Her hurry had nothing to do with the fact that she hadn’t seen Grey in over a day, of course. As headmistress of the Academy, she needed to be apprised of any recent developments. If her heart was pounding, it was only because of her worry, not because she was contemplating being kissed.
Hurrying as she was, she didn’t take the time to look over her shoulder at the Academy and see five young faces peering out an upstairs window and giggling.
Chapter 17
Emma hurried along the road. Whatever the girls thought they had needed to say to Wycliffe, they couldn’t afford any more trouble. Her own alleged misdeeds were bad enough, so now any wrong the girls did would be magnified tenfold.
As the house came into sight, she slowed. Two additional coaches stood behind the stable. Emma suppressed a nervous shudder. More people, and undoubtedly more rumors. She’d imagined a discussion with a few irate parents—not a confrontation with an entire brigade.
Hobbes pulled open the door before she could knock, and she managed a smile for him. “Good afternoon. I…require a word with His Grace, if he’s available.”
The butler nodded. “If you don’t mind, I’ll tuck you into Lord Haverly’s office while I inquire.”
She wanted to inquire about who Haverly’s guests might be, but now, more than ever, she needed to act as the Academy’s ambassador. Uncertain as she felt about being there with all of the awful gossip flying everywhere, she still had a role to fulfill. Keeping her hands clasped in front of her, she followed the butler into the office to wait for Grey.
Out of habit she strolled over to the gaming table. Lord Haverly, obviously sensing his imminent defeat, had moved his last bishop into the fray as a distraction. She was in the mood for a victory, though, and this one seemed more sure than anything else in her life at the moment. Ignoring the ruse, she took a white pawn with her rook, moving into position for the coup de grace.
“I was wondering where Uncle Dennis had acquired his sudden ability to think more than three moved ahead.”
Grey shut the door behind himself and crossed the room to her. Emma tilted her face up, her pulse fluttering. Slowly he tugged the bow beneath her chin loose, then lifted the bonnet from her hair. She drew a breath, trembling at his gentle touch.
The hat dangling from his fingers, he leaned down and touched his mouth to hers. She felt it all the way down to her toes, but at the same moment she noticed something peculiar. Backing off, she wrinkled her nose. “You taste like brandy.”
“Whiskey.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Not yet. You interrupted me.”
She couldn’t read his expression. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
He kissed her again, soft and slow, as though for the first time. She wanted to melt into him. Something was different this time, deep and quiet and centered. As the embrace of their mouths deepened and heat wound down her spine, Emma wondered whether he had locked the door. After all, ambassadors weren’t supposed to be caught bare-bottomed in the embrace of dukes.
“You have guests,” she said, pulling away again.
Grey kept his free hand clasped around her elbow, not letting her get too far away. That excited her, though his mere presence was enough to do that.
“Just my mother and my cousin.”
“I thought you were in hiding.”
“I’ve been discovered.” He leaned down again to rest his forehead against hers. “This is rotten business. Next time I’ll keep my mouth shut and my eyes open, Emma. I promise you that.”
She swallowed. Why was he promising her things? He’d never done that before. “My share of blame is at least as large as yours,” she said, thankful her voice remained steady. “But I’m not here to assess degrees of guilt. Your students told me they came to Haverly this morning, but they wouldn’t tell me why.”
“Yes. They informed me that they consider me to be at fault for any and all rumors, and said unless I told them exactly what was going on, they didn’t wish my services any longer.”
Emma looked down for a moment, stifling a surprised smile. My goodness, she loved those girls. “What did you tell them?” she asked, lifting her head again.
“Nothing. The less they know, the better.” He sighed. “We’ll have to think up something to tell them, though, because I can’t lose the wager without them.”
“Win or lose, I still can’t see any way out of this.”
His eyes searched hers. “I think I may have a solution.”
She grabbed his sleeve. “Really? What is it?”
For a long moment he was silent, his gaze steady on her face. Whatever his answer to this disaster was, he seemed very serious about it. Emma wrapped fingers around his lapels and shook him lightly.
“Tell me. What’s your solution?”
“Mar—”
The door opened, and a dignified-looking woman with long black hair piled high on her head strolled into the room. Grey’s fingers tightened on Emma’s elbow, then with a twitch released her.
“Mother,” he said smoothly.
She stopped halfway across the room, her inquisitive gaze on Emma. “So you’re the headmistress who’s been servicing Dare and my son all Season,” she said.
The duke said something low and brief in reply, but Emma couldn’t hear it. All of London—Grey’s mother, even—thought her a whore. The Academy was lost. White spots suddenly began floating in front of her eyes. The rushing pulse of her blood roared in her ears, and then everything went black.
Grey heard Emma’s uneven intake of breath, and whipped around just in time to catch her as she collapsed. His heart pounding, he swept her into his arms and made for the doorway, scarcely noting his mother as she moved out of his way.
“Hobbes!” he bellowed, reaching the stairs and taking them two at a time, “get me smelling salts! And send for a physician!”
Dimly he heard the household roar into action behind him, but his attention was on the limp figure in his arms. Damnation, he’d done this to her—with his own abject stupidity and selfishness. He should have broken the news to her before a stranger could hurt her with it.
