Page 6 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

T ory would have enjoyed the duke’s shocked look if she hadn’t been so annoyed. How could he offer her the world with one hand and snatch it away with the other? She ought to blame Papa, but honestly, Papa had behaved as always.

Falconridge, however, had fooled her into thinking he was different, with his enlightened approach to his mother’s brandy-drinking and his handling of Chloe. Now Tory was so disillusioned that she wasn’t at all surprised when he said, in an incredulous voice, “You want to do what ?”

“Open a school for female artists.”

The man rose to pour himself another glass of port, and although she considered asking him to pour her another, too, she must keep her wits about her. She already felt fuzzy-brained.

It had to be the port. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the attractive figure he cut in his fine clothes, now that they didn’t accentuate his thinness. Or how his gorgeous hazel eyes gleamed golden in certain lights. Or how nicely rumpled his medium brown hair was, with its glints of blond. Certainly not.

What did his good looks matter? He was, apparently, just as much an arse as her father had deemed him to be at eighteen.

I thought every woman wanted to be a wife and mother.

Of course he did. Every man thought that. And every man wanted every woman to be a wife and mother. Because God forbid a woman should have her own interests and purpose in life.

She sighed. Not that she wouldn’t want to be a wife and mother, mind you, but since that wasn’t feasible . . .

The duke took a healthy sip of port. “Did your father know of this . . . er . . . desire of yours to run an art school?”

As if that mattered. “No. I hardly knew it myself until I began sculpting.”

He stared at her. “Sculpting?”

“You keep questioning what I’m saying, Your Grace,” she said in the sweetest tone she could muster. “Are you perhaps hard of hearing?”

The minute she said it, she wanted to take it back. He quite possibly was hard of hearing, given all that had happened to him in that French prison.

Especially considering how he was glowering at her now. “Very amusing, Miss Morris,” he grumbled, and returned to the chair with his glass. “No, I hear perfectly well, I assure you. I simply wish I didn’t. Because I’m having trouble comprehending the fact that you want to open an art school.”

Ah, apparently the arrogant version of the duke was already making his appearance.

She pasted a smile to her lips. “Plenty of women run schools.”

“Not for artists. It’s a preposterous idea.” He swallowed some port. “What do you know about opening a school for artists, female or otherwise?”

“I know how to teach—I’ve been teaching your sister for six years now. I know how to sketch, paint in oils and watercolors, and sculpt. I will need some help with the business part of running a school, I’ll grant you, but if I could have that five thousand pounds free of conditions, I’m sure I could find someone to teach me that part, too.”

“I’m sure you could,” he muttered, and set down his glass hard enough to make port slosh over the rim.

She tipped up her chin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, madam, that any number of men would happily do whatever you ask if it gave them the chance to swindle you out of either your money or your virtue.”

Her temper rose, which wasn’t a good thing. She’d worked hard at learning to keep it in check. “I’m not as easily gulled as you seem to think, Your Grace.”

As if he’d begun to realize how annoyed she was, he gave her a considering look. “Why a school for women artists?”

Well, perhaps he wasn’t entirely an arse. He was offering her a chance to make her case.

Eagerly, she took it. “Because there isn’t one. Even though two of the founders of the Royal Academy of Arts are women, the place doesn’t teach art to females. They allow women to exhibit, however, which gives those artists a chance to demonstrate their work and their abilities. As a result, a number of ladies have found financial success in the arts: Catherine Andras, Anne Damer, Maria Bell . . .”

“I see.” He rubbed his chin consideringly. “Where did they learn their skills if there was no school?”

“From private tutors or brothers and friends who are artists. The problem is some women don’t have those connections.”

“I can understand how that would be the case.” He stared at her. “Just out of curiosity, who taught you ? As far as I could tell, your father couldn’t even draw a simple map.”

She uttered a wry laugh. “Perhaps if he could have, he wouldn’t have got lost every time he left the house. Although that might have happened because he was too absorbed with the ideas in his brain to pay attention to something as mundane as his surroundings. So, no, Papa never taught me how to be an artist. That was left to my mother, when she had the time.”

Tory had also possessed an artist friend down the street from her family’s cottage who’d been amazingly helpful . . . until Tory had realized Mr. Dixon was more interested in her as a woman than an artist. Despite his obviously pregnant wife. Tory had avoided him ever since the day he’d forced a kiss on her in his workroom.

“And this is truly what you wish to do with your newfound fortune?” Falconridge asked.

His continued questions confused her. “What does it matter? You said Papa made it a condition that the money be used as my dowry.”

Rising again, he strolled over to look out the window. “True. But he did . . . er . . . leave me some discretion in the matter.”

Hope sprouted in her heart.

