My Fair Gentleman

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  The earl knocked, and the door was answered promptly by a very dignified butler who must have recognized Mr. Elliot—Jack, for heaven’s sake, as if she could ever really address him that way—because the man bowed low and ushered them inside. He showed them to a parlor and told them he would alert Mrs. and Miss Elliot to their arrival.

  “Was this home part of your grandfather’s holdings?” Ivy asked him.

  Mr. Elliot looked at her in what she could only define as disgust. “I haven’t the least idea,” he told her flatly. “For all I know, he pulled it out of thin air.”

  “Well, you must admit it is lovely.” Ivy sat in a delicate chair that afforded a picturesque view of the small front yard. “Ultimately you must be pleased to see them so well housed.”

  Mr. Elliot wandered to her side and looked out the window. “It is the only part of this arrangement I find to my liking.”

  She studied him for a moment, appreciating the fine cut of his clothing—a temporary set from another gentleman’s canceled order—until his own were available from Mr. Pearson. He looked very smart indeed. It was probably the first time she had really examined him as a man and not with an analytical eye bent on determining a curriculum for a student. Once his grasp of social customs was up to snuff and his accent smoothed over, he would have no problem at all finding himself a suitable bride. As for his claims to return to the sea, well, that was hardly her concern. She frowned a bit at the thought. He was certainly very odd.

  “Jack!”

  The voice from the doorway drew her attention, and Ivy gazed her first upon the earl’s mother. She was tall but frail. Although Jack’s appearance clearly mirrored his father’s side of the family, Ivy noted he possessed his mother’s eyes. They were the same warm golden brown. She was a lovely woman, and Ivy felt a moment of frustration at the old earl who had thrown his son and young bride out of his home and life. Rarely did aristocracy ever marry the lower classes, but it had happened. Mary Elliot’s adult life should have been entirely different. Ivy should know Mrs. Elliot from spending time with her at tea. More to the point, the woman should have been titled.

  “You look beautiful, Mama.” Jack stepped back and held her at arm’s length. “The home and the clothing—they suit you well. You are comfortable, then?”

  Mrs. Elliot nodded with a light smile and ducked her head a bit, smoothing her hand over perfectly coiffed hair. “It was good of you to call on us last night—we slept well despite the rather quick upheaval. I feel like a girl playing dress-up.” Her face was flushed. “This, all of this, it really isn’t me.”

  “It is you.” Jack kissed one of her hands and then placed it between both of his. “This is very much overdue.”

  Ivy, who had stood when the woman entered, now moved forward slightly. Jack must have remembered she was in the room; he cleared his throat and gestured toward her. “Mother, this is Lady Ivy Carlisle. Lady Ivy, my mother, Mrs. Mary Elliot.”

  Ivy raised a brow at the smooth introduction even as she smiled at the older woman and moved forward to curtsey. Perhaps Jack wasn’t as socially inept as he seemed. “Mrs. Elliot, it is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “And yours as well,” Mary said, her tone quiet as she curtseyed in return; her gaze connected fleetingly with Ivy’s and then shot downward.

  Ivy maintained her smile as she waited for Mrs. Elliot to suggest they be seated. The poor woman seemed afraid of her own shadow—the ton would eat her alive. Ivy suddenly understood her son’s desire to hide her away at the country estate.

  The new earl finally motioned to the seating area, and the three attempted to make themselves comfortable as an awkward silence descended upon the room.

  This will not do at all. Ivy realized belatedly that it would have been infinitely easier to meet the woman without Jack’s heavy-handed presence. She could feel his gaze upon her as though daring her to say the wrong thing to the mother he clearly adored.

  For pity’s sake.

  Ivy made a decision. “Lord Stansworth, I wonder if you would be so kind as to see to some refreshments for your mother and me? I find I am most parched.”

  He glanced at the bellpull and then back at Ivy, brows drawn. She tipped her head slightly toward the door and silently willed him to get up and leave the room. He looked at her for a moment, and she imagined all sorts of things he was probably saying to her in his head, but he finally stood and sketched a quick bow to them both. “I shall return with some tea then, perhaps? If that would be to your liking, Lady Ivy?”

