She studied him then, this man who had resisted every suggestion of improvement as though it were an insult, now asking, however reluctantly, for help.
“But why me?” she asked. “You could hire any number of tutors. Dancing masters. Charm specialists.”
He tilted his head. “They would attempt to fix me.”
Lucy’s brow arched.
“You...” he said, “... strike me as someone more interested in preventing disaster. I mean, given that you have your... status as a matchmaker and single lady of the ton to lose if you don’t find me a match.”
Lucy bit her lower lip. “You have a point.”
She stepped closer, her expression thoughtful now. “Very well. But you must understand, what you are asking is not that I give you mere instructions. It is an adjustment.”
“I have no desire to become agreeable. Merely tolerable,” he explained.
Lucy nodded once. “Then we shall begin with that aim.”
She paused, then added lightly, “Also, Your Grace? If you intend to survive this ball, you will need to stop looking as though the room has personally offended you.”
His mouth curved faintly. “A great deal of it usually has.”
“Yes,” she said, “but we shall teach you to look amused instead. Amusement disarms. Severity terrifies.”
Rowan considered her for a moment, then inclined his head in mock solemnity. “Very well, Miss Crampton. Save me from my own reputation then.”
Lucy regarded him for a moment longer than politeness required, her gaze thoughtful rather than timid, as though she were deciding whether this particular battle was worth engaging.
“Your tone,” she said at last with the careful restraint of someone attempting not to sound instructional too soon. “It is precisely the problem. I do not mean any offense by this, Your Grace, but it is what makes you quite... intolerable.”
Rowan lifted a brow. “I fail to see how a tone, which I have used to conduct estates, discipline staff, and survive Parliament, has suddenly become objectionable merely because it must now endure a ballroom.”
“That is because…” Lucy replied, unfazed, “... a ballroom does not reward authority or precision. It rewards ease, warmth, and the illusion that one is enjoying oneself, even when one is not.”
He exhaled quietly, the sound bordering on amusement. “You are asking me to pretend.”
“I am asking you to soften,” she corrected. “At present, you speak as though every sentence carries consequence when in society most remarks are designed to carry none at all.”
“That sounds like an extraordinary waste of breath.”
Lucy smiled faintly. “It is. Nevertheless, it is how connections are made.”
She stepped closer, angling herself directly into his line of sight. “When someone greets you, Your Grace, you respond as though they are welcome, not as though they have interrupted something sacred.”
“They usually have,” he said without apology. “You did the exact same thing the day you waltzed into my estate.”
“Will you take my advice or not, Your Grace?” Lucy snapped and crossed her arms.
Rowan regarded her, something wry flickering behind his eyes. “Fine. What if I fail to disguise my irritation?”
“Then you will only confirm every rumor already circulating about you, which will undo the very purpose of my employment.”
Silence followed.
“So,” he said at last, “I am to smile more than instinct allows, temper my honesty, and offer remarks that mean nothing to people I do not know, all in the hope that one of them might agree to spend a lifetime in my company.”
“Yes,” Lucy replied simply. “That is the general idea.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Marriage is a remarkably elaborate deception.”
