A Matchmaking Mismatch (Romance Retold #3)

Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

R uth hesitated for a moment. This lesson was proving to be very much like torture for her, much as she had tried to reduce the amount of physical contact between her and her pupil. It was difficult to teach touch without any touching. But the better she taught him, the more likely he was to succeed—which also meant her own success and, more importantly, her family’s well-being. She could steel her heart for this short lesson. She had to.

“This will be a perfect opportunity to take advantage of the unity that being on a team can foster. You will have plenty of chances for conspiring together.”

He chuckled. “You have put much thought into this.”

If he only knew how painfully true that was. “That is what you are paying me for, isn’t it?”

There was a slight hesitation before a nod. “I suppose so.”

“Very well. Some things you might try tomorrow evening”—if she said them quickly, it would be easier—“conspiratorial whispers, a soft hand on her back, small nudges—”

Philip put up a hand. “Wait, wait. You are going far too quickly. Conspiratorial whispers? Is this something I should be familiar with already?”

She shrugged. “It is just as it sounds.”

He made a pained expression. “Perhaps you have forgotten how easy I find it to ruin the easiest of tasks. Don’t forget what happened with the advice you gave me about maintaining eye contact. And if I found it easy to cover her with lemon tart from two feet away, I can only imagine what damage I might do at closer range.”

She suppressed a smile. The thought of Philip making a fool of himself was somehow irresistible. “What would you like me to do? Tell you exactly what to say in her ear?” Oh, please no. Surely her duties as the Swan didn’t extend as far as giving him the words to flirt with Miss Devenish.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t refuse such a suggestion if you were offering it,” he said with a laugh. “But no. I suppose I just feel…nervous. This is new territory for me. I don’t much like doing things I am not good at or haven’t had occasion to practice.”

She stared at him, imagining what it would be like to practice with him—to touch him intentionally. As a woman. “It is a whisper,” she said blankly. “Surely you have whispered before?”

Annoyance flashed across his face—and a hint of embarrassment. “Of course I have.” He put up a hand. “Forget I said anything.”

Ruth felt instant remorse. She was making him feel stupid, and that was exactly opposite of what she was meant to be doing. She needed to bolster his confidence. Even if it meant…

“Come,” she pulled him by the hand toward a chair. “Have a seat.”

His brows were still pulled together, but he obeyed, and she took the seat beside him. “Whisper something to me.”

He shot her another annoyed glance. “I am not in much of a whispering mood.”

“Fine. I will whisper something to you, then.” Perhaps it was for the best that he was frustrated. It would be a shield of sorts, knowing he was displeased with her. She leaned in toward him and clenched her eyes shut at the familiar scent of amber.

Her mind went blank, consumed with the fact that she was so close she could breathe him in. What was she going to say?

His face turned slightly toward her. “Well?”

She pulled her lips between her teeth and pulled back. “I don’t know what to say.”

He shot her an unimpressed look. “Allow me to try, then.” He leaned in toward her, cupping his mouth with a hand, and whispered, “You are a terrible teacher.” His breath tickled her ear and raised every hair on her neck.

She snorted slightly, and he pulled back.

“How was that?” he asked, a victorious cock to his brow.

She arranged her face into an expression of haughty superiority. “The delivery was impeccable, but I would advise you to choose less offensive content when you whisper to Miss Devenish.”

“Duly noted.”

Ruth nodded approvingly. If he wanted to play this way, she was happy to give as good as she was getting. “Now, for the hand on the back I mentioned, if you hear this sound”—she raised her hand behind him and brought it to his back with a thud against the solid mass of muscle. He jolted slightly, and she smiled to herself—“then you have done it too aggressively.”

He turned his head toward her, the corner of his mouth trembling slightly before he managed to control it. “Very helpful,” he said ironically. “Allow me to practice on you to ensure I understand.” He moved toward her, and she hurriedly rose from her chair to put distance between them. He caught her by the wrist and pulled her back toward him, his mouth stretched in a smile that was a perfect mixture of promised vengeance and amusement.

She struggled for a moment to get away, and he wrapped an arm around her to keep her in place, one of his hands pressing into her back. She stopped struggling, staring up at him with a challenge in her eyes and smile. She knew he would never lay a hand on her, even in jest.

Her smile faded, though, as he stared down at her, an intent look in his eyes, as if he saw something unexpected in her face. The pressure of his hand lessened, and he took a step back, blinking.

