Page 15 of The Etiquette of Love (The Academy of Love #7)

F reddie’s face had just begun to cool when she heard the sound of soft footsteps coming down the stairs.

She watched from beneath lowered lashes as he padded on bare feet toward the door leading out to the wide stone balcony that stretched out over the wet dock below. He tossed his boots onto the ground before draping his breeches, stockings, and shirt over the thick railing.

She pointed to the box beside the fireplace when he reentered the room. “There are some old newspapers in there.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“For your boots,” she explained.

His eyebrows inched higher. “Er, to polish them?”

“To stuff inside them.”

“Because…?”

“If you don’t, they will shrink as they dry, and you will never get your feet back in them.”

“And newspaper will keep them from shrinking, will it?”

“Yes, but you must pack them tightly.”

He nodded, looking ridiculously regal in his robe. Once he had fetched his boots back inside, he sat in the chair nearest the fireplace and began pushing full sheets into the neck of one boot.

Freddie sighed and took the next sheet from him, crumpling it into a tight ball. “Like so.”

He accepted her instruction with a nod and followed her example with the next sheet. “How do you know these things?”

“Life without a lady’s maid.”

“Ah.” He worked in silence until one boot was full. “Tight enough?”

“A bit more.”

Once he had finished, he took them back outside and set them in the sun.

“There is water in the pitcher if you want to wash the newsprint from your hands,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“I am.”

As he washed, Freddie set out the contents of the picnic basket. She could not help thinking how domesticated the scene was. Although it would not be a common domestic arrangement for a duke, who would have at least a dozen people to do the sorts of mundane tasks that he was being forced to do today.

He sat down in the chair across from her and she was unexpectedly charmed by how ruffled he looked with his brown hair tousled, his ridiculous robe exposing a very un-ridiculous expanse of muscular throat and chest. A smudge of newsprint on his cheek provided a piquant finishing touch to his dishevelment.

“You are regarding me strangely,” he pointed out after she had stared for too long.

“I was just wondering how often you have had to care for your own boots or undress yourself.”

Rather than look offended by her question, there was a faint curve to his lips as he reached for the unopened bottle of wine. “Not often,” he admitted. “I imagine it was much the same case for you before Sedgewick died.”

“Yes, it was eye opening.”

He filled both glasses and handed one to her.

“Thank you.” She took only a tiny sip. Today she would nurse each glass, rather than quaff down three in rapid succession.

“Tell me about your time teaching at that school. Honoria said it was the Stefani Academy?”

“What do you want to know?”

“How did you find the position? What made you decide to teach? What sort of things did you teach? Anything, really. I will make up two plates of food while you talk.” He paused and then added with a twinkle in his eye, “Putting food on a plate is one of my few domestic achievements.”

Freddie laughed. “Commendable.”

He began to put portions on the plates while Freddie cast her mind back. “My decision to teach was born of exigency. Without going into the gruesome details, Sedgewick somehow got at the money set aside for me in the settlement agreement and spent most of it—or likely just lost it all in various gaming hells. The small amount he did leave behind was in a trust that is administered by Wareham—but I suspect you know all about that.”

The duke set a plate in front of her, met her gaze, and said, “Actually, I did not know what had been left or how.”

Likely her brother was simply too embarrassed to let that business be known, even to his best friend. Freddie continued, “I knew I would need to find some way to support myself. And yes, before you ask, Wareham offered me a place to live and a generous allowance. What he did not understand that living under the same roof with his wife would have been misery.” She met Plimpton’s gaze and said frankly, “Sophia was the reason I rushed into marriage in the first place.”

“I think your brother knows that… now.”

“Yes, he apologized. I blamed him for years for not seeing how difficult Sophia was to live with, but part of me always respected him for showing such devotion to his wife.” She shrugged, not wanting to talk about the woman any more than she had to. “Regardless, I knew I could not live under Wareham’s roof. And I don’t have the temperament to be a companion or a governess, but teaching appealed to me, probably because I enjoyed my time at school so much. I contacted the woman at my school, but she had no position for me. Instead, she pointed me in the direction of the Stefani Academy.”

