A Matter of Scandal

by Suzanne Enoch

  He turned back to his charges, who now chatted and giggled together. “Hypothetically,” he said, sitting cross-legged in the grass with them, “if an earl did approach and inform you that the sky was green, how would you respond?”

  “I’d tell him he was batty as a belltower,” Lizzy announced.

  “You would not.” Jane sat forward. “Miss Emma says there are two ways of looking at any question or statement. The first is that the speaker is being sincere, and the second is that he isn’t.”

  The young chit even sounded like the headmistress. “Continue,” Grey urged.

  “If he’s sincere, he’s soft-headed, and contradicting him won’t do any good.”

  “So you humor him,” Grey said, and the girls nodded.

  “And if he’s insincere, he’s trying to make himself look witty or clever or intelligent, and—”

  “—and he’s therefore seeking an opportunity to make an impression,” Mary took up.

  “So you humor him.” Again his charges nodded.

  “Unless his intent is without a doubt malicious, in which case you say ‘pardon me,’ curtsy, and leave the conversation.” Julia counted off the steps on her fingers.

  Several things which had been troubling him began abruptly to make sense. “What’s the difference, then, between my advice and Miss Emma’s?” he asked, just to hear how they would word the answer.

  “Because you just tell us to agree with everything a man says, no matter how ridiculous it is. Miss Emma tells us how to do it knowing his intent, and seeking the way that most benefits us.”

  “And,” Elizabeth said stoutly, “she teaches us about everything. Not just stupid blind earls and remembering to flatter nobles when we waltz with them.”

  The curriculum she’d painstakingly written out for him in her letter came to mind. In his initial interpretation, it hadn’t been all that impressive. “Geography” had meant learning the major capitals for parlor games. “Mathematics” had been what the chits learned so they would understand how much they spent on clothing. None of it would have required actual learning or intelligence.

  Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had underestimated Miss Emma and her Academy. She clearly considered most males only one step removed from gorillas; since she didn’t spend any time around men, he had to wonder why she viewed them with such contempt.

  The girls sat gazing at him, and he shook himself. “If Miss Emma’s taught you so well, what do you think is left for you to learn?”

  “I want to know why Miss Emma says you’re a rake,” Lizzy stated.

  Grey narrowed his eyes. “You’d have to ask Miss Emma about that.”

  “Well, what is a rake?”

  Mary patted Elizabeth’s shoulder. “You’re too young for that class. A rake is…a man who tries to kiss lots of women.”

  “Oh, good God,” Grey muttered.

  “What?” Mary asked, frowning.

  Grey frowned back at her. Providing a definition of rakes and answering any of the questions likely to follow had little to do with the ballroom etiquette lessons he’d mapped out for the chits. On the other hand, with inaccurate information like Mary’s, the lot of them were likely to end up with lifted skirts two minutes after they arrived in London. He glanced at Jane. If they made it as far as London.

  “Tell us,” Lizzy urged.

  “Yes, please.”

  Jane’s quiet plea affected him more strongly than Elizabeth’s; she was older, and she was being pursued by a rake. One with whom he’d spent several hours last week, encouraging and coaching.

  “Just a moment,” he said, standing.

  Emma and Tristan were stretching measuring tape along the length of one of the chicken coops as he strolled over. The chicken keeper flushed to the top of his bald pate as Grey reached them, making him wonder which sordid details of his life Tristan had been regaling Emma with now.

  “Did the little chits frighten you away, Wycliffe?” the viscount asked.

  “I need to speak with you for a moment,” he informed the headmistress, ignoring the two men. “In private.”

  “All right,” she said after a hesitation, handing the end of the measuring tape to the chicken keeper. “Excuse me.”

  She would have stopped just out of earshot of the chicken run, but Grey kept walking until he’d rounded the near corner of the stable. He heard her pause as she realized where they were headed, and only let out a breath when her footsteps continued after him.

