It was no hardship. He had a fine bottom, from what she could see of it beneath his riding coat. And his legs were quite attractive, long and muscular, the calves nicely filling out the leather. She could stare at them all day.
And would, if it annoyed him, but he didn't even seem to notice. Apparently the problem on the board absorbed him entirely, for he kept his eyes fixed there and his lips set in a line as he worked. She was still trying to figure out how to make him notice her rude staring when he set down the chalk and faced her.
"There." He wiped the chalk dust from his hands. "Shall I explain the solution as well?"
She gaped at him. Then she gaped at the board. Drat him, that problem had taken
her
thirty minutes to solve when she'd found it in a book of equations. And he'd got it right in no time at all, on the first try, too!
So he hadn't lied about his interest in mathematics. Worse yet, he was better at it than she. That had never happened before. It was awfully disconcerting.
"Please," she said coldly. "Do explain it. If you can."
He laughed. "I'd be honored."
"I'll just step out into the hall to tell Mrs. Harris that you're staying longer— "
"What?" He stepped into her path with a cheeky grin. "But your careful watch over me is what inspired me to complete the problem."
So he
had
noticed her staring and hadn't been the least bothered by it. If anything, it had made him even more of a flirt.
"Come now, Miss Prescott, you're supposed to supervise. You can't supervise if you run away."
"I'm not running away," she retorted. One should never show one's weaknesses to a beast. "What exactly would I be trying to escape?"
His eyes twinkled. "Perhaps the overwhelming effects of my charm?"
As the girls giggled, she forced a laugh. "Oh, but after you've gone to such effort to convince us that your charm is false, sir, I would certainly not be silly enough to succumb to it."
"I revealed that a rogue's charm is false, madam," he said, a slight edge to his voice. "Do you think that
my
charm is as well?"
"You did instruct us to treat every man as a stranger. Since I only met you yesterday…"
A grudging laugh escaped him. "You persist in using my own lessons against me. Very well, go off to your employer."
"Oh, no, sir, I can't leave now, or you'll claim I'm running away." She flashed him a smile. "I won't have my girls thinking I'm a coward."
"Only a fool would think you a coward, sweetheart."
The endearment dropped like a stone into the girls' rapt silence, startling ripples of gasps throughout the room. In that moment, Madeline realized he had momentarily forgotten their audience. As had she.
Panic clamoring in her breast, she turned to the girls. "And there, my dears, is another illustration of how a rogue works." With a gesture to Lord Norcourt, she said, "His lordship and I will offer many such demonstrations through the next two weeks of his tenure here. You must be prepared to witness one at any moment."
"Exactly." His husky voice played havoc with her senses. "Now you see how easily it is for a flirtation to progress beyond the bounds of propriety. You may think that sparring with a rogue won't hurt, but it can get away from you before you know it, as Miss Prescott has just shown."
What Madeline had just shown was her horrible susceptibility to his flirtations. Because in the first second after he'd called her "sweetheart," she'd felt a curl of warmth…satisfaction…pleasure. Oh, Lord.
"And now, sir," she said, not caring that her voice was as breathless as any green girl's, "I will inform Mrs. Harris of our plans."
They'd had a narrow escape, for if one of the girls ever revealed what he'd called her, Mrs. Harris was sure to suspect the attraction between them.
Then there would be hell to pay.
Chapter Seven
Dear Charlotte,
You
do not mention the nature of your connection with the viscount. If my opinion counts for anything, I warn you to take care. You aren't likely to consider a liaison in the same light as he. As for your finding out my identity from the viscount, don't go to the trouble. I only know of his parties from gossip.
Your concerned cousin,
Michael
L
ess than an hour later, they trooped to the ballroom. Anthony watched as Miss Prescott explained to the dance instructor the new plan. Apparently the woman was delighted not to be needed, for she abandoned ship as soon as she heard that Miss Prescott meant to take over that day's lesson.
One of the girls headed for the pianoforte. "Play a waltz," Anthony instructed her. "It's the only dance suitable for demonstrating what's improper."
The girl looked to Miss Prescott, who sighed. "He's right— the waltz provides more opportunities for the wrong sort of touching."
And more opportunities for him to test her mettle. Yes, their audience would provide some restriction, but he could touch her, unsettle her. Try to determine her real reasons for demanding a nitrous oxide party.
That's all he wanted. Not to put his hands on her. Or dance with her. Or feel her move beneath his hands.
He stifled an oath. All right, so perhaps he did want more than just to unsettle her. But who could blame him? Her veiled glances and challenging remarks were driving him mad, not to mention her prancing about the room and sticking out the tip of her tongue as she wrote and a million other fetching gestures that brought their last kiss painfully to mind.
Even the relatively innocuous glimpse of her ankles had made him want to strip off her stockings and skim his lips up the entire length of her slender calves—
Damnation, he must not lose sight of his purpose. This was about being sure he could trust her, that her scheme wasn't something that could ruin his chances to get Tessa free. It was
not
about seducing her.
"Shall we take the floor?" Miss Prescott asked, dragging him from his thoughts.
He offered her his arm, which she barely touched. Once they reached the middle and faced each other, he smiled down at her. "I'm ready when you are."
"I daresay you're always ready," she muttered.
