Love With a Scandalous Lord (8 page)

He couldn’t prevent a corner of his mouth from quirking up as he raised an eyebrow. “So pouring tea into two cups instead of one twice allows you to drink more quickly?”

“Twice as much tea is able to cool in the same amount of time. Therefore I can drink one right after the other instead of pouring one, letting it cool, drinking it, and then pouring another—”

“And having to wait for it to cool,” he finished.

She nodded enthusiastically as though she truly thought he believed her tripe.

“Fascinating,” he murmured.

He crossed the room and sat in the high-backed padded chair. She jerked as though he’d slapped her—clearly not wishing him to stay. Yet he was loath to leave.

“What other ingenious time-saving habits do you Americans practice?” he asked dryly.

Suspicion darkened the violet of her eyes. “You’re teasing me.”

“Only because I sensed that you were teasing me. What are you doing in here, Lydia?”

She seemed as startled by his using her first name as she’d been by seeing him standing in front of the door like some beggar child gazing longingly in a store window at Christmas.

She sat on the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. “I was practicing,” she admitted quietly.

“Practicing?”

“Serving tea to a gentleman.”

“I see. And where is this gentleman who is the fortunate recipient of your kind regard?”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse.”

“Perhaps. Why don’t you straighten me out?”

Lydia considered tossing the warm tea into his face, but since he had yet to laugh out loud, she hoped maybe he was trying to put her at ease with his teasing. Or perhaps he simply wanted to embarrass her more. Still, she decided to take a risk, to hope with her confession he might see his way clear to help her.

She lifted her book off the sofa and extended it toward him. His eyes widening in surprise, he took her offering and trailed his fingers over the cover.

“
The Laws of Etiquette
,” he murmured. He raised his
gaze to hers with a question in his eyes.

She thought if she kept blushing under the heat of his perusal, she’d be able to boil a new pot of tea. “I’m trying to educate myself on what is acceptable behavior.”

“While I must confess to not knowing you well, I can hardly fathom you engaging in unacceptable behavior.”

She gave him a pointed stare.

He cleared his throat. “Last night was a rare exception, I’m quite sure.”

She scooted to the edge of the seat. “May I speak candidly?”

“By all means.”

She licked her lips and took a trembling breath. “I don’t wish for your father to die.”

“Extremely charitable of you.”

“Please don’t make snide remarks.”

“A tiger cannot change its stripes. Still, I shall endeavor to be more pleasant.” Setting the book aside, he sat up straighter and gave her his complete attention, as though he intended to at last take her seriously.

She hesitated, but she wanted success too much not to take the risk, not to dare to explain. “It is my fervent hope that while we’re in England, I’ll have a chance to travel to London before the Season is over.”

He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and stroked his finger along the edge of his lower lip. She loved the shape of his lips. Not too thin, like those of so many men she knew. His mouth was full, but not at all in a feminine way. Not pouting, but sumptuous. Wide. Incredibly soft. Not chapped by dry Texas wind or sun. The way it had molded against hers had been sheer heaven.

He cleared his throat, and she jerked her gaze up to
his.

“Do continue,” he prodded, looking as though he were fighting not to allow that mouth to curve into the half-moon of a smile.

She licked her lips again, wondering why they tingled. Did they have the ability to remember what she remembered? Had his kiss branded her? Did his lips tingle as well?

She shoved her distracting thoughts aside. “My time in London will be short, and I want to make a favorable impression. I need to learn everything I would have been taught had I lived here for years. I don’t want to stumble through my first ball like the country cousin who has come to the city.”

“Surely you have attended a dance.”

“In a barn!” She lunged to her feet, skirted around the edge of the table, and began to pace, unable to repress her agitation. She spun around and looked at him imploringly. “We hold our dances in the barn. No matter how much you clean it or lay down new straw, it still smells of manure and horsehide.

