The Earl's Wager

by Rebecca Thomas

  She tipped her head to the side. “About what, my lord?”

  “Leaving food on your face. Decrease the amount of soup in your spoon next time.”

  She blinked several times. Then she ran her tongue across her upper lip as well, hoping the motion would bother him.

  Absently, he moved his hand toward his mouth. “Use a napkin to wipe it off.”

  She slipped her tongue back into her mouth. “My tongue works.”

  As though he needed to sit up straighter, he adjusted himself in his chair. “Yes, I can see that it does.”

  Georgia couldn’t help letting a small giggle escape.

  His extremely handsome eyes narrowed into slits. “You were doing that on purpose, weren’t you?”

  Hmm, and smart too. Although she considered playing innocent, she didn’t think it would work. “Oh, my lord, you really think I need eating lessons, as well as dining-room etiquette?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. I don’t know your schooling history. America doesn’t have the kinds of rules we do. I assume you’ve not been to a boarding school?”

  She placed her elbows on the table, intertwined her fingers, and positioned them under her chin. “And why would you assume that?”

  “One, because you’re putting your elbows on the table; two, you licked food off your mouth with your tongue; and three, both actions are entirely unacceptable.”

  “Oh, please.” Trying to gain some sense of composure, she gazed upward. No matter what she did, she doubted he’d retire from his tutoring obligation. She didn’t know why she’d even crafted such a plan—Englishmen were all about duty and responsibility. And although she’d be loath to admit it to this man, she did appreciate someone who made a commitment to something and stuck with it.

  “Do you want to embarrass Marsdale? Is that your intent?”

  “How would I embarrass him?” She clutched her hands tighter and set them in her lap.

  “By acting unseemly at Lady Laurel’s dinner party, that’s how. You are a reflection of him and his family. And, therefore, my sister and me as well.”

  “Give me some credit, my lord. I’m four and twenty. Even though my mother died twelve years ago, do you think my father would let me run wild?”

  He shook his head and arched a sardonic brow. “I’m not at all certain.”

  “Trust me, he didn’t.” She scooped soup into her spoon, moved it to her lips, and swallowed. “I was given many freedoms, I’ll grant you that. I didn’t have a chaperone with me every second, but luckily, Oliver has come to some sense of reason, so I don’t have to have Eloise glued to my side. He’d given me some space, until you came into the scene.” She bit into a biscuit and stared at him. “In fact, I have to ask why, all of a sudden, he’s so determined to marry me off? This has come about since you arrived.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Doesn’t every woman of your age and rank wish to make a good match?” He lifted an inquiring brow.

  She gave him a blank stare but was compelled to study his eyebrows. They were so expressive and revealed his annoyance with her. Chewing two more times, she swallowed and thought better of leaving crumbs on her lips. “No.”

  “Perhaps he was giving you time to acclimate to your new surroundings?”

  The earl drank water from his glass, and she watched the muscles of his throat flex with each swallow. Strange how she’d never made note of such a benign movement before. Maybe she noticed because his cravat was tied so perfectly straight, and the linen of his shirt was starched to near perfection. She had the intense urge to pull the confined fabric free.

  “Miss Duvall?” He raised both brows. “You’re staring.”

  “Am I?” She dipped her spoon back into her soup.

  “Since I am trying to help you, truly I am, one piece of advice would be not to stare. Unless there is something wrong? Did I manage to spill soup on myself?”

  “Of course not,” Georgia muttered. “You’re perfectly put together, just as I would expect. Not a speck of soup on you anywhere.”

  “Good. It’s not appropriate to glare either, you know.”

  “I wasn’t glaring.” She looked at him in disbelief. “I was simply making an assessment of your cravat.”

  “And do you find my cravat agreeable?” He spoke in such a calm, sedate manner, Georgia wondered what it would take to make him less agreeable.

