A Lady's Guide to a Gentleman's Heart (The Heart of a Scandal Book 2)

by Christi Caldwell

  Neither servant made any attempt to make his plate for him, which indicated the gentleman saw to that task himself. It was a simple observation, and yet, as the daughter of a duke, she’d never before witnessed either of her parents undertaking the menial task. Once more, that also did not fit with the image she’d assembled in her mind of Lord Heath Whitworth. What else had she been wrong about where the gentleman was concerned?

  After he’d made his plate, Heath carried it over to the table. She furrowed her brow. Or rather, he carried it around the table, taking the seat directly opposite her. Not even his mother’s directives could compel him to take the seat beside her. No, that wouldn’t be Lord Heath’s way.

  Emilia dropped her elbows on the table and craned her neck to better catch a glimpse of her only dining partner. Alas, the duchess’ silver ewer, brimming with hothouse flowers sprigged with crimson holly berries, blocked her gaze. Setting aside her napkin, Emilia slid over to the empty place beside her. Leveraging her slippered foot on Lady Sutton’s Swedish upholstered dining chair, she hoisted herself onto the edge of the table.

  His jaw falling slack and his napkin fluttering in his fingers, Lord Heath angled his head… toward her, baldly watching her every move.

  Emilia concealed a smile. Yes, the gentleman might be proper on the surface, but she was fast discovering there was a good deal more of him under that perfectly tailored black tailcoat. That was, a good deal more than the defined muscles of his chest. Reaching for the handle of the silver ewer, Emilia grabbed the arrangement.

  She grunted.

  The unexpectedly heavy arrangement.

  Shimmying backward, she slowly climbed down from the table and landed on her feet. “There,” she said cheerfully as she set the flowers at the head of the table. Emilia returned to her chair.

  After she’d sat, Emilia dusted her hands together and claimed a now unobstructed view of Heath.

  Heath, who sat there with that same dumbfounded expression on his face.

  Snapping her napkin open, Emilia returned it to her lap, gathered her fork and knife—and waited.

  “Would it not have been easier to ask one of the servants to move the item?” he asked, predictable with his question.

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” Emilia returned, slicing into a link of sausage. And waited—again.

  Heath dragged his seat closer to the table. “And yet, you still climbed upon the table?”

  He spoke like one trying to piece together the mystery of life. And since she’d lived a largely proper existence, her previous actions might as well have been one of those great mysteries. “And I still climbed on the table,” Emilia needlessly confirmed, taking a bite of her sausage, enjoying herself immensely. More so than she had in—she searched her mind—too many years. This time, the wait stretched on. The gentleman she’d always known him to be would let the odd matter lie.

  “Why?” The question came as if pulled painfully from him.

  How much more she preferred this newer, more curious version of Lord Heath.

  Emilia lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It seemed the best way to illustrate a point.”

  “And what point would that be?”

  “Just how outrageously silly it is that of all the seats”—Emilia waved the tip of her knife around the thirty-foot dining table—“in this whole room, you should pick that one.” She jabbed the silver utensil at him. “Where we could not see one another.” With that, she returned her focus to her breakfast plate.

  Behind her, the pair of footmen stationed alongside the walls poorly disguised their laughter behind coughs.

  There was a short pause, and then Heath slowly pushed back his chair. Gathering up his plate, he came ’round the table and sat beside her.

  She eyed his rather sparse plate dubiously. “That is your breakfast,” she blurted.

  Following her stare, Heath frowned. “What is wrong with my breakfast?” he asked, and she might as well have challenged his birthright for all the affront there.

  Emilia smothered a laugh behind her hand. “I assure you, that is assuredly not breakfast.”

  “It certainly is.” He reached for his napkin before seeming to realize he’d left it at his previous spot.

  Emilia fetched him one from the empty place setting next to her and tossed it to him. Heath caught it in the air. “A single slice of unbuttered bread and one egg? These are not medieval times, Heath. Eating a proper breakfast isn’t praepropere—”

  “Praepropere,” he silently mouthed.