A wicked retort sprang to his lips that he ruthlessly squelched, unsure if she'd meant the double entendre. No point to provoking her unnecessarily into ending the dance. Although, given her mention of "an animal's instinct to mate," he suspected that the little naturalist had a full understanding of what that entailed.
Taking her in his arms, he began to waltz, trying not to dwell on the part of him that was "always ready." Around them girls stood observing, but he paid them no heed. All he could think was that Miss Prescott had an even tinier waist than he'd guessed, that she smelled faintly of almonds…and that it would take little provocation for him to carry her off to a room and ravish her.
Steady, man, you mustn't let the beast take control, no matter how enticing the woman or how tempting her flirtations.
Unfortunately, her composed expression showed that she was in no mood for flirtation just now. It irritated him. Here he was, chafing at the need to brand her with his mouth, and she acted as if she didn't even notice that he was holding her.
"You're certainly a cool one," Anthony said under his breath.
"Someone has to be. And since you make a practice of saying reckless things and calling me 'sweetheart' at inopportune moments— "
"But you covered my error very well. The girls didn't suspect a thing."
With a scowl, she glanced over at her pupils, who were paying close attention to their whispering. "I can't imagine what possessed you to speak so unwisely. We shared one kiss, probably less than you share with your chambermaids."
His temper flared. "I have never seduced a chambermaid. You, of all people, should know that a beast doesn't soil his own den. It makes a huge mess. And I always avoid messes."
"I can well believe
that,
" she said archly. "Are you saying you're a beast?"
"You seem determined to believe I am. I might as well play the part." Sliding his hand to the small of her back, he tugged her close and called out to their snickering audience, "You see, ladies? This is much too intimate an embrace for a man you've only just met."
She raised an eyebrow, then pinched his shoulder. Hard.
"Ow!" He jerked his arm back.
"And that, ladies," she called out, "is how you combat such presumption."
"That's hardly ladylike," he grumbled.
"No, but it's effective."
"For now." He swept his gaze to her mouth, then lowered his voice. "Sweetheart."
"Mind your tongue!"
"Would you rather I called you Madeline? It's a lovely name."
A sly smile curved her lips. "Will you praise my elegant manner, too?"
What did she mean? Oh, yes. He'd forgotten his interchange with Miss Bancroft. "That was in the classroom. With you, I'm entirely honest."
"I can't imagine why you should be different with me than with them."
"I told you— virginal schoolgirls aren't to my taste. I like my women older." Dropping his gaze to her breasts, he murmured, "And more worldly."
She tread on his toe with her surprisingly sharp-heeled shoe. He felt it even through his boot and jerked back, missing a step.
"That, ladies," she called out, "is what you do when a gentleman isn't keeping his eyes on your face, where they belong."
The girls laughed as he found his place again, and they continued dancing.
"Was that necessary?" he ground out under his breath.
"I don't want the girls thinking we're involved in something scandalous."
"Ah, but we
are
." When she blinked at him, he added, "Your party, remember? If that's not scandalous, I don't know what is."
Her eyes brightened. "Have you arranged it?"
"Not yet. I'm still determining who should throw it."
Noticing how her pupils were giggling, she scowled, and called out, "I fear you can't hear what his lordship is saying over the music, but he's whispering nonsense to me as part of your lesson. Remember, it is perfectly acceptable to engage a rogue in conversation, so long as you do not let his lies sway you."
"I am not lying," he bit out under his breath.
"No, you're just dawdling until the two weeks are up," she hissed. "I have half a mind to tell Mrs. Harris you're doing a poor job with these les— "
"Oh, for God's sake, you'll get your party." The clever chit wouldn't
let
him stall her. And he dared not lose Tessa's chance at enrollment. "You'll just have to trust me."
"For whatever good that does," she muttered.
Annoyed, he swung her sharply in a turn. "Do you impugn my honor?"
"You've made it clear you have little honor to impugn, sir."
"Surely you realize I'm merely mimicking men I've observed."
Her eyebrows lifted. "You seem to know very well how to turn the girls up sweet."
"And you seem to know very well how to rouse a man's 'animal instincts.' Yet I haven't impugned
your
honor."
She colored, then glanced away, and just the sight of that hard-won blush made him want to kiss her senseless.
Damnation, he must watch his step. She made him forget where he was, something that never happened with other women. He was supposed to entice her into revealing her secrets, not lust after her with the finesse of a randy bull.
"I'm not as wicked as you assume," he said, partly to convince himself.
Her gaze met his. "I never said you were wicked. Besides, it isn't your wickedness that concerns me." She jerked her head toward their audience. "It's how they perceive the two of us, the suspicions they will form from your unwise behavior toward me, Lord Norcourt."
For no reason he could fathom, her formal use of his title rankled. It had felt unfamiliar ever since he'd ascended to it a month ago, but on her lips it sounded perversely like an insult.
He leaned in close enough to whisper, "I'll behave myself with you when they're near, but only if you'll call me Anthony in private…Madeline."
"Step back, sir," she demanded.
"Call me Anthony."
He felt rather than saw her attempt to grind her heel in his foot again. Anticipating the move, he twirled her, an easy task since she weighed next to nothing. Once she faced him again, her face afire with anger, he kept his distance but moved his hand to the small of her back.
She pinched his shoulder.
He winced, but ignored it. "Say you will call me Anthony in private."