A Woman Scorned (8 page)

Sharply, Jonet nodded. “An excellent notion! And one more thing, please. Send word to Lord Delacourt. Ask him to come early for dinner, if he may. As early as possible. Tell him . . . just tell him that I require his good advice most urgently.”

 3 

In which Lady Mercer rallies her Troops

S
till wildly invigorated by his heated encounter with Lady Mercer, Cole found himself alone in the hall with the woman known to him only as Nanna. As round as she was tall, the woman was attired in a gown of dark gray worsted with a crisp white over-smock. The look she shot him could hardly have been called welcoming. Indeed, her small, dark eyes seemed to glare resentfully out at him from the nest of wrinkles which formed her face.

Cole made a little bow and offered her his hand. “Good afternoon, Mrs.—?”

“Nanna,” she said succinctly, fingers splayed stubbornly upon her wide hips.

“Very well then, Mrs. Nanna.” He withdrew the proffered hand. “I suppose that would make me Captain Cole.”

“Oh, you’re a right smart one, aren’t you?” She eyed him up and down.

Cole managed to smile. “I should hope, madam, that I am not entirely without intelligence, if I’m to tutor two young boys.”

Nanna shot him another quelling look, shrugged, then turned with amazing agility toward the stairs. “Aye, well you’ll be needin’ a good deal more than wit, sir, if you’re t’manage them two imps. Now, follow me, if there’s to be no getting rid o’you.” As she heaved her way up, she shook her head vigorously, and another iron gray curl sprung free. “Though what that Lord James is aboot a’ sending you here, I’m sure I have no notion. Her ladyship is perfectly capable of seeing to those lads, and Lord James has no call to go poking his nose where it’s nither wanted nor needed. Been nothing but trooble to her ladyship, he and his brother both.”

Nanna’s oratory droned on as they labored up the two flights of stairs. Twice the elderly woman paused to sigh deeply, but otherwise, her breath was spent in complaining until they reached the schoolroom door. Then she set her hands back on her hips, puffing mightily. “And anither thing, sir! These lads are hellions, and I dinna mind to tell you so. They’re good boys, both, but too clever by half. And what’s worse, they run wild, though they’ve been raised up proper enough.” She drew another exasperated breath. “So I hope you and that fine Lord James know what you’re aboot. Now, go in there and sit yourself doon ’til I can ferret out the wee rascals and make ’em presentable.” On that parting comment, Nanna shoved open the schoolroom door and stalked away, her huge hips rolling laboriously beneath her gray skirts.

Cole entered the empty schoolroom, his footsteps echoing hollowly upon the bare wood floor. Once inside, he closed the door, then leaned back against it. Good Lord! Jonet Rowland had been worse than he had imagined, and she had shaken his control. Badly. For a long moment, he paused, eyes tightly closed, and turned his energy inward, seeking to quiet the outrage and hunger that had momentarily clouded his judgement. How unlike him it was to lose his temper so thoroughly. How disconcerting it was to lust after a woman he did not like. Devilish uncomfortable, too. And her behavior! Audacious was too mild a word. A lady would never have spoken such thoughts aloud, would never have referred so openly to tawdry gossip, and a lady most assuredly would not have moved through a room with such physical energy, dark eyes flashing and skirts swishing boldly.

He should have turned away from Lady Mercer the first time she tempted—no,
tormented
—him. Yes, he should simply have turned and walked out of her house. He still was not sure why he had not done precisely that. All he knew, and it was a fanciful thought indeed, was that something seemingly drew him to this place. And strangely enough, to her. Though in what way, and on what level, he could not say. But it was there, that vague sense of . . . of
urgency
. It nagged at him, creating hesitation where there should have been only swift certainty.

Eventually, Cole felt the tempest inside begin to ease, and he opened his eyes to see the late afternoon light spilling softly through the windows onto the wide oak planking of the floor. It was time to forget Jonet Rowland and her wicked, tempting ways and get on with the business at hand. He came away from the door and drifted aimlessly through the room, inhaling deeply the scent of dusty chalk and old bookbindings. They were familiar, somewhat soothing smells, which, by and large, brought back good memories. The latter half of his childhood had not been the happiest of times, but in the classroom, beneath the high ceilings and transom windows, Cole had finally found a sense of belonging after the death of his parents.

Casually, he hefted an atlas from its stand, balanced it over his palm, then began to aimlessly flip through it, seeing nothing. No—seeing the past. On the whole, he had despised Eton, it was true. He had hated the bleak living quarters, and despaired of the incessant shortages of warmth and food. The utter lack of supervision or compassion. And yet, he had survived. In part because of his sheer physical size. But mostly because his needs were simple. And because his mind was simple—not weak, but uncomplicated and ingenuous.

For as long as Cole could remember, he had never felt true enmity toward anyone or anything. Yes, he had despised much of what Eton
was
, but he could not remember ever having despised what it had
given
him, for it was only there, in the classrooms, that he had truly begun to excel. To develop the knowledge, the insight, and the selfconfidence which had been lacking, and which would finally set him free. For a moment, Cole let the more satisfying memories wash away the bad as he paced the length of the room in silence.

It was not a large chamber, but it was well lit, spotlessly clean, and amply stocked. Bookshelves covered one wall, a sturdy desk stood in one corner, and a narrow worktable filled the center. A long, leather sofa stretched beneath a pair of deep, lightly draped windows, which overlooked the front of the house. Yes, under normal circumstances, this was a place where he might have found some measure of happiness. Where he might have immersed himself in the satisfaction of his work and enjoyed the tutelage of two young men who were no doubt ripe with the promise of youth.