  “The sin of eating too soon, which is associated with gluttony,” she clarified. “It is Catholic theological criticism.”

  Color splotched his chiseled cheeks. “I know what praepropere is.”

  “Of course you know,” she whispered, leaning toward him.

  His brows came together.

  “Your plate, Heath.” She sighed. “Your plate. The sin of gluttony. Your piousness.”

  “I’m not pious.”

  “Self-controlled, then,” she allowed. Who could have imagined she’d have so much fun needling Heath Whitworth? Or that he’d be so very engaging?

  “My eating a measured breakfast has nothing to do with my adhering to any ancient theologian rules.”

  “Splendid.” She smiled widely. “Then let me help you.” Gathering the various sweetcakes and pastries filling her plate, she proceeded to add the confectionaries and other offerings to his.

  His mother’s instructions rang clear in his head: Be polite, entertain the lady, and don’t offend her. As such, with those orders doled out, Heath’s life had become a farce.

  There was nothing else for it.

  How else to account for the fact that he now sat beside Lady Emilia Aberdeen? Or the lady filling his breakfast plate with the items from her own?

  When a second honey cake landed atop his ever-growing breakfast, Heath’s patience snapped. “What in blazes are you doing?”

  “I’m helping you,” she explained, continuing to heap samplings from her dish onto his. “Thomas Wingfield wrote of the essentiality of breakfast. Thomas Cogan stated it was unhealthy to miss breakfast in the morning.”

  Thomas Wingfield? Thomas Cogan? “What in God’s name are you going on about?”

  With a beleaguered sigh, Emilia briefly paused in her undertaking. “Wingfield was a former MP from Sandwich. Cogan a medieval physician.” She stared expectantly at him, and he, the bookish boy and then student he’d been and still was, hadn’t a damned clue about either. “Either way,” the lady went on as if further elucidating him on those figures was hopeless, “they strongly advocated against missing breakfast.”

  “I am not missing breakfast,” he muttered as she moved almost all the items on her dish to his. “I was eating a measured one.” Or he’d been attempting to.

  Emilia added a brioche to his dish—his already filled dish. “Cogan was one of the first to claim that it was healthy for those who were not young or ill or an elder to eat breakfast.” Widening her eyes, she glanced up.

  Suspicion filled him. Do not fall for that bait. Do not fall for that bait. “What?”

  “Well, it’s simply that you’re not young or ill, and so you must be…” She waved in his direction.

  By God, the chit wasn’t insinuating what he thought she was? “What?” he repeated, clipping out that single syllable.

  “Well, an elder,” she whispered.

  The fork slipped from his fingers, and the metal clattered noisily upon the edge of his overflowing plate. “I most certainly am not old,” he barked, and damned if his two disloyal footmen didn’t dissolve into another round of pathetically concealed hilarity.

  Emilia patted his hand. “Then your morning fast should reflect as much.” She beamed, before returning to dicing up the same link of sausage she’d been nibbling since he’d sat across from her.

  First the flowers, then her talk of old men and breakfast. The clever chit had steered him into a trap, and he’d fallen right into it… again.


  “I’ll have you know,” he said gruffly, placing the white linen napkin upon his lap, “there is nothing wrong with my repast.”

  “No,” she concurred, not even glancing up from her dish. Popping a bite of sausage into her mouth, she smiled at Heath. “Not anymore.” She winked. “You are welcome.”

  The saucy chit.

  Heath didn’t know if he was entranced or incensed by the clever minx.

  Entranced…?

  Heath went absolutely still.

  Entranced over Emilia Aberdeen? Nay, it couldn’t be. It was impossible and… Well, no. It was just impossible. She was, and would forever be, Renaud’s former betrothed. Admiring her in any way was strictly off-limits.

  Not for the first time, annoyance with his mother and her damned list and what she asked of him settled in his chest. It was why he welcomed the unexpected quiet and calm between them as Emilia dined on the sparse contents of her plate.

