She bustled past them after a nervously dipped curtsy, then darted back to dust the portrait of the current Miss Endicott, as if it was omniscient and would clear its throat if she shirked an opportunity to do just that.
“Of course. And speaking of our demanding curriculum, Lord Dryden, it’s the reason we prefer to admit only the cleverest girls. I imagine Miss Endicott told you we conduct interviews to ascertain our pupils will be equal to what we present in the classroom.”
“I imagine the cleverest girls are often the wealthiest?”
She had a sense of him now.
“It’s serendipitous how often this is true.”
His sudden delighted, wicked grin cracked like lightning against the surface politeness of the conversation. It made . . . everything . . . better.
Just as quickly it vanished again.
“Mind you.” Her words emerged hoarse, as if his smile had interfered with her ability to breathe. She stopped to clear her throat. “Mind you, we feel it necessary to inform the parents of every girl of fine family that we also admit the occasional girl who hasn’t a farthing to her name or any pedigree to speak of, and we educate all of the girls equally. We find this helps to build the characters of all the girls present.”
He stopped abruptly to stare up at a nicely done Sussex landscape with genuine appreciation. One of their former students had painted it.
No mediocre pictures hung in the hallways of Miss Endicott’s Academy. She wouldn’t stand for it.
“By exposing girls of privilege to ruffians?”
“And by exposing ruffians to girls of privilege.”
“Much the way jewels are tumbled and polished, I suppose,” he surmised. “Through . . . friction.”
He tossed a sly look over his shoulder.
Good heavens, but that was dry. She liked it very much.
It also sounded, to her sensitized nerves . . . like an innuendo. Like he was indeed building up to . . . something.
Get a hold of yourself, Vale. She drew herself up to her full height and straightened her shoulders, a sort of unconscious attempt to make herself larger and more intimidating, the way certain South American lizards do.
She knew about South American lizards because she’d read about them in Mr. Miles Redmond’s books. She read about everything, really.
“I prefer not to think of it as friction, Lord Dryden. Rather, as exposure to . . . different surfaces.”
Good God, but that sounded a little erotic, too.
Then again . . . perhaps she’d meant it to.
The effect was dramatic. He turned. His pupils flared interestedly. His mouth didn’t smile at all.
And good God, those eyes were potent when he wasn’t blinking.
Un-kiss-a-ble, taunted the Greek Chorus in her head.
She hastened to clarify, “They aren’t necessarily ruffians, you know, simply because they’re poor. Many are simply girls who may have . . . experienced a different start in life, or may have encountered a bump in . . . shall we say, destiny’s road.”
She’d regretted it as it was on its way out of her mouth. What a purple way to say it.
There was a little silence.
“Destiny’s . . . road . . .” he finally repeated thoughtfully. Just in case she missed how ridiculous it had sounded the first time.
His eyes glinted insufferably.
He was daring her again not to smile. As if he knew, he knew precisely who she was beneath the primness and was determined to extract her true self from her before he departed.
She realized then that at some point she’d folded her hands behind her back. Why? To prevent them from touching him? She wasn’t quite that reckless.
Then again, it was also entirely possibly she’d never been quite this tempted.
Their eyes reflected deviltry back to each other.
Child’s play, he’d said, she reminded herself. Why should I want a kiss from her? It echoed in her mind. Child’s play child’s play child’s play.
She repeated it in her mind until her flirting impulses were drubbed into a humiliated stupor.
Child’s play? Oh, we shall see, Lord Dryden.
He must have sensed a change in the temperature of the conversation, for he suddenly became brisk and very official again.
“The school’s reputation precedes it, Miss Vale. And the academy has a generous benefactor in Mr. Isaiah Redmond.”
“And in Mr. Jacob Eversea.”
The patriarchs of Pennyroyal Green were not averse to having a school in their midst, as long as it was a respected, well-run school stocked with girls whose fathers had titles and political connections.
She moved on, and he followed, and they at last reached the end of the hallway. The door to one of the main classrooms was open wide, and out of it poured the scent of linseed oil and a wash of lemony light. The maids had clearly only recently efficiently completed their work and departed. The marquess paused, peered in. He could hardly find fault with the sight of glowing wood floors and rows of dusted, polished tables and chairs, or the three arched windows reaching to nearly the height of the ceiling set into the back wall. The sun poured through them. Bookshelves lined the wall inside the door. A handsome globe presided over the front of the classroom. The enormous, unadorned fireplace at the far end was cold now and the hearth swept clean.
The room was resoundingly empty, thanks to the impending school holiday.
She hovered in the hall behind him while he peered in. As though he was contemplating whether to go inside or not.
And that’s when her heart accelerated like a carriage pushed downhill.
Because if he was going to win a wager, so to speak, this would be the perfect place to attempt it. And if she was going to make a point . . . well then, once again, this would be the perfect place to attempt it.
Time stretched torturously. Her heart beat a good one thousand times if it beat once in the silence that followed.
She stared at his feet. She gave a start when they shifted . . . and he quite casually strolled into the room.