  “Oh, yes.” She took her glass in hand. “Everything about your attire is impeccable. From your pressed shirt to your polished boots, you are a proper English gentleman through and through.”

  A fluttering, tingling sensation rooted itself in her chest, and she couldn’t understand why the feeling kept taking hold of her. She was not interested in his ever-so-proper appearance, nor his perfect diction, nor his unflappable demeanor. Behind his unruffled facade was an arrogant peer who considered himself above her.

  He cleared his throat. “If we are speaking of clothing, then I think we should discuss the dress you’re wearing. While it may be acceptable in America, here in England, it’s not the preferable style.”

  “What style is that?” She decided she wanted his staid countenance to crack. She wanted to wrinkle his perfectly crisp shirt and yank the knotted cravat from its hold to see exactly how he might react, but instead she just sighed.

  “What’s wrong, Miss Duvall? Have I offended you?”

  “Why would you think I’m offended?” She sipped her water and set the glass back down.

  “Because you sighed.”

  “Did I? Am I not allowed to sigh at a dinner party either?”

  The truth of the matter was that maybe she was offended. Not only by him, but also by herself. Because why she had the sudden urge to mess up his shirt and cravat, and even his hair, was beyond her. It made no sense whatsoever. She didn’t like to annoy Oliver, so why was Will Sutton different?

  “You may sigh at a dinner party, but it’s probably not the best way to attract an eligible gentleman.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She resisted the urge to sigh again.

  “I inquired with a reputable modiste, and I’ve made arrangements for us to see her tomorrow. And, given the state of your current dress, I don’t think we’ve a moment to waste.”

  Instead of sighing in frustration, perhaps she should push the matter a little farther. “You said my dress is not the preferable style. What is not preferable about it?”

  “The fabric looks quite worn. Certainly you might like something new?”

  “No.” She sat up straighter, leaning forward at the same time. “Actually, I like the fabric quite well.” Glancing down at her chest, she said, “It’s a fine color for my skin tone.” She looked up at him again and widened her eyes. “Perhaps you are biased against the color is all.”

  “It has nothing to do with the color.” He coughed.

  “But you said the fabric looks—”

  “I said the fabric looks quite worn, but the problem is the size. It doesn’t fit you properly.” He threw down his napkin.

  She innocently blinked several times, feeling a bit smug to see she’d ruffled him. “I see.”

  He pushed back his chair. “I beg your pardon. I neglected to tell the cook we’d like dessert as well so I’m certain you know which utensils to use.”

  In an instant, he departed, and Georgia smiled. Perhaps she was goading him a bit more than necessary, but she had hoped he’d give up this ridiculous plan by now.

  She didn’t like the fluttery feeling he evoked in her, and she didn’t require any kind of lessons—dinner-party etiquette, eating, appropriate conversation, or otherwise. What she required was an old, near-dead husband.

  Instead of fighting the tutoring lessons with Grandleigh, maybe she could get him on her side. It was apparent he didn’t want to give her lessons any more than she wanted them. So if he would agree that Sir Richard was a possible match for her, then together, they could convince Oliver that they suited as well.

  …

  Will ne
eded to remove himself from the dining room, not arrange for dessert. He needed to get his bearings. His project was more troublesome than he could have imagined, and rather than lose his temper in front of her, he needed a private moment to gather his thoughts. He could use counsel from his sister on how to handle this situation. How was he supposed to delicately explain that her dress was too tight? He said it didn’t fit properly—wasn’t that enough? Apparently not, because she kept on and on about it, goading him and poking at his practical sensibilities.

  In fact, why had he let her bother him so much? Maybe because it took every ounce of energy he had not to look at her breasts? He was supposed to be tutoring her on proper dinner conversation, but how could he do that when he couldn’t look at her without thinking about what it would be like to—stop. He must stop this madness.

  He turned on his heel and marched back to the dining room.

  “Back so soon?” she inquired while spinning her spoon in her hand. “I wasn’t sure if I should keep eating while you were gone.”

