How the Marquess Was Won (5 page)

So he did. “I’m given to understand that teachers here at the school advocate solving the problems of . . .” He was delicately searching for a word.

“Recalcitrance?” she completed brightly.

“. . . very well, then, recalcitrance—by filling the girls’ minds with facts?”

Odd. He sounded . . . well, she might have said half-amused. Perhaps skeptical.

“Engaging intellectual curiosity, Lord Dryden, and instilling intellectual discipline, keeps them too busy to misbehave. Though naturally they
will
try.”

“Naturally.”

“All, shall we say,
misguided
high spirits, can be transmuted into grace and confidence and respect, if such is expected of them, and such is extended to them. And if much is expected of them.”

“Ah. Quite the philosophy. A straw into gold sort of thing?” He sounded ironic again. And doubtful. And weary.

Which made her wonder about the girl he was proposing to install here.

“If you wish. May I inquire for whom you are investigating our premises?” She did have a duty to the young lady who might soon be joining their numbers here.

She was impressed with herself so far. She was very, very polite. She was very, very prim. No nun would ever be so sedate, so proper, so disinterested.

It would all be so much easier, of course, if he didn’t smell so wonderful.

Starch and very good tobacco, maybe a bit of . . . horse? But she liked the smell of horse. A hint of sea breeze, as if he’d actually walked for a bit out in the hills. He smelled manly. He smelled like wealth.

She wouldn’t have minded in the least
licking
him, and she’d never had a thought like that in her entire life.

Unkissable,
she reminded herself.

“My niece was caught smoking a cheroot. Twice. Among other things. She’s twelve years old and her father is on his third wife in six years, and the latest one cannot tolerate her. I’m given to understand that the feeling is mutual. I’m here on business for my brother, who is away in Northumberland at present. Since I’d planned to be in Sussex I offered to do . . . reconnaissance.”

“Her third mother? Good heavens. The poor thing. I suppose you should be grateful she hasn’t taken to drink.”

He turned his head toward her sharply. She sensed he was uncertain whether to smile or frown, and was tempted to do the former, but was uncertain of
her
.

Perhaps it
had
been a bit too impulsively said. And she’d gotten such excellent control over her impulses over the years.

“Do the girls emerge quite ruined for marriage after you stuff them full of knowledge?”

And
now
she suspected he was sending out a subtle foray to test her wit . . . or marital status. And again, here was that suspicion that he was so bored with the proceedings that he’d decided to do anything at all to divert himself, and that included goading her.

Perhaps he was attempting to charm her in order to make her more
kissable
.

“I should imagine most of our girls emerge less tolerant of fools, if that’s what you mean.” She added, “Ha-ha!” unconvincingly when he looked genuinely startled.

“You’ve naught to fear, Lord Dryden,” she placated hurriedly, remembering that regardless of where she wound up living in the world, she liked Miss Endicott and the academy could use the marquess’s money. “We’re proud of the diversity of skills imparted to the young ladies here. They will leave prepared to raise families, run large households, play the pianoforte, embroider, and pore over their husband’s books to ensure their Men of Affairs aren’t stealing from them. In short, we prepare them to manage nearly any circumstance.”

“Or nearly any man.”

That
was so quickly said she didn’t have time to bite back a surprised laugh.

He smiled then. No baring of white teeth, mind you, just a curve of the lips, a show of dimple, a crease at the corner of his eyes. But suddenly he reached out and drew a casual finger along the fine moulding lining the hallway. Like a boy might do. Almost as though he was
enjoying
himself. Relaxing into her company.

He wouldn’t find any dust, of that she was certain. The school employed a battery of maids.

Unkissable,
she reminded herself.

She wondered again if the party he was attending was hosted by the Redmonds.

“And languages,” she added pointedly. “We try to make certain our girls can speak at least one other language fluently. Such as Italian. For instance. Which I speak. Fluently.”

“Do you?” he said absently. “Languages are useful. Tell me, since you speak so many languages . . . do you know what . . .” he tipped his head back in thought and recited carefully, as if from memory ‘
¡Esto es lo que pienso en su regalo, hijo de una puta!
’ means? I believe it’s Spanish.”

Mother of
God
.

He turned to her, eyes wide and hopeful.

It was Spanish, all right.

“Were the words . . . shall we say, shouted at
you
, by any chance, Lord Dryden?”

“They might have been,” he allowed benignly.

She studied him closely; his face was blandly patient.

“Because it means ‘
This
is what I think of your gift!’ ”

It actually meant, “This is what I think of your gift, you son of a whore!” and she was positive the devil knew this full well and likely spoke Spanish fluently. Given that he’d allegedly once had a temperamental Spanish mistress.

Or so the broadsheets would have one think.

“Huh! Imagine that.” He sneaked another sideways look at her. Inviting her,
daring
her to laugh.

Oh, bloody hell. The trouble was, she was picturing
this man
with his mistress, which effectively sent her thoughts scattering like billiard balls. She took a deep breath.

A mistake! In came the scent of him again, and her head swam.

This wasn’t going at all the way she’d intended.

“We were speaking of curriculum,” he prompted mildly. When it seemed she would never speak.

