“Grey?”
He blinked. “What?”
Alice was looking at him, her perfect brow furrowed. “You’re shaking.”
“You’re cutting off the flow of blood to my arm,” he muttered, shrugging free.
“Beast.”
Since the evening was a formal one, Grey offered his arm to his aunt. Uncle Dennis would escort Sylvia, Tristan lucked into Jane, and Blumton would spend dinner seated between Emma and Alice. The soirée was a bad idea—he’d concocted the whole bloody evening with the idea of being able to spend time with Emma Grenville, and the only way he would manage even a private word with her was if he kidnapped her and dragged her off somewhere. That notion sounded more appealing with every passing moment.
“So, ladies,” Sylvia began, as the footmen came around with the platters of beef and ham, “you must tell me. With Wycliffe and Dare calling on you every day, they must have all of you swooning over them.”
“Oh, no,” Julia stated. “Grey and Lord Dare are rakes.”
Lady Sylvia smiled. “And just how do you know that, pray tell?”
“They told us.”
She glanced over at him. “That’s interesting, wouldn’t you say, Alice?”
“I don’t think so at all.”
“Well, I’m curious as to what, exactly, is being taught,” Charles Blumton said around a mouthful of beef. “I can’t imagine what the Duke of Wycliffe sees fit to teach young girls.”
“I can,” Sylvia countered.
“All instruction is supervised, naturally.” Emma sliced a piece of ham into a dainty mouthful. “And I have to admit, despite my initial skepticism, that some of His Grace’s insights into the workings of Society have been enlightening.”
That was the closest thing to a compliment she’d ever sent in his direction. Grey lifted an eyebrow, but she had suddenly become occupied with her dinner. If he’d been removed from her all-encompassing category of useless males, he wanted to know about it. “Thank you, Miss Emma, though your admission doesn’t bode well for your success in our wager.”
Finally she lifted her gaze to his. “I said your insights were enlightening, Your Grace. I didn’t say they were helpful.”
“A good point, Emma,” Lady Haverly said with her faint smile.
“My goodness.” Alice fanned her face with her napkin. “I fear for our entire civilization when a headmistress is allowed to speak to a duke in such a tone.”
Emma smiled. “I was merely clarifying my statement, Miss Boswell. I didn’t intend to offend His Grace, and I apologize if I’ve done so.”
Damnation, he wished the rest of the guests would just vanish for five minutes so Emma could insult him in peace. “I assure you, Alice,” he drawled, “I can speak for myself. And I wasn’t offended.”
“Will we be dancing after dinner?” Lizzy asked.
Grey nodded. “I thought it might be good practice.”
“My goodness,” Uncle Dennis said, chuckling. “I haven’t waltzed in ages. That should be fun, eh, Regina?”
“Indeed. I have to say,” the countess continued, “it’s delightful to have a houseful of guests again. Haverly has stood quiet for too long.”
“I’m happy we could oblige,” Emma said with a warm smile that made Grey shift in his chair. “The two of you have done so much for the Academy over the years. I wish there was more we could do to repay you.”
“You might try paying your rent,” Blumton said, chuckling to himself as he slathered a biscuit with honey.
Grey wanted to throttle him. If there was one thing he didn’t want to do this evening, it was to remind Emma that they were on different sides of the chasm. “She is paying the Academy’s rent,” he broke in. “Whether that amount will be reassessed remains to be seen.”
“My goodness, Grey, that’s quite a change from the bellowing you did a few weeks ago.” Sylvia waved her fingers at Emma, leaning toward the headmistress as though the two of them were old, dear friends. “You should have heard him. He insisted that the Academy only taught females to lie and cheat and trick men into marriage, and that it should be burned to the ground.”
He was going to have to murder half of Haverly’s house guests before the evening was over. “Sylvia,” he murmured, “if you want to—”
Utensils hit the table with a loud clang. “He would not say such a thing!” Lizzy stated, her face a mask of fury. “That’s just mean. Why are you trying to cause so much trouble?”
