Athena snorted. “It’s quite in character for you to think that the naughty parts of your anatomy are uppermost in a woman’s mind. Perhaps the women that you are accustomed to dealing with would think so. But these ladies are more serious about their art than your body, as you can see from what they have honed in on.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Really? Well, let’s see what you have honed in on.” He strode over to the table where she had left her sketchbook and picked it up.
Athena followed him, and tried in vain to snatch the book from his hands. “Mr. Marshall, give me back my book!” She jumped up to grab the book from his outstretched hand, but missed. “Mr. Marshall, I’m warning you—”
“Hmm,” he said, studying the sketch while holding her at bay. “You seem to have portrayed my bottom quite accurately. I suppose that puts you in with the legions of women you claim I deal with.”
“Certainly not,” she said, seizing the sketchbook and walking to the table, her pride sorely bruised. “I was merely perfecting my craft.”
“Is that what you call it? Looks more like you were preserving the image of me for you to enjoy alone later.”
That made her face go red, but she spun around to stare him down. “Oh, you really are a conceited oaf. Just so you can remove that smug look from your face, I’ll have you know that this was an artistic study of contrasts. I was trying to capture the look of a solid object on top of a delicate one.”
He took a step toward her, wedging her against the table. “Perhaps I can offer a more tangible example.”
Her pride rebelled at his arrogance. How dare he accost her in such an ungentlemanly manner! But his nearness rekindled the flame that had ignited when she was caressing his image. Now, with his body towering above her and his legs lodged between hers, she was living the very fantasy she had enjoyed just moments before.
The amusement vanished from his face. Thick eyebrows hooded his eyes as they gazed intently into her face. His hand came up and caressed the nape of her neck. Athena held her breath as his thumb traced a line across her slack jaw. His fingers came round and brushed her open mouth.
The tender touch on such a sensitive place heated her body all over. Like the lights at Vauxhall Gardens, a series of sparks ignited each part of her body in turn, until she was aglow in pleasure. His hot breath on her face quickened as his fingers trailed down her neck slowly, provoking vivid new sensations. His touch was both soft and hot, soothing and enraging, and it made her mad with longing. Her mind skipped across the daydream she had enjoyed. As fantasy and reality collided, she lost all presence of mind. She wanted him to kiss her, to put an end to her sensual curiosity. But when one fingertip crossed the sensitive hollow of one shoulder and wandered to the other one, her patience was at an end.
“What are you doing?” she breathed, her words claiming innocence but her expression begging for more.
“Perfecting my craft,” he said, the backs of his fingers caressing the slope of her breasts above the neckline of her dress.
She looked down at his wayward hand, wondering if it would ever make it down to the nipples that were now rising in expectation. Her heart beat so strongly she could almost hear it. But another sound echoed in her ears . . . someone was knocking on the door.
She pushed him away and flew to the opposite end of the room. “Come in.”
The maid opened the door bearing Marshall’s clothes folded in a neat pile on her arm. “The gentleman’s clothes, miss.”
“Thank you, Gert. Mr. Marshall can dress himself here in the room. Tell him to meet me in my sitting room when he’s done.” Without another glance, she rushed out the door and into the safety of solitude.
NINE
Marshall chuckled softly at Athena’s swift retreat. There was no question which of them emerged the winner from that particular skirmish, and he was going to savor every moment of his victory.
He shook his head as he thrust his legs into his breeches and buttoned them up the front. It had been all he could do to keep his towel from tenting upward as he touched her. She was absolutely maddening, in every sense of the word. If she wasn’t cutting into him with her razor-sharp tongue, she was inflaming his desire with her innocent allure.
He drew on his stockings. She was full of claws and teeth, that one, and woe betide any man who was foolish enough to corner her on wit alone. But he had found a way to keep her from unsheathing her weapons, and learning her vulnerability finally made her seem like a real woman.
