Julian grinned and flung himself down on the sofa, casually picking up his discarded newspaper. “An hour of that exercise should prove beneficial,” he said. “And when you've learned to keep your back straight, I'll teach you how to curtsy, as you'll have to if you're intending to be presented at court.”
That didn't figure in Tamsyn's plans, but she could hardly admit that. Julian returned to his reading as if he considered his morning's task accomplished.
Tamsyn swore silently, allowing her mental tongue free reign as she cursed him for a self-satisfied odious, vindictive, gloating cur. She walked up and down the room, trying to keep the books from falling. Several times they did so, crashing to the carpet with a loud thump. The colonel raised his head waited until she'd replaced them and begun her walk again, then returned to the Gazette.
Her neck was aching, her shoulders cramping, and her head began to feel as if the books were wearing a hole through her scalp. She glanced at the clock and saw a bare fifteen minutes had passed. It was a torture to beat anything, even riding through the broiling midday heat of a Spanish summer with an empty water flask, flies feeding on her sweaty face, every muscle in her body aching.
Don't be silly! Of course it isn't as bad as that. She'd endured much worse, although she didn't think she'd ever looked more ridiculous. But the damned English colonel wanted her to throw in the towel, and she couldn't afford to do that, even if she was prepared at this point to give him that satisfaction.
Julian could guess her thoughts; they were clearly written on the mobile countenance where disgust warred with determination. He leaned back, linking his hands behind his head, watching her through half-closed eyes, contemplating what other diabolical little training methods he could devise. She did have a very dainty figure in that dress, he thought dreamily; it somehow softened the athletic lines of her body without in any way diminishing her compact grace.
There was a knock at the door. Tamsyn immediately ceased her promenading, reaching up to lift the books from her head.
Hibbert, the butler, entered. “Visitors, my lord. Mrs. and Miss Marshall, Lord and Lady Pendragon, the Vicar and Mrs. Thornton.”
He cast a swift covert glance in the direction of his lordship's guest. The household was in a ferment of speculation about the young lady and her foreign maid and the giant Scotsman who was a law unto himself Lord St. Simon had offered only the information that the young lady was in his care and would be spending the summer at Tregarthan before making her debut in London the following October.
Julian grimaced. Presumably every kitchen in the vicinity had been buzzing since early morning with the interesting news from Tregarthan. And what was told in the kitchens was taken above stairs with the morning chocolate. The local gossips hadn't waited long before coming to see for themselves.
“You've shown them into the drawing room, Hibbert?”
“Yes, of course, my lord.”
“I'll join them directly. You'd best bring up a bottle of the ninety-eight burgundy for Lord Pendragon and the Reverend Thornton. Tea for the ladies, unless they'd prefer ratafia. Do we have any ratafia?” he asked in afterthought.
“Yes, my lord. Miss Lucy is partial to it, if you recall, so we always keep a few bottles in the cellar.”
“What's ratafia?” Tamsyn asked when the butler had departed.
Julian's expression of distaste grew more pronounced.
“A disgusting sweet cordial.”
“Who's Miss Lucy?”
“My sister.” He stood for a minute staring at her, frowning. “You're going to have to be introduced, since that's what they've come for… unless I say that you're unwell after the journey.” He shook his head. “That won't wash for more than a couple of days. We'd best get it over with.”
“I'm not a complete social pariah,” Tamsyn protested, rather hurt at his obvious dismay.
“My dear girl, you're impossible. In this society you'll stick out like a sore thumb,” he said shortly. “You can't even sit properly.” He glanced up at the clock, his frown deepening. “I'll go and greet them and explain who you're supposed to be, and you may join us in about ten minutes. When you're introduced, you must bow, just a slight bend from the waist, like this.” He demonstrated while Tamsyn nodded solemnly.
“Now show me,” he demanded, watching critically as she imitated his movement. “Not perfect, but it'll have to do,” he said. “From my description they'll expect you to be shy and retiring as befits the convent-reared daughter of a hidalgo grandee.”
He strode to the door, then stopped, remembering something that had somehow never come up, “You'll have to have a surname. Miss Tamsyn is fine for the staff, but not for the rest of the world. What is your last name?”
Tamsyn shrugged, still struggling with her chagrin.
She hadn't believed she was impossible. “I don't have one. My father was only ever known as El Baron.”
“Then you'll have to be the daughter of Senor Baron,” he said crisply. He came back to her, one hand catching her chin, his expression menacing in its gravity. “One indiscreet word or gesture in front of these people, muchacha, and that's the end of it. You'll be out of this house so fast you won't know what hit you. Is that clear?”
“Why would I be indiscreet?” she demanded. “It's hardly in my interests.”
“No, but just you remember that, because believe me, I have never been more serious. One slip of the tongue, however accidental, and you're on the road. I have my own reputation to consider in the county, and I'm not jeopardizing it for you.” His eyes held hers in a ferocious glare; then abruptly he released her chin and left the library.
Tamsyn dropped the books onto the desk. What did he think she was going to do, fling her arms around him and engage him in a lascivious embrace? Or was he simply afraid she would say something indiscreet, something overly familiar? Of course it was possible she might, since she didn't know what these strangers in this strange land might consider out of order. Her lessons hadn't reached that stage yet.
She stood on tiptoe to examine her reflection in the mirror above the mantel, combing her hair with her fingers, flicking at the wispy fringe. It really was getting too long. How would a convent-reared hidalgo maiden conduct herself? She tried a shy smile but somehow it didn't look convincing. Perhaps she should pretend she didn't speak English very well. That would ensure she made no accidental errors. She would sit in meek silence, smiling and nodding, willing to be agreeable but suffering from blank incomprehension.
It would have to do, for safety's sake. The colonel had meant every word he'd said, and she couldn't risk an accidental slip at this stage of the game. She marched out of the library and across the Great Hall to the drawingroom on the far side. Just in time she remembered to correct her stride. Shoulders back, bottom in, head up, neck straight… Por Dios! but how could one remember all these things?
She opened the drawing-room door softly and stood hesitantly on the threshold, waiting for someone to notice her. Her heart began to beat fast as she realized that this was the beginning, and for the first time, as she absorbed the group of people gathered in a circle at the far end of the room, she understood what a daunting task she'd set herself She'd never faced such a group of people before. Indeed, she'd never stood on the threshold of a drawing room before. What would they see when they finally noticed her? One thing she knew with absolute, instinctive certainty: despite her conventional gown, they wouldn't see a woman who looked like one of them. It was not so much her physical appearance that set her apart, as something indefinable she felt· in herself… something that grew from the way she'd lived her life and what she expected from that life. It marked her like a brand.