Free The Tutor (House of Lords) by Meg Brooke Page B

introduced,” she lied, looking directly into his eyes. She had practiced doing this over and over again, until she was certain she could convince him she was telling the truth.
    He seemed to accept it now. “You must see that you are able to interact with him more often,” he said. “But you must also take care to keep his sisters interested. A man like that, with younger siblings and no father, will be more interested in the wishes of his sisters. You can snare him if you try, if you are pleasant enough. Do you think you can manage such a thing?”
    “Yes, Papa,” she said.
    He glared at her. “You look tired. Those dark circles under your eyes make you look old. You must consider your looks. No duke will want a woman who appears older than her years, and you are already—what, twenty-five?”
    “Twenty-four, Papa.”
    He scoffed. “Too old. You are not trying hard enough. You could have been married by now. Martin’s daughter is married to an earl,” he added, his glare intensifying. “When I think of his child, wed to an earl, it makes me...” he trailed off. Cynthia stared at him. Was this a human emotion he was revealing? Was he feeling nostalgic? But then he shook himself out of whatever stupor he had momentarily entered. “Well. You will just have to work harder. See that you don’t disappointment me.”
    “Of course, Papa,” Cynthia said, recognizing that she had been dismissed and escaping into the hall.
    He would be watching her more closely now. She had known he would not fail to notice that she was returning in the duke’s carriage. It had been foolish to accept the ride, though there had really been no way to refuse without appearing impolite. She only hoped he didn’t insist on accompanying her to the ball tomorrow night. The last time he had done so, it had been a disaster. He had scolded her in the hall of the Middlebury’s mansion when she had danced with a mere mister. Fortunately only a few people had seen, and the gossip had died quickly. It could have been much worse.
    She would have to be more careful in the future. At least he was leaving soon for a week of scholarly meetings in Oxford. She would be free of him for that long, free of his watchful, disapproving glares and his meddling. It would be easier then. She did not want him getting too attached to the idea that the duke might be interested in her, for if he did she would never hear the end of it, not even after the man was married to someone else. The rest of his life, he would remind her of how she could have been a duchess, never mind that it was not what she wanted.
    Since when had he cared what she wanted? That was the great irony of her life. He had set out to create a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it, but eventually he had lost sight of that goal. Now he cared only for the achievement of his grand ambition.
    But Cynthia would see to it that he never got what he wanted, even if it took every last ounce of strength in her body.
     

SEVEN
     
    January 10, 1834
     
    “His Lordship will see you now, Your Grace,” the rather pompous-looking secretary said, inclining his head just the barest fraction of an angle.
    “Thank you,” Charles said, trying to hide his smile. Lord Brougham’s staff seemed to think very highly of themselves. The young man who had brought him the message that the Lord Chancellor craved a meeting that afternoon had looked just as haughty standing in his library. Just to be difficult, Charles had said he could not possibly get to Westminster before five. The secretary had looked displeased but had gone away with the message. There were benefits to being a duke and outranking all but about forty people in the country.
    Now Charles strode into the Lord Chancellor’s office. Henry Brougham, Baron Brougham and Vaux, stood beside his desk, eyes still fixed on whatever document he had been perusing. He looked up when he noticed Charles, however. “Ah, Danforth. I hope the return of the