  “I hope you’re not going to attempt to lecture me about chickens,” she said, rocking back on her heels and acting precisely like a nervous young lady making every effort to appear calm. “I know all about chickens.”

  “Your students have asked me to explain what a rake is. And they didn’t mean the farming tool.”

  Her mouth opened, then closed again. “Oh. I’ve already explained that—”

  “Did you actually tell them a rake is a man who tries to kiss lots of women?”

  Emma blushed. “Well, not in those words.”

  Grey snorted. “That’s criminal.”

  Immediately her expression became defensive. “In some cases I am bound by the dictates of polite society, whatever I might wish to say. And besides, isn’t kissing what you tried to do to me?” she asked, her voice indignant.

  “No, I did kiss you, Emma.” He took a step closer. “Do you really think that was all I wanted?”

  She put a hand on his chest. “Stop.”

  “Why? I already kissed you, which is apparently all I was inter—”

  “Don’t make fun.”

  “Don’t mislead those girls. There has to be a better way to explain things.”

  Her hand remained on his chest, and it took more willpower than he’d expected to keep from looking down at it, especially as he felt her dainty fingers curl around the top button of his waistcoat. Sweet Lucifer, she was killing him.

  “Why do you even care?” she asked, avoiding his gaze.

  “Why are you presuming to dispense information on a topic you obviously know nothing about?”

  “I know about you.”

  Grey reached out and tilted her chin up with his fingers. “I don’t think you do,” he murmured.

  Slowly, so he wouldn’t frighten her off, he leaned down and touched his lips to hers. She responded with a soft sigh, tiptoeing to deepen the kiss. That was what he’d done wrong before, he realized, relishing the play of her soft mouth against his. He’d pushed, tried to guide and control their contact. Emma being Emma, she first balked, and then attacked him with her finest weapon—her wits.

  So, even though he practically vibrated with tension, he let her break the kiss, and didn’t pursue her when she did so. For a long moment she looked up at him, her gaze dreamy and unfocused. Then she blinked and lowered her hand from him.

  “I would like your permission,” he said, in the same quiet, nonthreatening voice he’d used before, “to tell your students about rakes, and to answer any other questions that might spring from that one.”

  “I couldn’t allow such a thing. It has nothing to do with the conditions of the wager, anyway.”

  “Emma, if they all go into the world as naive about men as you are, it won’t matter a whit if they know the capital of Prussia, or how to dance prettily.”

  She drew a breath, and using all of his willpower he kept his eyes off her pert, heaving bosom. “I am not as naive about men as you seem to think,” she said, bitterness touching her voice.

  “But—”

  “However,” she interrupted, “neither will I deny my students knowledge which might assist their success.”

  He nodded, surprised, and more than intrigued by her statement. “Good.”

  “You will only have these discussions when I am present. If I ask that you cease, you will do so immediately. Is that clear?”

  “Clear as glass. I have no wish to overwhelm Miss Perchase with practical information.”

  “I still don’t underst
and why you want to be so helpful, after that whole ‘gratefully declining’ nonsense.”

  He didn’t blame her for being suspicious, because he had no explanation himself. “I’m trying to win a wager,” he said.

  Her expression grew more contemplative. “You still don’t have a chance. This is the first time, though, that you’ve actually turned in the right direction.”

  The Duke of Wycliffe had brought luncheon, and three footmen to serve it. Considering that they all sat out on blankets in the meadow, alfresco style, having liveried servants walking among them offering chicken and cucumber sandwiches seemed absurdly overdone. The girls, though, enjoyed it. Emma did, as well, even if she would never tell the duke so.

  She looked over at him again, munching on a sandwich and surrounded by females half his size. He’d been different today. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but when he’d kissed her she hadn’t felt cornered or overwhelmed. The kiss had been heavenly, and if she’d ever had a chance of another peaceful night’s sleep, it was gone forever now.

  “So you want to expand the coop area?” Tristan asked as he sat cross-legged beside her.

