Anne Mariner was under the distinct impression that Nevan—who liked to boast that he knew more about her than any other man in London—thought her an idiot.
That belief, she thought, seemed rather unfounded.
She glanced over their surroundings, her family's library. It consisted of oak shelves overflowing with books, most of which were hers, and all of which she had read. That did not suggest idiocy, did it?
Besides that, Nevan had often come to her for help with Shakespeare and arithmetic and French and…well, most of his school subjects, come to think of it. And all this in spite of the fact that he was four years her elder.
"Anne, are you listening?"
She didn't like to toot her own horn, but when she considered it, she realized that she had single-handedly gotten Nevan through primary, secondary and university education.
He should be thanking her!
"Anne! Have you attended to a single word I've said?"
Of course she had! He had been lying through his teeth about some nonsense concerning a godson and goddaughter and Oxford and…oh my, he did not look happy…
Anne made another discovery: it was rather difficult for Nevan to know all of her brilliant opinions if she didn't actually say them out loud.
"I'm sorry Nevan," she stuttered, darting an embarrassed look at his companion, a green-eyed boy with feminine features.
"So would you kindly say whether you accept the proposal?" Nevan asked in a loud, impatient voice. At the annoyed look on her face he immediately lowered his voice. "Will you have Mr. Oliver's sister here to stay with you as soon as you can or won't you?"
The slight young woman shifted uncomfortably in her muslin morning dress. "I would be happy to have her company, of course, but…I'm not entirely understanding why she can't hire a house with her aunt or someone?"
"Eh, circumstances at the farm wouldn't allow Miss Oliver's aunt to leave Norfolk. And the poor girl has no other relatives," he added mournfully.
"I see. Mr. Oliver," she addressed this youth shyly, "I hope you don't think me abominably rude—"
"—I'm sure that is what he's beginning to think, Anne—"
"Oh, I am sorry!" she cried, flushing. "But I'm also sorry to say, Nevan, that I know you're lying to me outright."
This time, both Nevan and his companion were the ones shifting uncomfortably.
"I truly don't understand," Anne admitted. It was a feeling she was not fond of. "I don't see why I'm to lie as well, and say I went to school with Miss Oliver when I've never before met her. It would be more proper if you took Miss Oliver to stay with your aunt, Nevan."
Nevan grimaced at the thought of his snooty aunt keeping an eye on his volatile ward.
Miss/Mr. Oliver suddenly leapt into the conversation. "Can't we tell her? You must trust her?"
"My dear Freddy, Anne is the soul of discretion. It's her hired help I don't trust."
Behind the closed door, Letitia could have sworn she heard an indignant sniff.
Anne's face did not reveal her annoyance at being talked about as if she weren't in the room, only saying: "I hope nothing serious has happened, Nevan?"
Nevan's eyes inadvertently roamed to Leitia's face. Something serious? He found that she had been sneaking a look at him also, and their gazes met. "I've yet to find that out," he murmured, eyes still on Letitia.
He shook himself from his reverie, however, turned back to Anne then swiveled to look at Letitia once more. He sighed and muttered two words from the corner of his mouth: "Show her."
Letitia complied. Like a conjurer performing a magic trick, she tipped her hat off her head with one hand and undid her hair tie with the other so that her auburn waves poured forth around her shoulders.
Anne, who did not easily lose her cool exterior, gasped. "Oh my…"
Nevan hid a smile at the wondrous transformation and Letitia's beauty. "Miss Oliver,"—he silently indicated the youth beside him— "grew up on the farm and is not yet accustomed to London manners. If I'm to bring her out into society, I need your help, Anne."
Blue eyes still wide, Anne shook her head. "Nevan, you know I'm no social butterfly. My fashion taste is only so-so, I'm only an adequate dancer—"
"I'll help the rest of the way. I don't have five girl-cousins and a long line of mistre…I don't have five girl-cousins for nothing."
Nevan could have sworn under his breath for the slip of the tongue. There was no need to blab to two pure-minded girls about his doings behind closed doors.
"But I still don't quite understand…" Goodness, was this state going to be a perpetual one? Anne wondered.
Nevan promised: "I'll explain everything to you before Miss Oliver 'comes into town' on Friday, but for now, we have to be off. Before Miss Oliver has her lessons…Mr. Oliver is going to learn a few things as well."
Before he could stop himself, Nevan had directed another discreet look at the brunette, who smiled in response. He looked away, asking himself: was this habit going to become a perpetual one?
**
The next scene to grace Anne's normally silent library was, though she would not have thought it possible, even more exciting than the one before.
Always on top of things, Anne had already begun setting plans into motion for Letitia's stay at the Mariner household. She had begun writing a letter to hire an abigail who would act as Letitia's chaperone and lady-in-waiting. As she wrote, though, her mind still struggled with the revelation that Nevan's ward was a woman dressed as a man.
Just as Anne dipped her quill into ink, another visitor burst into the library. Upon seeing him, the girl flew out of her chair.
Neither Zain Latham's disheveled, sun-caressed hair nor his panting boded well, the girl thought ominously. Having rushed into the room, the youthful baronet skittered towards Anne.
