Page 19 of My Darling Mr. Darling

“You’re late, Darling.” Curiously, the rebuke came not from Violet, but from Mr. Mitchell, who had had the courtesy to show up properly attired this afternoon.

“I am aware. Unfortunately, not everyone can afford to abandon their responsibilities for weeks on end to gallivant around the world.” John redirected his attention to Violet, who sat stiffly in her chair. “Unavoidable business, I’m afraid. My apologies.”

Still she wore that careful mask of indifference, but for once it sat uneasily upon her face, like it had been knocked ever-so-slightly askew. She was not so ill-mannered as to toss him a scowl in the presence of her other students, but her eyes were cool as ice. “It is only your time you have wasted, Mr. Darling,” she said, but the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window revealed the hint of a flush in her cheeks. “We have all been learning the etiquette of paying social calls, when you are prepared to join us.” And she averted her eyes and rattled off something to the rest of her students about appropriate topics suitable for drawing room conversation.

Strange that he could not decipher the meaning of that flush. Somehow embarrassment seemed wrong, but certainly it wasn’t pleasure. Anger, then, most likely—but why? He did not imagine that she was displeased that he had arrived late; every minute that had passed was one less she was forced to endure his company, after all.

“Your hat, sir,” Davis bit out from between clenched teeth behind him.Loomingin that way he had that John assumed he was meant to find threatening. He was rather skilled in it, all things considered, and if he did not contribute to a welcoming atmosphere, at least John could respect his dedication to the ladies of the household.

As John passed off his hat to Davis, he heard Violet delicately clear her throat and remark, “Mr. Green, while your business interests are undoubtedly fascinating, I am afraid it is poor manners to speak of them in mixed company.”

Mr. Green had the good grace to look abashed. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I wasn’t aware.”

Violet favored him with a benevolent smile. “In all honesty, I find it a rather foolish rule myself,” she said. “My father was a businessman, and even as a child I found it quite interesting. In fact, I spent many long hours at his knee, learning everything he deigned to teach me. But that is a different world entirely from the one you would enter. In theTon, to discuss money—or, God forbid, the earning of it—is considered distasteful. Your manners, your dress, your elocution; those must all speak for you, else you will be thought a braggadocio—or worse, common.”

“But wearecommon,” Mr. Simmons said, and he pulled such a face of confusion that for a moment he looked rather like a child stumped by a particularly difficult sum. “If you aren’t listed inDebrett’s, you’re as common as dirt.”

Mitchell scrubbed at his face with one hand; an action that earned him a look of recrimination from Violet. “Yes, Simmons,” he said. “We’re common, and everyone knows it. The point is not to draw attention to it.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Apparently, possessing an obscene amount of money is the only thing that can make one’s common roots more palatable—but Heaven forfend one actuallyspeakof it.”

Mr. Green frowned over his tea, his moustache twitching. “At the risk of sounding crass,” he said, “Isn’t that precisely the point? You’d have to be a fool not to notice that the wealth of the aristocracy has been flagging for years.”

“Yes, Mr. Green, thatisthe point,” Violet said. “Every year, there are more blue-blooded ladies thrust out onto the marriage mart who have hardly a shilling to their names. And despite their noble lineage, those ladies will be overlooked, as their dowries haven’t a hope of attracting a suitor from among those lords who must make advantageous matches to replenish their dwindling fortunes. These are lovely, accomplished ladies, with much to offer to their husbands—ladies who would be an asset to any gentleman.” She punctuated this with a drop of a sugar lump into her already overly-sweetened tea. “But every available lady will be looking for more than mere financial security in her marriage. And that is precisely what you will offer to them—a respectable husband. A charming companion whose manners are beyond reproach. Someone with whom she would gladly spend the rest of her days. Would you wish for a lady to look upon you as little more than an overflowing purse?”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. At last, Mr. Collins let out a gruff, “No, I suppose not,” and murmurs of assent followed.

“Then give respect to these ladies and see them as more than women attached to prestigious families and titles. Honor the traditions they hold dear, no matter how silly you may find them,” Violet said. “Mr. Green, when you think of your ideal wife, what do you imagine?”

Flustered, Mr. Green shifted in his seat. A hint of color burned in his cheeks as he stammered, “I—I—well, I—” He coughed into his fist, and admitted at last, “I suppose I hadn’t given it much thought. Er—good teeth, I suppose.”

“I see,” Violet said, and John thought he saw a flicker of amusement brighten her eyes. “Well, I am sorry to inform you that finding a wife will be a trifle more complicated than purchasing a horse. I cannot imagine any woman would indulge a request to inspect her teeth.”

Mr. Green made a noncommittal mumble, slouching in his seat in embarrassment for just half a moment before he remembered himself and rectified his posture before Violet could admonish him.

“Poetry,” Mr. Simmons blurted. “I rather enjoy poetry. Byron is a particular favorite.”

John resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.

“Very good,” Violet said approvingly. “There are many ladies’ literary salons these days. I’m certain you’ll find more than a few ladies that share your interests. Perhaps, were you to call upon a lady, you might bring a book of your favorite verses to share with her.”

“And music,” Mr. Green interjected. “I should enjoy a musical wife.”

“Most ladies have training in at least one instrument,” Violet said. “The pianoforte is considered the standard. Have you a favorite composer?” She placed a biscuit on Mr. Green’s plate as she spoke, and John suppressed a snicker as he understood that she had manipulated the gentlemen into revealing their desires—things they themselves might never have guessed.

With her gentle, probing questions, they were learning how to converse with a lady they wished to impress, how to take tea in a drawing room, how to behave like the gentlemen she expected them to be and that they had come to her to learn to become.

All except for himself—and possibly Mitchell. For the life of him, he could not determine why, exactly, the man was even here. It had been surprise enough to find him present, and he could not shake the suspicion that Grey had placed him in Violet’s class for…well, some unknowable reason that would likely make sense only to Grey, the unscrupulous bastard.

“And you, Mr. Mitchell?” Violet inquired. “What are your interests?”

“Nothing that could be repeated in polite company,” Mitchell said, and his expression conveyed the extent of his boredom. “As it happens, I’m not looking for a wife. How about you, Darling? Oh, but I forgot—you’re not quitea commoner, now, are you?”

“I am not in the market for a wife.” He’d said the phrase numerous times before, usually to Alex’s mother, the Duchess of Davenport, but never had it sounded quite so stilted. In his peripheral vision, Violet had gone quite still, her eyes focused upon the teacup in her hands. “And, as it happens, Iamcommon. A mere mister.”

Mitchell’s head canted slightly, his fingers steepled together, his teacup on its saucer, balanced upon his knee. “Youareconnected to a title, are you not? You seem to move freely enough within theTonalready.”

“Through my grandfather. However, my father was a younger son.” A younger son who had been disinherited when he had run off and married the downstairs maid. Still, they had been quite happy together—or at least as happy as a young, foolish couple living in abject penurycouldbe—until they had died and left their only child in the guardianship of his grandfather, whose most fervent wish was that John had never existed. Half-noble was not enough for the exacting earl, who had never missed an opportunity to express his disappointment in his grandson. “Is there some reason why this should be relevant?”

“Idle curiosity. If you are not in the market for a wife, why are you here?” There was something sharp and quick in Mitchell’s eyes, and John could not like it. It put him in mind of a predator searching for an opening to strike.