The Education of Mrs. Brimley Read online

  Emma descended the stairs into the organized chaos that signaled a successful gathering. Young men with freshly scrubbed faces and imaginative cravats buzzed about the lower floor like bees mining blossoms. Cecilia and Beatrice tended to the older couples, the parents of the girls, she assumed. The music room was alive with swirling satins and lace. It was truly a night of enchantment.

  “Mrs. Brimley, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” Beatrice broke away from a small gathering. “Some of the parents have specifically asked to make your acquaintance.”

  Emma allowed herself to be led from couple to couple, politely acknowledging the introductions and taking care to comment on each girl’s assets to her parents. Over the months she had come to know the girls by their talents and faults, the sound of their laughter as well as the sound of their tears. She faltered on her curtsy to Mr. and Mrs. Barnesworth at the sudden realization. The girls were her family. She loved each of them as one would love a child or a little sister. No matter the circumstances that brought her to Leighton-on-the-Wold, she would be eternally grateful for the privilege of being a part of Pettibone.

  The music paused, yet the noise level heightened. Cecilia, who had stood by Emma’s side throughout the endless introductions, glanced to the entrance of the room. Her face brightened. “He’s here,” she pronounced with no small measure of awe.

  Nicholas! Emma’s heart increased its tempo. A giddiness swelled in her throat. He must have reversed his decision not to attend. She turned, expecting to see him in that same formal attire she had witnessed the first night they met, and stared.

  From his top hat, to his complicated cravat the color of freshly fallen snow, he was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen, the epitome of a fashionably dressed gentleman. Had she been in London, the ladies would plot and scheme for an introduction. He carried the look of money about him, in his attire as well as in his lofty expression, which left her disinterested. Still there was something intriguing about his dark coloring, the sensual fullness of his lips and the elegantly tapered hands encased in fine kid gloves. If his upper lip hadn’t been completely devoid of facial hair, she might have mistaken him for . . .

  “Chambers,” she said, quite surprised to hear she had spoken aloud.

  “His older brother,” Beatrice corrected. “The Marquess of Enon. We’re honored by his attendance. Come, Mrs. Brimley, you should make his acquaintance.” Beatrice tugged on her arm, but Emma stood her ground.

  “This night is to showcase the girls, not their matronly instructors,” she said, hoping to dissuade Beatrice. If the Marquess of Enon had newly traveled from London, it was possible he might know of her uncle and hence be on the lookout for her.

  “One could hardly describe such a young widow as matronly,” Mrs. Barnesworth observed. “Why if I were younger and open to the marriage mart, I would insist on an introduction.”

  Mrs. Barnesworth’s high-pitched voice must have cut a swath through the festive current, for at that precise moment, the gentleman in question caught Emma’s glance. He squinted slightly, then turned to speak to someone blocked by a small gathering in her line of vision.

  “Exactly my point,” Beatrice agreed.

  “Excuse me,” Emma interjected, “I have an unbearable thirst. I believe I will check on the girls at the lemonade table.”

  She skirted along the back wall, hoping the crowd that had gathered around the Marquess would hide her from view. She had almost reached the safety of the side exit, when Lady Cavendish’s voice stopped her retreat.

  “Mrs. Brimley, please do not run off. I have someone here to meet you.”

  Emma turned, facing the apprising eyes of the Marquess of Enon. Lady Cavendish performed the introductions. Emma extended her hand and curtsied.

  “We have met before?” he asked. His voice, so similar to his brother’s, startled her. She glanced up expecting to see intriguing brown eyes lit by humor and shared secrets, but instead found a questioning gaze that left her unaffected. The stirring about her rib cage dissipated.

  “No, sir, I do not believe I have had that pleasure,” Emma replied. She started to pull her hand away when his fingers closed over her glove.

  “You’re from London.” A warmth poured into his voice, his smile broadened. “Your accent is music to my ears, and your face . . .” His eyes narrowed. “Your face is familiar to me. Have you been to London recently?”