But the circumstances which had brought him here were far from normal. He was not wanted. Lady Mercer had made that plain. She did not trust him, believing him to be loyal to his uncle, whom she clearly considered her adversary. Obviously, the idea that Cole might actually have come out of a sense of duty, that he might feel some sympathy for the plight of her fatherless children, had never crossed her egotistical mind. At first glance, she seemed everything the world accused her of being—arrogant, cold, conniving . . . and hauntingly beautiful, of course.

Good God, how the woman had flirted with him. Even Cole, in his self-confessed ignorance, could hardly have missed that fact. It had been her intent to unsettle him, to toy with him, like a cat with its prey. She had strolled languidly across the room, coming so close that Cole had been able to see every silken eyelash as she had swept them down across her ivory cheeks. She had stood so near that he had been able to inhale the exotic, spicy, almost masculine scent she wore. Deliberately, she had lifted her stormy blue eyes to his, then touched the tip of her tongue to that tiny, almost invisible mole at the corner of her mouth, her every move calculated to torture him.

Cole was very sure of her purpose because, to his undying shame, it had worked. Despite his contempt and mistrust, he had felt a stab of desire for her, and Cole reminded himself that it was not the first time the lady had had such a disquieting effect on his senses. But this time he believed her behavior had been willful, almost malicious. Jonet Rowland had deliberately challenged his every masculine instinct. And his traitorous body had reacted, just as she had probably known it would.

Gentlemanly deportment be damned. He had found himself shaking inside with a rage which was wholly unfamiliar to him. The woman had so incensed him that he had resorted to insulting her, more or less to save his own sanity. It had been all that he could do not to jerk her violently into his embrace and kiss her insolent mouth until she was weak in the knees. Ah, yes—that was what he had burned to do, but could he have accomplished it? It might take a great deal to weaken such a strong woman.

Cole was no angel, and he knew that some women found him attractive. Yet his monkish existence and military life left him so rarely in the company of females—and never one so dangerous—that he had scarce known what to do, while Lady Mercer knew precisely what she was about. It seemed to Cole that the woman raised sexual frustration to a form of torture that even the Spaniards would have admired.

Merely at the memory of it, his groin tightened and stirred, annoying him to no end, and making him ache with need. Clearly, he had now ventured well beyond his narrow range of social skills. Perhaps now that he was on military leave, he had no business in town. Perhaps it would have been better, after all, to have forced himself to return to Elmwood.

Lost in such thoughts, Cole walked to the window and pulled away the under-drapes to stare into the street below. It was quite late in the afternoon now, and those few carts and drays whose business brought them into the exalted environs of Mayfair had now slowed to a trickle. Suddenly, the door flew open, and Cole spun about to see an explosion of boys and dogs burst into the room.

The dogs, border collies by the look of them, seemed as large as the boys, and moved almost as quickly, their claws clacking back and forth on the wood floor like hail spattering a windowsill. In the doorway behind, Nanna stood, looking grim. Cole was beginning to believe her hands were permanently affixed to her hips.

The smaller of the two boys managed to squeeze between the prancing dogs and the table to stand just in front of Cole. He narrowed his eyes and studied Cole’s regimentals. “Are you a Dragoon?” he boldly demanded. “I said you were, and Stuart says you ain’t.”

Cole glanced through the door toward Nanna. “Ma’am, if I might have a few moments alone with Lord Mercer and Lord Robert? I do assure you that they will not get the best of me quite as quickly as you fear.”

The elderly nurse crossed her arms. “I’m tae stay near, sir,” she said in a warning tone. “I’ll be just in the hall here.”

The dogs lay down in a patch of sun beneath the table, and Cole returned his attention to the boys. “You must be Lord Robert Rowland,” he said, bending down to the younger boy and putting out his hand. “I am Captain Amherst.”

The boy reached up to pump Cole’s hand enthusiastically. “Pleased-t’make-your-acquaintance,” he said, rapidly running all the words together. He pointed perfunctorily at the dogs. “You can call me Robin. An’ this is Scoundrel, and this here is Rogue. Are you a Dragoon, sir?”

Cole held up a staying hand and turned toward Stuart Rowland, the seventh Marquis of Mercer. He was a lanky, good-looking boy, a little solemn for his nine years, and with the unmistakable Rowland coloring. “And you must be Stuart, Lord Mercer?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, rather reluctantly taking his hand. “Good afternoon.” Stuart quickly broke off the contact, leaving Cole to study him. The boy’s hair was dark, his gaze somber and mistrustful behind eyes that were hazel and deep-set. He looked familiar, too, for Stuart’s eyes were the very same that Cole had often seen staring back at him from the portraits which lined the corridors of Lord James’s country house. At the moment, however, Stuart’s gaze was shuttered, almost afraid.

“Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it?” said Lord Robert. He seemed cheerfully unaware of his elder brother’s discomfort, or of Cole’s burning curiosity. “Now,
are
you a Dragoon, sir? Stuart says you ain’t. That you’re Life Guards. But I said that he was wrong.”

Cole turned his attention from Stuart and tried to frown disapprovingly at the younger boy’s interruption. It was rather difficult, for the child was so charmingly impertinent, not to mention persistent.
“Aren’t
, Robert,” Cole corrected. “Please do not speak cant in the schoolroom. And yes, I am a Dragoon. But there is a possibility that I may become your tutor. For a few months, until something more permanent can be arranged.”