The Making of a Gentleman (7 page)

Armand stood, waited, aware he was not the one being addressed. Finally, Julien looked up and scowled. “Oh. What is it now? Run out of young ladies to accost?”

Armand didn’t understand every word, but he comprehended the gist of them. And the tone—that he understood quite well. Armand wished he could remember his childhood, wished he could recall whether Julien had always teased him, always been so overprotective. Had he bantered back and forth with Julien?

He could not imagine doing so now. He could not imagine using words so carelessly, so freely. He knew what others thought of him—the maids, the footmen, the members of the
ton
who came to call on Sarah and his mother. He could see their discomfort in the looks they gave him and each other.

They feared him.

But the yellow-haired woman, Miss Bennett, had not feared him. He had not seen even a flicker of fright in her eyes. And yet, she was not comfortable with him. She avoided looking at him, fumbled with her hands, drank her wine too quickly. Did she pity him?

He had never cared what others thought, but for some reason he cared what Miss Bennett thought. He could not get enough of her sky blue eyes or the music she made with those talented fingers. He could not get enough of her touching him. For the first time in memory, the touch of another human being did not burn him.

He had taken her outside, showed the stars and his garden in what was probably a failed attempt to prove he was not some savage. He wanted her to see he had an appreciation for beauty and nature. Instead, he had made her uncomfortable enough that she tried to run from him. And then she had discovered the holes.

And that was why he stood in Julien’s library now. Those strange holes in the garden had not been there last night. What could have caused them? Miss Bennett had tried to tell him what she knew about it, but he did not understand everything.

No matter. He had his own ideas.

They had come. He could not say exactly who
they
were, but he knew it was someone from his past. They were here, and they were searching for…

Silencesilencesilence!

No, he would not even think the name. Even thinking it would be dangerous. Julien needed to see the danger. He needed to know they were no longer safe.

With that objective in mind, Armand crossed the room and unlatched the French doors behind Julien’s desk. They led out to the garden, to an area where the family sat on warm summer evenings. Armand had tried to lure Julien outside on such a night and found his brother did not appreciate the quiet of the gardens as he did.

“I’m not in the mood to look at stars,” Julien said, waving for Armand to close the doors again. “I want to finish these ledgers.”

Armand pushed the doors wider and waited, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at the back of Julien’s head, wondering if a swift smack against the hard skull would have any real effect.

Finally his patience was rewarded, and Julien turned and scowled at him. “You’re allowing the heat in this room to escape.”

Armand pushed the doors wider, stepped outside, and waited. With a long-suffering sigh, Julien heaved himself out of his chair and followed. “This had better not be about looking at some plant or other,” he growled, stomping after Armand.

Armand led the way, smiling in amusement at his brother’s mumbled curses. If he were Julien, he would not have traded the outside for sitting in a dark office, staring at lists of numbers for hours and hours. But he understood his brother considered any pursuit that was not monetary in nature a waste of time.

Finally, they reached the section of the garden where he stood earlier with Miss Bennett. It was darker than before, but Julien had carried a lamp with him and now he raised it to illuminate the ground where Armand pointed.

“What the hell?” He studied the holes then knelt down for a closer look at the biggest one. He glanced up at Armand, who stood with his arms crossed, feeling rather smug. “I don’t suppose you did this?”

Now it was Armand’s turn to scowl.

“Hmm. Doesn’t look like the work of an animal.”

Armand simply waited patiently, knowing his brother would eventually see the problem, the danger.

Julien rose, peered at another hole. “It can’t be the gardeners. This is destructive.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Or exploratory.” He shot a look at Armand. “Digging for something? What would someone be digging for in our garden?”

Armand frowned, still having difficulty tracking his brother’s rapid speech. Julien mimed digging with a shovel, and Armand nodded. Yes, now he understood.

Kicking at one of the mounds, Julien growled, “Why?”

Armand inhaled sharply, hoping his brother would not press the issue.

“I’ll have the gardeners repair the damage in the morning,” Julien said, turning back toward the town house, but Armand made a sound that caused his brother to spin back around. He put a hand to his forehead and pretended to be looking into the distance for something. Julien watched him for a long moment then said, “You want me to have someone watch the house. You think this might be more serious.”

Armand nodded.

Julien put his hands behind his back and walked slowly toward the town house. Armand followed behind, impatient for his brother’s decision. Finally Julien paused at the French doors. “I’ll have someone keep watch tonight.”