Sylvia looked startled. “Well, my dear, perhaps you should ask His Grace what he did say about your school.”
Lizzy looked at him, her round brown eyes begging him to call Sylvia a liar. He wished he could. “Elizabeth, when I came to Haverly, I didn’t—”
“We all came to the Academy to learn things we didn’t know,” Emma interrupted in a quiet voice. “I would like to think that His Grace has been educated, as well.”
This time when he met her gaze, she didn’t look away. She’d spoken for Lizzy’s sake, of course, but she’d also made it possible for him to continue working with the girls and to make a go of winning the wager—which at the moment he had no intention of doing. “I admit,” he said slowly, “you ladies have surprised me. And I would like to think I’ve been able to teach all of you a little something, as well.”
A blush crept up Emma’s cheeks. He was glad she understood that he considered her his primary student—and he was aching to continue her education.
“Admirable speeches all the way around,” Blumton acknowledged.
Throughout the meal, Sylvia and Blumton took turns trying to pry information from Emma about her part in the wager and how it was progressing. More troubling, Lady Sylvia seemed fascinated with gleaning details of Emma’s past and upbringing from every sentence the headmistress uttered. Emma turned all but the most inane questions aside with no visible effort, but the interrogation had Grey near to grinding his teeth.
“You know, Sylvia,” he drawled, when he couldn’t stand it any longer, “I’ve been wondering. When was it, precisely, that you developed a tendre for Tristan?”
Sylvia’s mouth snapped shut before she managed a serene smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Wycliffe, but that seems rather…personal.”
He held her gaze. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”
Tristan cleared his throat, his expression unreadable except for the twinkle deep in his light blue eyes. “This banter is all well and good,” the viscount said, “but I think we need to keep in mind that the contest has only two weeks to go before the judging.”
“Then perhaps we should begin the dancing.” Relieved that no one had been killed over dinner, Grey pushed away from the table.
From the speed with which Emma and her students vacated the dining room, he’d said the right thing—for once, anyway. She crossed in front of him on the way back to the drawing room, and at the lemon scent of her hair, his mouth went dry.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, taking her arm and grateful for the dim light of the hallway. “The girls needed to experience this, but you didn’t.”
“It’s nothing new to me, Your Grace.”
He glanced over his shoulder. The girls and Miss Santerre preceded them, and the Haverly house guests had yet to emerge from the dining room. “I want to kiss you, Emma,” he whispered. “I want to run my hands along your skin, feel you against m—”
“Stop it.”
He slowed, trying to read her expression in the lamp light. “You want me again, don’t you?” he said fiercely. “I know you do.”
“Half the time I don’t know whether I’m angry with you or in lust with you.” Emma blushed.
“In lust with me,” he repeated, chuckling softly. “The feeling is mutual.”
“Don’t look so pleased. I wish I wasn’t.”
Elizabeth reappeared in the drawing room doorway and grabbed Emma’s hand. “Come and look!”
He had no choice but to relinquish her to the little chit. H
e hadn’t expected Emma to acknowledge such a base emotion as lust. The idea that women wanted him was nothing new, but having Emma Grenville admit to it left him feeling oddly…triumphant.
The orchestra had relocated to the grand ballroom. Though they hadn’t had much time for decorating, Haverly’s servants and the Basingstoke villagers had acquitted themselves well. Streamers and bows decorated the pillars and the windows. A few more balloons would have been nice, but Hampshire didn’t have much of a supply.
“Isn’t it splendid?” Elizabeth said, spinning.
“It’s lovely.” Emma motioned the girls to one side of the room and faced Grey again. “Thank you. They won’t forget this.”
“Neither will I,” Tristan said, strolling into the room. “I would never have imagined. No wonder you’ve decided against marriage, Wycliffe; you’re a splendid hostess all on your own.”
Emma looked sharply at Dare, then returned to assembling her charges. Grey scowled. He supposed that she would hear the tale eventually, but he preferred that it not be tonight—not even while he remained in Hampshire.