  She offered him a bright smile that she hoped rather perversely would grate on his nerves. “Splendid, my lord.”

  When she was alone with Mary Elliot, she sighed a bit in relief. “Your son, my lady, is very pleasant and a wonderful conversationalist,” she said, wondering if she would be struck dead at the lie, “but I do find that gentlemen have a way of pulling the air right out of a room sometimes, don’t you?”

  Mary smiled and emitted the slightest of laughs. “I confess, I haven’t spent much time in the company of gentlemen. Only my late husband, and that has been . . . well, a very long time.”

  Ivy nodded. “Mrs. Elliot, if I may speak frankly?”

  “Please.”

  Ivy paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully. She finally decided to be honest. “I can only imagine how odd these circumstances are for you. I do not know how much your son has explained, but my grandmother promised your late father-in-law that I would help ease the new earl’s way into Society. I could hardly do so without also seeing to your welfare. My aim is to prepare you for upcoming social events—to perhaps help you know what you might expect.”

  “We already know what to expect.” The voice came from the doorway, and Ivy turned to see a stunning young woman whose features were very near perfection. Ivy credited the fact that she didn’t gape at the beauty to her own good upbringing and polish.

  Ivy stood. “Miss Sophia Elliot?”

  The young woman’s lips twitched in a parody of a smile and she entered the room, bobbing a quick curtsey, which Ivy returned. Suddenly everything made sense. Sophia Elliot had not had success as a lady’s maid for more than a few months at any one post because she drew too much male attention. A thousand thoughts flew through Ivy’s mind as she took in the beautifully full head of dark blonde hair and the same beautiful golden eyes her mother and brother possessed. Sophia Elliot would soon find herself the most eligible young woman on the marriage circuit and the envy of every spiteful girl who would pale in comparison.

  “Oh, dear.” Ivy’s polish gave way to impulse. “We do have a bit of a conundrum. I wonder if you are up to a challenge?”

  Sophia cocked a brow. “I would say I’m well versed in the subject of challenge.”

  “That is a very good thing, then, because if you weren’t hated before, you are going to be now.”

  Sophia blinked.

  “And I am your new, very best, bosom friend. Miss Elliot, we must suit up and prepare for battle. You know what to expect, you say?” Ivy linked arms with the stunned young woman, who had entered the room clearly prepared to butt heads with Ivy. “I would suggest it will be twice as heinous as you imagined. And here I thought the challenge would be your brother. My dear,” she said as she nudged Sophia down on the settee next to her, “tell me exactly what you hope for your future, because despite the fact that you are officially in mourning, I predict that within a month, all of London will be at your feet.”

  Chapter 8

  Great care should be taken when partaking of

  refreshments socially to be cognizant of good manners.

  Small sips are most appropriate.

  Mistress Manners’ Tips for Every-day Etiquette

  Ivy tapped the end of her pencil against the sheaf of papers she held as she followed one very angry earl from the withdrawing room to the library after returning to his town home. Mercy, but he had long legs, and she was nearly trotting to keep up. Perhaps it had not been a g
ood suggestion that he think of some tokens he might offer should anyone ask him about his grandfather at the funeral.

  “No. Absolutely not. I will not say anything in public about that man, especially something that would be considered even remotely positive!” Jack growled over his shoulder as he made his way to the sideboard and uncorked a bottle of port, which he sniffed and then rolled his eyes. “Where is the rum?”

  “I am not asking you to deliver the eulogy; the vicar will do that,” Ivy said, trying to reason with him. She glanced down at the papers and placed a check mark next to several items she knew Nana had already arranged. “If you would simply thank those in attendance and express your—”

  “My what? My profound grief? My absolute dismay that he didn’t live longer so that we might spend time together before he traveled on to his reserved spot in hell?” Jack lifted the bottle and took a healthy swig of the drink.

  Ivy’s mouth dropped open, and she closed it with effort. “My lord, surely you see the glasses neatly placed right in front of you?” She waved her pencil at the port glasses in question.