Armand relaxed and started inside. As he passed through, Julien patted him on the shoulder.

Hot! No!

The pain was instant and intense. Armand jerked away, his skin burning where his brother had touched it. He rounded on his brother, fists high and ready to attack. But Julien already had his hands high in surrender.

“I’m sorry. I forgot.” He spoke slowly and gestured for Armand to relax. “I won’t do it again. My mistake.”

Armand’s shoulders fell, but he kept his wary eyes narrowed. The pain began to fade, and he nodded at Julien, let him know he was fine.

“Really, I’m sorry, brother. I forgot. For a moment, you seemed so—” He cut himself off, and Armand wheeled away. He climbed the stairs, feeling like an outcast. Worse, he felt as though he had brought danger here. The holes were danger. Everyone near him, including Miss Bennett, was in jeopardy. But damned if he knew how to save them.

Would he see Miss Bennett again on the morrow, or would she have disappeared by morning? It was probably best if she disappeared, probably best if he never saw those sky-colored eyes again or heard the magical music she made. If he saw her again, she would try to force him to speak. She had already done so. He could not risk it happening again. Now that the danger was closer, speech was even more hazardous.

If she were still in the house tomorrow, he would refuse to see her. She would go away if he refused long enough. It might be the only way to save her.

Her position would be terminated before she had even begun. Felicity fretted and paced the drawing room as, one by one, each member of the Valère household returned with the same news.

The comte would not see her.

He refused to leave his room, refused to acknowledge anyone’s presence, refused to interact.

“He’s done this before,” the duchesse told her, while the duc stormed upstairs to harangue his brother into compliance. Felicity could hear the duc’s rapid French echo all the way down in the drawing room, and it did not sound like he was having any better luck than either the duchesse or dowager duchesse had. “He withdraws into himself, sometimes for an hour, sometimes for days. I don’t know what triggers it”—above them, a door slammed, and booted footsteps stomped along a corridor. The duchesse and her mother-in-law exchanged weary looks—“but I suppose it’s understandable after all he’s been through.”

The drawing-room door burst open, and the duc, looking as though he were ready to throttle someone, stormed inside. “He’s not coming out. Don’t ask me why. The man is as stubborn as an ox. I’m going back to my library.” And he stormed out again.

Felicity blinked. It seemed to her that perhaps stubbornness was a family trait.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” the duchesse said, spreading her hands. “Perhaps he will be more sociable tomorrow.”

Felicity nodded. But what if the comte did not come out tomorrow? The duchesse had said sometimes he stayed hidden away for days. Would they pay her for those idle days? What if the comte did not deign to leave his room for a month? Would she still have the position, or would she be forced to tell Charles she had been dismissed? Then what would happen?

She knew exactly what would happen. And if she refused to marry Charles, what then? If she returned to her aunt’s house, she would only be a burden. She could not endure that. Nor could she endure having to explain to her aunt and her aunt’s friends and her aunt’s neighbors and
everyone she ever met from that day on
the man her father had promised her to, the man who had nursed her father in his last days, the man everyone thought was upright and respectable, was a gambler and a drunk and blackmailing her, besides.

How humiliating—for her father, God rest his soul, and herself.

She could not allow that to happen.

Panic began to creep in. She had to do something. But what?

The comte was a grown man—and not a small or weak one at that. He could not be dragged or physically persuaded to do what he did not wish. For the tenth time since she had arrived, she wished she had not been wrong about the comte’s age. It would be so much easier to teach a boy of seven or eight. If nothing else, he could be forced to leave his room.

So if she could not force the comte to come out, she would have to persuade him using other means. She could not go to his room. That would be improper, and he would probably ignore her anyway. He had ignored his own mother and brother.

She glanced across the room at the sunlight filtering through the drawn curtains. A splash of gold hit the pianoforte, and she smiled. If words could not persuade him, then perhaps music could.

“Your Grace, would you mind if I played a piece?”

The duchesse shrugged. “Of course not. You must play as much as you like—oh!” Her face lit like a candle. “Oh! Why did I not think of that?” She turned to the dowager. “Of course. If Armand hears the music, it will certainly lure him from his room.”

The dowager looked thoughtful. “Perhaps, perhaps not. It depends how deeply he has withdrawn into his shell. But I agree you should attempt it.” She nodded to Felicity. “Sarah, you go downstairs, and I shall stay here to chaperone. I think the fewer people in the room, the better.”

