A Lady's Guide to a Gentleman's Heart

by Christi Caldwell

  “Ordered me.”

  “—to pay Emilia some attention,” she continued over his interruption.

  Heath poured himself a tall snifter of brandy, focusing all his attentions on the simple task. “I am most likely the last person she—”

  “Emilia.”

  “—would care to spend her days, let alone a single moment, with.” He set the bottle down and faced his mother once more. “In fact, in case it has escaped your notice, the lady hasn’t exchanged a word with me”—in years—“since she arrived.”

  His mother furrowed her brow. “Are we speaking of the same woman? Because you’ve still not brought yourself to utter her name once since she arrived.”

  This again. “Ohhhh, I know her.” At the duchess’ pointed look, he sighed. Touché. “Very well, I know Lady Emilia Aberdeen,” he amended. “Your goddaughter.” The girl he’d always been tongue-tied around when they were children. “The Duke and Duchess of Gayle’s daughter. And my best friend’s”—his mother was already across the room, a palm stretched out—“former betroff—” The duchess’ hand muffled the remainder of his response, summarily knocking more than half the contents of his drink over the rim of his glass, soaking his fingers and his jacket.

  Bloody hell.

  “Hush this instant, Heath,” she whispered, stealing a glance back at the door as if she feared the guests who’d already sought out the evening’s entertainments might somehow be lurking outside the billiards room. She gave him a long, pointed look. “Am I free to remove this now?”

  “Wuffsthealternative?” he mumbled into her gloved hand. “Suffocatin-meh.” And by God, he’d bet his future title of duke that her fingers crept up a smidge to cover his nostrils.

  “Now,” she went on as she removed her hand, freeing him to breathe once more. “You know we do not speak of him… at least around her.” His mother flushed. “Emilia. Now, going forward, you’ll refer to her by her name.”

  “Very well.” Removing his kerchief, he snapped the immaculate fabric open and proceeded to mop up the excess moisture from his spilled drink. “As I was saying, given my friendship with her former betrothed, I hardly think I’m the person she’d care to keep company with”—ever—“for your house party.” Nor was his supposition speculative in nature. At any Society event they’d attended together, she’d barely looked at him, let alone uttered a single word. In fairness, neither had he gone out of his way to have any face-to-face meetings with her. After all, Heath, by nature of who he’d always been, preferred life… to be uncomplicated, absent of discomfort. Emilia Aberdeen, with her broken betrothal and his continued friendship with the almost-groom, would rest alongside the dictionary definition of discomfort.

  “Then try.” His mother shoved something into his chest, and he grunted.

  “What in blazes—”

  She flicked his ear, earning another curse.

  “It is a list,” she said. “To help you.”

  To help him? Heath unfolded the scrap.

  “Because you are not necessarily as charming as your brother.”

  “Why, thank you, Mother,” he intoned dryly.

  “Oh, hush. You’ve always said as much.”

  “I’ve said I am the serious one,” he muttered, “which is altogether different.”

  “Is it, Heath?” She arched a brow in the manner that had terrified him as a boy. “Is it?”

  No, it really wasn’t. Regardless, wounded pride aside, there was some benefit to that low—if accurate—opinion of him.

  “Very well,” he conceded. “I’m not the charming one, which is also why I’m the absolute last person who should be assigned this task.” And with that, he reached for his cue stick, marking an end to the nonsense she’d put to him.

  His mother planted her hand on the velvet table, blocking his shot. “Emilia is certainly not a task.”

  “Do I want to keep company with her or…” He squinted down at the numbered list on the edge of the table. He promptly choked. “Ask her what she’d like to spend her morn doing and then do it? The answer is decidedly no.” Grabbing up the page, he handed it over to his mother. Or attempted to. She ignored his efforts, making no move to take the sheet.

  “Read it.”

  With that curt order, he sighed and resumed reading. A strangled laugh escaped him, amusement shaking his frame. “You expect me to”—he glanced at item two—“woo a lady over breakfast? What in the Lord’s name did you use to make this list?”