“Honoria mentioned that it was Portia Stefani, rather than Ivo—her famous husband—who was the force behind that operation.”

Freddie pulled a face at the memory of the mercurial pianist. “Yes. Other than his grand name, Ivo was more of a detriment. He despised the school and thought himself above it, even though he could no longer play professionally after injuring his hand. The school was doing well without his help, but it could not support his expensive habits. I worked there for four years before matters came to a head.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I adored it, especially the camaraderie with the other teachers. All of us except Miles—er, Lord Avington—lived at the school. I was the only one of them who did not already have a career.” She gave him a wry look. “I, of course, had been raised to view a woman’s role as decorative with my primary—my only —goal as marriage. You are familiar with Honey’s background and know she is a great artist. But the others are just as talented in their way. Portia Stefani could have been a concert pianist but sacrificed her own ambitions when she married. Serena Lockheart—Lombard, back then—was raised by a prestigious sculptor and he’d taught her to follow in his footsteps. Annis Bowman—have you met her?”

“She is the only one of the teachers I have not met. Although I was briefly introduced to her husband, Rotherhithe, a while back.”

“Annis would have gone to university and pursued languages if she wasn’t a woman. I believe she speaks seven or eight at last count.” Freddie couldn’t help smiling before saying, “And then there is Miles.”

***

Plimpton had been listening with fascination up until that point. But the affectionate, almost loving, expression on her face when she mentioned the Earl of Avington caused a foreign emotion to tighten his chest. He knew it immediately for what it was, but it had been a long, long time since he had last felt such searing jealousy.

“Miles is not an artist on the level of the others, of course, but he is a very talented man.”

“Oh?” Plimpton asked, cringing at the hostility in his tone. Fortunately, Winifred was too caught up in her memories to notice.

“He took up carving while he was a prisoner during the war.”

Instantly, Plimpton’s jealousy dissolved. Having a brother who had endured the horrors of war made it difficult for him to feel anything but sympathy for Avington, no matter how much Winifred might like him.

“He got so good at it that he sold his work.”

“Did he?” Now, there was a surprise.

Her warm gaze cooled. “I can hear the disapproval in your voice, Your Grace.”

“Then there must be something wrong with your hearing, Winifred because I would never look down my nose at a man for trying to support himself when his family is floundering. I knew Avington’s brother quite well, so I was aware of the dire straits the earldom was in. The fact that Miles Ingram worked rather than draw an allowance shows what caliber of man he is.”

“I happen to agree.” She paused, and then gave him a rather challenging look and said, “I also sell my work. It was Miles who introduced me to the man who buys it.”

“You carve wood?” he teased, for some reason unwilling to admit he knew about her needlework.

She chuckled. “No. I ply a needle. The gentleman who buys my work accepts all sorts of items.”

“Does Wareham know?” he asked, although he knew the answer.

“No. And I would thank you not to tell him, either.”

“I will not tell him what you confide in me.”

Red streaks, like twin strokes from a painter’s brush, stained her sculped cheekbones. “No, of course you would not. I apologize for impugning your honor.”

Plimpton, whose mouth was full of cheese, nodded.

“The last of my colleagues is Lorelei Fontenot. I believe Lori will one day be a great novelist. Unfortunately, she has been forced to earn her living selling stories to newspapers. You might have met her at one of the balls Miles and his wife Mary gave last year.”

“I remember Miss Fontenot,” Plimpton said. “She sat me down and explained to me why the peerage was—let me see, what was the word she used? Ah, yes, a leech on the British people.”

Winifred chortled. “Oh, dear. You got that lecture, did you?”

“Yes, and at some length. I find interesting that she holds such views and yet lives with a countess, is friends with an earl—” he broke off, squinting as he searched his memory. “In fact, I believe only your friend who married Gareth Lockheart is not a peer.”

“That is true.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Poor Lorelei has had her hands full with the six of us, I fear. She is also vehemently opposed to marriage.”

Plimpton had found the talkative, excitable woman tiresome and exhausting. He would much rather discuss the woman across from him. “And then there is you, Winifred.”