With a curse he kicked open his bed chamber door, knocking it off its hinges yet again, and carried her inside. Shaking, he gently laid her down on the bed.
“Em?” he whispered, brushing a strand of her auburn hair from her pale forehead. “Emma?”
“Move,” his mother said, taking a jar of smelling salts from the panting butler as the two of them nearly collided in the doorway.
While Grey numbly shifted sideways, she leaned over Emma, loosening the fastenings of her pelisse. Frederica held the bottle beneath the headmistress’s nose. After what seemed like hours but must have been only seconds, Emma’s eyes fluttered open. A moment later she gasped a breath and then batted the bottle of smelling salts away from her face.
“My goodness,” she rasped, coughing, and sat up.
“Lie down,” Grey commanded, beginning to breathe again.
Her eyes found him and then slid away again. “Nonsense. I merely became overly warm, walking over here. I’m fine.”
More footsteps skidded into the room, and without looking Grey knew damned Tristan had arrived.
“Emma?” the viscount said, pushing through the growing crowd of servants and guests.
“Lord Dare,” she said, paling again. Shooting Grey’s mother a look of abject humiliation, she sat up quickly, scooting to the edge of the bed. “Your Grace, could you arrange for someone to take me back to the Academy? It seems I’ve overexerted myself. I should have ridden Pimpernel, but the day was so nice, and…”
“Of course.” Grey started to cup her elbow, but she jerked away from him.
“Perhaps Hobbes might assist me,” she managed, her voice shaking.
“You should stay here,” Grey insisted, alarmed all over again, “until you’re certain you’re feeling better.” Or at least until he had time to explain that he did have a way to make ev
erything right, so that no one would be able to insult her with impunity again.
“I will feel better back at the Academy,” she returned stiffly, still avoiding his gaze. “I wish to leave now, if you please.”
With a swift glance at Grey, Hobbes helped her to her feet. As they reached the hallway, Grey noted that the crowd of servants had perceptibly thinned—with such speed that he knew his mother had to have been involved. He would thank her later, after he expressed his anger at her loose tongue.
Dare had hurried downstairs ahead of them, and the phaeton was at the foot of the steps as the viscount held open the front door. Emma held onto the butler until the groom put his hands around her waist to help her onto the vehicle’s high seat.
Unable to stand it any longer, Grey strode forward as the groom circled the back of the phaeton to climb onto the seat on the far side.
“Emma,” he said in a low voice, “for God’s sake, don’t leave it like this.”
Still she wouldn’t look at him, but instead made a show of taking her bonnet from a footman and tying it under her chin.
“Please,” he continued. “I promise that everything—”
“Don’t make promises you can’t possibly keep,” she murmured in a flat, bleak tone. “I have never expected a great deal of my fellow man. Good day.”
It was most certainly not a good day, and it was growing worse by the moment. He’d caused the woman he cared for to faint and then allowed her to ride off, unchaperoned, with another man.
“Her Grace requires a word with you, Your Grace,” Hobbes said, out of breath and red-faced. “She is in the earl’s office.”
The butler had probably never seen so much chaos in his entire term of employment as he had witnessed today. “Thank you, Hobbes. And help yourself to a brandy.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
His mother sat behind the office desk, reading a letter, as he entered the room and closed the door firmly behind him. “That was inexcusable,” he said tightly.
“You might have mentioned that to me before she arrived at Haverly,” she said, her gaze trailing along the missive.
“I didn’t think you required me, of all people, to caution you against repeating gossip and injuring someone’s feelings.”
She looked up. “Pardon me, dear, but did you just say that a female has feelings?”
He leaned back against the door. “That’s a hell of a way to make your point.”
The duchess sighed. “I know. I owe Miss Emma a considerable apology. She isn’t at all what I expected.”
Grey scowled. Whatever she meant by that, he didn’t like it. And he bloody well wasn’t going to feed her suspicions by saying anything. “You summoned me,” he reminded her instead. “If you merely want a companion while you read your correspondence, I’ll fetch Georgiana.”
She went back to the letter. “I’m not reading my correspondence; I’m reading yours.”
“What?” All Grey could do for a moment was look at her. He knew which correspondence it was, of course; the duchess wouldn’t have bothered spying on his business correspondence. She must have seen it on his bed stand while he was distracted with Emma. “Don’t think,” he said slowly, his eyes narrowing, “that just because I allow you to meddle in my life, I am not quite capable of keeping you out of it.”
Her gaze on him, she refolded the letter. “For heaven’s sake, Greydon, how was I supposed to know that you actually liked her? You’ve never particularly cared about any of your mistresses before. You practically left Caroline naked in the middle of a ballroom. Of course I had to read your letter—you never tell me anything.” She sat forward. “Unless you wish to do so now?”
“Only that things have become somewhat…complicated,” he hedged. “I will ask you one last time to stay out of them.”
The duchess stood. “While I might be inclined to do as you ask, I doubt the rest of your peers will be as patient.” She strolled to the door and handed the letter to him. “She’ll have a mob after her in a few days; she’s actually invited them to the Academy, from what I hear. And they’ll be even less diplomatic than I was, I’m afraid.”