  His mother bristled. “I’ll have you know this is not amusing.”

  “Your Lady’s Guide,” he drawled.

  “The Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart is a most reliable source on how one should conduct oneself around a lady.”

  He snorted.

  “Oh, hush,” she chided, giving his arm a less-than-gentle tap that was more slap than anything. “Snobbishness hardly suits you.”

  He winced and rubbed the aggrieved flesh. The Duchess of Sutton, master of control, had turned bloodthirsty. This was even more dire than he’d feared. “Does snobbishness suit any person?” he drawled, and this time, he was quick enough to step away to avoid another assault on his person.

  “I’ll have you know this column you’d deride is all the rage.”

  “Either way, I’ve no desire to take part in any of this. Therefore, your words are, in fact, an order.”

  “You put that note in your pocket this instance, Heath.”

  Even as he knew he was being a childlike boor, Heath set it on the sideboard.

  His mother breathed through her nose, slowly, evenly, and that was how he knew he’d crossed a line. “Very well, Heath. Leaving the list out is the wiser course, because the moment I step foot outside this room, you’re going to memorize it, and thoroughly. Are we clear?” Not waiting for an answer, because the Duchess of Sutton would always know the definitive answer to that non-question question, she swept from the room and left him alone once more.

  “We are clear,” he muttered anyway after she’d gone.

  Sometimes, he wished he’d been the recalcitrant of the Whitworth children; that he’d been the rogue of a brother who the Duke and Duchess had grown so accustomed to hearing ‘no’ from. Because then mayhap he could have simply denied her orders and carried on with his own affairs. After his brother’s death, the sense of obligation, the need to be everything his parents needed him to be, had become so ingrained in his character, Heath didn’t know any other way.

  If he had been less devoted to being a dutiful son, mayhap he’d have had the sense his younger brother had when he’d skipped out on the last house party that would have seen him playing partner to Lady Emilia.

  Alas, duty always took precedence over all.

  “Lady Emilia Aberdeen,” he muttered into the quiet. And because Heath always was and would always be the dutiful son, he picked up that damned scrap and read the remainder of the tasks assigned to him.

  2. She arises early for the morning meal. (Six o’clock punctually.) Break your fast with her.

  Splendid, she was the one woman in the whole of England who didn’t rise late. What was next?

  3. Be a good conversationalist to her. Express an interest in whatever subject she speaks to you on. Ask questions. Ladies like to know people care about what they are talking about.

  Be a good…? Heath glanced around the room, all but waiting for his mother to jump out and declare the list her grandest—albeit her only—jest. What in blazes was he supposed to speak with Emilia Aberdeen about? He, the least charming of the Whitworths, who’d rarely engaged in discourse with the lady, even when she’d been betrothed to his friend—and when she’d still possessed a sunny disposition. Shaking his head, he resumed reading.

  4. Do try to make her laugh. She’s still hurting.

  “You’re relying on the wrong son if you expect that,” he mumbled.

  5. If she seems upset, it is your gentlemanly responsibility and duty to somehow cheer her up.

  That was
rather redundant, and if his mother was about he’d take great pleasure and pointing as much out to her.

  6. Do **not**, under any circumstances, discuss her betrothal to that scoundrel you call friend.

  By the bold, starred, and heavily-underlined emphasis, item six was of the greatest significance on the whole damned list. And if his mother had still been here, he’d have delighted in pointing out that items four through six were more warnings than activities on her Emilia Aberdeen To-Do List.

  Heath skimmed the list one more time. All requirements laid out for him. With, of course, several warnings of what not to do.

  All he need do was entertain Lady Emilia and then the lady and her parents would head off to their own estates—and Heath would be spared.

  Jamming the hated list inside his jacket, he exchanged the scrap for a long swallow of the brandy in the glass that had not spilled over the rim.

  Then, gathering up his cue stick, he returned to his much-welcomed game of billiards—in blessed, solitary peace.

