The floor-length coat was a pale blue wool trimmed in yellow braid, the wide lapels a fashion so new it hadn’t shown up yet in the pawnshops. The coat fell open in front to display a short bodice of blush-pink silk and an underskirt that matched. The wide blue sash that banded Nell’s waist gleamed like water. Satin, no doubt.
As she studied her reflection, Nell began to grin. She looked like somebody in a painting. Even the setting was perfect: behind her, late morning light beamed through the tall window, glimmering along the gold brocade of the curtains. Past the glass, green oak leaves waved in the breeze, pieces of blue sky glowing between them. What a glorious morning. Focus on the bright things: that had always been her rule. She wouldn’t think of Mum right now, or let anything grieve her; she’d make herself enjoy this moment.
“Might be the handsomest one yet,” she said to Polly. Nine other dresses lay discarded on the sofa at the foot of the bed. She supposed she’d said the same of each of them, but—”I really mean it this time. This one’s the best.”
“I reckon it might be.” Polly edged back into the reflection. She’d been fussing over Nell’s hair for half an hour, and now angled to give it another go.
Nell batted her hands away. “I’m looking at myself, aren’t I?” She turned a full circle, cranking her head to see all the angles. It was coming clear why St. Maur hadn’t thought much of yesterday’s black gown.
Nobody in Bethnal Green would recognize her like this. Only a rich girl could afford to buy this pale, prissy shade without fear of the dirt that would show on it.
“The blue suits me,” she said softly.
“Oh, aye, so it does.”
Polly’s agreement counted for naught but toadying. Still, Nell couldn’t doubt her own opinion. The jacket made her eyes look bluer. Her cheeks picked up the pink of her bodice. Her waist had a nice curve to it, displayed to advantage by the fine cut of the coat. She looked pretty. She, Nell Whitby!
The devil’s lures, Mum snapped in her mind.
Aye, and what of it? Already in the devil’s clutches, she felt entitled to enjoy a lure or two. “I couldn’t wear a better color,” she said defiantly.
“I expect not,” Polly said. “At least—it would be a very close call between this one and the violet tea gown.”
“Oh, I’m saving the purple dress.” That was for Hannah. “That one I won’t wear.”
The maid crept back into the reflection. She was twisting her wrists at her waist, nervous as a mouse in open territory. “I should redress your hair, if you’ll permit it.”
Nell looked blankly toward her bangs, which Polly had curled with a hot iron into ringlets at the top of her brow. “It’s nice as it is,” she said. A style for ladies who never left the house. One foot into the damp and these curls would melt away.
The thought made her grin. “These clothes are for ladies who never do anything useful.” The edges of this open jacket would catch on corners. The tight sleeves would constrict her from lifting a basket onto a worktable. Clothes designed for doing nothing: the idea delighted her.
“I reckon so,” Polly said hesitantly. “But they do suit you, milady.”
Milady! Nell turned away from the mirror to cut the girl a wry look. “Orders given belowstairs this morning?”
Polly blushed and looked to the floor: she knew she hadn’t pulled off that address.
“If we’re to rub along,” Nell said more gently, “you’ll call me by my proper name—and never lie, either.”
“I—I’d get in trouble if I called you such now.”
Nell studied the blank crown of her mobcapped head. “Aye, right,” she said grudgingly. “Call me what you must, then.”
Polly looked up, her round eyes earnest. “But I wasn’t lying. You do look lovely. It’s naught to do with the gown. But if you don’t like this one, we can try the others again—”
“And spend another two hours at it?” Imagine that: having so many gowns that it took two hours to try them all! St. Maur had ordered a heap of silk petticoats to boot, as well as stockings in gay, vivid shades, hats and mantuas, and ten woolen combinations. The pile of clothing atop the sofa towered almost three feet high.
As Nell cast another look over the upended boxes, an uneasy feeling snaked through her. Easy to feel that she’d awoken into a fairy tale. But this was real life. Happy endings were rare. She couldn’t think of any she’d witnessed firsthand.