Mary Frances was scurrying toward them from the far-end of the hallway, bearing a feather duster. They could see her eyes from ten feet away, big and round and more white than pupil thanks to the marquess.

She bustled past them after a nervously dipped curtsy, then darted back to dust the portrait of the current Miss Endicott, as if it was omniscient and would clear its throat if she shirked an opportunity to do just that.

“Of course. And
speaking
of our demanding curriculum, Lord Dryden, it’s the reason we prefer to admit only the cleverest girls. I imagine Miss Endicott told you we conduct interviews to ascertain our pupils will be equal to what we present in the classroom.”

“I imagine the cleverest girls are often the wealthiest?”

She had a sense of him now.

“It’s serendipitous how often this is true.”

His sudden delighted, wicked grin cracked like lightning against the surface politeness of the conversation. It made . . .
everything
. . . better.

Just as quickly it vanished again.

“Mind you.” Her words emerged hoarse, as if his smile had interfered with her ability to breathe. She stopped to clear her throat. “Mind you, we feel it necessary to inform the parents of every girl of fine family that we also admit the occasional girl who hasn’t a farthing to her name or any pedigree to speak of, and we educate all of the girls equally. We find this helps to build the characters of all the girls present.”

He stopped abruptly to stare up at a nicely done Sussex landscape with genuine appreciation. One of their former students had painted it.

No mediocre pictures hung in the hallways of Miss Endicott’s Academy. She wouldn’t stand for it.

“By exposing girls of privilege to ruffians?”

“And by exposing ruffians to girls of privilege.”

“Much the way jewels are tumbled and polished, I suppose,” he surmised. “Through . . . friction.”

He tossed a sly look over his shoulder.

Good heavens, but that was dry. She liked it very much.

It also sounded, to her sensitized nerves . . . like an innuendo. Like he was indeed building up to . . . something.

Get a hold of yourself, Vale.
She drew herself up to her full height and straightened her shoulders, a sort of unconscious attempt to make herself larger and more intimidating, the way certain South American lizards do.

She knew about South American lizards because she’d read about them in Mr. Miles Redmond’s books. She read about everything, really.

“I prefer not to think of it as friction, Lord Dryden. Rather, as exposure to . . . different surfaces.”

Good God, but
that
sounded a little erotic, too.

Then again . . . perhaps she’d meant it to.

The effect was dramatic. He turned. His pupils flared interestedly. His mouth didn’t smile at all.

And good God, those eyes were potent when he wasn’t blinking.

Un-kiss-a-ble,
taunted the Greek Chorus in her head.

She hastened to clarify, “They aren’t necessarily ruffians, you know, simply because they’re poor. Many are simply girls who may have . . . experienced a different start in life, or may have encountered a bump in . . . shall we say, destiny’s road.”

She’d regretted it as it was on its way out of her mouth. What a
purple
way to say it.

There was a little silence.

“Destiny’s . . . road . . .” he finally repeated thoughtfully. Just in case she missed how ridiculous it had sounded the first time.

His eyes glinted insufferably.

He was daring her again not to smile. As if he knew, he knew precisely who she was beneath the primness and was determined to extract her true self from her before he departed.

She realized then that at some point she’d folded her hands behind her back. Why? To prevent them from touching him? She wasn’t
quite
that reckless.

Then again, it was also entirely possibly she’d never been quite this tempted.

Their eyes reflected deviltry back to each other.

Child’s play,
he’d said, she reminded herself.
Why should I want a kiss from her?
It echoed in her mind.
Child’s play child’s play child’s play.

She repeated it in her mind until her flirting impulses were drubbed into a humiliated stupor.

Child’s play? Oh, we shall see, Lord Dryden.

He must have sensed a change in the temperature of the conversation, for he suddenly became brisk and very official again.

“The school’s reputation precedes it, Miss Vale. And the academy has a generous benefactor in Mr. Isaiah Redmond.”

“And in Mr. Jacob Eversea.”

The patriarchs of Pennyroyal Green were not averse to having a school in their midst, as long as it was a respected, well-run school stocked with girls whose fathers had titles and political connections.

She moved on, and he followed, and they at last reached the end of the hallway. The door to one of the main classrooms was open wide, and out of it poured the scent of linseed oil and a wash of lemony light. The maids had clearly only recently efficiently completed their work and departed. The marquess paused, peered in. He could hardly find fault with the sight of glowing wood floors and rows of dusted, polished tables and chairs, or the three arched windows reaching to nearly the height of the ceiling set into the back wall. The sun poured through them. Bookshelves lined the wall inside the door. A handsome globe presided over the front of the classroom. The enormous, unadorned fireplace at the far end was cold now and the hearth swept clean.

The room was resoundingly empty, thanks to the impending school holiday.

She hovered in the hall behind him while he peered in. As though he was contemplating whether to go inside or not.

And that’s when her heart accelerated like a carriage pushed downhill.

Because if he was going to win a
wager
, so to speak, this would be the perfect place to attempt it. And if
she
was going to make a point . . . well then, once again, this would be the perfect place to attempt it.

Time stretched torturously. Her heart beat a good one thousand times if it beat once in the silence that followed.