The Tutor (House of Lords) by Meg Brooke

closer, he asked softly, “What were you talking about just now, with Leo?”
    “With Lord Sidney?” she asked. He had noticed, then. “Nothing of consequence.”
    The music began, and he took a few steps to set the rhythm before turning her into the swirl of couples. His face was very close to hers, his mouth inches from her ear. “He told you something about me, didn’t he?”
    “N—no, Your Grace,” she stammered. So it was true, then. He had done something wrong. He wouldn’t be worried about her discovering it if he hadn’t.
    He chuckled, the low sound raising gooseflesh on the bare skin of her neck and shoulders. “Liar.”
    She was sure she was blushing again. “Is it true?” she asked as she turned her again. She was just barely tall enough to see over his shoulder, and just past him the Earl and Countess of Stowe were waltzing. “Did you do whatever it is he accuses you of?”
    “So he didn’t tell you?”
    “No. Only warned me against you.” She could not quite explain why she was telling him this. Hadn’t her father always said that deception could be a useful tool? Where had the skills bred by his careful teaching gone?
    He sighed, his breath brushing her ear. She shivered involuntarily, knowing that he felt her do so. That low laugh again, and then he let out another slow breath, this one more deliberate. Then his lips brushed against her earlobe, just for a split second, but it felt as though lightning was dancing along her skin. Here was the man she had seen, that first day in the library. Since then he had behaved himself impeccably, but she had not forgotten that moment when he had smiled with the sun gilding his hair, looking every inch the rake he was reputed to be. What had brought that man out again? Whatever it was, she felt sudden panic rising up from her stomach, even as her whole body sang with electricity at his touch, his nearness.
    She must stop this, now, before it went too far. Perhaps it already had.
    “Please,” she whispered. “Please, don’t.” She had no idea how her feet were still moving. She felt dizzy.
    “Are you sure you don’t want me to?”
    She thought she might cry. “Yes,” she managed.
    “Very well,” he said, but she felt the firm pressure of his fingers on her back increase, and he pulled her a little closer. She clung to him, sure she would topple over if she didn’t.
    They finished the dance in silence. When the final strains died out and they had come to a stop, she let him escort her to the edge of the floor, but then she fled. She didn’t stop until she was in the carriage and headed for home.
     
     

EIGHT
     
    “Damn,” Charles muttered as he waited for Imogen to bid farewell to her friends. He had certainly made a muddle of things. He could not understand what had possessed him, out there on the dance floor. Had he actually allowed his lips to touch her? It was a bit of a haze, but he thought it might have happened. No matter what, he had behaved like the rake she thought he was. But there had been something so enraging about Leo’s smirk, about the way she had refused to look at him. Is it true?
    When they were in the carriage, he could feel Imogen staring at him in the darkness. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. He could feel her reproof in the thick silence that hung between them, and when they reached Danforth House she stormed upstairs without speaking to him, slamming the door behind her.
    It was only the next morning, when he came down to breakfast, that she glared at him across the table and said, “What were you thinking, Charles?”
    He sipped his coffee sedately. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
    “You must have done something to upset her,” Imogen insisted.
    Determined now to be as much of a nuisance as possible, he asked, “Who?”
    She groaned. “Miss Endersby, of course. Everyone saw her fleeing the ballroom after you danced with her. It was the supper dance, Charles. They all expected you to lead her