He stared at her, torn between a laugh and a shout of exasperation. What came out was a choking sound that had her frowning at him anew.
“Why are you so amused?” she asked, her tone wary.
He shook his head, shaking off his surprise in the process. “Merely shocked to find that you are in favor of corporal punishment.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I will keep that in mind during our lessons.”
She blinked and a second later she jerked back as if just now realizing how close they were standing.
Close enough that he could see how pale she was and the shadows beneath her eyes. His eyes narrowed on her. “Are you well?” He frowned. “Have you been eating?”
Her lips curved into a sneer. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”
His brows drew together in confusion. “Pardon?”
“Nevermind.” She looked away and then turned back, suspicion replacing whatever emotion had been there. Something he couldn’t quite place. Something that seemed almost like embarrassment, but that couldn’t be right.
“You have not changed at all, have you?” She didn’t seem to expect an answer. Her gaze slid over him with the sort of judgement that always made him bristle.
It was a look that said he’d been catalogued, weighed, assessed, and found wanting. She’d always looked at him thus, ever since his uncle had taken him in. As though she could see right past his uncle’s title he was set to inherit and straight through to his less than perfect bloodline.
Oh, he’d been born on the right side of the blanket, but that was about the only thing his parents had done right. His father had married for love, not caring a whit that his wife was of gypsy blood and that by marrying her and bearing a child they would be forever on the outside of society.
Not caring, that is, until he was forced to live as an outsider, with all the whispers and scandal that came with it. And while his uncle had done his best to put the gossip to rest after the unfortunate carriage accident that left him an orphan, there were some who would always judge.
Prudence was one of them. He wasn’t even certain she knew anything about his parents, but she found him lacking all the same. Always had and always would.
He leaned back against the pianoforte and crossed his arms, letting himself relax. He despised her sneers and her judgment, but there was something rather freeing about being seen for what one was.
There were no pretenses to be maintained around this girl...for better or for worse.
“How did you do it?” she demanded.
He arched his brows with a smirk that he knew would drive her to distraction.
Good.
“How did I do what?”
She narrowed her eyes further, suspicion morphing into accusation. “How did you delude my aunt and all the other ladies of the ton into believing that you are some sort of…” She waved a hand in irritation. “Musical genius.”
One corner of his mouth hitched up at that. “Musical genius, eh? Is that what they are calling me?”
Her answer was to purse her lips.
“What else do they call me?” He arched his brows playfully, loving the way her nostrils flared as she fought the urge to shout at him. Or perhaps strike him again.
She cocked her head to the side. “You’ve somehow managed to convince my aunt that you are some well-disciplined tutor.” She squinted. “How?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question,” he lied. “I am quite skilled when it comes to music and I have worked veritable miracles amongst the ton’s leading ladies—”
“But you are still an impossible rogue,” she snapped.
He shrugged. What was the point in denying it? “Perhaps, but I have gotten much better at playing whatever role benefits me.”
Her expression was an odd one. He couldn’t quite tell if she was pleased to have been proven correct or had just taken a bite of something particularly sour.
“What about the role of a dutiful young lord, an heir to a marquess?”
He shook his head, attempting to keep his expression unmoved. “That will never happen. My uncle is still young enough to remarry, and he ought to sire a son of his own.”
Her gaze was shockingly even. Absurdly intense. She would not let this go.
Sure enough… “Do you mean to tell me that you do not wish to be heir? How does your uncle feel about the matter?”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “I do not see why you should concern yourself with my future or my relationship to my uncle or the title.”
She continued to stare. She didn’t look away until he gestured toward the instrument behind him, shifting to make way for her. “Shall we get started or do you plan to faint again?”
She let out a harrumph sound that had him hiding a grin but when he glanced back he found her hesitating. “Pru?”
“It’s Miss Pottermouth.” But her protest lacked the heat it ought to have.
He arched a brow, waiting her out. This wasn’t the first young woman who was intimidated at the thought of performing for him...the musical genius.
The thought made him smirk as he waited for her to overcome her nerves.
He ought to have known better. Pru was not one to submit, not without a fight.
“This is highly improper,” she said, crossing her arms in defiance. “You are a marquess’s nephew, you should not be tutoring young ladies.”
“Why are you so caught up on my potential title?” He hated the fact that she’d caused his cool demeanor to slip, but he hated it even more that she would not cease reminding him of the duties and obligations that he dreaded. He took a deep breath. “I told you I neither want it, nor plan on it—”
“Yes, but—”
“What is your real problem here?” he demanded.
“You are not fit to be a tutor.”
He blinked once. Twice. “Excuse me?”
Her nostrils flared with her inhale,
