At least she’d been able to convince him to reconsider allowing her to teach him. It would have been beyond embarrassing to have had to explain to Beau and Mama why Lord Elmwood wanted nothing to do with her. He’d made her feel like a complete ass. And she had been an ass. But she would make it up to him. She would be the very best tutor in London. She would ensure he knew precisely how to behave in every social situation. Why, by the time she was through with him, Lord Elmwood would be the catch of the Season. A few whispered remarks behind her hand to the right debutantes and he would have the ton’s most beautiful and accomplished girls clamoring for his attention. That’s what Annabelle could do for him. And she would. To make up for her earlier rudeness.
Besides, Lady Courtney was right. The man was sinfully good-looking. It wouldn’t take much to turn him into the Season’s catch. His clothing already appeared on-point. Everything she’d seen him wearing to date looked positively smashing on him. Beau had obviously already helped him in that department. It didn’t hurt that Lord Elmwood’s stomach was flat, his waist was trim, his shoulders were broad and— ahem. That sort of thinking was not helpful. She’d do well to think of Lord Elmwood as the brother of her future sister-in-law, who merely needed her help, and nothing more.
As to that. Lord Elmwood clearly did need help. He was too blunt. Announcing to the room at large that they’d already met and asking to speak to her privately hadn’t been the proper thing to do, but something about his brashness had sent a rush up her spine. She wasn’t used to men saying exactly how they felt and behaving how they wished. She was used to the art of subtlety and the game-playing inherent in the ton, where strict rules governed everyone’s every thought and deed.
It seemed a shame to cure him of such a novel habit, but Lord Elmwood couldn’t go around saying whatever he wished to everyone he met at parties. That wouldn’t do. Though the thought did make her smile. Heaven knew it would be refreshing to hear him take down a few of the most obnoxious blowhards with his brashness.
No. No. She’d explain to Lord Elmwood precisely how he must say things in such a manner that they might be construed in more than one way. After all, if one could deny one’s misconstrued intent, one never had to answer for one’s insults. The ton loved nothing more than the least obvious way to say a thing. It was dreadfully complicated and took far longer than it should, but, well, it was simply the way things were done. And if she were to be a helpful tutor, she would teach Lord Elmwood the precise way things were done in their world.
Propping a second pillow under her head and staring at the darkened ceiling, she spent more time than she cared to admit wondering why the man wasn’t already wed. According to Marianne, Lord Elmwood had left Brighton for the army at a young age. He’d been the eldest son, but the eldest son of a woodworker would do well to join His Majesty’s army.
Apparently, he’d joined the enlisted ranks as a lad and worked his way up to a commission. He’d been a captain when he’d learned of his deceased father’s title and ordered to come back to London. The Crown, it seemed, wanted its noblemen safe and sound on good, solid English soil, which was the same reason Beau had to work for the Home Office instead of fighting in the wars. Beau had claimed to be married to his work until he’d met Marianne. Perhaps that was also why Lord Elmwood had yet to take a bride.
But according to Marianne, her brother was interested in finding a wife. He had the title to secure, after all. Part of what Annabelle and her mother had been asked to teach him was how to go about properly courting a young lady of the ton. And there were quite a lot of them to choose from. The formal debut at the queen’s court had taken place last week—Marianne had made her debut and her beauty had been commented on by the queen herself—and the first ball of the Season was to be held in a matter of days.
Annabelle had briefly flirted with the notion of asking Lord Elmwood if he would pretend to court her. An outrageous notion, yet one that might fool Mama for the remainder of the Season. But that would be selfish of her, Annabelle ultimately concluded. She still had no intention whatsoever of taking a husband, though Lord Elmwood, however, would no doubt prove to be a prime catch. She mustn’t deprive those poor, ignorant debutantes, who actually looked forward to marriage, of an excellent prospect.
Annabelle turned onto her side and hugged the pillow to her chest. Even though Lord Elmwood had made it clear that she was the last lady in London he’d ever want to court, they’d left things on a high note. He would be coming by in the late morning tomorrow to begin their lessons.
The thought filled Annabelle’s middle with butterflies. She tamped them down. After all, it was merely the challenge that excited her. She hadn’t had anything this interesting and worthwhile to spend her time on in years. She was about to make the newly minted Earl of Elmwood the most eligible gentleman of the Season.
Chapter Seven
When David arrived at Bell’s town house the next morning, it was as if he’d stepped into a conservatory instead of a foyer. Large vases of flowers lined every conceivable space in the entryway and stood side-to-side upon the table and along the wall near the salon. There were roses, lilies, daffodils, and a variety of other flowers he couldn’t even name, in all shapes, sizes and colors. The sweet smell was nearly overpowering.
An older blond lady stuck her head around one of the vases on the corner of the longest table. “Oh, Lord Elmwood, is that you?”
David straightened his back as if called to attention. “Madame?”
The older woman emerged from behind the vases and presented her hand. She was wearing a dark-blue gown. “I’m Lady Angelina, the Dowager Marchioness of Bellingham. I’m so pleased to meet you. Pardon me for the informality, but I was away yesterday when you came to visit.”
Not at all certain he was paying proper respect to a marchioness, David bowed over her hand, while she fell into a curtsy. Bell’s mother was lovely. Lady Angelina was around fifty years old and had a trim figure and a beautiful face. She looked like an older version of her daughter. There was some graying hair at Lady Angelina’s temples, but he certainly could see the family resemblance. She had the same arresting ice-blue eyes as both of her children.
David decided to say the thing that lingered on the tip of his tongue. “I can only guess you had as many suitors when you were Lady Annabelle’s age,” he said, glancing about at the flowers.
Lady Angelina flushed and David immediately regretted his remark. Damn. That was probably a forward thing to say, especially given that he didn’t know her well.
“I had several offers my first Season,” the older woman replied, smoothing a hand over the top of her head. “But Lord Bellingham quite swept me off my feet and we married quickly.”
“I see,” David said, not wanting to make her any more uncomfortable. He should limit his speech until he’d been properly tutored. He pivoted on his heel and cleared his throat. He’d already bungled the proper thing to say to a dowager marchioness. What was next? Er, what, precisely, was the proper thing to say when faced with so many flowers? “I’ve never seen so many flowers,” he finally uttered, feeling like an idiot.
Lady Angelina shook her head and lifted a large vase of daisies into her arms. “They’re for Annabelle,” she said with a sigh. “Word has clearly got out that she’s back in London.”