  Jack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and thumped the bottle back onto the sideboard, sloshing a wave of port onto his white sleeve, as he had slung his suit coat over the front hall banister upon entering the house. Ivy briefly closed her eyes.

  “I hated the man,” Jack said evenly, “and am glad that he’s dead. I’ll be gladder still when his old bones are shoveled six feet into the ground where the worms will feast and probably die from ingesting the poison that housed his soul.”

  Ivy blinked. She finally nodded and crossed another item off her list. “I don’t suppose we really need you to say anything at all. Perhaps Nana might offer a few thankful sentiments.” She cleared her throat and met his gaze, which bore directly into hers. His agitation was evident in his stance—with one hand on his hip and the other still gripping the neck of the bottle, he appeared as one might when preparing to jump into a brawl. His nostrils flared slightly, and the color in his face was elevated.

  Mercy, but he was so very agitated. Seeking to goad him into a lighter sense of mind, she pointed to the bottle of port, an object for which she was beginning to feel extreme pity despite its inanimate nature. “You might loosen your hold there,” she said. “The glass will withstand only so much pressure before shattering, and then you’ll find yourself with a nasty cut. We need you whole and unmarred for shaking hands at the funeral.” She meant the last as a jest, and she delivered it with a smile that he did not return. If anything, she imagined she saw him go redder in the face. He lifted the bottle back up and took another long swig.

  “Lady Ivy,” he said evenly, his voice pitched low, “you do not know me well, and for that reason I will excuse your provocations. If you were a sailor, I would thrash you to within an inch of your life.” The gritty accent to his words gave a deeper impression of a man who had most certainly not been raised in London’s drawing rooms.

  “Hardly the sort of thing one ought to say to a lady,” Ivy muttered, trying for a nonchalance she didn’t necessarily feel. The man was large and most frighteningly angry; her heart beat a quick staccato and she congratulated herself for standing her ground. Gentlemen of her acquaintance did not get angry so much as annoyed. Mildly perturbed. She had overheard Lord Brandswell lose his temper while playing whist at Lady Umpton’s ball last Season, but it had passed quickly as his friends had ushered him from the home before he could do any real damage to his reputation as a usually very even-tempered fellow.

  “What did you say?”

  Ivy swallowed. Where was the man who had attempted charm on their ride through Hyde Park? With a frown, she put her pencil to the paper and made herself a note: Highly mercurial. Must take care when discussing the late earl.

  “Truly, Lady Ivy, you ought to repeat yourself—if you’re going to say something, commit to it!”

  Ivy felt her own temper flare, and she wondered fleetingly if the man would eventually drive her to make a scene of her own. She tamped down an irrational urge to shout at him and took a cleansing breath. “Lord Stansworth, you are behaving like a child,” she said quietly and moved closer to him. “Pull yourself together! For the love of heaven, you do not have to speak at the man’s funeral—in fact, I’ll repeat my earlier sentiment that it would be best if you not open your mouth at all. I merely thought to jest with you a bit, but I can see that you are utterly incapable of appreciating any kind of witty or sophisticated humor. I’ll not make the mistake again.”

  The new earl stared at her openly for a moment, his hand still tightly gripping the bottle of port. He had just opened his mouth to reply when the butler appeared at the doorway and cleared his throat.

  “My lord, your cousin Mr. Percival Elliot and his wife are here to see you. I have shown them to the drawing room.”

  Jack transferred his bewildered anger from Ivy to Watkins, the butler, who, to his credit, did not flinch or move a muscle. Years of service in the home of an earl had done the man well.

  “I will not receive that man in this house.”

  Ivy stifled a sigh. “His Lordship will receive his relations in a few minutes,” Ivy told Watkins.

  “Very good, my lady.” Watkins bowed and left.

  “What?” Jack stormed after the butler, who wisely did not return to the room. The angry earl stomped over to the door and yelled down the hallway, “Lady Ivy does not live here! Nor does she pay your salary!”

  “Mercy,” Ivy muttered. She was utterly failing in her duties, and now all of the servants around London would know the new earl was certifiably insane. Nana would not be impressed.