  Silence.

  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.

  Damn it to hell.

  “You enjoy medieval studies.” There, it was a fact she’d revealed… And one you were intrigued by since the lady opened her plump, bee-stung lips.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched Emilia dab at the corners of that crimson flesh.

  Oh, blast. Heath yanked his gaze away, diverting it toward the ceiling. His plate. The window. Anywhere but at that mouth he had no right admiring or appreciating. Or imagining the feel of under his own. I’m going to hell. Ironically, it was a task handed him by his mother that would send him there.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Had there not been a question tacked on the end there, he’d have imagined he was the one who’d spoken those words aloud. Focus on your task and being a good conversationalist to the lady’s interests. “Medieval studies. I take it by the earlier edification you gave me that you enjoy medieval studies.” It was both peculiar and intriguing.

  She shrugged. “I enjoy all manners of different studies and topics.”

  With that, Emilia returned her focus to the plum cake on her porcelain dish. She proceeded to cut herself a small piece.

  With her terseness, the lady wasn’t making the task easy for him.

  And yet, seated beside this minx who’d climbed atop the table and then prattled on about the origins of breakfast, he found he wanted to know more about that statement that offered everything and, at the same time, nothing about her interests. Nor was it any sense of obligation or promise he’d made to his mother, but more a genuine, far more dangerous need to know. “How does a young woman come to know about Cogan and Wingfield?”

  Resting her elbow on the table, Emilia dropped her chin atop her open palm and turned her head to look at him. “Given they are deceased, I trust the same way a man comes to know about them.” Her lips twitched. “From a book.”

  “You are a bluestocking?” he asked, that not at all fitting with the young girl who’d been more interested in flitting around the fair in her family’s village than in the library to which Heath had opted to escape.

  “No,” she said simply. “I’m just a woman who likes to read and happens to recall certain obscure details and information.” Emilia’s lips formed a soft, knowing smile. That luscious flesh all but gleamed, the bright red hue giving the illusion that she’d painted them in a crimson rouge. It was an illusion, wasn’t it? And God rot his soul for wanting to find out. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

  “Impossible,” he said hoarsely. Oh, God, please let it be impossible.

  “You’re thinking back to the younger girl who went out of her way to bother you.”

  Her matter-of-fact statement slashed across his lustful musings. Was that what she’d believed? “You never bothered me,” he said quietly. He’d been endlessly fascinated by the whirlwind of life she’d been. He’d been unsure how to be around her, but she’d never been a bother.

  She rolled her eyes. “Ever the gentleman you are, Heathcliff Whitworth.” Emilia rested her palms on the arms of her chair. “But you would be correct.”

  He didn’t blink for several moments. That admission hardly seemed like one this woman would ever make to anyone, especially to him. “I am?”

  “I wasn’t a particularly bookish girl.” Just like that, the light went out of her eyes, and he wanted the glimmer to spark once more. So he could see her as she’d been moments ago, teasing and merry.

  Emilia’s gaze fell to her breakfast.

  She was hurting.

  Damn it. And damn Renaud for hurting her, even as his reasons for jilting the lady hadn’t been wholly dishonorable.

  And damn me for not being the charming one capable of chasing away her sadness.

  “Do you sketch?” he blurted, glancing to the book she’d been carrying around last evening.

  Confusion brimming in her clear gaze, Emilia looked at him. “Do I…?”

  Heath gestured to her book. “Sketch?” he repeated, drawing invisible lines in the air with his finger.

  “Uh… no.” Emilia followed his stare to the leather book beside her. “Yes. That is, sometimes.”

  Oh, now this was an interesting reversal of roles. He’d managed to turn Emilia Aberdeen upside down. “Is it yes?” he drawled, finding a devilish pleasure in this unexpected turn. It was a welcome one. He grinned. For him, anyway. “No? Or sometimes?”

  A pretty blush bathed Emilia’s skin in a delicate pink. “All of them,” she said quickly.

