Page 2 of His Scandalous Lessons
Anne lifted her chin. “Please tell him Miss Anne Sheffield is here to speak with him urgently.”
“Of course,” he intoned, opening the door for her. “May I take your cloak, Miss Sheffield?”
“No.” She wanted him to leave before she changed her mind. “No, thank you.”
“Very good, miss. If you’ll wait in the front parlor, please.”
Anne was surprised to find the parlor so pleasantly decorated and tasteful. Gleaming dark furniture was set against dozens of beautiful landscape paintings, each one displayed as if in a gallery. She would have said it had a woman’s touch, but perhaps Mr. Grey had intended that to make his usual guests feel at ease. From what she knew of him based on the gossip, he was a renowned lover. Considerate, and — they said — as handsome as the devil. More than one lady had blushed in Anne’s presence when sharing news of his escapades.
Stanton Sheffield was less kind — he loathed the man. He considered Mr. Grey to be a manipulative bastard who used underhanded means to push through progressive bills that were changing the very fabric of British society.
In the world of politics, Mr. Grey’s reputation oscillated between devious and considerate. Publicly, he was known as a donor forcauses. Women’s suffrage, worker’s rights — things her father scoffed at due to his belief in the God-given birthright of the aristocracy. A world that, to her mind, was fading into obsolescence as businessmen, inventors, and merchants grew richer than nobility.
Anne knew Mr. Grey’s machinations were a source of frustration for her father. He did not only donate to causes; he manipulated and blackmailed Members of Parliament into supporting them. Of course, they never let on the reason of their sudden about-faces, but the whispers were enough.
Mr. Richard Grey, renowned lover and most notorious rogue in London, was a Machiavellian schemer to rival Anne’s father.
And that was exactly the sort of man she needed.
The only difficulty was in getting Mr. Grey to agree to her plan. And she intended to be very,verypersuasive.
Anne stared up at a painting, gathering her courage. She noticed, then, that Mr. Grey had more than one painting by this particular artist. Each was more striking than the last, vivid arrays of color splashed across the canvas. They sketched the outlines of beaches at dawn, the tempestuous waves of the sea, the gradient of the sands.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Then, a voice as smooth as honey: “Miss Sheffield.”
Anne turned and couldn’t stop herself from sucking in a breath. She’d heard that Mr. Grey was handsome, but she didn’t expect him to be as beautiful as some Biblical seraph. Like warrior angels in paintings, his hair gleamed like spun gold and his eyes were the most startling shade of blue she had ever seen. It wasn’t their color that surprised Anne, but the intensity. The way they frankly and shamelessly assessed her as if Mr. Grey were trying to picture her stripped bare and vulnerable.
It was a heated look, yes. It was also unnervingly astute, as if she were a cog missing from some clockwork contraption, and he were an inventor trying to figure out where she belonged. Where he could place her. Perhaps, how he could use her.
But, then, Anne had grown accustomed to men using her.
She planned to use this one back.
Anne looked away first, back to the painting of the Cornish coastline. The name signed at the bottom was Caroline Stafford, who Anne recognized as the Duchess of Hastings. Her Grace’s paintings were all the rage among thebeau mondefor their distinctive style and vivid coloring. Anne had met the duchess before. She even wrote to compliment her work; no other intimacies were allowed, since her father had all her correspondence read.
“You enjoy Her Grace’s work,” she murmured. “You have several of her paintings.”
Mr. Grey moved to stand beside her. “Do you like them?”
“The strokes show a lack of restraint,” she said. Then, with a small smile, she added, “But the duchess does this on purpose. It adds to the wildness, the...” He was staring at her now, and Anne tried not to squirm under his scrutiny. Her smile disappeared. “...The atmosphere,” she finally finished. “I think they’re extraordinary. But I suppose she must hear that often.”
“I’ll still be certain to inform her of your compliments,” he said. “But something tells me you didn’t come to my house in the middle of the night to compliment my choice of art.”
“No.” She sighed. “No, I didn’t.”
How did she go about asking for his help? It was scandalous, what she came here for. Immoral. But she was desperate, and sometimes desperate women did regretful things to survive.
He interrupted her thoughts. “Would you like me to ring for tea?”
“No,” she said. “I would not like tea.”
“Then if I may be so bold, I find the easiest thing in this situation is simply to tell me what you want.”
“I suppose you’re not at all surprised,” she murmured, as if to herself. “This can’t be the first time a woman has shown up on your doorstep.”
“That’s true,” he answered. “But not the daughters of Prime Ministers.”
“What about the daughters of men who loathe you?”