  “Lord Stansworth!” She hissed it loudly, and thankfully, the man turned around. His expression was thunderous, and she was fairly certain she saw a vein pulsing in his temple. “Now then,” she said. “Go upstairs to your rooms, have Pug help you into a clean shirt, and meet your cousin and his wife.” She held up her pencil as he drew in a breath to deliver what she assumed would have been a blast worthy of Admiral Nelson’s cannons. “Do bear in mind that this is the man who was the heir to this estate but a week ago. You would be well advised to assess his current inclinations. Discover whether or not he bears you any ill will.”

  “I do not care if he bears me ill will,” Jack raged. “There is one man on this earth I hate second only to my dead grandfather, and it is my father’s cousin!”

  Ivy took a deep breath. “My lord, we have only just returned from a very lovely home that now provides a most suitable residence for your mother and Sophia. I should think perhaps if you keep that uppermost in your mind, you might find saying a few polite words to your cousin a bit more palatable.” He was going to have to overcome his irrational hatred of the upper class if he hoped to successfully launch his family into their new life.

  Jack closed his eyes and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. She’d seen him do it before—usually when he was under duress.

  “It is not so awful,” she murmured, stepping closer to him. “You can manage this—all of this—for their sake.”

  He didn’t respond; his eyes were still closed as he massaged his neck. Silently making his way back to the sideboard, he released his grip on the poor mistreated port bottle and stepped around Ivy.

  As he approached the door, she said, “And later, we will discuss effective and proper ways to apologize to a lady for boorish behavior.” Why could she not resist goading him? She had no idea. Perhaps some secret part of her heart, the playful part that she habitually shoved into submission, had been fascinated watching him transform from a man to a stampeding bull.

  He turned at the door and shot her that flat expression that was becoming familiar. “I have no time for apologies. I have a cousin to entertain.”

  “Not yet.” She twirled her pencil tip at the ceiling. “Go upstairs and change your shirt. You have port all over your sleeve. Of course,” she amended, “you could always don the suit coat you threw off the moment we walked
in the door. Had you kept it on, that little mishap with the drink wouldn’t be nearly so noticeable right now. Many consider it bad form indeed to remove the suit coat during the day, and especially in the presence of a lady.”

  “You do not seem to realize that the ice on which you tread, Lady Ivy, is very, very thin.”

  “Then I suppose it is a good thing I skate well,” she said brightly and brushed past him, pausing just in the hallway. “No, best to change the shirt,” she said and touched a fingertip to his cuff. “This will protrude from the coat.” She frowned. “You were serious, I suppose, when you designated Pug as your valet? We may need to track him down. I saw him arguing heatedly with Millie when we arrived—I believe they were headed for the kitchen. Never mind,” she said, waving a hand at him and making a decision. “I’ll wait outside your dressing room. Should you need help with your cravat, I can assist. Nana taught me how; she insists it is a skill a lady ought to have.”

  Ivy turned and motioned with her head. “It’s just as well,” she added when he finally joined her on the stairs, looking for all the world as though he’d taken up residence in a foreign land where he didn’t understand the natives, “to keep them waiting just a few minutes. To my knowledge, your cousin did not send a calling card in advance—that is hardly the thing. It is unseemly of him to presume you will see him at a moment’s notice.”

  “Would it not be presumed that one would see family without expecting the same formalities as from the general populace?” Jack said as they climbed the stairs side by side, the bitterness evident in his tone. At least he had recovered his equilibrium enough to resume conversation that didn’t involve cursing or sputtering.

  “Well, yes,” she admitted, “but these are unusual circumstances, are they not? I am probably not mistaken that you’ve yet to even meet the man.” Which was why his extreme hatred of Percival Elliot was all the more baffling to her.

  “Would that I should never have to meet the man,” he said quietly. His lips thinned and the muscles in his jaw clenched. Ivy felt a softening in her heart for the new earl, who seemed so very unhappy and out of place, so much so that she decided a lesson on The Rules of Climbing Stairs with a Lady could wait.