Page 1 of His Scandalous Lessons
Chapter 1
London, 1872
Anne Sheffield had always followed her father’s rules. He’d said them so often that she could recite each one, as instructed, while her thoughts screamed as if muffled from within four prison walls.
Many served as guidelines, principles of behavior intended to wear Anne down, little by little, until it appeared as if she had no opinions of her own.
Then there were Stanton Sheffield’s three most important rules:
1. Never leave the house without a bodyguard and chaperone.
2. Never speak to those who were not among her father’s allies in Parliament.
3. Never offer any insight beyond the weather and lady’s fashion.
In short, Anne was never to give anyone the impression she was more than an expensive vase: beautiful, but hollow.
Displayed for no purpose other than decoration.
As she had no friends to speak of, Anne’s father and her fiancé, the Duke of Kendal, designated themselves the arbiters of her dull, constricted little world. Anne was their weapon, privy to political conversations that ought never reach a lady’s ears — but this was information she kept to herself. Her father and Lord Kendal never had any reason to doubt that.
After all, she did not share opinions. She did not speak unless prompted. She kept her eyes meekly downcast. She showed no outward interest in gossip. Though Anne was well read, her expressions as she turned the pages never betrayed anything beyond lukewarm interest.
Her father’s allies in Parliament praised the Prime Minister for the daughter he had raised. She wasperfect, they declared. Their unspoken sentiment:perfectmeant shallow, brainless, and attractive.
A priceless artifact to display on the mantelpiece.
The privacy of her own thoughts became a sanctuary. It was also like screaming into a silent, empty abyss. No one heard her, no one saw her, and Anne could do nothing but one day plan for her escape.
Tonight, Anne Sheffield was going to break every one of her father’s rules.
She had planned this for months with the utmost care, waiting until her father left for a late meeting on Downing Street. The Prime Minister’s servants were as efficient as the crew of a ship, always on schedule, never deviating. She had long since memorized their movements, the pace of each individual footsteps. They counted down the hours she’d have alone with her own thoughts to plan and dream for that one day.
Tonight.
Anne donned her plainest dress and slipped quietly through the house. Once in the garden, she hurried out the back gate and onto the street. The misting rain gave her the perfect excuse to raise the hood of her cloak to obscure her features. She shivered. The early spring weather in London was not warm, but brisk and wet. She tightened the fabric around her, quickening her pace.
Not too fast, she thought.
Rationality fought instinct; she could not look suspicious. She must appear as if she knew precisely what she was about. If anyone happened to come home to St James's and recognized her—
No, Anne couldn’t think about that. In three months time, she would be the Duchess of Kendal, and there would be no escape for her then.
Anne turned onto the main road and hailed a hackney. Ignoring the critical look from the driver, she gave him the address of her destination in a firm voice.
She sounded calm; her heart was rioting.
What seemed like an eternity later, the hack rolled to a stop in front of a quaint checkered walk leading up to a black door that gleamed as if freshly painted. Anne let out a breath. She schooled her nerves so her facade was one of cool confidence as she exited the hack. No one could have known she had to think a chant ofinhale exhale inhale exhaleto compose herself.
Be brave. Knock.
The butler opened the door. Anne had expected surprise or even disdain for a woman on the doorstep of a bachelor’s residence in the early hours. But he shattered that assumption by maintaining a politely bland expression. She supposed many a lady had darkened this particular doorstep.
“May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Grey. Is he at home?”
“And whom may I ask is calling?”
