set his glass down and paced about the room, all too aware of Lottie’s anxious stare. Helping her would be a betrayal of his father’s trust, and hadn’t he already failed him enough?
Charles’s head snapped up as an idea struck him. But if he aided this Westix chit, perhaps she might be so grateful for his assistance she would assist him in locating the lost journals.
From her watchful perch, Lottie straightened in anticipation.
“I’ll assist you,” Charles said at last. “However, I’ll do so on one condition.”
She tilted her head in silent inquiry.
“You put on a shawl.”
She rolled her eyes playfully. “Very well.” She peered out the window and beamed victoriously up at him. “And your timing is perfect. She’s just arrived.”
Eleanor awaited her fate alone. She had been divested of her domino, wig and mask—all taken by the footman. Without the shield of those items she was left feeling exposed in her precarious surroundings, and far too vulnerable.
The double doors of the drawing room were closed and oil lamps cast a flickering golden light. A harp sat in the corner, its shadow stretching over the thick Brussels weave carpet like a great beast stretching for her. Childish fear nipped at her and left her with the urgent desire to lift her feet from the floor, lest it make a grab at her.
A glass of sherry sat in open invitation on an elegantly carved table beside the chair. If it hadn’t been for the bust of a woman with her breasts thrust out that was set behind it, Eleanor might have accepted the proffered indulgence.
But, while she appreciated the consideration, she was quite certain she could manage her nerves well enough on her own without the aid of alcohol. In fact, she knew she could. Murrays, after all, were strong.
The double doors parted and a woman with tumbling curls of dark hair appeared. A crimson gown hugged her trim figure and a black lace shawl lay over the swell of her generous bust, lending her a far more decent appearance than Eleanor had expected.
“I am Lottie.”
Her voice was as smooth and sensual as her face—the kind which left other women with a disquieted sense of inadequacy. Was it any wonder men paid for her time?
Eleanor hid the discomfiting thought behind a tight nod and had opened her mouth to speak when a tall man entered the room.
The low lamplight gleamed off his dark hair and shadowed his sharp jaw. His skin appeared golden beside the porcelain fairness of Lottie’s, as if he’d spent much time in the sun. The brilliant blue of his eyes practically glowed against his gilded skin.
He was, by anyone’s estimation, an extraordinarily handsome man.
Eleanor stiffened. “I was not told that a man would take part in my lessons.”
Lottie smiled easily. “Darling, how would you learn to properly converse with a man if you hadn’t anyone to practice on? Your mother knew it was a possibility and she trusts me.” She regarded the man. “And I trust him.”
He returned Eleanor’s curious stare with a nonchalance so casual she felt foolish for voicing her fears.
“What is his name?” She spoke with equal indifference, as though she was entirely unfeeling. Except that she wasn’t. Her insides trembled like set jelly and her bones ached from the rigidity of her muscles. “We haven’t been introduced.”
“I will allow my introduction when you permit yours.”
The man’s voice was deep and smooth. Eleanor lifted her chin a notch, uncertain if his response was meant in flirtation or insolence. Regardless, she wouldn’t deign to reply. She had not come here to be mocked.
“This is a prime example of why I’ve employed his assistance.”
Lottie threaded her hand through the crook of the man’s elbow and drew him closer. He appeared to hesitate before Lottie gave him a firm tug.
“One can never anticipate what another will say.” She gazed up at him pointedly. “He’ll add a level of spontaneity to our lessons. And, I assure you, flirting with me for practice will be nowhere near as exciting as with him.”
“Ladies don’t flirt.”
Eleanor’s gaze flicked to the man as he was led closer. He was tall, his chest broad and his waist and hips narrow where his breeches encased his strong thighs. Heat touched Eleanor’s cheeks, and something deep inside bade her to stand and raise herself to her full height, to meet whatever challenge his presence had thrown at her feet.
“Oh, but they do,” Lottie said in a softly chiding tone. “It’s slight, mind you. A subtle play of words slipping between two people as if it were a language only they knew.”
Lottie was right, of course. Both about flirtation and about the subtlety of it, like a carefully memorized dance. Eleanor had done it with Hugh. Twice. Both times had been immediately followed by a rush of heady excitement.
And wasn’t she the fool for having permitted herself to be so audacious?
Her heart flinched, the way it always did when she considered those rare quiet moments with Hugh. Lord Ledsey.
“This will proceed more smoothly if you are honest with yourself and with me.” Lottie kept her voice kind, taking the edge from the words. “There are things ladies are not supposed to do and yet still actually do—with finesse, mind you. I think we can both agree that flirtation falls within that category.”
Eleanor’s palms were sweating within the confines of her gloves. She wanted to run from the room, rip them from her hands and let the cold air wash over her hot skin. But she had been raised to be stronger than that.
“I’m amenable to that consideration.”
“Excellent.” Lottie’s easy smile returned.
But it wasn’t excellent. Not at all. The room was too dark, the walls too close, the expectation placed on Eleanor far too great. However, for all she did not wish to be at Lottie’s town house, receiving this instruction, she was, at her core, a Murray—and Murrays did not show fear. Even when they tasted the metal of it in their mouths and were subjected to the tingling of it up their spines.
She would do this, attract a suitable husband, and then she would pretend as though it had never happened. She peeked at the man once more—a curious thing her eyes kept doing. Did he have to be so very handsome? And did he have to stare at her so unabashedly?
“The sherry is for you,” Lottie pointed out. “If you’d like it for your nerves.”
While tempted, Eleanor feared reaching for the glass might result in her brushing one of those marbled breasts gleaming in the lamplight. No, she would hold firm to her original resolve.
“Thank you, I’m fine.”
Lottie clasped her naked hands together. “In that case, let us begin.”