A wise woman wouldn’t permit herself to get comfortable in this place. She’d never take for granted that her good fortune would last. She’d stay sharp and continue to look for advantages, knowing that what came so easily could be taken away in an instant. That stash of lace and silver she was building beneath the mattress—she’d keep adding to it.
Didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the dresses, though.
She smiled down at herself, at the unbelievable sight of her own rough hands against the fine silk underskirt, drawing it up to permit her a quick stride. “I should go,” she said. His high-and-mighty lordship was waiting downstairs to introduce her to some lady who meant to teach her manners. He’d spoken of a dancing master and a tutor for her speech as well.
“Aye,” Polly said softly. “I—” She pushed out a gusty breath. “I have to thank you, milady, I can’t say what devil possessed me to play such an awful trick yesterday—”
“It’s all right.” Nell winked at her. “We’d had words, so I reckon you owed me a bit of what for. Just so long as we’re square now.”
“Oh, aye, we’re square,” the maid said fervently. “More than square, milady. Almost—a circle, I’d say!”
Nell surprised herself with a laugh. “You’re a mad one. Show me the way to the morning room, then, ducky.”
“Not quite right.” Simon ran his fingers across the piano keys, lightly plucking out the problematic passage. “Don’t be afraid to exaggerate here. You’re hiding the F-sharp in the middle of the phrase.”
When the expected reply did not come, he glanced up to find Andreasson gaping at the far wall, on the other side of which lay the ballroom. The piano in that room had fallen silent several minutes ago, yielding to the heated tones of an argument.
Another shriek now penetrated. The wondering look Andreasson turned on Simon bespoke an imagination running wild.
It did rather sound as though the woman in the next room was being tortured.
Simon tapped his nail against a key. While Nell claimed to understand the importance of appearing presentable and mannerly, she was not taking well to the instructors hired to tutor her. Simon gathered that the lessons came as unwelcome interruptions to her routine of reading and feasting and … costume changes. Every time he caught sight of her, she was sporting a different gown. She strutted about as proudly and loudly as a peacock.
Her jaunty defiance made a peculiar sort of sense to him. He knew how unpleasant it was, how dispiriting, to be disciplined and commanded. He ran his fingers over the keys now, plucking out the scale in a mindless little exercise, as familiar and comforting as the breath in his lungs. Old Rushden, for instance, had removed all the pianos from Paton Park that summer after Nell’s disappearance. He’d claimed that Simon’s head was addled, his health weakened, by his obsession with music. That had been the final straw, the snapping of which had severed any kinder ties that might once have existed between them.
If Rushden had left the pianos alone—if only he’d been willing to let Simon have this one pleasure—then perhaps things might have gone differently between them. But it was as if he had seen Simon’s absorption at the keyboard as a threat to his own authority as the earl, the rightful giver—and denier—of all joys.
Ah, well. Suffice it to say, Simon knew very well that disciplinary strategies never inspired happy cooperation among the governed. He was willing to tolerate Nell’s airs; indeed, he could admire her pluck. And then there was her mouth, and the memory of what he had done with it …
“You can bugger off, then!”
The muffled curse caused Andreasson to flinch. His English vocabulary might be weak, but as a musician, he certainly understood tone.
Simon allowed himself a half smile. “Please forgive my cousin. A dear, young girl, new to London ways. I fear she dislikes her dancing master.”
“Oh.” The Swede gave an abashed tug to his waistcoat. Raw-boned and blond, he towered a full head over Simon’s six feet, and was constantly adjusting and twitching his clothes: his tailors, perhaps, did not know how to accommodate such bulk. “He is … strict with her?”
“No. Merely French.” Nell strongly disapproved of the race. She had a new, Parisian lady’s maid as well. Sylvie’s attempts to lace her as fashion dictated had earned Nell’s suspicion that the woman was trying to squeeze her to death.