“Grey, may I have the first dance?” Henrietta pranced up to him while Julia giggled behind her hand, obviously at her friend’s daring.
“No, you may not, Miss Brendale,” Emma said sternly. “This is an exercise in manners and propriety. You must wait to be asked onto the floor.”
“But there aren’t enough men,” Henrietta whispered loudly.
“I’m afraid you’ll find that happens more often than not, Miss Brendale.” Tristan approached, bowing at the curly-haired chit. “Which is why it’s always wise to have a secondary plan. May I have this dance?”
She curtsied. “Yes, you may, Lord Dare.” She glanced at Grey. “I would be honored.”
Thank God for Tristan. Even if he was merely trying to remain in Emma’s good graces, he had freed Grey for the first dance of the evening. Deciding right then to make it a waltz, Grey headed for Emma. Her gaze, though, was on Dare, her soft mouth curved in an obvious smile of gratitude for his saving Henrietta from embarrassment. Damn Dare, anyway.
Blumton brushed past him. “You—little chit—what’s your name again?”
Lizzy stood on her tiptoes. “Elizabeth Newcombe, Lord Charles, though you may call me Lizzy.”
“Do you dance?”
“Exceedingly well, my lord.”
“All right, come along, then.”
She pursed her lips. “I think you should ask me more nicely than that.”
Blumton rolled his eyes. “Gadzooks.”
“Lizzy,” Emma said in a low voice.
The little sprite grimaced, then held out her hand. “Very well, but I don’t feel all that honored.”
Someone in the direction of the orchestra choked out a laugh, and the players launched into a country dance. Determined not to be outdone by Blumton, Grey inclined his head toward Jane. “Would you do me the honor, Lady Jane?”
She dipped in a graceful curtsy, taking his fingers. “The honor is mine, Your Grace.”
Uncle Dennis paired with Aunt Regina. Obviously used to the dearth of male partners, Julia grabbed Mary Mawgry by the hand and pulled her into the line of dancers. Alice took one look at Emma and turned her back to chat with Sylvia.
All the young ladies were skilled dancers, and he couldn’t help feeling a measure of pride at the way they conducted themselves. They were a spirited lot, and there was something refreshing in engaging in a conversation with a female who might actually say something unexpected.
He glanced at Emma, seated on one of the chairs at the side of the room. When she wasn’t lumping him with the rest of the boorish males on the island, she was by far the most refreshing, riveting female he’d ever encountered. He might have been somewhat in error in calling all females empty-headed, marriage-hungry charlatans, but at least he had a reason for his misconception. What was the reason for her negative views toward his gender?
He paused in the dance as a wide circle brought him before the orchestra. “Your next piece will be a waltz,” he said, and continued back around to Jane without waiting for an answer.
“Oh, a waltz would be splendid,” Jane said, smiling. They parted, circling, and then returned to join hands again. “You should ask Miss Emma to dance,” she suggested. “Otherwise she won’t have any fun tonight.”
“That’s a good idea,” he said, applauding his own cleverness. “And Jane, don’t say anything, but I have a little surprise for you this evening.”
“For me?” She blushed prettily.
Grey chuckled. The soirée was proceeding swimmingly, and the best was yet to come. Tonight he would dance with Emma Grenville, and tonight he would get some answers or die trying.
Chapter 14
If Elizabeth didn’t stop putting extra flourishes and turns into her dancing, poor Lord Charles was going to break his neck trying to keep up with her.
Emma hid a smile behind her hand. Lizzy was far too exuberant, but once she left the Academy for her career as a governess or a companion, she would never be permitted to fling her arms out and spin like a top. And everyone should have the opportunity at least once in her life to spin.
As the dance ended, she stood to collect her charges. Supposedly any poor behavior would be to Grey’s detriment, but she knew quite well that the Duke of Wycliffe wasn’t being judged tonight.
“Did you see me?” Elizabeth gave another spin.