  He pulled out his chair, sat down, and placed his napkin back on his lap. “Of course you can continue eating.”

  “Oh, good.” She took a bite of her biscuit. “Did you arrange for dessert?”

  Confound it. He’d forgotten that was the excuse he’d used to leave the dining room. “Ah no, actually I didn’t. I had second thoughts that you’ve had enough for today. Let’s keep our lessons short. I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

  She chewed and looked at him with wide eyes. She bit down on her biscuit again, and he watched with longing as a tiny crumb fell from her mouth to the crevasse between her breasts. He refused to look down but instead kept his eyes riveted to hers.

  “We were discussing my dress before you abruptly departed from the room.”

  “Ah, yes, your dress.” He looked down at his soup to gain time in gathering the right words. “You must be at the height of fashion if you’re to procure a good match.” He looked up, certain to hold her gaze. “I’ve arranged for a modiste who will fit our tight—our very tight—time schedule.”

  Blast. He hadn’t meant to say tight, but the word had slipped out anyway.

  Nodding, she peered at him beneath a guileless, hooded gaze. “Whatever you think is best, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Miss Duvall. I think we both agree that if we work together we’ll find a perfectly suitable match for you. I did for Arabella. I’ll do the same for you.”

  “So far we haven’t agreed on Sir Richard Hamilton. In fact, you didn’t even want to discuss him yesterday.”

  “That’s because he’s too old for you. I guarantee Oliver will say the same. He will not give his approval,” he replied smoothly.

  “If you agree with me, he might listen,” she said with a wicked smile. In fact, he decided that smile of hers could probably cause a few peers to stop and take notice of her. However, once they discovered her American heritage, that is where the interest would end.

  They had a lot of work to do to prepare for the party. “But I don’t agree with you.”

  “You don’t want this tutoring arrangement any more than I do. The sooner I find a husband, the better, correct?”

  “While I can appreciate your logic…I want to understand why you could be interested in marrying someone like him.”

  “By someone like him, you mean someone who’s older?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “He’s a good rider, he enjoys the country—at least, as near as I can tell because we met when I was riding. He has a nearby estate, so I’ll remain close to Arabella and Oliver. What more could I need?”

  “But what of children?”

  “We discussed children before, my lord. While you require them because of your title, I do not.” She brought a spoonful of soup to her mouth, and Will refused to look at her, or more specifically, at her mouth.

  They both ate their soup in silence for a time while Will contemplated the other reasons to marry besides children. Granted, it was the primary reason he’d marry one day, but if you didn’t desire children, what then? Was there another reason to marry? He’d never contemplated the idea of marriage without children. Of course some couples remained childless if they were unable to conceive, but it was a strange thought indeed. Certainly there was friendship and companionship at the very least, and what of the marriage bed? “All right, but what of the other aspects of marriage?”

  “Such as?”

  Despite himself, he was curious how she might respond. “Companionship.”

  “Is there some reason to believe Sir Richard wouldn’t be a companion to me?”

  “No, but I meant more than companionship, I meant that a husband is responsible for making sure you’re safe, gives you a comfortable house to reside in, clothes for you to wear, that kind of thing. But furthermore, he should be a partner to you, a helpmate, someone who shares your same interests and goals.”

  She blinked several times, quirked a brow, and asked, “If you know so much about what a husband should be, why aren’t you one yourself?”

  He should’ve felt offended, but he was the one who’d broached the topic. How did she manage to answer a question with a question and remain so coolheaded about it? “I’ve no need to marry right now.”

  “Well, I’m certainly impressed with all the things you think a husband ought to be. But I have to ask how you think Sir Richard is lacking in any of those areas. He has a home, he has means, and I’m sure he’ll keep me clothed and fed, if that’s what you mean.” She licked her spoon then twirled it. He had the urge to rip the spoon from her hand, but he tamped down on his ire. He must keep his emotions in check—this was nothing more than a basic conversation about husbands and wives. There was no reason to let her get under his skin.

