma couldn’t tell who was kissing whom. Her head kept saying that she should run away as fast as she could, but her head didn’t have a chance against the molten heat of Greydon Brakenridge.

  Arms of banded iron swept around her waist, pulling her to him. She could feel his arousal, his heat, pressing against her, and she groaned as warmth swept down her spine. He did desire her. He wasn’t just teasing.

  She twined her hands into his hair, and he deepened the embrace of their mouths. He was a rake, she desperately reminded herself. A very experienced rake, with two other women in this very house that he’d probably held in the same strong, warm embrace. Two women, just through the half open door from where she and the duke stood.

  “Stop!” she hissed, yanking his hair.

  He lifted his head, his eyes dark and his breathing as harsh as her own. “Why?”

  “You go too far.” His elegant hands, intimately cupping her bottom, seemed to burn through her gown to her flesh.

  “Isn’t this what you came here for, Emma?” he murmured.

  “No!” Abruptly, though, she wondered if he wasn’t correct.

  “Then why didn’t you write me one of your stimulating letters?” He dipped his head, running his lips across her throat.

  Emma wanted to melt into him. Several of her married friends, especially the Countess of Kilcairn and the Marchioness of Althorpe, had attempted to describe what being the object of a man’s desire felt like, but all of their words had been inadequate. Woefully so.

  “A letter,” she managed, “wouldn’t have been sufficient.”

  “I agree. You’ve made your point much more clearly this way.” His mouth found the base of her jaw.

  “My point. Oh, good lord.” What had her point even been? “Yes, my point.” With every bit of self-control she possessed, Emma pushed her hands against his chest.

  It was a pitiful effort, but he released her. She thought she’d escaped, until he stroked the back of his fingers along the low neckline of her gown. “I have a point to make, too, Emma.”

  She backstepped. “No doubt you do. But—”

  “Kiss me again,” he murmured, pursuing her.

  Oh, my goodness, she wanted to. “Let me speak,” she demanded, putting her hand over his seeking mouth.

  He tugged it away. “Speaking does not seem to be something you’re shy about,” he returned dryly.

  “Humph. As I was saying, your presence in Hampshire is unusual enough that you have attracted the notice of my students.”

  “Your students.”

  “Yes.” From his skeptical expression, he knew very well whose notice had been attracted, but at the moment that wasn’t the point. “And even more, your presence at the Academy, and your…physical attractiveness…well, surely you understand that it’s very easy for young ladies to be swayed by a kind word and a pleasing countenance.”

  To her relief, he nodded. She didn’t think she would have been able to continue much longer.

  “You’re concerned that your students may develop a tendre for me.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “And that in doing so, they might cost you the wager.”

  “What?” she stammered. “The wager has nothing to do with this! I am talking about the…fragile hearts of young girls.”

  Wycliffe looked at her for a long moment. “You are, aren’t you?” He sighed. “I have no intention of behaving in such an underhanded manner. I’ll win the wager easily enough without resorting to that.”

  She nodded. “Thank you; I’m glad you understand. We have rules, and whatever your motivations for…pursuing me, I cannot—I will not—allow you to keep sneaking into the Academy—into my bed chamber—when a school full of young, impressionable females might see you and misinterpret your actions.” He continued to gaze at her in silence
, so she continued. “Is that clear?”

  “Are you going to have this conversation with Dare?”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “And why is that?”

  Now his expression was serious, even angry. Even—though her pulse fluttered again to think it—jealous. So part of the animosity between the two men was over her. A small thrill ran down her spine.

  “Tristan has not been in my bed chamber. Nor has he kissed m—”

  “‘Tristan’? You call him ‘Tristan’?”

  She flushed. Blast it, she should have been paying more attention to what she was saying. But she’d been too occupied with the idea that an actual—two actual—males found her desirable. “He asked me to,” she offered lamely.

  “Then I ask you to call me Grey. Will you do it?”

  “Your Grace, I am not here to assign nomenclatures, or to participate in your little game of one-upmanship. I am here to make certain you understand both the rules of the Academy and the reason we have them. Please—”

  “Will you?” he repeated, his tone and expression becoming dark.