His shining Hoby boots echoed portentously on the floor. He paused in a slant of sunlight sent in through the first of the windows. She saw red hidden in his dark hair, like embers in a coal fire. Lines at the corners of his eyes.
He’s meant for me.
The thought emerged from nowhere, fresh as a slap and seemed as true as it was dumbfounding. She stared at him, bewildered. She’d never had a thought like that in her entire life. An ache started up, a barbed, hopeless longing. It was as though she knew him, had always known him, all his foibles and flaws and passions, in moments quiet and playful. As irrational a thought as she’d ever had.
She blamed the dramatic lighting. Surely once he stepped out of it the feeling would go away.
He wasn’t looking at her. He was quietly surveying the grounds through the window. It was a quintessentially Sussex view of low rolling green hills and trees which were rapidly losing their leaves as autumn got under way in earnest. This wasn’t the side that faced the sea. There wasn’t much to remark upon. Or criticize.
And yet still he stood there and said nothing.
Was he trying to lure her in with silence?
She would need to make a decision.
To her surprise, something besides her mind had already made the decision for her. She heard her own walking boots echo across the floor. Her blood rang in her ears, so hard was her heart hammering.
He turned away from the view.
Their eyes met.
The silence suddenly seemed so total she felt deafened.
She wondered if he was actually bracing himself for the moment of . . . lunging? How did one get a kiss from a teacher for ten pounds? Surely he ought to have been charming her toward that eventuality? Surely he ought to be standing closer in order to snake one of those long arms around her and—
And suddenly it was too much. She could hardly bear the suspense.
“Well. I see nothing objecti
onable and much to recommend the school,” he said finally.
Was that an innuendo?
“Your endorsement is ringing, Lord Dryden.” Suspense, and resentment, and pride, and that fruitless yearning was turning everything she said dry, dry, dry.
But he seemed to like it, oddly. A quick smile haunted his mouth again. She liked what smiles did to his eyes, and how it felt to be looked at by him. She contemplated for a wild instant that he might be . . . shy. She knew the difference between distracted and awkward, between indifferent and preoccupied, and though he was clearly a man at home in his skin and in the world, he seemed at something of a loss here.
Perhaps it had to do with the gulf between their classes.
Or perhaps he was steeling his nerve to get a kiss from the schoolteacher, when he really hadn’t the will to do it. Let alone for a mere ten pounds.
Mere for him, that was.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. She could stand it no longer.
“Well, Lord Dryden. You may as well get it over with.”
The smile vanished. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re going to try to kiss me, aren’t you?”
Chapter 5
The marquess froze. His face was an immobile blank for an instant. He parted his mouth. He closed it again. He parted it again.
And then gave his head a little shake.
“I beg your pardon? Why would you think . . . I beg your pardon?”
She’d made him stammer.
“Well, here we are alone. You’ve a reputation for accepting and winning wagers. But I suppose the primary reason I think that is that I heard your friend urge you to do it. Ten pounds, I believe the wager was. Imagine! You could buy the finger of one glove for that amount.”
Such a fascinating play of emotions chased each other across his face. Guilt and comprehension and horror and irritation and an undeniable prurient curiosity and . . .
She didn’t expect to like the expression that at last settled in:
Good-humored defeat.
“Well, announcing it certainly takes all the fun out of it.”
And there were a number of things she could say. And she knew what she shouldn’t say.
“All of the fun?”
She’d said it, anyway.
Silence. And then:
“Miss Vale?” he said carefully.
“Yes?”
“Are you . . . flirting with me?”
“Would it surprise you if I said yes?”
“Well . . .”
She was laughing silently at him. “Because I’m plain, and I shouldn’t have such skills at my disposal, and because you’ve only learned one way to play the game, and it involves you applying the charm and the maiden capitulating? Don’t you ever tire of it? Of things always being the same?”
She clasped her hands in front of her, leaning into the question with mock earnestness.
He floundered. “Yes—no! That is, you’re not plain.”
Jules didn’t know whether this last was true or not, but out it had come. And certainly it was the wisest thing to say under the circumstances. Surely if she was a beauty he would have noticed?
“Oh, I know. My complexion is very fine. So I’ve been told. Often enough to believe it.” She was wickedly amused.
Jules was shocked to realize that this chit was toying with him.
He took a moment to compose himself. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d needed to compose himself. There was no question that Waterburn’s wager had inserted itself in his awareness like a burr. He found Waterburn altogether a damned burr.
He’d thought she was quick, which he approved of. She didn’t lack wit. He’d sensed a suppressed energy about her since he’d seen her in Postlethewaite’s, but he’d thought then it had been contained passion for a bonnet. She’d been staring at one as though it were an oracle.
He didn’t want to kiss her.
Did he?
But now this girl thought he was actually feckless. Which was ironic, given that fecklessness was a luxury he’d never known. And bloody hell, but now he was assessing her complexion and trying to prevent her from noticing that he was doing exactly that.
