Her heart jolted in her chest and she shot him an incredulous look. “You plan on beginning your lessons in your bedchamber?”
Half of his face was illuminated by the lamplight. “Yes.”
“I cannot.”
Ian scowled. “Now that you are here, why worry about propriety?”
“Still I—” She couldn’t put into words what she was thinking. It wasn’t just about her reputation. She’d taken that risk as soon as she’d left her home unchaperoned in the middle of the night.
No, that wasn’t the entire source of her discomfort.
How could she put into words that she couldn’t step into his bedchamber, his intimate space? His scent, his large bed, his private room was too overwhelming.
She raised her chin and met his eyes. “You must choose another room.”
He scowled. It was clear he was used to getting his way. She was upsetting his plans, and he didn’t like it one whit.
She refused to be intimidated. He was upsetting her plans as well. If they were to work together, then he would have to become accustomed to being challenged.
Let the battle of wills begin.
Chapter Five
Grace stiffened her spine. She would not begin her lessons in Ian Swift’s bedchamber. He could consider her resistance the first step in his lessons.
Never make a lady uncomfortable.
She allowed herself another glimpse of the bed. Heavens, it must have been custom-made to fit his large frame.
“Will the library be a more acceptable choice for your delicate sensibilities?” His tone was caustic, not at all accommodating. She’d have to work on that as well.
“Yes.” Any place was better suited to her than his bedchamber.
He closed the door and steered her down the hall. She wasted no time in keeping up with his long strides. He stopped at another door at the end of the hall and held it open for her to pass. “I hope you find this more to your liking, my lady.”
Grasping her skirts, she swept inside, then stopped short to gasp in wonder. Row after row of books bound in supple leather lined the walls. Tall mahogany shelves held volumes on history, art, ancient Greek, and Roman architecture, even economics. One entire shelf held works of fiction by Jonathan Swift, Grimms’ fairy tales, and many others. Another held Shakespeare’s plays. A wheeled ladder hung on runners that could be moved back and forth to reach the books on the highest shelves. Two leather chairs were arranged before a fireplace, and a pearl-faced ormolu clock rested on the mantel. A desk sat before a tall bay window, and its surface looked similar to the desk she’d seen in his office at the Raven Club. Stacks of papers and ledgers were piled in the corner. A blotter and inkwell stood ready.
Grace imagined sitting in one of the leather chairs and reading as natural sunlight streamed through the window and illuminated the room.
“You read?” she asked incredulously as she stepped close to run her finger down the spines of a row of books on a shelf. Most of the aristocrats she’d met owned books, but they never bothered to read them.
One dark eyebrow shot upward. “From your tone, I take it you thought I didn’t know how.”
She pulled a book off a shelf. Hamlet by Shakespeare. “It’s just that…that I never pegged you as a scholarly type.”
He came close. “I don’t deny my club’s finances are of the utmost importance, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a good book.”
She met his gaze. “I suppose I owe you an apology. My opinion of you was a bit different.”
“An apology is not necessary. I cannot fault you for your opinion.” He stepped forward. “May I take your cloak?”
She allowed him to help her remove the garment. His fingers brushed her shoulders and seemed to linger a moment longer than necessary. His touch upset her balance, and she took a deep breath just as he whisked the cloak off her shoulders and draped it across one of the chairs.
To put distance between them, she stepped to his large oak desk. Her eyes were drawn to the stacks of papers and leather-bound books. “What are all these?”
“Club ledgers and correspondence. A ceaseless stream of work.”
Her fingers itched to open one of the ledgers, to study the figures and learn the true worth of the Raven Club. The value of his library alone was enough to pique her curiosity. She dropped her hand. Other than her maid, Rose, and her friend, Prudence, no one knew about her secret bookkeeping work for the widowed milliner, and she wasn’t about to enlighten him.
He motioned to the pair of leather chairs before the fireplace. “Please sit. Let us speak of how you plan to teach me.”
She felt safe discussing the topic, and she sat and smoothed her skirts. Instead of joining her, Ian walked to a sideboard and lifted a crystal decanter. “Would you like a drink?”
Grace didn’t normally imbibe in alcohol, but she needed all her nerves to be alone with him all evening. The simple brush of his fingers on her shoulders had been enough to disturb her senses. “Yes, please.”
He poured two fingers worth in a glass and offered it to her, then poured himself a full tumbler. “Brandy.”
Grace sipped the drink. Smooth and sweet, the brandy went down easily. She may not be a connoisseur, but she could appreciate fine French brandy.
He sat across from her and crossed his long legs at his ankles. “Where do we begin?”
She’d had a well-thought-out plan for her lessons, but as he sat across from her, his dark gaze watching her, her thoughts fluttered like leaves in a strong wind.
The library was intimate in a different way from his bedchamber. She couldn’t cease envisioning him here—sitting in the large leather chair before the hearth, reading a book with his stockinged feet resting on a stool.
She blinked, trying to erase the image. She didn’t want to think of him that way.
Approachable, likeable.
“Well?”
She cleared her throat. “A gentleman is expected to be elegant in both manner and dress.”
Elegant, yes. That was the first item on her mental list.
He tapped the edge of his glass. “I watch the men in my club. Most slouch over the tables. Drink in excess. Curse when they lose. I wouldn’t call their behavior ‘elegant’ by any means.”
“Perhaps. But do you believe those same men behave in a similar fashion in the ballroom?”
“Good God, I hope not.”
“Appearances are important,” she said. “We should begin with your clothing.”
“I’m aware my clothing is not as fashionable as you are accustomed to seeing on a man.”
“It’s far from fashionable. You dress like you stepped out of a boxing ring.”
He scoffed. “That’s because I frequently do. There’s no better way to judge a man than by his footwork in the ring.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Your dress is one of the first items on my list. Please stand.”
“Your wish is my command.” He downed his glass, set it on an end table, and stood.
Grace set her half-full glass beside his and rose. She slowly circled him, noting the jet shirt and trousers. The material appeared costly and the clothing well-made, but the shirt was outdated and not acceptable for a gentleman, certainly not an earl.