  Her pulse skittered again. “All right. If it will keep you from pummeling anyone, yes. I will call you Grey.”

  “Then do so.”

  “I just did.”

  “No, you didn’t. You referred to me as Grey. Call me by my Christian name, Emma.”

  She sighed, hoping she looked more composed than she felt. “As you wish, Grey.”

  “That’s more like it. Now, where were w—”

  The door opened the rest of the way. “Greydon? Is everything all right?”

  Grey closed his eyes for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he faced the doorway again. “Yes, Uncle Dennis. We’ve been discussing the wager.”

  Belatedly, Emma realized how close to one another they were standing. Swiftly she took a step back, folding her hands together. “It’s just that I have a few doubts about the wisdom of some of the things His Grace is teaching my students,” she said briskly.

  Lord Haverly’s smile wavered a little, and Emma winced. It was bad enough that she be seen in nearly private conversation with a man. For her to be discovered within touching distance of him would be enough to ruin her in London. Thank goodness none of her students was present; she was becoming an abysmal role model. And as for kissing Wycliffe, touching his hard chest and feeling his strong arms pulling her close…she would worry about that later.

  “Well, I still believe this wager is a great deal of nonsense,” Haverly said. “I don’t suppose the two of you will listen to an old man’s opinion, though.”

  “Not at the moment,” the duke returned. “Excuse us, uncle, but there are a few more points we need to clarify.”

  Thanks to their previous embrace she knew precisely which point of his he wanted clarified, and Emma knew if she didn’t escape at once, she probably wouldn’t have the willpower to do so. “I believe I’ve stated my reservations, Your Grace. It is now up to you to satisfy them.”

  Grey faced her. “I believe I’m up to that task,” he said in a low voice, his eyes glinting.

  Damnation. She’d said the wrong thing—again. Hopefully Lord Haverly wouldn’t notice her blush in the dim room. “I shall be going, now,” she said, trying not to rush her words.

  “You could stay for whist,” the earl suggested, obviously making an effort to be his usual jovial self.

  “Oh, no. Thank you for the offer, but I’m already breaking curfew, I’m afraid.”

  Brushing past Grey and Haverly, she entered the drawing room again. The tall blonde woman, Alice, looked at her with such hatred that it startled her. The others, Tristan and Lady Haverly included, bore speculative looks that she found nearly as disturbing.

  “Did Tobias drive you?” the duke asked from behind her.

  “No. I rode Pimpernel.”

  “You went riding alone at this hour?”

  His voice was sharp, though she wasn’t certain whether he was concerned for her safety, or appalled that a female had managed the ride to Haverly manor in the dark without becoming lost. “I have ridden alone frequently, Your Grace. I hardly think to find highwaymen on Haverly land.” She curtsied to the room. “Good night, my lords and ladies.”

  “You are not riding back in the dark on your own.”

  Emma paused in the doorway. “Are you presuming to dictate to me, Your Grace? I am not one of your servants. Good evening.”

  She made it to the stairs before she heard his footsteps thudding behind her. Squaring her shoulders, she continued down to the first floor. Grey didn’t say anything as he drew even with her in the main hallway, but she could practically feel the heat radiating from his large, strong form.

  Finally she couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “It’s kind of you to walk me to the door, but it’s quite unnecessary. I know my way.”

  “I’m not walking you out,” he grunted. “I’m accompanying you back to the Academy.”

  “You are n—”

  “Argue all you want,” he interrupted, “but you have your rules of etiquette, and I have mine. You are not riding off alone in the dark.”

  She’d barely managed to escape intact from the conversation in the sitting room. She didn’t dare go off alone with him again. Her lips felt swollen and bruised from his kisses, and her heart hummed with wild emotions she couldn’t even put a name to. “Then send one of your grooms.”

  To her dismay, he smiled. “Afraid to be alone with me?”

  “No! Non—nonsense. I fear your guests will begin gossiping about your odd behavior, and I don’t wish to be involved in a scandal.”