What excuse she had for mistrusting Mrs. Hemple, who had been hired to teach her deportment, Simon could not guess. The woman was as English as suet pudding. But Nell greatly resented, for instance, Mrs. Hemple’s assertion that she did not know how to take her seat properly. “I’ve been sitting me whole life,” Nell had snapped to Simon over breakfast this morning. “Hasn’t been a chair yet to complain of me. The bint’s daft.”
Now came through the wall a distinctly French, masculine voice: “I ‘ave ‘ad enough!”
The piano groaned out a dark chord. Simon removed his hand from the keyboard. Nell had a specific goal in working with these tutors, and he saw no sign that she was taking it seriously. Indeed, he’d arrived home from the symphony last night to discover Mrs. Hemple weeping in his entry hall, determined to give notice. It had taken an hour or more to calm her.
The last thing he needed was Nell’s own tutors running about town wailing of her savagery—or, worse yet, taking the stand in court, at Grimston’s behest, to testify to her character.
“We’ll work on this piece later,” he said. He’d given Nell a week to adjust. He was not like Rushden before him; he had no interest in crushing her spirit. But her spirit needed to conform to the main aim: becoming Lady Cornelia. Otherwise he had no use for her.
“Yes,” Andreasson murmured. “Of course, your lordship. At your convenience.”
He was everything amenable, was the Swede: he knew whom to thank for his current popularity. As Simon saw him out, he found himself wishing that Nell might prove so wise. She was sabotaging her chances with these tantrums. If she did not intend to cooperate, he would overcome his interest in her and put her back on the street so he could look for a rich woman to marry.
He would not feel a moment’s guilt over it, either. Where Nell misunderstood him was in her apparent belief that he took his wealth for granted; that this whole exploit was a lark to him. How wrong she was. No day was brighter than those in which he discovered some new aspect of his power. The House of Lords was largely toothless these days, but he’d taken his seat at the first opportunity. He belonged to all the best clubs, though he had no interest in the company. Various corporations asked him onto their boards, not for his nonexistent business acumen but for the honor of having his name on the charter, and he always immediately agreed. The fawning adulation of shareholders did not interest him, but he simply liked that he could have it, should the mood ever seize him.
Wealth gave one so many choices. If she imagined he would risk losing them, she was badly mistaken.
As he neared the ballroom, he realized that his irritation had sharpened into something nearer to anger. Knowing that rash words would not serve him in the coming confrontation, he paused in the doorway to collect himself.
Inside, Palmier stood, fists on hips, his tufted white brows raised in affront. Nell paced a tight circle in front of him. She’d changed since breakfast, and her pale pink gown—designed no doubt with a banker’s daughter in mind, some girl who spent afternoons watering flower boxes in a bourgeois bungalow in Hampstead—did not suit her aggressive strides. She put Simon in mind of a feral cat dressed up in a ruff.
Or of Kitty, upon discovering a rip in her hem. Another tantrum was coming.
“You turn too fast,” she was saying. “And if I can’t lift my blooming skirts, it’s hardly my fault if they get in the way, now, is it?”
“Ha! The train of a ball gown—”
She spun toward him. “I’m not at a ball, am I? And if I were, sure and I wouldn’t be dancing with the likes of you!”
“You would not dance at all,” Monsieur Palmier snapped. “No gentleman would dare to partner you. An elephant has lighter feet!”
Nell’s spine snapped straight. An ominous silence descended as codger and guttersnipe glared.
Nell loathed this little elf. She’d met with him six days in a row, and they’d started out well enough; the movements of the quadrilles and polka and gavot were familiar and didn’t challenge her. But once leaping had left the picture and gliding entered it, she’d faltered. She’d never waltzed before or danced any form like it; there wasn’t room for sweeping turns in the pubs where she’d danced.
“You must be graceful,” he told her now—sternly, as though she were deliberately trying to lurch and stumble. His scowl shouldn’t have looked so fearsome on a man of his small height, but he was wizened as a gnome, with the most peculiar white eyebrows, tufted into points. He looked so close to a fey creature that had he gone walking down Peacock Alley to pick up the dishes of milk left out by the Irishwomen, not a soul would have dared to stop him.