“Very well.”

The dowager took a chair in the back of the room, where she would not be easily observed, while Felicity settled herself on the bench at the pianoforte. She lifted her fingers and noted they were trembling slightly. What if the music failed to lure him out? What would she do then?

No, do not think of that. Think only of success. And what piece would bring her success? A sonata? An étude? A march? A fugue?

Felicity closed her eyes and pursed her lips. She was thinking too hard. She should just play. Play anything.

She set her trembling fingers on the keys and began, tentatively at first. The notes were quiet and slow, and her fingers felt stiff and awkward. She stumbled, played the wrong notes, played the wrong rhythm. The comte would never be drawn in if she continued to play this poorly. She had to let go, as she had the day before.

Her instincts told her to concentrate harder, focus more, but instead, she closed her eyes and forced herself to relax. She played several wrong notes, the sound clashing and making her cringe.

Feel the music. See the keys in your mind.

But the image that came to her mind was that of her mother. She looked impossibly tall, and Felicity knew this memory originated from when she was a young child. Her mother wore a yellow gown, and her long hair tumbled over the faded material like a shower of gold. She sat at a stool, her hands poised on the pianoforte, but she was looking over her shoulder and smiling. Felicity smiled at the memory. And then in her mind, she saw her mother turn back to the piano, saw her lift her long, slim fingers, and heard the music flow from those fingers.

Now, Felicity allowed her own fingers to move in time with her mother’s. She didn’t hear the music she played, only the music in her memory. She did not hear the drawing-room door open or the sound of footsteps stomping angrily into the room. But she felt a prickle rush up and down her back, and gradually, as the memory faded, she opened her eyes.

The comte was angry. It did not take much to discern that. His eyes blazed icy blue fire, his hands fisted at his side, and his barefooted stance was at once defiant and eager. Felicity forced herself to continue to play, though she would rather have run from the comte’s glare. And then part of her wanted to smile. All was not lost. Her position was secure… for the moment anyway.

“My lord,” she said, her hands racing over the keys almost of their own volition, “how good of you to join us.”

He growled, his lip curling in anger, but he stomped to the piano and stood watching her fingers fly over the keys. “It’s by Mozart, Piano Concerto Five in D Major,” she told him.

He didn’t respond, merely continued to watch her play.

“You didn’t come down for your lesson this morning. Were you trying to avoid me or the lesson or both?”

He scowled at her, his glare fierce. She knew what he wanted. He wanted her to stop speaking and just play. But she was through allowing him to take the lead. As the tutor, she must lead, and he must follow. She slowed her hands, drawing out each note, making each one last. She could see the comte lean forward, anticipating each chord she played. And so she continued to slow her hands until the music finally stopped altogether.

In the sudden silence, she heard the comte’s breathing and the scrape of the wood under his hands as he gripped the sides of the pianoforte. She looked up at him, met his gaze. How could his eyes be so dark blue? How could they be so intense, so passionate? Her back prickled again as awareness of him flooded through her. The room felt suddenly too warm, as though the sunlight seeping through the windows was burning her.

“You would rather I didn’t stop playing.” She raised a hand to her forehead to wipe a bead of perspiration away. When she saw his gaze followed the movement, she pretended to smooth her hair back into place. “If you want me to continue playing, why don’t you just ask me?”

He looked at her for a long moment then waved at the piano. When she did not immediately begin playing again, he pointed more forcefully at the piano, jabbing at the keys. Felicity raised a brow. “I’m not at all certain I understand what you want, my lord. If you could just say it; that would help immensely.”

He understood her. She could see in his eyes he knew exactly what she wanted from him, but he was not going to do it. He was not going to give her what she wanted. He pointed at the piano again, this time striking the keys and filling the room with the dissonant sound.

“No,” she said, meeting his gaze and not looking away, not looking away even when he grabbed her arm to forcibly place her hands on the keys. “You must say it. Say, ‘Play the pianoforte.’”

He pushed her hands down on the keys again, but she pulled them out of his grip and placed them in her lap. “Perhaps that’s too much to begin. I’ll make your task simpler. One word.
Play
. That’s all you must say. Just say, ‘
Play
.’”

He stared at her, and she could tell he was turning the idea about in his mind. He tasted the word, digested it, familiarized himself with it. But would he say it? Should she offer the French form of the word—no, that would make it too difficult. Keep it simple.