  “The price of beef has been soaring since the war. The nobility might still be able to afford it, but I imagine the rest of London has already turned to fish, chicken, and pork. Haverly could supply chicken on the…hoof, as it were.”

  He nodded. “It’ll bring in a few more quid, I’m sure.”

  “It won’t be enough to win the wager. I know, I know.” Emma set a peach on her thick stack of notes so they wouldn’t blow away. “But every little bit helps.”

  When she glanced up again, Grey held her gaze for a moment, then returned to his conversation with Julia and Henrietta. Emma sighed.

  A plucked daisy appeared before her. “Cheer up,” the viscount said, twirling the flower in his fingers. “We’ll be out of Hampshire before much longer.”

  Emma smiled. “Oh, it’s not that. I enjoy being out-of-doors like this.” In truth, the thought of Wycliffe leaving Hampshire didn’t cheer her up in the least. It would make life more simple again, perhaps, but it didn’t make her happy.

  “Miss Emma, it’s been almost an hour. Can we continue our lesson now?”

  “May we continue,” she corrected Lizzy.

  “May we continue?” her youngest student repeated.

  Emma’s nerves fluttered. She had discussed rakes with the older girls, in terms of dangers to be avoided. Wycliffe was right, though. Her practical knowledge in that area was sadly lacking, and it was an important topic—particularly for students like Jane and Mary, who would be out in Society among all the male dangers very soon.

  “Yes, you may,” she answered.

  Tristan climbed to his feet. “Back to the chickens?” he asked, holding his hand down to her.

  She allowed him to assist her to her feet. “Actually, I’m going to sit in on this lesson.”

  “I thought you’d decided to chaperone from a distance today.”

  “I had, but I believe this particular topic requires my undivided attention.”

  Tristan looked at Grey. “And which words of wisdom will His Grace be imparting to the flock this afternoon, then?”

  “I’m going to teach them about rakes.”

  The viscount froze. “Really?”

  “Yes. Care to volunteer any of your own experiences for the class?”

  Dare eyed the students with almost comical horror. “Actually, I think I’ll go take a walk and gouge my eyes out with a stick.”

  “Are you a rake, too?” Lizzy asked, squinting one eye against the dappled sunlight of the meadow.

  He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, ladies. Blumton said he was going fishing at the duck pond this afternoon.” He began walking backward. “I think I’ll join him.”

  As the viscount vanished into the trees, Elizabeth returned her attention to Wycliffe. “Is he a rake?”

  “Not a very good one, I’m afraid.”

  Hm. This was not going to become a treatise on the heroics of rakedom if Emma had anything to say about it. “I count that as a point in Lord Dare’s favor,” she said.

  The servants cleared the remains of luncheon and retreated to the vehicles. Emma sat opposite Wycliffe so she could see his expression and be in good position to silence him if the need arose, as per their agreement. Of course, it also meant that he could gaze at her for the entire length of the lesson and gauge exactly what effect his speech was having on her.

  Emma took a deep, steadying breath. His little lesson would have no effect on her whatsoever. She wouldn’t allow it to.

  “Everyone settled?” At the girls’ nods, Grey leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. “All right. I suppose we should begin with the basics: do you all know the difference between males and females?”

  “Your Grace!” Miss Perchase blurted, blushing.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, Miss Perchase?”

  Emma cleared her throat. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a wise idea, after all.

  “I was not aware that this was going to become a discussion of…that sort of thing,” the Latin instructor stammered.

  “What sort of thing?” Lizzy asked.

  “Suffice it to say, Your Grace, that my students have all had basic anatomy,” Emma offered.

  “Oh.” Elizabeth nodded sagely. “You mean breasts and man-parts.”

  Wycliffe choked. With her eyes, Emma dared him to comment on Lizzy’s phraseology. She and Lizzy were definitely going to have to have a long talk about her youngest student’s bold, forward manner of speaking.