“I’m trying,” she said. “You can’t fault me for putting weight on my feet! Ladies have legs, too, don’t they?”
From the piano in the corner of the ballroom came the sound of a throat being cleared. “One doesn’t refer to legs in the company of gentlemen, Lady Cornelia.”
Nell grimaced. Mrs. Hemple was yet another of the lot St. Maur had inflicted on her—one of those plump, self-satisfied, older women with opinions on every-bloody-thing. She was serving as the pianist right now but her main specialty was manners. She followed Nell about the house, from dancing lessons to elocution to the dining table, commenting on every single thing Nell did wrong.
Apparently ladies weren’t meant to eat cheese at dinner. No savories, either. They took at least a minute to strip off their gloves lest they appear fast. They didn’t comment on their own bodies. Perhaps they weren’t meant to know they had bodies. That probably helped them avoid mentioning their own legs. What legs? They floated, Nell supposed. Maybe they imagined they had wings.
She had a sudden flash of herself, flapping her arms as she whirled across the slippery oak floor. A giggle slipped out.
Palmier visibly bridled. “If you laugh once more, I will have no choice—”
“But what?” She was tired of being judged and found wanting. Wasn’t a soul on the staff who didn’t gawp at her like a creature from the zoo. But she wasn’t an idiot or incompetent, either. She’d made her way by far more difficult means than sweeping floors or teaching ladies how to twirl and sit properly. “What’ll you do to me?” She stepped toward him. “I’d like to see you try!”
A lazy voice came from the doorway. “What an intriguing pedagogy.”
Palmier whirled as St. Maur strolled in. “Your lordship! Ah—we’d paused for a brief respite.”
Nell felt her mood brighten. St. Maur looked properly rich in his dove-gray suit, and how absurd was it that she felt glad to see him? At least he spoke to her like a fellow human being.
As well he should, she reminded herself. It had been his idea to keep her here and put on this farce. She hadn’t asked for any of this.
He paused before her to make a short bow. “Lady Cornelia.”
He locked her in a look that took on an edge of challenge as the silence extended.
With a roll of her eyes, she put out her hand as Hemple had instructed. “Good morning to you,” she said, sing-song.
He took her hand and gave it a light press. “And to you.” He released her, the warmth of his fingers seeming to linger as he said to Palmier, “You may continue, sir.”
Palmier made a swift advance. “Chin up,” he said in an undertone. “Recall your arms.”
As if she could forget them! They were attached, weren’t they? She bit her tongue but didn’t bother to check her scowl. She could do this stupid waltz. Even Mum had admired her skill at dancing—grudgingly, of course; Mum had always said that the dances in Bethnal Green were naught but excuses for sinner’s mischief.
She shoved the thought away. She couldn’t think of Mum. Otherwise grief would find her again, that blue ache that stabbed at the spot where the corset boning dug in sharpest. She put her fist there and took as deep a breath as she could manage. “All right,” she said to Palmier, who was shifting impatiently. No point in feeling stupid or foolish at her clumsiness. Mum had told her to come to Rushden for help. As long as she left this place with a nice collection of things to sell, she’d count herself successful.
She stepped forward and gave the Frenchie her hand. Mrs. Hemple launched into the song.
The first few turns went well enough, but at the far corner, she tripped and then somehow took control of the dance: all of a sudden she was guiding instead of following, and the next she knew the music had died and Palmier was pulling free of her.
He turned toward St. Maur as reluctantly as a man facing the firing squad. “She is making progress, but …”
“Yes, so I see.” St. Maur’s mouth thinned as he studied her, his disappointment so clear that she felt herself biting back a nasty remark. It wasn’t her fault if he’d been fool enough to think he could convince people that she’d been born to this world. And God help her if she had been! The rules here were rotten.
“That will be all for today,” he added, and as though he’d pressed a button on one of those mechanical dioramas they displayed at the fairs, Hemple popped up from the piano bench and Palmier spun for the door. Not an inch of spine in either of them.