  Chapter 2

  A lady’s age does not define her or her worth, and any gentleman who thinks it matters is no man whose affections you should seek…

  Mrs. Matcher

  A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart

  Nearly ten years ago, Lady Emilia Aberdeen had gone from being almost a duchess, to a jilted bride.

  The tale of her jilting had proven to be Society’s favorite scandal to drag forth whenever there were no new tastier on dits to consume. After all, the world believed Emilia’s heart was still crushed beyond repair. It was why, even now, the guests in attendance at the Duchess of Sutton’s winter house party believed Emilia had shut herself away in her rooms.

  None, however, would dare suspect that Emilia was, in fact, responsible for one of the most successful columns in the London Post.

  Tapping the corner of her lip, Emilia fished another letter from a stack of five—

  Alas, both peace and solitude proved altogether too short-lived.

  “You had better be ill, Emilia Abernathy Aberdeen.”

  With a little shriek, Emilia jammed the handful of notes into the back of her journal. The Duchess of Gayle stood framed in the doorway. “Mother,” she greeted.

  “You do not appear ill to me, Emilia,” her mother clipped out, closing the door with a measured calm that only a duchess could muster.

  Emilia feigned a belated cough. “Mother,” she repeated in faint tones.

  Ever graceful, the Duchess of Gayle glided over, her silver satin skirts swirling about her ankles as she walked. “You are a horrid liar, which is a good thing.” As if to punctuate that point, she tapped her fan atop the corner of Emilia’s temporary desk.

  Given the secrets she’d managed to keep from her mother, father, and younger brother, she’d rather venture she was a good deal more capable at subterfuge than any of the Aberdeens credited. Or mayhap they just wished to see something in her other than what was really there. “I simply sought some privacy.”

  “You’ve had ten years of privacy,” her mother said with an unexpected bluntness about a topic no one spoke of, let alone danced around. “No one wants a melancholy wife, Emilia.”

  “Which is fine, as I’ve no wish to be anyone’s wife.”

  Her mother snorted and rapped the desk again.

  Emilia dragged her book protectively closer, folding her arms around the cherished pages.

  “Do not be silly. Everyone wishes to be a wife. At least, eventually.”

  “Actually, I do not.” At one point, she would have agreed with her mother. And at one point, Emilia had fit into that neat, societal mold. She’d desired a husband. Nay, not just any husband: a witty, charming, roguish man… And for a brief time, in her betrothed, she’d had him.

  Until she hadn’t. “I’m quite content with my circumstances.” The blighter had broken it off by letter and marched himself off, traveling… wherever it was bounders traveled.

  “I do not like what you’ve become, Emilia.”

  “And what is that?” she drawled. “More discerning?”

  “More cynical,” her mother said flatly.

  Which was also, surprisingly, on the mark for her mother. Since that long-ago day, Emilia was more cynical. She was also wiser. More guarded. “I’m also more content with my current spinsterish circumstances.”

  Her mother choked and stole a glance at the doorway. “Hush. You are not a… You are not a…” The duchess’ lips moved, but this time no words came out.

  “Spiiinster.” Emilia delighted in stretching out the two syllables.

  “That one. You’re not”—her mother gesticulated with a gloved fingertip, jabbing at the air—“that.”

  “I’m nearing thirty years old, Mother.”

  Her mother slapped her hands over her ears. “Mm. Mmm. You’re some years away from that.”

  Emilia lifted two fingers. “Two.” When her obstinate parent refused to take her hands from her ears, Emilia waggled those digits under her nose.

  “We are not talking about your age,” she said, her voice slightly raised and discordant because her palms muted her hearing.

  “Actually, we are,” she said, cupping her hands around her mouth. “I was pointing out that I’m twenty-eight—”

  “Do hush.” The duchess at last let her arms fall to her sides. “We are talking about your marriage.”

  Which had been the purpose of the last house party she’d attended here at her godmother’s. To coordinate a match between Emilia and the Duke and Duchess of Sutton’s youngest son… a scapegrace son who’d hightailed it off to avoid that fate… and who’d instead found another young woman to marry.