“I’ve never had a gilded invitation. Word of mouth or a note tacked outside the general store is the way people are invited. This dress”—she swept her hands from her bosom to her hips—“is fancier than anything I’ve ever worn to a dance—except on my birthday. Calico, homespun…oh!”

Frustrated, she took up her pacing again. How could she explain the unexplainable? As a general rule, she despised whining women. She didn’t want him to perceive her as such, but she’d traveled so far—not only in miles, but in her efforts to achieve her dream.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but for years I’ve read Lauren’s letters. Everything she wrote about the
glitter and gold of London. All I’ve had is tin. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s simply the nature of Fortune. To be dull and boring and wrapped in shades of brown.” She pivoted and captured his gaze. “You must think me terribly shallow.”

What Rhys thought was that Lydia Westland belonged in a glittering ballroom, with gentlemen thronging around her. Granted, he had to admit that there were undoubtedly more pressing issues in the world than the cut of a ball gown, but for a young woman nothing was more important, nothing else served as effectively to determine the remainder of her life than her Season.

Lydia was quite right that a gentleman’s perception of a lady’s mastery of etiquette influenced his interest in her as marriage material. During the Season, women were auditioning, flaunting their grace, showing their ability to charm, demonstrating their worthiness to indeed be married to a peer.

He could hardly fault Lydia for wanting to make a good impression—particularly if she did not expect to have much time in London. The month of May and the Season were already under way.

Raised up on her toes, her hands clasped before her, she looked at him as though she expected him to provide her with some profound answer.

“I find most women to be shallow,” he replied drolly.

She rolled her eyes and presented her back to him.

“But I also understand,” he continued, unable to comprehend the reasons he desperately wished not to disappoint her, “what it is to desire what you’ve never possessed. Unfortunately in your case, Lydia, I fear you’d discover the reality is far removed from the dream.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, a definite chal
lenge in her eye. “It wouldn’t be that far removed if you were to help me.”

He ceased to breathe. “I beg your pardon?”

She hurried across the room, knelt before him with her skirt billowing around her, and grabbed his hands. “You could teach me what I don’t know.”

The warmth of her palms was as compelling as the plea in her eyes. It took all his willpower not to fold his fingers around her hands, squeeze gently, and pull her nearer to him.

“You seem to know a great deal,” he finally managed.

“But not everything. And I get flustered. Like when we met. Addressing you as Your Grace. Honestly, I did know better, but I’ve had so little experience. If you would simply practice with me—”

“Practice with you?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Have tea with me. Escort
me
into dinner instead of my mother. Murmur in my ear if my touch is not light enough or is too light. If my steps are too slow or too quick. Anything at all.”

Shaking his head to clear it, he slid his eyes closed. What he wished to murmur in her ear had little to do with etiquette and everything to do with seduction.

Fighting to control his baser instincts, he opened his eyes. “Impossible.”

“Why? We’re practically related, and I know often a man takes a female relative under his protection.”

Dear God, what he wanted was to take her under his body, to have her thrashing about beneath him and screaming his name. Was she so incredibly innocent she could feel none of this passionate stirring? None of this blasted desire that raged through him?

He felt like a fiery volcano, while she seemed as cool
as a wintry night. He wanted to melt her frost and fan the flames of what they’d begun in the sheltering darkness at the bridge.

“As last night proved, our spending any time together would be unwise,” he told her. He spoke the truth. His restraint was close to giving out on him.

“You’re not ravishing me now.”

Not from a lack of wanting
.

She released her hold on him, and he mourned the loss of her touch. She sank back on her heels.

“I’ve read the books, but there are so many little things that they don’t tell me. Things
you
would know.”

“I did not do the social rounds while I was in London.”

She furrowed her delicate brow, and he wanted to press his thumb against the creases and ease them away.

“Not at all?” she asked.

“I had no interest in the balls. And while as a second son I might have been considered a fair catch, Quentin was the favored one, sought after, and invited to every soiree that took place.”