  Emma bit her lip, looking anxiously toward Lady Cavendish for assistance.

  “Mrs. Brimley has been an institution at Pettibone for some time now,” Lady Cavendish interrupted with a toss of the ostrich feather hairpiece that dangled close to the Marquess’s head. “Indeed, I was her sponsor.”

  Emma smiled her appreciation.

  “She hasn’t been at this institution long enough to lose her educated tones,” the Marquess said, his gaze never leaving her face.

  His toothy smile raised the fine hairs on the back of Emma’s neck. She tugged her hand from his grasp. His gaze dropped to her lace gloves, before returning to her face.

  “We have met,” he said. “I’m certain of it. I have a keen eye for faces, you see. It will come to me in time.”

  Emma’s throat tightened. Although she knew for certain that they had never met in London, the Marquess’s memory could prove a problem if he encountered her uncle. “If you’ll excuse me, I was just on my way—”

  “May I have the honor of a dance?” he asked. “The musicians are about to begin the second set.”

  Panic seared her skin. To refuse would embarrass Pettibone, to accept would publicly demonstrate her lack of grace. She leaned close to the Marquess so as to make herself heard over the discord of the instruments’ tuning.

  “I am not a skilled dancer. Please don’t ask me to demonstrate. I beg of you, sir.” Her lack of abilities on the dance floor had followed her throughout her adolescence, much to Penelope’s chagrin.

  “I am delighted you wish to demonstrate.” He smiled. Clasping her elbow with a firm hold, he led her out to the floor. She glanced about hoping other couples would join them, but her students all watched with envy in their eyes. She was all alone and on display.

  The musicians struck a tune; the Marquess smiled his approval. “Are you familiar with the Glide Waltz?” She shook her head. “Then allow me to show you.”

  He placed his hand on her waist and with subtle pressure, directed the way she should go. With his firmly extended arm and the strong hold on her waist, he provided a sturdy frame of support. Soon, she was swept up in the dance, counting the steps out silently in her mind, appreciating that he failed to notice that she often took two steps to his one.

  “I’m going to turn you now,” he warned, and true enough they spun to the music. Laughter bubbled from her lips. His eyes acknowledged her delight.

  “I find it difficult to believe that such an attractive young woman as yourself yet remains a widow,” he said before signaling another turn. “Do you not care for these country gentlemen?”

  “I have been married once, sir,” she replied, prepared this time for the sweep. “I feel no urgency to repeat the process.” Of course it was a lie, but to Emma’s mind, the response sounded smart and appropriate.

  “Hah,” he laughed, “you sound like my brother. He sees no benefit in the arrangement. Perhaps if he did, he would have come this evening. I’m afraid he is so involved with his artistic endeavors that the procurement of a proper wife quite eludes him.”

  His phrasing caught her so off guard, she missed a step and took two to catch up.

  “As you know, sir, we at Pettibone try to teach the girls the qualities they need to obtain the title of a ‘proper wife.’ What characteristics do you believe would be necessary to appeal to your brother?” Artfully done, she congratulated herself.

  “You are rather young to play at matchmaker.” He laughed. “I would expect the two spinsters to wile away their time on such folly.” The music ended. They bowed and curtsied
appropriately before he led her from the dance floor.

  “Very well,” he said after a pause. “ I’ll play your game, although some qualities, unfortunately, cannot be learned in school, but must be instilled through birth and upbringing.” He led her in the direction of the refreshments. “My brother has an appreciation of art, so I imagine the woman he chooses must be beautiful beyond the pale. Once he outgrows his current predilection with painting and accepts his family responsibilities, he’ll need a wife who can move throughout society. She must have proper carriage and be a witty conversationalist as well as exhibit genteel manners. She should have excellent bloodlines as well, in the event of offspring.”

  “With the possible exception of a witty conversationalist, I believe you’ve described all the attributes of a racehorse,” Emma said, accepting an offered glass of lemonade.