  Setting aside her book, Emilia stood. “I do not wish to marry. I am more than content with my life as it is.”

  Are you truly? Living with your parents still. All your friends scattered throughout England now, living their own lives.

  While Emilia was escorted to the same events she’d been escorted to since she was a girl just out for her debut.

  The duchess’ eyes softened. “Oh, Emilia,” she said with an uncharacteristic tenderness. “Eventually, you are going to find the man worthy of you. The one who makes you laugh and smile and love again.”

  “Thank you, Mama.” Emilia studied the relaxed lines of her mother’s ageless face. “But I still have no intention of joining the festivities this evening.”

  Her mother let out an unduchesslike squeal and yanked her hands back, the façade of earlier warmth shattered. “You are impossible, Emilia Abernathy. Impossible. Imp—” A knock at the door interrupted the third impossible.

  There was another knock. This time, firmer and slightly impatient.

  Smoothing her palms down the front of her skirts, the duchess swept over and, plastering a serene smile on her lips, drew it open. “Oh, you.”

  “Hardly the warmest of greetings for one’s beloved son,” Barry, Emilia’s younger brother by two years, drawled.

  “I’m in the midst of speaking to your sister about very important matters.”

  “Indeed?” Angling his head around the duchess, he mouthed, “Marriage?”

  “What else?” she silently returned.

  “Your sister”—as if there might be another sibling in question, the duchess slashed a hand in Emilia’s direction—“is sitting in her rooms. Alone. Writing in that silly book. People are talking.”

  “Imagine preferring the company of oneself to a house full of Society’s leading lords and ladies,” Barry said dryly.

  Emilia’s lips twitched in amusement at the droll response.

  “Precisely!”

  A droll response that their mother did not properly discern.

  Barry cleared his throat. “Never one to interfere in the ever-important discussion of Emilia’s wedded state—”

  “Unwedded, Barry. The state of your sister’s circumstances is unwedded.”

  “I am, however, the dutiful godson,” he went on over the interruption, �
��and promised Lady Sutton that I would see what kept you, as she was requesting your company.”

  Emilia’s heart lifted. Saved by the least likely of rescuers—her younger brother. A rapscallion who’d previously taken great pleasure in tormenting her over the years.

  “I love you,” she mouthed.

  He touched the corner of his eye. “You owe me,” he whispered back.

  The duchess continued on oblivious to that exchange. “Lady Caroline is looking for me? Why did you not say so immediately?” Because even as Emilia’s spinster state took precedence over many issues, their mother’s devotion to her obligations as a leading societal hostess and deference for rank trumped most. “Perhaps you’ll speak to your sister and see if you can talk some sense into her.”

  Barry inclined his head and pressed a hand to his chest. “You have my word,” he vowed with mock solemnity.

  Emilia made a show of wiping some imagined speck from the corner of her mouth to hide another smile.

  “I saw that, Emilia,” the duchess called, not even glancing back.

  How…?

  As soon as the duchess had gone, Emilia dissolved into laughter. “How does she manage that?” They’d long speculated that she’d been born with eyes in the back of her head.

  “I’ve told you since we were children that she’s part witch.”

  They shared another laugh. Barry glanced back at the door. “I should indicate that the Duchess of Sutton was not looking for Mother, and by my accounts, with her duchesslike, mincing steps, combined with the distance between your rooms and the music room, you’ve no more than twenty-five minutes to find yourself another hiding place.”

  A wave of gratitude swept through her, and she wished she hadn’t been such a miserable elder sister to him when they were younger. Emilia offered him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Barry.”

  His cheeks flushed red, the same way they had when he was a boy who’d been caught in midprank. He held his hands aloft. “Lest you shatter my reputation as a bothersome brother, it’s not purely altruism on my part. As long as she has a spinsterish-in-age daughter to worry about wedding off, she’s far less concerned with her still-unwed ducal heir.”