  “My guests are my concern. You are more interesting.”

  Hobbes opened the front door for them, and Emma preceded Grey down the shallow marble steps. When she heard the door close behind them, she turned around and jabbed a finger into the duke’s chest. “You presume too much. Simply because you find me ‘interesting,’ like some three-legged goat in a carnival, does not mean that I find you interesting.”

  He looked at her. “You seemed to be plenty ‘interested’ a while ago.”

  With effort she held his gaze. “I will admit that you kiss well. You’ve had a great deal of experience, no doubt.” He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off. “As I said, I know how the world works. I know why I ‘interest’ you, and I know precisely how long that ‘interest’ will last.

  “This is where I live. I have nowhere else to go. So I would appreciate it if you would keep your ‘interest’ in check until such time as you lose your wager and take yourself and your coaches back to London.”

  Finally, he gave a slow nod. “Collins!” he bellowed in the direction of the stable. “Saddle a mount and accompany Miss Emma back to the Academy!”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you.” She turned on her heel and walked toward the stable.

  “Emma,” he continued in a low, soft voice behind her, “you don’t know everything.”

  She kept walking. A moment later she heard him return to the manor. Perhaps she didn’t know everything, but she knew she was right about him. And the miserable thing was, she wished she were wrong.

  Chapter 10

  “I really don’t think that’s right,” Mary Mawgry said.

  Grey glanced down at her, and at the rest of the girls, seated in a semi-circle at his feet. With effort he kept his back turned to the noisy chicken run behind Haverly’s stable, and the three figures standing beside it. Even not looking at her, he couldn’t keep his thoughts off Emma.

  “Of course it’s right,” he returned, speaking up a little to be heard over the squawking chickens. “Men like women who are capable of playing an instrument. Being expected to sit through and listen to a performance, though, is considered pure torture.”

  “That’s nonsense.” Elizabeth scowled at him. “I love listening to music.”

  “You, my dear, are a female. I wasn’t talking about you.”

  �
��You never talk about us,” she returned, fearless as always. “Only about how to make men like us.”

  “Isn’t that the point?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  Jane sighed. “It would be nice to be liked simply because we’re likable,” she said, absently plucking blades of meadow grass and letting them blow through her fingers. “Not because we know how to answer every question in a pleasing manner.”

  Grey stopped pacing. “Isn’t that what Miss Grenville’s Academy teaches? I’m just refining the process.”

  “Not very well.” Lizzy stood, brushing leaves from her walking dress. “If some man says the sky is green, I’m not going to say, ‘Oh, yes, my lord, the sky is green,’ just because he’s an earl, for heaven’s sake.” She bowed and sat again.

  “He’s a very stupid earl,” Julia muttered, and Henrietta laughed.

  This didn’t make any sense at all. Rubbing his chin, Grey studied the chits arranged in the grass before him. They all seemed to have a fair share of intelligence, particularly Jane and Lizzy. Up until this moment they’d followed his instructions and listened to his lessons and explanations without complaint, though their questions and commentary had been rather amusing. He’d even been enjoying himself; or he would have been, if he hadn’t been so damned frustrated by Emma.

  Unable to stop himself, he turned around. The headmistress, wearing a plain yellow morning dress, chatted with Tristan and Uncle Dennis’s chicken keeper. Her sheaf of notes had grown to book size, and still she continued jotting things down, making measurements, and refusing to ask him any but the most inane questions. As he watched, Tristan put a hand on her shoulder as he interjected something into the conversation. She laughed—the laugh she never had for the Duke of Wycliffe.

  Grey clenched his jaw. For four days he’d kept away from the haughty miss. For four nights he hadn’t slept, instead spending the time pacing and cursing and making up revenges, all of which involved the two of them being naked. In the evenings he made up lesson plans for his students, lesson plans the ungrateful chits now seemed to think were merely a poor joke.

  For the first time, it occurred to him that he might lose the wager. Grey shook himself. For God’s sake, he was a duke. He never lost at anything.