“I’ll need to consult with your attorney to confirm the terms,” he went on, “but I can do that tomorrow. I still maintain it’s a foolish way to use the money, which won’t do you nearly as much good as a plump dowry. And your father wouldn’t have approved, I daresay.”

She stood to press her point. “We’ll never know, will we? Perhaps if he’d lived, he would have. He supported Mama’s artistic endeavors, after all.” Because Mama had been the daughter of an engraver who’d made a bit of money with her talent. “He might even have chosen to run the school with me. But he never got that chance, did he?”

The duke’s back went rigid. “No. He never did.”

“So we can’t dismiss outright the idea that he might have approved.”

Falconridge faced her, his expression oddly conflicted. “I suppose not. I’ll discuss it with his solicitor. But in the meantime—”

“In the meantime, let me show you my abilities as an art teacher. Why don’t I teach you to sculpt? If I’m successful at impressing you with my teaching skill, perhaps you’ll consider letting me use the money for the school instead. Assuming that Papa’s solicitor approves.”

“I was about to say, that in the meantime you could let my mother give you a Season.”

That was odd. She eyed him skeptically. “The Season is almost over.”

He shrugged. “All right. Half a Season. From what Mother said at dinner, there are still many events to come.”

She stared down at her gown. “I’m in mourning.”

That seemed to give him pause. Then he waved the protest away. “You don’t have to be.” When she stared at him, outraged, he added, “I daresay no one knows when you started wearing mourning. Because from what I understand, until now, you haven’t been in Society much. So you could probably leave off mourning attire, and no one would realize you were ending it too soon.”

“ I would realize it,” she said, a bit wounded he would think her so callous.

“Miss Morris,” he said gently, “earlier you told me that you’d reconciled yourself to his death before you even read my letter.”

“All right, that’s true . . . but not mourning him properly just seems to show a lack of respect . . .”

“We all know you respected your father. Does it matter if anyone else knows?”

“I . . . I suppose not.” Besides, as part of the Falconridge household staff, she’d been expected to mourn for Alban and Aubrey, too. So she’d been wearing black ever since their deaths. Indeed, she had mixed so seldom in real Society that no one had probably even realized she’d been absent from it for nearly six months.

“So, if you come out of mourning, there would still be plenty of opportunities for you to meet gentlemen and decide if you really want to give up any hope of marriage for a harebrained scheme like starting an art school.”

Harebrained scheme? The audacity of the man!

“I think the real harebrained scheme is putting the money toward a dowry that may or may not gain me a husband.” She shook her head. “I’m not of any rank or consequence, after all.”

“As I recall, your father was cousin to Viscount Winslow, making you the viscount’s first cousin once removed. That is of some rank or consequence, surely.”

“Do be serious. That viscount has three brothers, so Papa would never have inherited. One of his other cousins is a gardener, for pity’s sake. Besides, at twenty-six, I’m teetering on the edge of the shelf. So, honestly, why would I garner any particular attention among all the glittering lights of society?”

He scanned her from head to toe, his gaze heating up in a look that inexplicably sent delicious shivers over her skin. “Believe me, Miss Morris. You’d garner attention wherever you go, twenty-six or otherwise.”

She fought the reaction that his rumble of a voice provoked in all sorts of interesting places. “Me and my five thousand pounds, you mean.”

He blinked. “Right. Of course. Though you can’t blame a younger son for seeking out a rich wife. He has few other recourses.”

She would argue that, but it seemed unwise to antagonize the man who might help her achieve her dream of running an art school. “I suppose not.”

“My point is, you’re a lovely, well-educated woman—any man would consider himself fortunate to have you.”

Even you?

The moment the thought entered her head, she squelched it. The last thing she needed was a romantic entanglement with the duke, who would never marry a woman of her station. “In my experience, Your Grace, men don’t generally consider education an asset in a woman.”

“Then they’re fools.” His eyes gleamed bright in the waning sunlight. “Education is an asset in everyone. Why do you think your father did so much teaching? Because he believed in education. As do I.”

“But not art education.” When he didn’t answer, she added, “How about this? During the day, I’ll give you lessons in sculpting, and at night, your mother can bring me to whatever event you deem worthy or whichever one your sister is attending that doesn’t require an actual invitation. At the end of the Season, we can reexamine how you think I should use my five thousand pounds.”

For a long moment, he seemed to be considering that. Then he nodded. “But we must establish some rules.”

She suppressed a smile. “Oh, by all means, establish rules. Society and schools seem to run best with rules.”

That barely raised his eyebrows. “At social occasions, you will not hide in a corner or sit with the chaperones. Or merely chat with my sister. You must at least attempt to be part of Society.”