“Yes, the only one without any particular skill or ability—unless one considers being the widow of an earl a talent. I should not scoff at that, I suppose. It is the one thing Sedgewick left me of any value.” She stopped abruptly and blinked. “Goodness, I have done all the talking.” She gestured to her plate, which was full, and then his, which was mostly empty. “It is your turn to talk and my turn to eat.”

Plimpton had to bite back a groan.

She must have seen his reluctance because she said, “Come now, I have told you about my past. It is your turn.”

“You told me about your friends ,” he corrected. “But you still did not tell me about teaching school.”

“I did not?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, let me see…I taught deportment and conversational arts.”

“That sounds interesting. Tell me how one teaches the art of conversation.”

She eyed him skeptically.

“What? Why are you looking at me so suspiciously?”

“Because I have a hard time believing you are really interested in such things.”

“Believe it, because it is true. So, tell me about teaching conversation.”

“I taught conversation for females , so it would hardly be of any interest to you.”

“And how would that be different?”

She made one of those subtle, ladylike sounds that could not be called a snort—more of an elegant sniff, he supposed—and said, “When a woman talks to another woman, she actually communicates . When a woman talks to a man, she deflects and encourages.”

“Is that so?”

“It is so. When a young lady converses with a man, she encourages him to talk about himself and deflects any questions that come her way, turning the conversation back to him.”

“Is that what you have been trying to do with me—pander to my pride?”

“Of course not,” she said with an admirably straight face.

He chuckled. “ Hmm , why do I feel as if you are carefully managing me?”

“ Two laughs in one day? Why, Your Grace, what will the ton say about such unbridled dissipation?”

“I believe that was a deflection,” Plimpton countered.

“What a quick learner you are, Your Grace.”

“Why would you teach young girls such a thing?”

“Because it is what men want—to talk and have their viewpoints affirmed— not hear a woman’s opinions. When a young woman enters the Grand Marriage Mart she needs to understand that, or she will be left sitting by herself and watching others get asked to dance.”

“I am not sure I agree with you, but I will leave that debate for another time. For now, I feel compelled to point out that you do not agree with everything I say or regard me worshipfully, as if every word that comes out of my mouth is a revelation.”

“True, but then I am not a young girl in search of a husband.”

“Touché,” he murmured.

“Now, Your Grace, it is my turn to ask the questions.”

***

“What would you like to know?” Plimpton asked.

Freddie could not help noticing the wariness in his gaze.

“First I would like to know about that locket of yours.”

“Oh.” The duke looked so relieved that Freddie almost laughed. “It is a portrait of my daughter.”

“So you said. May I see it?”

He stood and went to the mantlepiece and returned with the oval locket, already open.

Freddie took it and then smiled up at him. “Why, it seems fine!”

“It does. I daresay that is because it is painted in oil. I am leaving it open just in case the canvas is damp.”

She nodded and peered at the miniature. The girl in the locket was perhaps sixteen. She was not beautiful; the most anyone could say about her was that she had a lovely smile and pretty eyes like her father. Freddie was unaccountably relieved that Lady Rebecca was not a raving beauty like her mother. Although why that mattered, she did not know.

Freddie looked up and handed the locked back. “She looks delightful.”

Plimpton’s stern mouth twisted into a doting smile. “She clever and loving and a joy to be around.”

Freddie was momentarily stunned by his burst of effusiveness. So, there was something—or somebody, rather—the aloof Duke of Plimpton loved.

He returned the locket to the mantlepiece, still open, and then resumed his seat, his gaze once again guarded as he waited for more questions.

Freddie decided to get her question out of the way before she lost her courage. “Tell me about those naughty parties Wareham used to have—the ones that ended when he married Sophia.”

Freddie could see her question surprised him. There was also a hint of relief in his gaze. Had he been concerned she would ask about his marriage.

He shrugged. “They were not so naughty. They were bachelor parties for young, unmarried men. I am sure a woman with your experience can imagine what that entailed.”