She didn’t wait for their exit to defend herself. “It’s not my legs that are the problem. That Frenchie—”
“As Mrs. Hemple said, your legs are not an appropriate subject for discussion.”
The cold rebuttal startled her. The door shut softly behind the servants, closing her into silence with him. He put his hands behind his back and set his jaw, doubtless waiting for an apology from her, some groveling plea for failing his bloody expectations. Well, he could think again! “If you’re to lecture me on manners,” she said, “you might try them out yourself. Shooing people away like flies, not sparing them a word of farewell—”
St. Maur lifted his brows. “No. One doesn’t owe the staff such courtesy.”
“Then it’s not courtesy,” she said. “If it’s only to be used around certain people, it’s hypocrisy.”
“An interesting perspective,” he said calmly, “but irrelevant for our purposes. Manners are merely a game, Nell. As with all games, one applies the rules in particular situations, but not in others.”
She’d heard similar logic before. “That sounds like the rules of a cheater.”
“Goodness.” He pulled out his gold pocket watch and flipped it open to regard the time. “A moralist, are you?”
“I don’t like hypocrisy,” she said flatly. “Showing a different face to different people.” She’d always known the world was unjust, but she’d not been prepared for firsthand evidence of how easily the fortunate ignored the injustice. Let them dress up their blindness as good manners, if they liked, but she wanted none of it.
He snapped the watch shut and tucked it away again. “How far will this dislike guide you?” he asked. “Would you be a hypocrite, for instance, for learning to alter your speech?”
“I expect I would, if I actually cared to try.”
“Yet I notice you’re already capable of speaking more genteelly when you choose to do so. Were you always a hypocrite, then?” He smiled. “Or do I inspire you?”
She pulled a face. Over their conversations at breakfast this last week, she’d grown to recognize the patterns of his slippery logic. He liked to turn an argument back on a person. Just this morning, they’d had a healthy debate about Caliban from The Tempest. In her view, Caliban’s ignorance didn’t excuse him: he was a clear villain who should have been killed for trying to ravish Miranda. St. Maur hadn’t disagreed, but he’d asked her if she thought a crime ever could be mitigated by the circumstances in which it was committed. Had she, for instance, ever been tempted for selfish reasons to steal from someone who’d done her a good turn? If so, why?
“Is this about that bleeding handkerchief?” she’d demanded.
“Not the handkerchief,” he’d said.
He obviously knew she’d taken his silverware.
“I’m not ashamed of the way I grew up speaking,” she answered now. “If I know two different ways of speaking”—if she could do a fair brilliant imitation of Mum’s accent—”that doesn’t mean that I agree that one’s better than the other.”
“Your agreement isn’t required,” he said briskly. “All I ask is your compliance. In the circles you’re about to join, your … accustomed accent will send an inconvenient message. To aim for a performance better suited to those circles is not hypocrisy but good strategy. With servants, however, such performances are unnecessary: the staff will judge its employers by different standards, their expectations being primarily financial.”
“Fine,” she muttered. “If that works for you, so be it. This is your show, not mine.”
“Of course it’s your show,” said St. Maur. His voice suddenly sounded clipped. “It’s always a show, Nell—for all of us. ‘All the world’s a stage,’ as the bard wrote.”
“He also said life was ‘a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing,’” Nell shot back. “If that’s the case, I might as well find a grave to go lie down in.”
“But why? Why must any of this be justified through some greater, noble meaning?” His mouth pulled, a quick, sideways grimace of frustration. “Bear in mind the point of this whole exercise is nothing more arcane than to become rich. Money is your aim—nothing noble. But certainly it will guarantee a good deal of pleasure, once you have it. Isn’t that enough?”
She stared at him. “No,” she said. “It’s not.” Until coming here, until learning what it meant to be privileged, she’d not understood how far down St. Maur’s kind had to look in order to see hers. But here, in his own words, was the philosophy that made his lot comfortable with never bothering to look down at all. “Money’s no virtue. It shouldn’t be an end in itself.” She gave a dry little laugh. “And neither should pleasure. If you knew any gin addicts, you’d realize that.”