And in the light filtered in through the high windows . . . well, comparisons to pearls would not be inaccurate. She radiated health and luster and . . . life. She did rather glow.
“It isn’t unappealing,” he allowed.
“Oh, now. You needn’t gush.”
He felt the smile begin and then slowly take hold; he couldn’t help himself.
“Should I apologize for my species for trotting out the same compliment again and again? Isn’t it better than having none at all?”
“When you hear the same one again and again, it’s difficult not to come to the conclusion that it’s the only thing of note about one’s person.”
She still sounded amused. As if it was all the same to her. He didn’t think he’d ever encountered a more self-possessed female. Then again, doubtless she’d honed her confidence on the characters of unruly young ladies. What challenge would a marquess pose in the face of that?
“Have pity on us. We cannot all of us be poets. We think it’s what women expect to hear, and so we do our duty. Consider the possibility that your admirers are so dumbstruck by the wonder that is your complexion they can see nothing else.”
“Oh, excellent theory! I shall give it due consideration.”
“Your eyes have gone unattended in compliments?”
“Are you about to compliment my eyes, Lord Dryden?”
“I wouldn’t dare. You’d find my compliment wanting and I shall feel a fool.”
She smiled at him, thoroughly delighted. Perhaps even a little surprised.
He found himself smiling in return, absurdly gratified to have pleased her.
A moment ticked by during which only smiling took place, and which the air itself seemed peculiarly effervescent, and breathing it made him feel weightless.
Why hadn’t anyone complimented her smile? It was very good. Her eyes—whatever color they may be, and he still wasn’t certain whether they were green or gray—lit with it as surely as though they were lamps, and dimples appeared at the corners, reminding him she was a schoolteacher, as they seemed as charming and necessary to her smile as punctuation to a sentence or bookends to a row of . . . books.
Hardly poetic, but at least it was a metaphor.
“Perhaps the fault is all mine.” She tapped a finger to her chin thoughtfully. “Or perhaps it’s just that I’ve met no men who’ve imaginations worth firing.”
It sounded like a flirtation gauntlet thrown down.
“That could very well be,” he allowed, very cautiously.
What sort of men was a schoolteacher likely to meet? Farmer? Vicars? Other teachers? Soldiers? Was she daring him to charm her?
He was a marquess.
A marquess who, coincidentally, liked a dare. Almost as much as he disliked entanglements. And wagers foisted upon him.
“Have you been to London?” he asked her.
A peculiar hesitation. “Yes.”
“One can meet . . . a wide variety of people in London.”
She found this very funny. “You’re proposing I diversify my experience of men in order to hear better compliments? Fear not. I do plan to go abroad. Very abroad. I ought to meet a good many types of gentlemen en route.”
Deeper and deeper he fell into the conversation, fascinated despite himself. “Where do you plan to go?”
Another brief hesitation.
“I should like to go to Africa.”
“Africa!” She may as well have said the moon. What on earth did one say to this? Missionaries did go on missions to Africa. He imagined they needed teachers.
“To . . . work?” He delivered the word gingerly, after a pause.
She burst into laughter.
It was the best thing he’d heard in a very long time, that laugh, better than any opera or musicale, better than birdsong or the s
ound of hooves clattering around a racetrack or the sighs of a mistress or any of his other favorite sounds. Her eyes vanished completely and her head tipped back and he could even see molars. He basked, astonished and pleased.
“Oh, my goodness, Lord Dryden. You should have seen your face when you said the word work. It’s not counted among the deadly sins, you know. But I thought, yes, that’s what I would do there.”
“With . . . missionaries?” He frantically riffled his brain for anything at all he knew about Africa and why people would go there. “Perhaps to teach?”
“Yes.”
“Because . . . you are so saintly?”
Imagine that. Now he was flirting a little.
The smile she gave him here was the very opposite of saintly. Slow, and crooked and pure imp.
She didn’t say a word. The smile answered for her. And to his surprise, he felt that smile at the nape of his neck, and in places lower on his body.
“Or perhaps it’s because you have need of reforming?” He’d lowered his voice.
She dodged that question, too.
Losing your nerve, Madame Schoolteacher?
“I want to see the world, quite simply.”
“Some people start with Italy. Or Brighton.”
“I thought perhaps I would begin at the far end and work my way back.”
He laughed. He was officially enjoying himself. “I was simply taking a guess, you know, regarding the work. The possibility remained that perhaps you were going with your husband for his own duties, or to take in the climate, which is like living atop a stove, from what I understand. And a woman should not have to . . .”
He realized what he was about to say and stopped himself.
“Work? It’s all right. I shan’t tell anyone you used the dreaded W word multiple times in front of me.”
“. . . if she has a husband, brother, or father to care for her.”
“Precisely,” was all she said.
So she’d none of those in her life? Who then, did she have? Surely she was young enough—or old enough—to have any or all of them. She possessed all of her limbs and she wasn’t otherwise deformed. Surely she could have married by now if she’d wished to. Perhaps she was a widow? She didn’t look or act the part.
How the Marquess Was Won Page 4