“Your injury,” he said. “Have I hurt you?”

She glanced down at her side. She had forgotten it entirely, but now that her attention was on it, it was stinging slightly. She shook her head.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I forgot myself.”

“I deserved it for goading you.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face and sat down again. “You learned all of this from your father? And from watching people in the Pump Room?”

It took her a moment to respond, surprised as she was by the change in subject. She sat down in the seat beside him again. “More or less.” Her observations had certainly not prepared her for how it would feel to be in love herself. It was more beautiful and more painful than words could capture.

He turned his body toward her. “And what of you?”

“What of me?” She tried to ignore the press of his knees against hers.

“When do you put into practice all this wisdom you have gleaned? When does the Swan get her own love story?”

Her muscles tensed, and she looked him in the eye. Why was he asking her such a question? “Love is a luxury.”

“But your father married for love, did he not?”

“He did. But he could afford to do so. It was a different time, under different circumstances.” She tried to give a light shrug, feeling uncomfortable at the focus on her—on the light it shone upon the gap between her and Philip. She had resigned herself to the fact that, whenever she married, it would be a practical decision. Never had that felt like more of a sacrifice than it did now.

He was frowning. “It seems unfair that someone who helps others find love should be deprived of it herself.”

“Perhaps, but that is the way of the world. The artisan makes shoes he himself is unlikely to have; the servant cleans a home far superior to her own; the laundress washes linens and clothing she could never afford. We do what is necessary and use whatever talents we possess in order to survive.”

He made a noncommittal sound. “Love is not only a luxury for the poor, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was never any talk of marrying for love in my family—at least not in a positive way. It has always been a matter of duty. Only ask my sister Alice.”

Ruth kept her eyes on him but said nothing.

“What? You do not believe me?”

“It isn’t that. I have no doubt that, for someone in your circumstances, there is great pressure to marry a certain type of person. But that isn’t the same as love being a luxury. The fact remains that you might choose to marry for love if you wished. It might be frowned upon by some—it might not elevate your family or your estate—but it is still an option. You could marry a pauper and still have food to eat and a grand estate.”

He stared at her, and she was afraid to meet his gaze. Afraid that her words would draw his pity. She met his gaze despite that, and there was no pity there, only thoughtfulness. “No. You are right, I suppose.” He searched her face. “You truly believe in love, don’t you? Believe in it deeply, or else you would not be the Swan. And you sacrifice your own possibilities for your family. Your hair, even.” His mouth turned up into a slight smile, but there was a touch of sadness in it.

“Hair grows back,” she said, waving a dismissive hand and, along with it, the tears she had cried after cutting her hair. “If you had met Joanna or George and received one of their embraces, I assure you, you would be willing to do much more than cut your hair to ensure their happiness. Besides, I am not consigning myself to misery just because I understand that my own decision to marry will have to be a practical one. There are different types of love, you know, and even if my future does not hold the ardent intensity that some people are fortunate enough to experience and pursue, I am determined that there shall be love between us—between myself and whoever I marry. That sort of love is a choice—a love that must be cultivated and worked at, day after day. And it is that type of love that a marriage must subsist on once the initial flame diminishes.”

He was watching her intently, and her cheeks began to warm. “I didn’t mean to lecture you,” she said with an embarrassed smile, turning her legs so that their knees broke contact. “We should return to the lesson.”

He drew back in feigned fear, his eyes on her hand, and she laughed. “I shan’t hurt you. I have told you a few things you might try to show your interest in Miss Devenish. Now I hope to help you attune yourself to her reactions.”

He nodded and waited for her to go on.

“There are a number of things to look for: looking up at you through her lashes, any intentional touch that mirrors your own, body turned toward you as we discussed earlier, laughter, blushing.” She swallowed, realizing how many of the signs she had unwittingly demonstrated in her own behavior that very day. She only hoped he was too focused on Miss Devenish to apply his learning elsewhere.

He scoffed. “So I am to pay attention to the chess game itself, my own behavior, and Miss Devenish’s reactions to my behavior? I am afraid you have overestimated my abilities.”

“Impossible, Narcissus,” she said with an ill-repressed smile. “Perhaps I am overwhelming you for no reason. I think you are comfortable enough with Miss Devenish at this point that it may all come quite naturally to you. I was in earnest when I told you that I feel you have little need of me now.”

He let out a little snort. “We shall see, shan’t we?”