He put his hands in his pockets. “You have strident opinions. It must be very tiring for you.”
“It’s only tiring because nobody thinks I should have any.”
“I hope I don’t give you that impression,” he said after a pause. “You’re very sharp.”
“I know I am.” But against her will, the compliment mollified her. When being prodded and trained and scolded like a thickheaded child, it was too easy to start feeling like the whole world thought her a dunce.
He gave her a slight smile. “I take it you have specific intentions for the money?”
She hadn’t given it much thought. No point in dreaming of miracles that had no chance of coming true. But the question brought to mind an answer. She knew exactly what she’d do if given a fortune. “I’d buy the factory where I worked.”
His smile grew. “Will you, now? A sweet species of revenge.”
She frowned. “Not for revenge. To change it. The workers need windows.”
“You’re a reformer?” He lifted a single brow. “You, the denouncer of do-gooders? Why, this is quite deliciously ironic.”
“I denounce do-gooders who don’t do anything.” The sharpness of her own voice caught her off guard. She took a long breath. “Maybe I do feel out of sorts,” she said by way of apology. “This corset is squeezing the life from me. Blast it,” she added. “I’m not supposed to mention undergarments, either, I’d wager.”
“Indeed not,” he replied, laughter edging into his words. “Manners, you see, come down to a single principle: talk of nothing that might actually prove interesting.” He paused, looking immodestly impressed by his own wisdom. But when he continued, his mischievous tone punctured the effect. “Perhaps I’m noble for sparing my servants the bore.”
“Boring’s the rule, it seems. Even this dance is tedious.”
“Indeed? I always enjoyed the waltz.”
She shrugged. “Seems like the reason to dance is to enjoy the music, not spend the entire time worrying about how far apart you’re supposed to stay from the person who’s touching you.”
“Ah. Then it’s not your technique which is the problem,” said St. Maur, “but your attitude. The dance is a prolonged flirtation—a sort of ritual form of it, anyway.”
She snorted. “A peculiar way to go about it, then, paying more mind to staying away than getting near.”
“I wonder. It seems to me that the heart of flirtation is all about distance, and the possibility of closing it.”
“Maybe,” she said. “We do things differently, where I come from. But I shouldn’t be surprised if you lot even do your flirting topsy-turvy.”
He looked amused. “What do … you lot do, then, when you decide to flirt?”
For some reason, his teasing riled her. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Then demonstrate, if you please.”
She cast him a disbelieving glance. “You must be joking.”
“Not at all.” He stepped back against the wall, propping a shoulder against it as he crossed one boot over the other. It was actually a very proper attitude for his suggestion; she’d seen a dozen boys a day loitering by the factory like this, waiting for the whistle to blow and a chance to eye the girls.
But he wasn’t a lad. He was a man, with a man’s shoulders and a man’s knowing eyes, and a mouth that could tempt any woman under ninety. He’d made it easy to avoid him, these past days, but the thought of demonstrating anything for him was enough to make her blush. “I can’t,” she muttered.
“So you didn’t flirt, then.”
He sounded mildly disappointed. Her eyes narrowed. She knew when she was being poked like a rooster in a ring. “You’re trying to trick me into showing you.”
“Am I trying?” he asked with a grin. “Or am I succeeding?”
The grin did it. Felt silly to be nervous when he was acting so companionable. And how much she’d been longing for a bit of friendly conversation! She hadn’t realized until this moment just how lonely she’d been feeling. Wasn’t much point to pretty clothes without a chance to try them out on a man.
“All right, then,” she said on a breath. “First thing we do is, we give a man a saucy look. And then we—”
“I thought you were going to demonstrate,” he cut in. “If I wanted a lecture, I’d go to the Academy.”
She rolled her eyes. “You think you’re quite clever, don’t you?”
“I know I am,” he said, dimple flashing.
She laughed as she recognized the echo of her earlier remark. All right, he was a charmer. And he was about to get more than he’d asked for, if he but knew it. “Very well, your lordship.” She bobbed a mocking curtsy. “Let the guttersnipe demonstrate.”