"Save me!"
"What on—"
Hot on his heels, Anne soon discovered, was her butler, who slid to a more dignified stop at the library door's threshold. "Miss Mariner, I apologize, I told him I would ask if you were available and –"
"And clearly, she is available," cut in Zain impudently.
The butler shot a look of dislike at my lord, correcting himself in an icy voice: "I intended to ask whether Miss Mariner wished to see Lord Latham at all."
Anne felt guilty for being so amused by both Zain's improper behavior and the butler's stuffy expression.
Again, it was Zain who responded for her: "Of course she wishes to see me!" He paused, then looked over at Anne, uncertainty flittering into his face. "Don't you?"
Fighting a smile, Anne calmly thanked and dismissed her butler. The man began to swell up indignantly but before he could speak, Zain had shooed him out the door. Anne sighed, lightly rubbed a temple and shook her head. If Miss Oliver wanted a lesson in propriety, Anne thought, she certainly should not go to Lord Latham.
This sentiment was probably heightened when, without warning—which was how Lord Latham did everything—Zain swooped down on Anne, took her face in his hands and pressed his warm lips to the corner of her mouth. "My hero," he pronounced, breath tickling her ear before he lifted his head to smile down on her.
She desperately hoped he would mistake the flush coming into her features for one of mortification and not pleasure. "Z—my lord!"
"Hm?" He tilted his head questioningly, fingers resting on her neck and collarbone now.
Anne moved away suddenly, choking out: "That was not proper…a-at all!"
A pout flitted into his face when she moved out of his touch. "Pish-posh," he said insolently. "You have very tired notions about propriety."
"And you have no notions at all," Anne shot back.
He grinned at the accusation. "Quite right. Shall I reiterate that with a demonstration?" He inched towards her and her heart sped up when she realized he was about to take her into his arms and….
She backed away, hastily retreating behind a chair.
Zain's smile widened, but instead of pursuing her, he dropped into an armchair.
And now, though Anne, she, a single, marriageable young lady, was locked in a room with a bachelor. Not just any bachelor, though. One whom she was growing incurably fond of. And also one who was fully unconscious, Anne thought melancholically, of the fact that Anne's mother did not approve of the match. In fact, the deluded boy seemed to think that Anne's mother quite liked him.
Recalling this issue, Anne suddenly panicked at the thought of what her mother would say if she discovered Zain had called on Anne yet again.
"Lord Latham, my mother will be here shortly," she said in voice that was louder than usual. "Or if you like, allow me to fetch her."
Adorable creature, Zain mused, as he regarded her hands, kneading her pastel blue skirts. As if she didn't know he had come to see her and her alone.
"No need for that, though I'd be happy to speak with her mother. We seemed to have reached a wonderful understanding on gardening and fashion last we spoke, don't you think?"
Anne was bereft of speech. "Last they had spoke" Anne's mother had suggested that Zain cared about his clothes more than any school girl in London should.
The issue separating the two (though Zain did not know it), was the issue which has plagued man for centuries: money. Zain had come into his estate after his father had exhausted himself gambling most of it off and Zain's own gambling pursuits had not helped any. The Latham estate was greatly encumbered and so, despite his charm and handsome looks, Lord Latham was not a catch in the marriage market.
Another thing: Mrs. Mariner did not see why Anne's eyes kept straying to Zain when she had Nevan Stafford and his riches right in front of her. The two had grown up together and the man had everything a young woman, just out, could desire in a husband. Granted, he was a little unscrupulous when it came to loose women but otherwise…what could be more natural than a marriage between the two?
A marriage for love, Mother. Would that be so unnatural? Anne had wanted to shout.
But she hadn't. She had yet to stand up to that steel-spined woman.
"Please," Zain broke into Anne's thoughts, sublimely unconscious of all this trouble, "sit down away from the fireplace—you look a little flushed from the heat."
Anne narrowed a glance at him for the comment, but complied. "My mother will be here shortly, sir," she repeated, eyes cast to the floor.
"I couldn't care less, Anne," he informed her, "since I doubt your mother has any need for these." He then pulled a holder of blue-tinged violets from his pocket and laid it on Anne's lap. The holder, she saw, was meant to be pinned on a dress. "I'll hazard a guess that you're wearing a dress tonight that will match them?
He had a teasing gleam in his green eyes and she couldn't help smiling. In the short time they'd been acquainted, he'd learned to know her well.
"They're very lovely," she said in her quiet voice.
In an equally soft voice: "I had the hope they would do their wearer justice." Anne blushed again, still unused to his easily dropped compliments, his unmasked adoration for her.
"Will you wear them for my sake, Anne?"
That one last word went off like a warning bell in her head. "Miss Mariner," she corrected under he breath.
He'd heard her. The smile froze on Zain's face. "The devil it is," he swore, suddenly, making as if to take her by the shoulders and shake the ardent feelings that he felt into her. But he'd stood up so suddenly that he hit the table Anne had been writing on and toppled the ink well over. It, of course, elected to fall onto his waistcoat.