Freddie could imagine wealthy, indulged young men’s obnoxious behavior perfectly well. But that was not what she really wanted. She was hoping to talk about the guests at one party in particular, since Piers’s recollection of that fateful night was so fragmented. Her probing needed to be careful, or the duke’s sharp mind would wonder what she was up to.

“Were they all school mates at these parties?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and he said, “For the most part.”

“Do you still associate with most of them, or have you drifted apart?”

He relaxed a little at the question. “I see most of them at clubs or in Lords, but I can’t say I have retained any of those friendships. Except for your brother, of course. I believe Wareham keeps up with several of the others.”

“Does he? That surprises me. Like whom?”

His glass hovered halfway to his mouth and then he set it down without taking a drink. “Why do these questions not sound like casual interest?”

“Because you are of a suspicious nature?” she retorted.

His hard expression softened slightly. “Usually, it is not without reason.”

“I am just curious about what life was like back then. I remember some of those parties when I was a few years older, but Nanny always kept me well away from them.”

“That was probably wise. We drank a great deal and frequently engaged in dangerous stunts and were hardly appropriate company for young children.”

“I notice you said we .”

“I am sure I was just as stupid and reckless as any other spoiled young peer.”

Freddie could not allow that to pass unchallenged. “I recall you—not well, but well enough.”

“And what do you recall?” he asked, draining the contents of his glass and lifting the bottle.

God help her, Freddie nodded for more. Clearly, she was a very slow learner.

“I recall you being as quiet and serious as you are now,” she said, deciding to try one more lure to see if she could get any bites. “I also recall Lord Trendon and Sir Maxwell Weil, who were very boisterous, but I don’t remember them behaving badly.

“No, they were, in general, decent.”

“So that is three of you who were not naughty. Who were the wild boys?”

He frowned, but in concentration this time, his gaze going vague as he cast his mind back. “Elliot Jordan, Sutton—”

“Viscount Sutton?”

“Yes.”

“He died not long ago, didn’t he?”

“Yes, a hunting accident.”

Freddie would have sworn that shutters closed over his eyes. She could guess why; it was said Sutton was hurting financially and might have committed suicide to escape his creditors.

“I can well believe Sutton was reckless. Who else?”

“Conrad and Brandon were rusticated at least twice. And…Peregrine Fluke. Well…” he trailed off, looking as if he regretted mentioning that last name. Clearly the duke decided Sir Peregrine’s behavior was not fit for female ears.

Freddie knew Lords Sutton, Conrad, and Brandon, but she had never heard of Elliot Jordan. Still, he should not be hard to find if he ran with that crowd. And everyone knew Sir Peregrine, who was not just an extremely flamboyant dresser, but changed his lovers as often as most men changed their stockings.

“Why are you asking about these men—truly?”

“No reason,” she lied. A sudden pattering sound on the glass gave her the distraction she was looking for. “Drat! It is raining.” She stood, glad to get away from the duke’s searching look.

“Sit and finish eating,” he said. “I will fetch in the clothing.”

Freddie was going to resist his autocratic command, but then decided he had just given her enough information that she could forgive him his high-handed behavior. Besides, she was hungry, so she sank back into her chair, her mind churning as to how she could pry more out of the duke without causing his antennae to twitch.

***

They finished the bottle of wine and watched as the rain became heavier.

“This looks to be settling in. It seems we will be stuck here for a while,” Plimpton said.

Winifred checked their clothing and shook her head. “Your shirt is almost dry, but everything else is still wet.”

He pushed up from his seat. “I will build a fire.”

“Do you know how?”

Plimpton was amused despite himself. “You really do think I’m as helpless as a newborn babe, don’t you? No, do not answer that,” he said, making her laugh. “Yes, I know how to build a fire.”

Five minutes later, when he was faced with a sullenly smoking heap of sticks and small logs, he turned to his audience of one and said, “You win. It seems I really am as helpless as a newborn babe, after all. You can do better?”

She rubbed her hands together. “Watch and learn from a master of the art,” she said, her lofty look and tone making him smile.