She turned away, then glanced back at him out of the corner of her eye. It wasn’t an effort to look admiring. Nothing more mouthwatering than a tall, long-legged man with a narrow waist and a nice, lean set of hips on him.
She tossed her head and sashayed onward. Counted to three, and then came to a stop. “There you go,” she said as she pivoted back.
He lifted a brow. “That’s all?”
“That’s the first stage. Flirting isn’t over in a minute, St. Maur; it takes a few days to get started.”
“A few days!”
“Sometimes a week or two.” She stared at him, mildly scandalized. “What sort of ladies do you keep company with? Never say these girls in their lily-white dresses go from A to zed in an hour!”
He laughed. “Oh, it depends entirely on your definition of zed. We can exchange those, too, if you like.” More speculatively, he added, “I’d be happy to demonstrate.”
Her face went hot. “I just bet you would. No, I don’t think so.”
His smile took its time to spread. “Quite right. One thing at a time, with proper concentration. That’s my philosophy as well.”
She eyed him. “Are you demonstrating, now?”
“Indeed not,” he said, his expression comically innocent. “So, Nell, saucy looks. What next?”
“Well, after a few days of giving a lad the eye—and mind, if he starts to approach, you don’t let him; you take off real quick with your friends, and make sure to throw a few more looks at him as you’re leaving—”
“No doubt whilst giggling amongst yourselves,” St. Maur said ruefully. “Yes, I begin to feel sympathy for the lads of Bethnal Green.”
“Oh, don’t feel too bad. They enjoy it.”
“I’ve no doubt of that.”
“And the next stage, you let them approach you. Say a lad you’ve been looking at finally finds the courage to walk up, nice and easy. Well, you don’t give him a saucy look anymore, not at that point. But you don’t run, either.”
He nodded. Slow learner, this one. She crooked a finger at him. With a visible start, he straightened off the wall.
“If I’m demonstrating,” she said, “I need somebody to demonstrate on.”
“Right,” he said, and walked toward her.
Here was the problem with demonstrating East End ways in Mayfair: she couldn’t remember any lad who walked like St. Maur did. Nobody in the Green had the time to walk like this—a long, fluid sort of prowl that put her in mind of a hunting cat who’d had his fill to eat and now was just playing about for fun.
Still, she’d set herself a task, and she would see it through. Rounding her eyes, she backed up toward the wall. “See? I’m being coy here.”
His mouth quirked. “So you are,” he said, and ran an appreciative look down her body.
“Very good,” she said warmly. “Now you come on up and I’m going to pretend to ignore you until the very last—”
But the words dropped right out of her brain as he stepped up and set a hand on the wall over her head.
“Go on,” he said, too close for comfort. So close she could make out the strands of green and gold and gray in his eyes.
Nobody in the Green smelled like him. Nobody had lips like his, either. They were purely a wonder, full and soft looking, such a contrast to the sharp square of his jaw. She regretted that he shaved so regularly. That first night she’d seen him, he’d sported the handsome beginnings of a beard.
“What happens now,” he murmured—and then, after a pause that lasted a moment too long—”in Bethnal Green?”
She cleared her throat. “They don’t do this in the Green.”
“Don’t do what?”
He was large. Truly large. His stomach was flat and she wanted to run her hand down it because she remembered how it had looked, ridged with muscle; she wanted to see if she could feel the separate bands of muscle, how they moved beneath his taut, hot skin when he leaned closer toward her, now, his breath fanning across her face. A hot current leapt between their flesh, reminding her of what nature had designed men and women’s bodies to do, pressed together.
Swallowing hard, she forced her brain to work. “They don’t … they don’t crowd a girl at this stage. Otherwise the girl might decide to get away.”
And then she ducked out from beneath his arm, sidling down the wall away from him, a giddy laugh twisting up in her throat. Long time since she’d felt like this, gay and light and laughter-prone, and how queer that she should be feeling it here, in this grand, empty, gorgeous hall, with gilt on the walls and a man turning to follow her with eyes like the sea. He looked so rich and decadent that if she took a bite, she swore he would taste like chocolate, dark and complex and addictive.
