Page 2 of Love Lessons for a Lady

It was Monday, which meant he was expected at Balderbrook’s Institution for Genteel Ladies to teach dance lessons from ten until noon. He did the same on Wednesdays. On Thursdays, he gave violin lessons in the morning and pianoforte lessons in the afternoon at the academy, which required him to stay for luncheon.

He’d become convinced over the weeks that his taking the midday meal at Balderbrook’s Institution for Genteel Ladies was not entirely due to convenience as Mrs. Crenshaw, the headmistress, had initially alluded.

Nevertheless, the position paid remarkably well—far above the usual wages for dance and music lessons, in truth. Aston had even acquired several more pupils for private lessons as a result. What was more, he’d signed a contract for an entire year, renewable at his discretion. He’d have been a fool to turn down such a lucrative and secure offer, and Aston was no fool.

However, the finishing school’s students—many of the instructors too—gawped at him as if he were a sweetmeat or a pastry they longed to gobble up. He, therefore, kept his demeanor coolly professional, although his wicked sense of humor threatened to burst forth on numerous occasions.

Infatuations were an expected and common hazard of males in his position. Regardless, experience had taught Aston that impressionable young women easily became enamored of male instructors. Even married matrons had been known to develop a tendre.

Toward that end, Aston generally selected one of the mousiest instructors to model the dance steps with him, and then he stood to the side and critiqued the students as they paired off and practiced the steps. Truth be told, there was one teacher at Balderbrook’s Institution for Genteel Ladies, Miss Chasity Noble, he’d very much like to sweep into his arms and whirl around the dance floor. Unfortunately, she moved with natural feminine grace and was far from dowdy or mousy and, therefore, off-limits.

Willowy with creamy blond hair and dark indigo eyes like the ocean’s deepest depths, she barely glanced in his direction these past two months. Miss Noble was all starch and no-nonsense. The quintessence of poise and propriety. When she raised an imperial winged eyebrow at a mischievous or overly enthusiastic student, the girl’s remorse was instant and genuine.

In Aston’s opinion, the perfectly proper Miss Noble could use a lesson or two or ten in having fun and enjoying life. She was far too austere for one so young. But then again, most teachers’ employment depended on their severity and self-control.

Shoving the last piece of toast into his mouth, Aston rose from the table that also served as his desk. As he wiped the crumbs from his lips with one hand, he crumpled the letter from his grandfather in the other. A cocky grin tipping his lips upward, he tossed the wad over his shoulder toward the fireplace.

“Huzzah!” he whooped when his mark hit home.

Greedy orange, crimson, and blue flames licked the foolscap before devouring the paper with a series of crackles and snaps in mere seconds. No remorse or regret flooded Aston—only relief.

A cold, wet snout nuzzled Aston’s hand, and Roi snuffled into his palm.

He brought his gaze around to his ratty, mongrel dog, whose favorite sleeping spot was the equally ratty armchair. Aston had rescued the pup from the streets two years ago. He’d given the skinny, filthy mutt a regal name—Roi was French for King—simply because it amused him to do so.

He and Roi had become the best of friends and were rarely apart. Roi even accompanied him to his lessons, though the dog snoozed in the dated buggy Aston drove. He and Roi were two lonely wretches making their way in a world that didn’t favor outcasts.

Though Aston had been born into the lap of luxury and never wanted for anything—except love, that is—he’d eschewed those comforts for freedom and independence.

Not to mention self-respect and dignity.

He thought he rather understood those unruly, uncouth Americans in that regard. They’d chosen hardship, privation, and adversity rather than succumb to the dictates of what they considered an oppressive ruler.

Never mind that that viewpoint wasn’t shared by their British counterparts.

Ideals and experiences skewed one’s perspective. Didn’t opponents on the battlefield both appeal to the same Almighty God for favor and victory?

“Here you go.” Aston offered Roi a piece of toast. “We must be on our way shortly, my friend.”

Roi cocked his shaggy ebony head, and though he licked his chops, he didn’t accept the offering. His coal-black-eyed gaze darted to the table.

Once. Twice. Thrice

“Greedy bugger.”

Chuckling, Aston forked the remaining small beef steak onto the plate. He added an egg and the disdained piece of buttered toast.

“That was to have been my luncheon, rascal.”

He’d have to settle for an apple and another piece of toast. Perhaps, Mrs. Crenshaw would ask him to share the midday meal after dance lessons at Balderbrook’s Institution for Genteel Ladies again. She’d done so multiple times this past month, and he’d gratefully accepted. For a finishing school, the menu was surprisingly sumptuous and diverse.

Except…last week, Mrs. Crenshaw had placed her hand upon his knee under the table and given a decidedly unvirtuous squeeze. Her matronly eyes possessed a hungry, besotted glint for all of her stern and decorous demeanor.

Aston hadn’t quite worked out how to discourage her without causing offense. Was Mrs. Crenshaw the sort who became spiteful and vindictive if her overtures were rebuffed?

Weren’t all women?

No, upon reflection, forgoing luncheon today at Balderbrook’s Institution for Genteel Ladies was a far wiser choice. He’d simply save his appetite for dinner and work out a way to avoid dining at the private seminary henceforth. Except for Thursdays, of course when he was there all day and was expected to eat with the staff. Unless he claimed Roi needed a walk during luncheon and brought his lunch with him as he did the other two days a week.