She watched him, her hands clutched in her lap. She willed him to say the word, said it a thousand times in her mind for him, but she kept her lips firmly compressed.

He continued to stare at her, his jaw clenched, his mouth closed in recalcitrance.

Her hopes sank. He would not say it. She could see in his eyes he would rather remain silent than attempt to say the word, even if it meant she would cease the music. She sighed. “Very well.” As much as she wanted to continue to play, as much as she wanted to see the light back in those eyes, she could not give in now or she would never make any progress.

She sat back, saw the anger flash across his face. She might as well just continue playing. Her scheme would never work anyway. But she continued moving backward and began to rise. Before she knew what had happened, his hands were on her shoulders, pushing her back down. Behind him, she saw his mother rise, worry in her eyes. Felicity shook her head, though perhaps the dowager’s interference was exactly what she needed. She allowed herself to be pushed back into place, but she wanted him to know she could be stubborn, as well. Determined, she folded her hands into her lap.

The comte pointed at the piano, and there was no mistaking what he wanted. “Play,” she said. “That’s all you have to say, and I’ll play until noon.” She leaned close, whispered the word. “
Play
.”

He held her hands, and she felt his fingers flex, knew this was difficult for him. He was uncomfortably near to her. Too near—she could see the ring of violet around those cobalt blue eyes of his. Too near—she could feel his warm, sweet breath on her lips. Too near—she could smell him, the intoxicating mix of musk and man.

Curses! She was glad the dowager was just on the other side of the room, because who knew to what temptations she might succumb if she was left alone with the comte. She couldn’t remember ever being so drawn to a man, had certainly never been drawn to Charles like this. But this man—this aristocrat, whom she had expected to abhor—drew her like no other. The comte said more with his eyes than most men did with a lifetime of words.

But she wanted one word from this man, and she did not think she was going to get her wish. She searched his eyes with her own, pled silently with him. And just as she was about to give up, to look away, she saw his lips move.

It was a slight movement, his lips forming the shape of the word
play
. She wanted to nod in encouragement, but she could not tear her gaze from his lips. She could almost feel them on her skin. They were full and generous, and she could imagine they would be soft and teasing on her lips—or her neck, or her shoulder—

She inhaled sharply. Where were these thoughts coming from? She had to put a stop to them!

He moved his lips again, and this time her skin prickled because she heard him whisper. She did nod now. “Yes, that’s right. Just a little louder.”

He cleared his throat and then he took a deep breath. “Play.” The sound was as scratched as a child’s desk but also husky and unimaginably enticing. She stared at him, watching those lips, hoping for more. But he released her hands suddenly and stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. He seemed surprised he had spoken, shocked at the sound of his voice.

And then he turned and glanced behind him, almost as though he thought someone was waiting to pounce on him, to punish him. She feared he would leave, retreat to his room, but with a worried look in his eyes, he turned back to her. Inside she felt her heart leap with joy. He had spoken! He had actually done it! And he was still standing before her. She beamed at him. “You did it!” She jumped up and clapped her hands together. “You did it!” She had actually helped him to speak. Perhaps she would succeed at this position after all. Throwing back her head, she laughed with joy.

He gave her a wary nod, and then he pointed at the pianoforte. She laughed again. “You want me to play again. Of course you do.” She whirled and settled herself back on the bench. Raising her hands, she grinned at him and played a happy little jig.

And then, because the piece was short and over far too quickly, she played a longer piece she knew he would enjoy. It had always been one of her favorites. She wished she had thought to bring some of her sheet music down from her room, as those were pieces she would like to learn. But the comte did not seem to care what she played. He stood beside the pianoforte and stared at her fingers or alternately at her face.

She tried not to notice when he stared at her face, tried not to feel the heat course through her at the feel of his gaze upon her. She concentrated on the keys and then, behind the comte, she saw a movement.

His mother! Of course. She had almost forgotten the dowager was chaperoning them. The comte was probably not even aware of her presence, and perhaps that was a good thing. Tears were streaming down the woman’s cheeks as she all but sobbed. Her eyes met Felicity’s, and the dowager mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

Felicity felt her own eyes sting—partly from the happiness she had given to the dowager. Partly from the thrill of seeing the comte’s accomplishment. But mostly she was thinking of her father, missing him and the family she had once known. She had not expected this family to make her long for her own, had not thought aristocrats capable of the kind of warmth and love she had known as a child.