She removed half the sticks and two of the logs and then took one of the newspapers from the stack he had used earlier and crumpled up a sheet before tucking it carefully beneath the rearranged kindling and wood.

“That is not fair,” he said. “I did not know we were allowed to use newspaper.”

She snickered. “Yes—that is rule number four in the fire-building handbook.”

Plimpton deserved her mockery, but he refused to reward her by laughing.

A few strikes of the flint and the paper caught. Soon, there was a respectable blaze. She stood and turned, wearing a smug smile as she dusted off her hands.

She looked bloody adorable gloating, her hair in a bedraggled plait down her back, with enough loose hairs around her face to make her look like she wore a messy silver halo.

Plimpton stepped forward, until his gaudy robe touched her toga. Surprise replaced laugher and she gazed up at him, lips parted. “I lied to you, Winifred.”

“You d-did?”

“Yes. I said that I would wait for you to come to me. But I am tired of waiting.” He lowered his mouth over hers. There was only a second of stiffness before her body relaxed and she slid her arms around his neck as she had done the night before, once again leaning into the kiss, pressing her uncorsetted body against him.

Her eager, trusting response shot straight to his cock, which had been half-hard since the moment she had descended the stairs wearing her damned toga.

They picked up right where they had left off the night before. Her mouth moved against his with eager abandon, the tip of her tongue meeting his when he slid between her lush lips.

He dipped aggressively deep, and she responded by taking his tongue between her lips and sucking.

Plimpton groaned, his grasp on his self-control fraying like a badly worn rope. He explored her with less than his ordinary finesse, but then, this did not feel ordinary. She was not ordinary; nor was his reaction to her. He wanted her with a hunger that sent howling need roaring through his body, the flames of his desire flaring to life like the fire she had just built.

He pulled away slightly—before he lost the ability to think entirely—and met her heavy-lidded gaze. “Let us go upstairs.”

As he had feared, the practical words brought her back to the moment. Her face, slack with arousal only a moment before, grew taut. “I need you to promise me something before I go upstairs with you.”

Anything. Everything. You do not even need to ask. Whatever you want is yours.

“I will, if it is within my power to do so,’ he answered.

“Promise you will not be seized by honorable remorse after we, er… Well, just after .”

It was bloody hard to bite back his smile. He briefly wondered what she would do if he supplied his own word to describe what he wanted to do to her.

Wisely, he kept his mouth shut.

She continued to babble. “You must promise you will not be tiresome and insist on marrying to save my reputation.”

“You want me to promise not to ask you to marry me?”

“Yes.”

He considered her words a moment before slowly shaking his head. “As much as I want to go upstairs with you right now, I cannot promise I will not ask you to marry.”

Plimpton saw a flicker of feminine satisfaction—pleasure that he had not given up so quickly or easily this time—in her eyes before she suppressed it. “Can you at least promise that you will not ask for a month?”

“Why? What happens in a month?” he asked, intrigued.

She gave a nervous laugh. “Nothing, I just want a—a reprieve.”

“A reprieve,” he repeated. “That brings to mind executions. I should feel insulted.” Instead, he felt amused.

She raised a hand to his cheek, the gesture sweetly intimate. “It is not my intention to insult you. I just… Well, I want to enjoy today— this ”—she stroked his face in demonstration—“without being made to feel guilty afterward.” She inhaled deeply, as if gathering her strength. “I have remained chaste since my husband died. Mostly because I have never really been tempted, but also because I have always, always, always done the right thing. The proper thing. But I do not want to suppress the desire I feel for you, Plimpton. For once, I want to follow my heart like every other sophisticated ton widow. The man I married was chosen for me. I want to choose my lover.”

Plimpton laid his hand over hers and pressed his cheek into her palm. “You are not like any other widow— ton or otherwise. Indeed, you are unlike any woman I have ever met, Winifred” He turned so that he could kiss the tender skin of her palm. “I cannot say how flattered I am that I am the man you have chosen. So, I will promise you that I will not ask you to marry me. For at least a month.”

Her smile was slow and radiant. “Then…what are you waiting for? Take me upstairs, Your Grace.”