“But surely you were taught how to behave in case you were invited.”

“I’m not saying I am not without knowledge. Rather I lack the experience you seek.”

He shifted in the chair, not entirely comfortable with the way she was scrutinizing him, as though she sought to decipher exactly what knowledge he did possess.

She lowered her gaze to her lap. “What if I get to London and make a fool of myself?”

“You shan’t make a fool of yourself.”

She slowly lifted her gaze to his, her incredible lavender eyes revealing her vulnerabilities and fears.
“How can I not when I’ve never had the opportunity to put to practice what I’ve learned? Wishful thinking and imaginary gentlemen have hardly prepared me to walk into a ballroom with confidence, and confidence is what I’ll need if I want to be a success.”

“Which of course, you do.”

She chose that moment to bestow upon him a smile filled with wonder and awe. “I’ve lived my entire life almost as though I were Cinderella. Do you know that story?”

“A tale written by Perrault. I wasn’t aware you had a wicked stepmother. Or in your case, perhaps it’s a wicked stepfather.”

Her smile blossomed. “Neither. But I’m a farm girl who has spent most of her life dreaming of one night of magic. With your help, maybe it can turn into more.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not interested in going back to Texas. I want to live among the glitter.”

“And when you discover it is not gold, but merely a poor imitation?”

Concern etched itself across her features. “Papa said something similar. I think it’s only because you’re men, and you can’t comprehend what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, I understand. Far better than you think. I cannot help but wonder if it is better to have the dream rather than the reality.”

“You’re too cynical. I don’t know why I bothered to ask you, or why I thought you’d be willing to help me.”

She started to rise. He reached out and grabbed her wrist, halting her progress and quickening the beat of his heart. He was certain he would analyze this moment until his death and never fully comprehend what had possessed him to say, “I’ll offer you my assistance,
teach you what you think you don’t know.”

Unadulterated joy swept over her face. Then her arms were wrapped around his neck, her cheek pressed to his, her backside nestled within his lap. “Oh, Rhys, thank you!”

He dug his fingers into the sides of the chair to keep himself from digging them into her, from burying his hands in her hair, or cupping his palms around her waist.

She eased back until he could look within the depths of her eyes. She slid her hands around until they cradled his neck, her thumbs pressed below his chin. Surely she could feel the rapid thrumming of his pulse.

He felt as though the sun had suddenly moved into the room, heating his flesh. All the joy seemed to flow out of her as awareness crept in. For him, it had been immediate. For her, it was a slow dawning, but he could see its arrival as clearly as he noticed the first signs of spring. The budding of her breasts, the blossoming of her lips.

He recognized that he should have possessed the presence of mind to move her off his lap, but he feared if he touched her at all, it would be to press her closer, to bring her mouth directly in line with his.

Blinking, she gave her head a quick shake before she scooted off his lap. Her cheeks flamed red. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, well, lesson number one is that a simple thank you will suffice in the future, should I do something that pleases you.”

“Thank you,” she said softly as she stepped back.

“You’re welcome.” He loosened his grip on the chair, fearing it would forever carry the imprint of his fingers.

He stood and she stepped back again, failing to meet his gaze.

“Lydia.”

She lifted her eyes to his.

“We shall need to curb your enthusiasm.”

She nodded. “That was a very unladylike display.”

“Indeed. I, for one, am in favor of no formal lessons. I shall simply instruct you when our paths cross.”

She bobbed her head. “That’s fine.”

“Very good.” He started to stride from the room.

“When do you think our paths will cross?” she asked.

He halted, with his mind racing.
As seldom as possible
hung on the tip of his tongue. He glanced over his shoulder and knew he could not bear the thought of disappointing her. “I shall endeavor to make it often.”

“Thank you.”

He gave a brisk nod before continuing out of the room. What he needed was a taxing ride over the countryside, although he doubted anything he did would cause him to no longer regret his decision to help her.