  “Sir Richard is most definitely lacking.” The gentleman in question most certainly wouldn’t know how to please her in bed. Will scowled at the sudden thought. Blood rushed to certain areas of his anatomy, followed by his pulse pounding at his temple. “Miss Duvall, I don’t wish to argue with you, but the fact is, I arranged the match between Oliver and Arabella and look how happy they are.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but that’s because you know your sister. You knew exactly what she required in a husband, and you don’t know one thing about me—not one thing.”

  “I know plenty of things about you. I know you dressed as a man and pretended to be a jockey. I know you care a great deal for horses. I know you’re an excellent rider, otherwise you would have been killed or at least trampled upon.” Will coiled his fingers around the arms of his chair with an iron grip before pushing it back a second time and stood.

  “That still doesn’t mean—”

  “I know you’re purposely eating your food inappropriately just to vex me,” he said softly, while his blood boiled like a pot of stew soon to bubble over. “I also know that dress shows entirely too much—too much…” He waved a hand in between them. “Too much of your skin.”

  Miss Duvall pushed back her chair and stood as well. She squinted her beautiful blue eyes at him but said nothing.

  “I know Sir Richard is not capable of pleasing you as a husband ought to.”

  “You have no way of knowing that.”

  “I know, because I’m a man.” They stared at each other with the table between them acting as a giant chasm separating not only their differences of opinion but just how different they were in every way.

  “I think I know a little bit more about what will please me than you do.” She scowled at him with her plump bottom lip sticking out. “And just because you’re a man means nothing.”

  “I do know what’s best for you. I knew what was best for Arabella, and I know—”

  “Stop right there,” she interrupted and rounded the corner of the table. She approached him as though she might very well reach her hands around his neck to strangle him. He knew he’d pushed too far, but the woman needed to be put in her place; she needed to understand that sh
e didn’t want an old man as a husband.

  Her hands fisted at her sides before she crossed her arms just below her breasts, effectively forcing her cleavage upward to become even more visible. Damn the woman.

  “Let me make myself very clear, Lord Grandleigh.” She uncrossed her arms and pointed her index finger at her heart. “I will make up my mind about whom I marry. Me, and no one else. Let’s be very clear on this point, shall we?”

  “Very well,” he bit off. The thud of blood pulsing at his temple struck harder.

  “I’ve agreed to this tutoring charade for one reason and one reason only: so Harland can keep his employment here. I will humor Oliver.” She tossed her chin up and recrossed her arms. “I’ll bloody well humor you with your lessons, but I will decide who I’m to marry.”

  “There’s no need for blasphemous curse words, Miss Duvall,” he ground out. She was full of more spit and fire than any woman he’d had the chance to encounter. “I think I’m very clear that you will decide whom you’re to marry—you and no one else.” He held up his hands. “I heard you.”

  “Good. I’m glad that you did.”

  “Are all American woman this belligerent or just you?”

  “My lord, I find your question insulting.”

  “No insult intended, but I apologize just the same. My manners aren’t always up to standard. This concludes our lesson for today, Miss Duvall. I think we’ve covered quite enough material.”

  “I think so as well, Lord Grandleigh.”

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, Eloise helped Georgia with a simple traveling dress, although she had no interest in going to London to get fancy clothes. Somehow, she had to convince Oliver that Sir Richard would be perfectly happy to marry her.

  As soon as she spotted Lord Grandleigh’s carriage, she bounded down the stairs hoping to speak with Oliver, otherwise she’d be going to London whether she liked it or not. She didn’t have much time.

  Around the corner, her slippers sliding on the floor, she nearly ran smack dab into her tutor, who had unfortunately already entered the foyer. Damn.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said. That fluttery feeling came over her again, and she was determined to crush whatever it was. She didn’t have time for feeling light-headed; she had a great deal to accomplish.