“Very bad of me,” he said, and his voice was pure sin, deep enough for a girl to fall into it and never see the light of day again. “Generally I take a great deal of pleasure in following every step a lady requires.”
She wasn’t the only one giving a flirting lesson. “Well, you’ve skipped one,” she said, unable to resist.
“I await your instruction,” he purred.
The wicked impulse worked through her too quickly for good sense to catch up to it. “There’s a bit of touching required,” she said with an offhand shrug. “Accidental-like, only of course it isn’t.”
His eyes narrowed. He took a deliberate step toward her. “And teasing as well, I think.”
Her breath was coming shorter. “The teasing is all on the girl’s part,” she said. “Well, the talk, anyway. It’s the lad’s part to tease with his …” Body, she wanted to say, as her eyes took on a will of their own and skimmed down the length of him. When they reached his face again, her throat tightened at the look he was fixing on her. “Maybe it doesn’t matter,” she said hastily. “It’s not like you need to know how to flirt with a Bethnal Green girl—”
“Oh, I think I do.” Suddenly he was right in front of her again, and his palm was cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across her lower lip. “I’d like very much,” he said huskily, “to know how to please a girl from Bethnal Green.”
“You’re doing fine,” she whispered.
“I aim for better than fine.” His eyes dropped to her lips and his expression darkened. “But you,” he said, “do not.”
It took a moment to realize the comment wasn’t kind. “Beg pardon?”
His hand fell away. He took a measured step back. “You are making no effort,” he said. “You are wasting my time. You are wasting my money. If you don’t mean to take this project seriously, then … leave.”
“Leave?” It took a moment to reassemble her wits. “You—you’re changing your mind about all this?”
“I’ve not changed my mind,” he said. “I never expressed an interest in supporting you for your own amusement. I wanted an heiress to wed. If you have no interest in becoming Lady Cornelia, then I have no interest in you.”
Panic leapt up inside her, tangling with sudden, smarting anger. His judgment wasn’t worth two farthings to her! She had enough fancy goods squirreled away by now; she’d be happy to leave! But she’d thought she’d have more time before having to risk facing Michael again—and she hadn’t yet laid plans to find a new job—and how dare he break their agreement so easily!
“Go back to Bethnal Green,” he said. “Waste the rest of your undoubtedly short life by slaving for pennies in a factory that you otherwise might have bought. Or stay here and put in the work necessary to reclaim your birthright.” He shrugged. “The decision is yours. But make it quickly. If you’re not willing to become a lady, I need to make other plans for myself.”
He turned on his heel and started to walk out.
“Wait,” she blurted.
Impatience marked every line of his body as he turned back.
She took an unsteady breath. She’d known he could take all of this away, but she’d thought—foolishly, she was a damnable fool—that maybe he liked her. Besides, he had so much. Couldn’t he spare a bit of his good fortune without making her grovel for it?
But she’d misjudged him. Now the fairy tale was ending. Her stomach shuddered at the thought of returning to the Green before she’d laid plans for a job—and for handling Michael. It couldn’t end like this. How terrible it would be to look back on this moment and have to put the blame for it not on St. Maur’s arrogance but on her own stupidity.
How terr-ible. That was one of the harder words for her to say properly; Mr. Aubrey, the elocutionist, always chided her for letting the e slip into a u. It was terr-ible to feel slow and cloddish. In school, she’d always been the quickest in class. Numbers, letters, geography, shapes—not one of them had given her pause. She’d always thought herself clever, not just for a girl from Bethnal Green but for a girl from anywhere. She couldn’t bear to think she might be wrong about that.
Maybe that fear had kept her from trying as hard as she might have done.
She opened her mouth to say all of this—or to say, “I’m sorry.” But nothing came out. Her tongue felt as stiff and useless and stubborn as her pride.
St. Maur’s sigh sounded loud in the silence. “Come,” he said. “Before you decide, I want to show you something.”