He threw the white shirt over his torso, reveling in the familiar warmth. It was puzzling that such a self-assured woman could so completely founder when it came to matters between a man and a woman. It was hard to imagine a woman as old as she was completely naïve about the touch of a man. But when she was in his arms, he could feel her inexperience . . . and he knew she had drifted into unfamiliar waters. As he wound his cravat around his neck, he realized that there was more to her school than he’d first surmised. Athena McAllister was not just trying to expose her students to relations between the sexes. It was she herself who was in search of understanding.
He shrugged into his waistcoat. Justine had been tutored by one just as innocent as she. Nevertheless, Athena McAllister had opened his eyes to something he’d never considered. He had been with women who had been with men before him. They had enjoyed the act of lovemaking just as much as he’d had. But for a sensitive woman like his sister, a heated embrace with a man she wasn’t attracted to must seem like a revolting and offensive thing. And Athena had taught him the depth of his sister’s suffering.
He slipped on his shoes and coat, and wove a loose knot in his cravat as he went downstairs. He found the sitting room door, and swiping his hand against his hair, knocked.
“Come in.”
He smiled inwardly at the frigid command. She was back in familiar waters, her distant reserve back in place. He opened the door, and stepped in.
At night, her cheery sitting room, with its light, airy colors, looked more somber. There were darkened corners to it now, and her intriguing paintings were cast in shadow. Nevertheless, the images were engraved on his memory, and the room still gave him a secret thrill. It was here that he had learned how his touch was able to take out Miss Athena McAllister’s rudder and make her run aground.
But no one sat at her writing desk. His eyes scanned the room, and he found not one but two women sitting on the settee near the hearth. Beside Athena sat a very attractive woman who was older by about five years, with dark hair and dark eyes.
“Good evening. I hope I’m not interrupting, but Miss McAllister asked me in to . . . conclude matters.”
Athena’s neck stiffened. “You mean ‘settle accounts.’ There’s no need to be enigmatic, Mr. Marshall. Hester knows you’re an employé.”
“Athena, don’t be so rude. Mr. Marshall, I am Hester, Lady Willett.”
Marshall bowed over her outstretched hand. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, my lady. I’m glad to see that manners are not completely absent from this institution.” He ignored Athena’s expression of pique.
Hester smiled graciously at him. “Thank you for sitting for our students this evening. I’ve just come from seeing to them upstairs, and I must confess that you are quite the sole and exclusive subject of conversation.”
“I hope I did not shock them.”
“Not at all. I believe one of the more frequently used descriptives was ‘handsome.’ ”
“Then I’m flattered. Thank you for saying so.”
“Would you care for a glass of wine?”
Athena stood up. “No, Hester. I wouldn’t want to keep Mr. Marshall from his other appointments.” She held out a small pouch. “Here’s your pay, Mr. Marshall. Don’t let us detain you.”
“Not at all, Miss McAllister. I’m quite enjoying my conversation. With some of you, anyway.”
Athena pursed her lips and sank slowly back into her chair.
Hester handed Marshall a glass. “May I ask what
brought you to us? Apart from Athena’s advertisement?”
“You mean, why was a gentleman such as myself reduced to taking on employment?”
Hester shrugged. “In so many words, yes.”
Marshall’s eyebrows drew together. It was contrary to his nature to be deliberately deceptive, especially to one as pleasant as Hester. “My father died recently, and I’ve been required by duty to take on the running of the household. Naturally, one does what one has to.”
“Of course,” she said, her face wreathed in sympathy. “It seems that is something the two of you have in common.”
“Oh?” he said, turning to Athena.
Athena shook her head. “Hester, I’m sure Mr. Marshall would prefer to retain some measure of secrecy about his private life.”
“To the contrary, Miss McAllister,” he said, settling himself more comfortably in the chair. “I could go on and on about my life and adventures.”
Her words barely made it out between her clenched teeth. “Not with this pouch stuffed into your mouth, you couldn’t.”