  He cleared his throat. “I suppose that definition will suffice,” he said after a moment. “A rake, then, knows all about breasts and…man-parts, and how well they go together.”

  “Is that why he likes to try to kiss ladies?”

  “Lizzy, hush,” Jane said. “Let Grey explain.”

  Emma was rather curious to hear his explanation, herself. “Yes, continue.”

  “A rake…knows what women like. Part of what women like is being kissed. Women also like it when someone pays attention to them, and talks with them, and asks them to dance. Rakes just happen to be better at this than other men.”

  Emma narrowed her eyes. He hadn’t asked her to dance, but he’d done everything else. And she’d liked it; all of it. Apparently, though, that was just because he was so good at it. Part of her wanted to know what else he was good at. The other part of her was afraid she would like what she found.

  “So rakes like to play games with women’s emotions?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap.

  A muscle in his lean cheek twitched. “Some do. Others are just naturally…charming.”

  “How is it charming to fool someone into thinking you like them?” Henrietta asked.

  “Are you saying,” Emma put in, “that a rake is a male with the position and wealth to act as he chooses despite Society’s strictures?”

  Lizzy was nodding again. “It doesn’t sound very nice. Are you certain you’re a rake, Grey?”

  Wycliffe blew out his breath. “I’m not that kind of rake.”

  “Well,” Jane said, frowning, “what other kind of rake is there? And how do you tell if a man is a rake or not?”

  Emma leaned forward. “Yes. Please tell us.”

  “Well, for one thing, the good sort of rake’s flattery is genuine.” He sounded short. “Just because someone says nice things doesn’t mean he isn’t sincere about it.”

  “Sincere or not,” she said slowly, “it’s more than flattery that a rake has in mind, isn’t it? And what he has in mind could very well ruin a lady’s reputation.”

  The duke glared at her. “Only if he gets caught.”

  “Humph. Ladies, please know that a true gentleman will never ask a woman to engage in…activity that might be harmful to her reputation or her well-being. If you are asked to do something that you even hesitate about, it is probably something you shouldn’t be doing.” Grey opened his
mouth, but she continued. “I have a very good friend, for instance, who allowed a man—a marquis—to escort her into a garden to apologize for some ill behavior. This man then kissed her in front of witnesses, and they were forced to marry.”

  “The Vixen,” he muttered, his jaw beginning to clench.

  “Yes.”

  “You might note, though,” Grey put in, less humor in his voice, “that there are females who intentionally lure men into compromising them for the very reason that they want to be married.”

  “Whoever allows that to happen, man or woman, is a fool.” Frank discussion or not, Wycliffe’s personal prejudice against women had no place in it.

  “If you had ever actually been to London and experienced Society,” he shot back at her, “you might realize that walking a path isn’t nearly as straightforward, or as black and white, as you seem to think.”

  “I have been to London,” she burst out, standing, “and I found it sadly lacking in decency. And I find anyone who can defend the immorality of rakedom to a group of young girls to be precisely the same.”

  Tears filled her eyes, blast it all. Through the blur she could see the girls staring at her in open-mouthed amazement. The look on Wycliffe’s face was much harder to read.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” she managed, and strode off toward the trees.

  If the duke followed her, she was absolutely going to scream. Her students already thought she’d gone mad; if he ran after her, they would think her odd behavior was because of him.

  Yes, she was confused by his arrogance and his splendid kisses, and yes, she did feel flattered by his occasional compliments, even if they were only meant to distract her from winning the wager. Mostly, though, she was mad at herself for beginning to look at him fondly, when he was, after all, just another man who thought he knew everything, and that she couldn’t possibly be right about anything.

  It was Jane who came after her. “Miss Emma?” she called. “Are you all right?”

  Hurriedly Emma wiped the tears from her cheeks and emerged from behind the beech tree she’d been using for cover. “Jane? Heavens, you shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

  “We were worried about you. Grey said I should give you a few minutes to compose yourself, and then come find you.”