“I know.” Grey pulled open the door, then hesitated. “I may need a female to…speak on her behalf.”
“I won’t make any promises until I have more conversation with her than we managed today.”
“Fair enough.”
Now he needed to make sure Emma would even speak to one of them, after the mess he’d made. He’d been about to suggest that Emma marry him in order to quiet the gossips, but now she probably wouldn’t believe him.
At least he had the beginnings of a battle plan, though. And the first order of business was to sort out the enemies from the allies. Only then could he approach the fair maiden and see whether she would allow him to perform a rescue.
With that in mind, Grey went looking for Sylvia. He found her just as she was stepping out for a walk in the garden. She disliked the country air, as far as he knew; obviously she’d gotten word that he was tracking her down.
“Allow me to join you,” he said, offering his arm as she stepped onto the stone path.
With a smooth smile, Lady Sylvia nodded. “You are gallant today.”
“I wouldn’t wager on that.” Guiding them past the fork which led to the wildflower garden, Grey kept them headed toward the park and the distant pond. Pushing her into it was beginning to seem like the best idea he’d had all day—short of marrying Emma, of course.
“Ah. Perhaps you might answer a question, then.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “And which question would that be?”
“Why are we having this pleasantly brisk walk?”
They were charging toward the pond at a rather swift pace. Taking a breath, he slowed their approach. “That depends on how you answer three questions of mine.”
“Ask your questions then, Grey.”
“First, to whom did you send those two letters last week? The ones you charmed my uncle into franking for you.”
Sylvia sent a quick glance back toward the house, as if to see whether anyone else might be strolling this afternoon. “My goodness, you ask such personal questions—first about my relationship with Lord Dare, and now about my private correspondence. I might almost think you jealous, Grey.”
Not bloody likely. Her evasiveness, though, confirmed his suspicions. “Secondly,” he drawled coolly, continuing them on the curving path down the sloping hill, “why would you send any correspondence when—if you’ll recall—you promised me before we left London not to disclose our location to anyone?” He deliberately kept the questions turned in his direction and away from Emma; he’d made enough trouble for her without adding Lady Sylvia Kincaid to the list.
Her alabaster cheeks paled beneath their carefully applied rouge. “Oh, dear, has someone given us away?” She put a hand to her heart, much better at feigning innocence than Alice was. “I hope you don’t think it was I who wrote Her Grace or Lady Georgiana, because I assure you that I didn’t.”
Grey stopped, facing her. He kept silent, watching her as she looked from him to the pond almost at their feet and back again, her expression of innocence warring with one of horrified realization.
“Grey…”
“Hm?”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m deciding what my third question should be.” He folded his arms across his chest. “The one that first comes to mind is, ‘can you swim?’”
Sylvia took a step backward. “You can’t be serious.”
“What leads you to believe that I’m not?”
“This is preposterous. Anyone would have done the same thing. I just happened to think of it first—not that Alice has the wits of a hedgehog. A woman has to stand up for her own best interests.”
Emma had told him the same thing, but for a completely different set of reasons. And satisfying as tossing Sylvia into the pond would be, he would have a hard time justifying it to the headmistress or himself
. “Lady Sylvia, pack your bags. One of my coaches will take you back to London within the hour. If I set eyes on you again, I won’t bother asking first whether you can swim. Get out of my sight.”
She opened her mouth, looked at the water again, and quickly turned back up toward the manor house. Grey watched her go inside, then he returned to the house. One other guest at Haverly needed to return to London before he attempted to talk to Emma again.
Alice sat at the pianoforte playing something glum by Bach. Subtlety had never been her strong suit, though initially he had found that refreshing. “Alice?”
She looked up, the last notes trailing into discord. “Sylvia was just here. You’re sending me away as well, I suppose?”
A few short weeks ago, he would simply have said “yes” and showed her the door. Now he hesitated, looking for a diplomatic way to word his response. After all, she had fulfilled her part of their relationship. She was what she was; any dissatisfaction on his part was his fault. Emma Grenville was a better teacher than he’d expected, if she could make him consider Alice Boswell’s feelings.
He shrugged. “We both know you’d be happier in London. And I have no doubt you’ll easily find a more pleasant…friend than I’ve been to you.”
“Don’t be nice now,” she sniffed, gathering her skirts and standing. “I wouldn’t stay even if you asked me to.”
“Then why did you come to Hampshire with me in the first place?”
“I like your money. And I expect a nice gift when you return to London. Something sparkly.”
“Something sparkly it is.”
“Good.”
As Alice went upstairs to summon her maid and pack, Grey headed for the stable. Emma would still be angry and hurt, but he needed to do some explaining.
Emma watched as the phaeton left the Academy grounds and Tobias pushed the gates closed. As it vanished, she plunked herself down on the top step, sinking her head into her folded arms.
“Emma, what’s happened?” Isabelle hurried down out the front door.
“Oh, Isabelle, what a morning you’ve missed.”
A Matter of Scandal Page 24