He laughed, a robust sound that filled the room. “Temper, temper. Whatever would your students say?”
The corners of Hester’s eyes crinkled. “You know, Athena, I wonder if Mr. Marshall would care to return to the school as a replacement for Lord Rutherford.”
She gasped. “Absolutely not. As I said to you before, Hester, we’ll postpone that lecture until he’s fully recovered.”
“But why?” she asked. “Mr. Marshall is perfectly charming. And the ladies have already taken an immense liking to him.”
Athena shook her head meaningfully. Hester nodded, mirroring Athena’s intensity.
Marshall set his glass down. “Er, have I missed something?”
Hester returned her attention to him. “Do forgive us—it’s terribly rude to speak of you as though you were not here. You see, Lord Rutherford is one of our lecturers. He conducts sessions on the art of kissing—a practicum, if you will. There’s not much to it, really. The main purpose of the first session is just to help the ladies overcome their initial shyness. Lord Rutherford has been taken ill these last two weeks—a violent bout of influenza, I’m sorry to say—and we’d just been discussing what to do for his replacement. I thought that if you would be so disposed, perhaps you could lead that lecture yourself.”
Marshall knew this Lord Rutherford. He was an overindulged, narcissistic dandy, and a profligate to boot. He grew furious to think that this man had been hired to teach his sister how to kiss. If Athena had also been tutored by that fop, it was no wonder she was so inhospitable to men.
“I’d be honored,” he said, secretly wishing Rutherford were right in front of him so he could punch him squarely in the mouth.
“Mr. Marshall,” objected Athena, “I’m not convinced of your qualifications on that point. Lord Rutherford is rather renowned for his ability to romance a woman.”
A smirk dimpled his cheek. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve no wish to boast, but I’ve been known to turn a few heads in my day.”
“And a few stomachs, no doubt. Lord Rutherford is a master at his craft.”
The amusement melted from his face. “Miss McAllister, Lord Rutherford’s ‘craft’ is at being crafty. His fame—or infamy, I should say—is wholly deserved, but not for the reason you think. It isn’t his ability to seduce women, but his ability to beguile them—generally out of more than just a claim to chastity. He is an opportunist and a scoundrel, and more than one lady has found herself in the unenviable position of being forced to purchase his silence after a madcap indiscretion, leaving her both financially and morally bankrupt. Whether or not you engage me as his replacement, my advice to you is to scrape him off while you have the chance, before anyone at this school falls victim to his nefarious schemes.”
Hester’s eyes grew round as saucers. “Athena?”
Athena pursed her lips. “I’m sure that’s not the case, Hester. I have never heard such pernicious slander in the whole of my life.”
Marshall leveled his gaze at her. “You would have, had you spent more time among the discerning circles of English Society and less, as your accent suggests, in the remote backwoods of Scotland.”
Athena’s mouth fell open. “How dare you belittle me! Had you spent more time in Scotland, you would have learned that a remark like that would earn you a sound pulping from a civilized Scottish gentleman.”
“After dealing with you, Miss McAllister, I’ve learned that the word ‘civilized’ and ‘Scottish’ should never be used in the same sentence, let alone the same breath.”
“Oh!”
Marshall stood and scooped up the pouch containing his coins. “Ladies,” he said, bowing, “I shall importune you no further. Thank you for a delightful evening. I’m pleased that I proved satisfactory. Good night.”
Hester bolted out of her chair. “Mr. Marshall, wait. In light of what you’ve told us about Lord Rutherford, we cannot in good conscience let him remain in our employ. Please reconsider accepting the position. We would be eternally grateful.”
“We?” he repeated, staring fixedly at Athena, challenge glinting in his eyes. “Your headmistress has already voiced her objections. I sincerely doubt your invitation is echoed by her.”
“Athena,” urged Hester. “Ask him!”
She turned her nose in the air. “I suppose, once again, being the only candidate, you will have to do.”