  “And so I have.” He laughed. “I suppose I have something of a predilection of my own in that regard.” He leaned closer to her ear. “You know, Mrs. Brimley, that I am a widower myself. I understand what it means to lose a close companion. If ever you feel the need for—”

  “Conversation?” Emma interjected. Now that she understood so much more about intimacy, she was quite sure she did not want to share such experiences with this man. Racehorses, indeed.

  His smile broadened while his eyelids lowered. “Conversation would be a part of it, surely. But I was suggesting something of a more physical nature.” He positioned himself in front of her, shielding her from the ball participants by his broad back. “I’m sure a widow such as yourself understands both the needs and the opportunities in such a venture.”

  “You have given me much to think about,” she said, wondering how to disengage herself from this odious man without harming the school’s reputation. The door to the terrace beckoned a few steps to her left. If she could effectively excuse herself . . .

  He stroked the side of her face with a knuckle. Her stomach roiled. “Perhaps we may discuss this under more private circumstances?” he asked.

  “I believe there are a number of young ladies present who are hoping for the favor of a dance.” She hoped her smile hid her revulsion. “I’ve been remiss in keeping your attention far too long.”

  He lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “I shall look forward to enjoying your ‘conversation’ at a later date, Mrs. Brimley.”

  She curtsied, as was his due, and kept a demure smile until he turned and walked back toward Lady Cavendish. Gaiety deserted her. Smiling became a bit of a chore. Emma glanced to her side. Dark solitude on the terrace lay just beyond the glass panes. Her hand extended, she turned the knob. A breath of fresh air would clear her troubled thoughts.

  NICHOLAS WATCHED FROM THE SHADOWS IN THE GARDEN. His silver flask opened and near empty. The multi-paned glass doors provided a clear view of the frivolity within. Almost three weeks had passed since his last glimpse of Emma. Her absence had brought him to this degradation: formally attired, fully foxed, and spying from the bushes.

  After his brother and that flighty Lady Cavendish left for the ball, Nicholas decided to hang his bloody pride and come as well. Perhaps Emma would consent to talk with him as he stood apart from the jostling crowd. Maybe he could tease a rosy blush to her sweet cheeks once more. That hope carried him to the Pettibone School, but the sight of the crush at the door chased away his bravado. He slipped around to the deserted rear terrace with his flask for company.

  Just as he decided to trust the sturdy trunk of a tree for the support his wobbly walking stick lacked, Emma appeared in the window, a vision in a gray satin gown that bared parts of her unseen by any man other than himself. His breath caught. He stared, afraid that she might vanish if he so much as blinked.

  Look at her! A goddess stepped down to earth. His eyes burned in their sockets. What he had imagined to be skill in reproducing her image, now, when faced with her reality, seemed uninspired.

  What happened to that insidious black dress that covered every square inch of enticing flesh? She knew he hadn’t planned to attend. Why did she choose tonight to share that soft skin with the fawning likes of . . . his brother! Nicholas gnashed his teeth. A searing pain burned through his gut. Other eyes, interested masculine eyes, viewed the prize that he regarded as his alone. Almost in insult, his brother put his hand on her cinched waist, gazed at her sweet breasts, trussed up like plump pigeons on a platter, straining at the top of her gown. Nicholas clenched his fists.

  Perhaps she’d prefer the company of a well-mannered gentleman, William had said. She certainly was enjoying one now. Look at her smile and twirl and laugh, a proper lady dancing with the equally elegant Marquess of Enon. And her eyes, they positively glistened when William stroked the side of her face.

  “Bloody hell.” He slumped against the rough bark pressing his back. “She dances to his fiddle all right. Doesn’t she realize what he’s about?”

  He drained his flask, disappointed to find insufficient liquid to burn away the image of his love in his brother’s arms.

  He should leave; he should turn away and crawl back to the carriage if his leg refused to cooperate. But the sight of Emma kept him transfixed. Just as in his painting Actaeon couldn’t turn his head away from Artemis, Nicholas could not turn his gaze from Emma. There was irony in the comparison, he thought. Perhaps he should have used his own likeness for Actaeon rather than that of Thomas.