“Yes, I did.” Emma tugged on the girl’s sleeve to straighten it. “Just try not to kill anyone, dear.”
The air stirred behind her, and she turned, from her quickened pulse knowing who it must be. “Your Grace.”
Grey looked down at her, a great tawny lion playing with the Academy’s little lambs. “May I have this dance, Emma?” he asked, holding one hand out to her.
She flushed. “Oh, no. It’s the girls who need the practice, Your Grace. I couldn’t.” But she’d been watching him almost every moment of the country dance, and her protest lacked heat.
He lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you led by example.”
“I do, but—”
“Then let’s show them how it’s done, shall we?”
She eyed him, and then the excited faces of her students. “Oh, very well.” Hopefully it would be a quadrille or another country dance, and she wouldn’t have to spend a protracted time in his company. Just touching his hands was torture enough. To be in his arms…
The orchestra began playing a waltz. With a shiver, Emma allowed him to draw her out onto the dance floor. She closed her eyes as he slid one hand around her waist and pulled her closer to him.
“Don’t do that,” he whispered.
“Do what?”
“Don’t close your eyes. It makes me want to kiss them.”
Her eyes flew open. “Well, don’t.”
He swung her into the dance. “I’ll attempt to restrain myself. I think you should know, however, that—”
“Please tell me you aren’t going to spend the entire waltz telling me how much you desire to touch me and kiss me.”
A slight grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “We’ve already established that you’re in lust with me; I’ll save that bit of dialogue until we’re somewhere more private.”
Even the mention of being alone with him made her feel weak-kneed. “Did you say something to Lady Sylvia?” she asked instead. “Something about…what happened?”
“Are you referring to the other evening, when I stole into the Academy and made love to the headmistress?”
“Grey, please,” she hissed.
A slight frown furrowed his brow. “No, I didn’t say a word to her, nor would I ever. Why?”
“She’s been looking at me rather oddly.”
“You’re not from London. Everyone who doesn’t have a home in London is an oddity.”
“It wasn’t that kind of look.”
Grey regarded her with a mix of curiosity and exasperation. She’d seen that expression on his face quit
e a few times over the past few weeks. “What kind of look was it, then? Or are we going to play charades so I can guess?”
“You saw it, as well, or you wouldn’t have stopped her from questioning me.”
“Maybe I like to be the only one questioning you.”
Emma cleared her throat. “I’m attempting not to jump to conclusions,” she pointed out. “She just seemed…to know something. About us. And not to be happy with it.”
His expression became more somber. “You may be right. I’ll find out.”
She tightened her grip on his shoulder, digging her fingers into the iron-bound muscles there. “No!”
For a moment they waltzed in silence. “I’ll tell you what,” he said finally, gazing down at her from scant inches away, “I’ll be subtle, if you’ll tell me something.”
Her heart thumped. Despite her protests, she hoped the something would have to do with his wanting to be with her again. She wanted future lessons from Grey Brakenridge. As many as they could possibly fit into the two weeks he had remaining in Hampshire. She didn’t want him to know, though, that she yearned for his touch. He liked that she was strong; she liked it, too, and even more she needed to be that way. More even than she’d realized.
“What do you want me to tell you?” she asked cautiously.
“You said you’d experienced people like this before,” he said, nodding at the Haverly house guests, “but it wouldn’t have been at the Academy. Where, then?”
A different kind of nervousness ran through her. “London.”
“When were you in London? I don’t remember you being there.”
She would have remembered him if they’d ever crossed paths. Of that she was certain. “London is a large place, Your Grace. And I hardly think you would have noticed me.”
“Yes, I would have.”
She drew a breath, dismayed that she was leaning again. Hopefully in the middle of the waltz no one would be able to tell. “I was only twelve, anyway.”
For just a moment his expression darkened. “Twelve? What kind of bastard would hurt a twelve-year-old girl?”
His voice had taken on a low, dangerous edge, and that actually steadied her a little. “It was a long time ago. There’s nothing anyone could have done about it, anyway.”
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