"Damn it."
"Oh, your lovely clothes." Like her mother, Anne knew how much thought Zain put into his raiment each day. Without thinking, she pulled her handkerchief out and began dabbing at his waistcoat. Although the man gave the article of clothing a pained expression, he manfully looked back to the girl's bent head. "Anne, will you look at me!"
"Miss—"
"God, I don't care!" he expostulated. "I don't care what society says; I never have regarded it. Nevan calls you by your given name all the time, does he not?"
She started at the jealous gleam in his eye. "Yes, but he has known me since…"
"Childhood. Yes, I know. But Anne, you have no need to speak to me as if I were a stranger, instead of the man who cares for you...more than anyone could." Anne felt her breath catch at this, but did not meet is eyes. More gently now, Zain lifted her head up. "And I think I've earned the right to say your name since, as I hope you know by now, I lo—"
He was cut short by the door's 'click' as it swung open. In the threshold stood Anne's mother, a petite woman with deceptively soft blue eyes.
Anne and Zain realized just how close they were, with Zain's hand resting on Anne's cheek and Anne's hand on his chest. They leapt apart, both blushing.
"Lord Latham, how kind of you to call on us. How is your family?"
***
Back in Grosvenor Square, the Viscount Stafford was frowning over the playing cards lying on the kitchen's table. The kitchen, he was happy to say, was not a place Nevan frequented. He preferred the solitude and luxury of his study or library or even his bedroom. Yet it was not his will but fate, here named Letitia Oliver, that had dragged him into the kitchen.
"This," thundered the Viscount, "is supposed to be a lesson on cards, not cooking!"
Unabashed, Letitia smiled over at him. "Piqued that I've already beat you three times at whist, sir?"
"It was beginner's luck!"
"I'll take that as a yes," Letitia responded airily. She turned back to the oven, opening it to pull a tray of tarts out.
Nevan grumbled: "If anyone finds you, a young boy, flittering over the ovens as if you were a cook—"
"Well, they shan't."
"But if—"
"You worry far too much…my lord," the brunette added after giving it a few seconds' thought.
"And you certainly do not treat me as your guardian or with any respect, come to think of it."
"You have my respect sir," Letitia assured him seriously. "Whether you deserve it or not remains to be seen..."
"Little minx," he accused, tossing a napkin at her.
Her husky laugh rang out. "In all seriousness, sir, I am utterly grateful to you and your lessons. I now know more about men's clothing, mannerisms, and gambling than I ever thought I would."
Nevan's conscience twinged at that. "Yes, but do remember to disremember all that after tomorrow, when you're a girl again."
Instead of assuring him on this point, she gave him a command. "Open up."
"Eh?"
Letitia had a cherry tart between her flour-touched fingers. "Don't you wish to try my cooking, sir?"
"No, ma'am, I do not. I told you not to come in here in the first place." With that, he turned his head and began to read the paper. "And I'm not hungry."
But from the corner of his eye, he saw that Letitia was hanging her head dejectedly.
"Yes of course not. It was wrong of me to ask."
Letting out a noise of frustration, Nevan beckoned her back. "Alright, I'll try one. I hope tis not poisoned though."
"Not this batch, sir."
Before he could say anything else, she'd leaned in far closer than he'd anticipated, the scent of cherries and flour hanging about her still.
Letita's palm rested on Nevan's firm, toned arm for a moment before she slipped a tart into his mouth.
And reveled in the change in his expression.
His eyelids shut over his once-frowning eyes and she watched as he slowly chewed on the tart, a small sound of satisfaction escaping him.
"Well?"
She tried to fight back her amusement as he rose, pushed her aside, and attacked the rest of the tarts.
**
Distrustfully, Zain eyed Anne's butler, who was beckoning to him with one finger. After an awkward encounter with Anne's mother, Lord Latham had been on his way out of the white mansion. But the corpulent man was standing near the front door and looked as if he were dying to tell him a secret.
"What is it?"
"Shh, softly sir. I only wished to inform you of something sir."
This did not soften the expression on Zain's face. Lord Latham was normally easygoing, but the Mariners' butler clearly did not like him, so why should he give him the time of day? Or listen to him, for that matter?
"Yes?"
He was curious, that's why.
"I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier, sir, but I had my reasons."
"Apart from your intense dislike for me?'
"Yes, sir, apart from that."
Despite himself, Zain resisted the urge to chuckle. "Well?" he asked more sternly.
"You see, sir, I did not think it proper for you to see Miss Mariner alone, as I have information that she is lately betrothed."
The words acted like dark magic. In a trice, Zain's whole body had tensed up and his face had become hard as stone. "It's a lie," he hissed.
"No, sir, I would never lie about such a matter. I heard him, with my own ears sir, ask Miss Mariner if she would 'accept the proposal.' And it would make a lot of sense if she said yes," the butler said innocently. "Seeing as how their families are so close and all."
"But who! Who was it!" Zain demanded wildly, taking the butler by the collar.
"The Viscount Stafford of course, sir."
**
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