  A cool breeze blew, making him wish for the comfort and solitude of his carriage, when Emma ran to the terrace door as if she knew he waited. If he were to leave now, she’d see him sulking away. Just like the goddess, she’d turn him into a wild stag with just one glance, he thought in his alcohol-induced state. He smiled, or tried to smile. It would serve him right to be a wild, rutting stag.

  EMMA STEPPED OUTSIDE, WRAPPING HER ARMS ABOUT her shoulders, hoping the cool air would chase the memory of the Marquess’s suggestive proposals from her mind. How could he consider such an arrangement? Was there something about her that suggested she might comply? Her lace-clad hand brushed at the corner of her eye, knocking her spectacles slightly askew.

  “You appeared to enjoy yourself.”

  Chambers’s voice startled her. Squinting in the dark, she located the white points of his collar. As her vision adjusted, the whole man separated from the surrounding night, from his narrowed accusing eyes, to the underlying grace of his nonchalant lean against the trunk of a substantial tree.

  Relief bubbled through her. The Marquess’s remarkable resemblance to his brother had only served to remind Emma how long it had been since she enjoyed Nicholas’s company. She had missed his wit, and charm, and . . . Suddenly recalling the reason she chose not to share his company, she quickly reined in her emotions.

  “I thought you were not planning to attend the dance,” she said, steeling her spine.

  “I changed my mind.” His words carried a slight slur, probably not noticeable to someone not as familiar with the cadence and timbre of his voice as she. He advanced a bit awkwardly on her position near the terrace wall. Light spilling from the inside activities captured him briefly. Her breath caught. With the exception of his loosely tied cravat and his high collar, he wore all black, allowing him to blend into the very night. Indeed, she felt surrounded by his exotic expansive presence. Tremors raced down her spine.

  “I had thought to come here and ask you to dance, Emma.” His step was unsure. She noted he leaned a little heavier on his walking stick as he approached. “Would you have danced with me?”

  Her gaze shifted from his leg to his face. “Of course. Naturally, I would—”

  He placed a glove-clad finger to her lips. It lingered a moment then slipped beneath her chin, raising her lips as if for a kiss. It had been so long, her lips parted in anticipation.

  “Would you have allowed me to slide my hand down your side like so?” He placed his hand under her arm at the top of the satin and slowly dragged his fingers down her side till they settled on the cinch of her waist. Heat burst fr
om the path like sparks from a smoldering log. She savored the sensation, remembering her foolish edict against his touch. How could she have denied herself this simple pleasure?

  “. . . as you allowed my brother?”

  Oh, but his brother’s touch did not reach deep inside her, causing her breath to turn short and choppy the way Nicholas’s did.

  “It was a necessary posture for the dance,” she explained, though in truth Nicholas’s talented fingers made her skin tingle as if nothing separated him from her flesh. His touch barely seemed proper. “If we were to dance, you would—”

  He raised his brow. “I saw him study your breasts just so.” His lids lowered seductively, calling forth an answering heat across her chest. “Was that a necessary posture as well?”

  The slant of his brows combined with a hardened edge to his tone registered a warning. She gasped, stepping backward to force distance between them. Yet he advanced as she retreated, his fingers tightening on her waist. Although they moved beyond the arc of light from the ball-room, music from within merged with the night air, a reminder of guests just inside the door.

  Damp stone brushed her back. Trapped in the shadowed corner of the terrace wall and the school exterior, she could retreat no more.

  He pushed forward till the satin-covered tips of her breasts brushed the front of his black vest. A brandy scent coated his words.

  “You laughed and smiled in his arms.” His fingers pressed tight on her waist like ill-placed stays. His lips grazed her cheekbone. “Why aren’t you smiling for me, Mrs. Brimley?”

  “Because you are frightening me.” Her voice shook, the constriction in her throat making words difficult.