“You do realize a woman doesn’t simply get to choose to be ‘part of Society.’ ” She folded her arms over her waist in the primmest pose she could manage. “I can’t ask a man to dance, nor can I approach anyone without an introduction. For that matter, I can’t even invite myself to the sort of events you seem to think I should attend.”

“Of course not. But Mother can make sure you’re invited. Then we’ll all go together and manage the introductions.”

“We? You’ll attend as well?” she said, unable to hide her skepticism.

He chuckled. “Someone must ensure you keep to your word. I doubt my sister or mother will enforce it.”

True, although Tory wouldn’t admit it to him for the world. Besides, if he attended, he would rapidly see she wasn’t the diamond of the first water he seemed to think. “As long as you understand the ‘rules’ of society. You seem to have forgotten a few while in France.”

“I’ll catch up eventually.” He shot her a boyish grin as devastating to her insides as his rumbling voice had been. “And you can steer me in the right direction from time to time, if it makes you feel any better.”

“If you wish. I shall try not to steer you into the weeds, Your Grace.”

His grin faded. “You should also stop calling me ‘Your Grace.’ If you’re to attend Society events as a participant, you should stop speaking like a servant.”

“I am a servant.”

“Not really.” He arched one finely shaped eyebrow. “And not for long, no matter which choice you make for using that money. After all, my sister is getting a tad old to need a governess, don’t you think?”

“On that, we agree . . . Duke.”

“Better.” He frowned. “I’d tell you to call me ‘Jon,’ but that would attract the wrong kind of attention in public.”

“It most certainly would.”

“Though you can surely call me ‘Jon’ in private,” he drawled. “From what I can tell, you’re practically a member of the family.”

His voice had gone all soft and husky, sending strange sensations along her skin, as if someone were stroking it with feathers.

Good Lord. What a thought.

“I think it best we preserve the proprieties, even in private.” Especially in private. She cocked her head. “And may I point out you’re very dictatorial for a man who just found out he’s a duke? Where did you learn such a skill?”

“In France.” He shrugged. “Reminding people I was still a duke’s son occasionally enabled me to get out of, shall we say, dicey situations.”

She eyed him closely. “I would very much enjoy hearing more about those.”

“I would very much enjoy hearing more about what has put your back up regarding marriage,” he said, “but I somehow suspect you don’t yet trust me enough to tell me.”

“I don’t share my thoughts with just any old duke, you know,” she said lightly. “I must have a royal one at the very least.”

“Perhaps we’ll find you a royal duke to marry,” he countered.

That was so ludicrous as to require a flip answer. “In such a case, I’d consider marrying him, too, although if he marries me for a mere five thousand pounds, I won’t respect him.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his rather full lips. “Neither would I.” Abruptly, his smile faded. “But we have traveled far afield. Do you agree to my conditions?”

“You still haven’t explained how I’m supposed to participate in the dancing if no one asks me.”

“You’ll be asked,” he said, looking oddly serious again, “if only by me and my two fellow détenus, Commander Scovell and Lord Heathbrook.”

Having never met his friends, she didn’t know how to respond. She tried not to imagine what dancing with the duke would be like, but she knew it would be either magical or mortifying. Hard to tell which. “How old are your friends?”

“Younger than I,” he said, with a raised eyebrow.

“That’s fine then. Besides, I’m quite good at pity dances.”

He snorted. “Trust me, Heathbrook and Scovell will end up standing in line to get to you. I’m sure of that much.”

“That statement alone shows how long you’ve been out of Society, Your—” When he lifted an eyebrow, she caught herself. “Sir. Men of rank don’t readily take to governesses who’ve suddenly been transformed into heiresses. Or at least not until they’re sure that the governesses are indeed heiresses.”

“Should I announce it in the press?” he asked dryly.

She colored. “No, indeed.”

He leaned close. “Keep blushing prettily like that, sweetheart, and you’ll have men dropping at your feet.”

“Keep calling me ‘sweetheart,’ ” she shot back, fighting to ignore how her pulse reacted to the surprising endearment, “and the press will be speculating about why you’re championing me.”

He looked truly chagrined. “Forgive me. That . . . er . . . just slipped out.”

“Fine.” Despite her pounding heart, she managed a nonchalant smile. “I will watch my use of ‘Your Grace’ if you will refrain from calling me ‘sweetheart.’ ”

“I can do that. Although I assume this means you’ve agreed to my conditions.”

She strolled past him to the port and shakily poured herself a second glass. She would need it. “You haven’t yet let me establish my rules for our lessons.”

That seemed to bring him up short. “By all means, establish your rules. Just keep in mind that I need to spend a good portion of every day examining the dukedom’s books, speaking with my accountants and land steward and estate managers, familiarizing myself with—”

“In other words, you’re already trying to wriggle out of your part of our agreement.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally, he said, “Of course not. Do continue with your rules.”