For a man accustomed to hearing “no, sir” and “aye, sir” nearly all of his life, he was not about to subject himself to any more of her rudeness. “Oh, no, Miss McAllister. When dealing with me, you will have to cultivate a more civilized tone to your demeanor. You will have to ask me politely.”
“Who do you think you are?”
He wanted to tell her exactly who he was, but his identity did not matter in the present confrontation. “I am a man entitled to your respect.”
Hester glowered at her. “Athena—”
Athena growled, biting out each word. “Will you fill our vacant position, please?”
He crossed his arms in front of him. “Yes, I think I shall. For ten pounds.”
Athena gasped. “Ten pounds! Rutherford did it for five!”
Hester jumped in. “We’ll pay it. Thank you. Until Wednesday then?”
He bent over her proffered hand. “I look forward to it.” He swept his hat onto his head as he turned his attention to Athena. “I shall content myself, Miss McAllister, that you’ve learned the proper uses of ‘please’ and ‘excuse me.’ I would ask you to exercise the words ‘thank you,’ but I fear that you would probably perish from showing so much courtesy. And I would hate to be the one responsible for your untimely demise.”
He left her retort in her mouth as he walked out the door.
TEN
My dear Lord Stockdale,
I can scarcely describe my frustration at learning that there has still not been any progress on your betrothal to Miss McAllister. I need hardly impress upon you the gravity of this situation. You and I made an agreement, and I expect you to fulfill your obligation. Miss McAllister must at all costs be married to you and no other.
I shall return to England very soon and I expect to read the banns of your upcoming nuptials upon my arrival. Enough time has passed for her to have forgiven you for your indiscretion. It is time to woo her once more. Promise her whatever she desires, but see to it that she gives you her hand.
Do not fail me in this regard, for you will find me a formidable adversary when I am disappointed.
Yours,
Margaret, Duchess of Twillingham
Justine Hawkesworth dashed out of the house. Suffocated by her mother’s disappointment, she sought the sanctuary of the rear garden to clear her head.
She had felt so far from home since her father died. Outside, the air was cool and clean, and smelled of damp grass. Though taking a walk through the gardens used to make her feel liberated, her troubles seemed to remain upon her now, like a heav
y cloak that she couldn’t take off.
It was a profound humiliation to be rejected by Herbert Stanton. Although she’d met him only three times before, he seemed a fine enough gentleman. A bit staid, perhaps, and too rigid in his manner, but attractive nonetheless. She didn’t object when Marshall told her of his intentions. Even though she’d always imagined that she’d marry a man with whom she’d fallen in love, she expected she would most likely marry a man she hardly knew. The difference was that she had been willing to love Herbert Stanton. And his rejection hurt not only her feelings, but her reputation—and her relationship with her family.
The garden path behind the house wound past the kitchens, and the smell of baking bread drew her attention to the doorway. Two young kitchen maids were bringing baskets filled with apples toward the kitchen. Justine sat on a bench near the lavender beds to stare at them. What a simple life girls of that station led. In the grand scheme of things, whom they chose to marry didn’t matter in the slightest. Reputations weren’t ruined and families weren’t rent because of their choice of husband. Duty, honor, and wealth played no part in their betrothals. Perhaps their toil earned them the right to marry freely. Justine felt keenly a stab of envy.
A young groom ran past them and snatched two apples from one of the maid’s baskets. She admonished him in mock displeasure, broadcasting her mixed sentiments with a fist pressed against a swaying hip. Walking backward, he touched a hand to his cap in gratitude, and then sprinted toward the kitchen garden.
Justine watched him as he walked through the carefully tended rows of carrot and potato plants. He was new to the staff—a hard worker, from the stable master’s account to Marshall. He was a handsome man, with the smooth skin and thick hair of all men of twenty-four. Though he was only about five years younger than she, he seemed of another generation altogether. He had a ruddy complexion, made even darker by a day’s growth of beard, and his unshaven cheek barely concealed a mole above his square jaw.
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