Page 3 of Love Lessons for a Lady

It was something to seriously consider.

Thank goodness Aston’s landlady, Mrs. Longsdon, was an excellent cook and a generous hostess. As a woman of some girth herself, who possessed a healthy appetite, she provided plentiful meals for her lodgers. If it hadn’t been for her taking him in eight years ago and waiving his rents until he earned the monies to pay her, Aston might’ve starved or ended up on the streets.

Or worse.

Her three sons had died in the Napoleonic Wars, and she needed someone to mother. Aston’s parents had drowned in a boating accident when he was three. And yet, he’d resolutely refused to return to his tyrannical grandfather’s home after their ugly argument.

Uncle Conley and Aston’s cousin Werner, who also lived with Grandfather, were little more than whimpering poltroons. Uncle was usually deep in his cups by late afternoon, and Werner was a sycophant and simpering weakling. If Grandfather’s ire was directed toward Aston, then Werner was safe from his wrath. Even if the corny-faced milksop was the rotter who generally caused the mischief Aston was blamed for.

Werner and Uncle Conley had been no more able to stand up to the viscount’s autocratic expectations and demands than the letter Aston had just thrown into the fire was capable of remaining uncharred. The viscountcy was doomed with those two next in line to inherit.

After placing the plate of food onto the floor, which Roi tore into with admirable gusto, Aston shrugged into his pecan-brown coat before wrapping his midday meal in a serviette. He tucked the simple fare in the outer pocket of his worn leather satchel. He’d placed today’s sheet music for dancing in the larger compartment earlier this morning.

He planned on introducing the students to the waltz today and cringed inwardly upon considering their immature reactions. Alas, no reputable dance instructor eschewed the waltz these days, even if it weren’t exactly de rigueur in the poshest homes yet.

Roi finished his meal and proceeded to groom himself in a most indecorous fashion.

“Must you behave so unseemly?” Aston raised a mocking eyebrow. “And after dining too?”

Roi snuffled an answer as he continued his morning ablutions.

Aston gathered the dirty dishes and cutlery and placed them on a tray. As was his usual routine, he’d set them outside his door when he left for the day, and they’d be gone when he returned. Mrs. Longsdon preferred that he eat in the dining room with the rest of her boarders, but as a frightened pup, Roi had barked and whined to such an extent that she’d relented and permitted Aston to take his meals in his rooms.

It had become a habit now. Aston paid extra each month for having the dog and for her cleaning his rooms too. She needed the coin, and Aston needed Roi.

After slipping his satchel’s strap over one shoulder, Aston placed his top hat on his head. With a snap of his fingers to Roi, he lifted the tray and left his chamber.

Eight years, he mused as he tramped down the corridor, his bag bumping his hip.

Roi’s nails clicked a soft staccato on the worn but clean wood floor as he followed at Aston’s heels. Extraordinarily intelligent, the dog had trained himself to pace Aston. House training had taken but a week, and the dog could open the door and fetch the news sheets too.

No longer destitute but certainly far from the lofty heights he’d once known, Aston considered his future as he descended the squeaky stairs. He’d become quite sought after in upper circles and had a tidy amount saved in the bank. He suspected much of his elite clientele resulted from his being the grandson of a lord and not Aston’s teaching abilities.

Not that he wasn’t a dashed good dance master and music teacher because he was. The chasm between Aston and his grandfather was no secret among the ton, however. Society liked nothing better than a bit of scintillating controversy as long as an outright scandal wasn’t the cause.

The truth of it was, Aston had grown rather bored giving lessons. Restlessness and discontent had leeched into his simple, orderly life. He wanted something else. Something more. Something undefinable he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Miss Chasity Noble’s delicate features flashed across his mind, and a slow smile arced Aston’s mouth upward. Why yes. A flirtation with the prim beauty might be just the sort of pleasant distraction he needed.

As long as Mrs. Crenshaw didn’t grow wise to his intent.

Yes, I have wondered who went to the effort to see us secretly placed at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women. I shall also confess to a natural curiosity about my parentage. But, in truth, I don’t want to know who placed me in the home or why. It would change nothing. I believe we are better off accepting our circumstances and pointing our energy and focus forward, not backward.

~ Miss Chasity Noble in response to a letter from Miss Mercy Feathers,

now Mercy Brockman

London Outskirts

Balderbrook’s Institution for Genteel Ladies

10 August 1818 - midmorning

Why on earth did Chasity recall that letter now of all times?

It had been over five years since she’d answered Mercy’s question. Unlike many of her friends, including Mercy, also raised at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women, Chasity didn’t possess a driving need to know why she’d been abandoned or who her parents were.

Honestly, she didn’t even mind that a careless, near-sighted cleric had recorded her name as Chasity Thomasina Lilith Shepard Noble, missing the other ‘t’ in Chastity.