She sipped the port as she realized she had no rules. She was an artist—rules were anathema to her.

Then again, she liked making rules for other people. How else could she have been Chloe’s governess? So, of course, she could create rules for him.

“First,” she said silkily, “you must give me at least three hours a day to teach you.”

“Three hours— ”

“Yes. You must take these art lessons seriously, especially if you mean to be parading me about town like some trained poodle with a golden collar. Or rather, a silver collar, since five thousand pounds isn’t all that much as grand dowries go.”

Though it was a fortune when it came to starting a school.

He snorted. “I somehow doubt you could ever be trained like a poodle. You seem too recalcitrant for that.”

“True.” When the word brought a smile to his lips, she went on. “The thing is, I realize you have a great many important ducal things to do, but when you are in a lesson with me, I expect you to pay attention.”

He smirked at her, the beast. “I always pay attention.”

“Good. Because I expect you to treat it as you treat your other activities—with focus and the intention to learn. When you’re having a lesson, there shall be no interruptions of any kind—from your land steward or your valet or even your détenu friends, for that matter. I never allowed interruptions for Chloe, and I shan’t allow them for you.”

That wiped the smirk right off his face. “If Chloe could follow that rule, I damned well can.”

“Language, sir,” she couldn’t resist saying.

Eyes glittering, he strode toward her. “Don’t assume that because you’re giving both me and Chloe lessons of a sort, you may treat me as your charge, Miss Morris. You are not my governess. And I’ll curse as much as I damned well please.”

And here the officious duke reared his ugly head again. “Did my father put up with your cursing?” she had to ask.

He halted inches from her, a look of consternation crossing his face before he smoothed it away. “Not at the beginning, no. But only because he was trying to teach me to be a proper gentleman, with a wide knowledge of history, the arts, philosophy, and the classics.”

His voice grew bitter. “He gave up on that when Napoleon decided to teach us and our fellow détenus that there were no rules in war, gentlemanly or otherwise. Your father even began doing some cursing himself. Hard not to when you’re in a French prison.”

The prickly duke was back, the one who couldn’t seem to escape the scars of his exile. That made her rather sad. “Then we shall dispense with the non-cursing rule. I could hardly expect you to follow one that my own father could not.”

“Very well,” he snapped. “Have you any others?”

It began to dawn on her she might be going about this the wrong way. The duke needed a place where he didn’t have to feel bowed down by responsibility . . . or bad memories. More than anything, he needed a friend.

Besides, she would get nowhere by antagonizing him. “Yes. One more rule.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Go ahead.”

“The only important one: that you enjoy our lessons.”

That obviously took him completely off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Our lessons . . . and the subsequent work.” She softened her tone. “Creating art is a glorious thing, Duke. It’s also painful and freeing and provocative and sacrificial, a rewarding experience when all those disparate emotions come together. Creating art can make your very soul sing. But only if you give in to it. Only if you coax that side of yourself out to play. So, have fun with it. That’s my last rule—that you have fun with our lessons.”

He looked positively flummoxed by the idea. “I’ll . . . er . . . try.” Then smoothing his features into an inscrutable expression, he held out his hand. “ Now , have we agreed to the terms of our bargain?”

She shook his hand. “I believe so, yes.”

But when she started to withdraw hers, he held it a few moments longer, staring down at her fingers, where the nails were ragged and short. She’d been struggling to carve a piece of marble when he’d arrived, hadn’t had time since to pretty up her nails, and had removed her gloves to eat dinner without remembering how bad they looked. She’d have to be more attentive to that in the future.

Still, they were an artist’s nails, nothing to be ashamed of. But under his scrutiny, she grew embarrassed. Especially when he traced them with his thumb, as if bemused by their very existence.

“You really do sculpt, don’t you?” he said softly as he lifted his gaze to hers.

“I really do.” She glanced at his hand, wincing to see his scars close up. “And you really were a prisoner.”

Stiffening, he dropped her hand. “I really was. Not that it has anything to do with this.”

She suspected it had a great deal to do with this. The whole situation seemed odd—the dowry, the way he always spoke of Papa with a trace of guilt in his tone, and even his reluctance to talk about his time abroad.

Turning his back to her, he walked over to draw his gloves on and murmured, “I shall see you tomorrow.”

The vague way he said it made her determined to nail things down, so he couldn’t avoid the commitment. “Tomorrow morning, to be exact. Because we begin our lessons in the art room at nine AM .”

Then before he could protest, she fled.

But as she hurried down the hall, half-afraid he would come after her to chide her for her insolence, she realized she might not mind that so much. The duke was proving to be quite the fascinating fellow.

And fascinating fellows had always been her downfall.