  “Not at the same time, I trust?”

  “Sometimes.” As if realizing her blunder, the lady bit her lower lip, that row of even, pearl-white teeth worrying the flesh.

  Hers was a siren’s mouth that tempted. And just like that, he was knocked off-kilter once more. Yes, I’m going to hell. He briefly closed his eyes. She is your mother’s goddaughter. And more… worse, Connell’s love. Granted, his friend had ended the betrothal, but Heath was the sole person who knew the reasons for the decision that had not really been a choice. As such, imagining the wickedest pleasures for and with his friend’s beloved’s mouth crossed a line he’d never dare venture over.

  “It is a list,” Emilia finally murmured.

  The casualness of her tone cut through his maddening thoughts. “What manner of list?”

  First his mother’s and now hers.

  “Of activities.” Warming to their discussion, she shifted closer. “I am compiling a list of activities I might see to that would occupy me during the remainder of the festivities.”

  This was safe. An opportunity to put some distance between them.

  “My mother has organized activities for each day,” he ventured in a coward’s bid to save himself from a path of temptation he had no wish to wander down.

  “This is a different list,” she said with a wave of her hand.

  “Yes, I see that,” he muttered. “May I?”

  Her already impossibly wide eyes formed perfect circles. “May you?” she squeaked, dragging the book close to her chest like a protective mama.

  He sharpened his gaze on the small leather journal. Whatever was contained upon those pages was of great import. It was why she had that book in hand at nearly every run-in he had with her. It was why she even now clutched it close. Intrigue stirred.

  Emilia followed his stare and then loosened her grip. “Uh…” She cleared her throat. “That is, you may.” She proceeded to meticulously tear a page from the revered book and handed it over.

  This was what was contained upon those pages? “Another list,” he said under his breath.

  “What was that, Heath?”

  “Ice skating,” he stated, reading item one on her list. “I was reading your item one aloud.”

  Emilia toyed with the edge of her book. “Sadly, I never learned how to ice skate.” There was a faint trace of regret underlining the acknowledgment that he’d have t
o be deaf to fail to hear. “Daughters of dukes do not ice skate.” She spoke in the rote manner of one reciting an all-too-familiar phrase. One that had no doubt been delivered countless times by her parents. She gave a wistful smile. “And because of that? I did not skate.”

  “How odd.” The words left him before he could call them back.

  The lady sat upright, and the soft, lost-in-thought set to her features faded. “You find it peculiar that I don’t skate.”

  “I never expected that you…” Heath searched for the right words that would not offend, reminded yet again of how he’d never managed them with the ease of Graham’s or Emilia’s former betrothed, Renaud.

  “You never expected what?” She cocked her head. “That I bowed to Society’s constraints?” she said, unerringly reading his thoughts.

  “Precisely. I remember you as the girl who talked circles around your father until he agreed to allow the gypsies to stay on his property and return each summer for the annual village fair.”

  Surprise lit her eyes. “You remember that?”

  His fingers twitched with the need to give his cravat a tug, and he resisted the telltale gesture of his unease. “I do.”

  Emilia leaned closer. “But that is just it, Heath,” she whispered, her hushed words spoken in that faintly musical tone, quiet enough that they belonged only to him. “For every way in which I managed a show of defiance, there were ten other ways in which I was ever the dutiful daughter.” Her face pulled. “Ply my needle, while Barry or Father read aloud from books that I despised. All the while, I perfected it all: drawn work, pulled-fabric work, stump work, stuffed work, cording, quilting, candlewicking.”

  His mind spun at that accounting.

  “I venture you’ve neither heard nor practiced each of those stitches?” she asked, and this time as she smiled, it dimpled her right cheek.

  He met her eyes and held her gaze, riveted, unable to look away.

  “I’ve not.” To give his fingers something to do, he reached for his cup of coffee, but Emilia caught his hand, staying the movement.

  At the heat of her touch, he felt his heart go into a double-time rhythm.