A Matter of Scandal by Suzanne Enoch Page B

stand toe to toe with the Duke of Wycliffe—though she was making a damned fine show of it. “Care to wager on that?” he asked.
    She blinked. “What?”
    It was ingenious. The impertinent chit—he’d prove to everyone that she didn’t have the dimmest idea what she was talking about. “I’m talking about making a wager, Miss Emma.”
    Her hazel eyes narrowed. “A wager over what?”
    “Rent,” he said promptly. The more he thought about it, the more brilliant it seemed. If she thought she had all the answers, she could damned well try to prove it. “If you lose, you pay the new rent. No more arguments.”
    “You’re mad,” she said, looking at him warily. “What are you proposing we wager over? I have better things to do than sniff manure.”
    He shook his head. “No. Much better than that.” This would need to be official, or she’d find a way to slip out of his grasp before he could make his point. He strode past her to the door and yanked it open. “You—Sir John. Get in here.”
    The solicitor practically fell into the room; obviously their conversation had been overheard. Well, that would leave him less explaining to do.
    “Humph,” the headmistress snorted, her color still high. “What in the world are you talking about, Your Grace?”
    He gestured at the solicitor. “Sit down and take notes.”
    “Please stop ordering my solici—”
    “Excuse us,” Tristan’s voice came from the doorway, “but I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
    Barely sparing a glance at the Haverly party as they crowded into the room, Grey nudged the solicitor toward the tiny desk’s chair. “Glad you’re here. We’re making a wager.”
    “We are not making a wager!”
    He lifted an eyebrow. “Why, because you can’t support your silly claims of superiority?”
    “Not superiority.” She hesitated, the first time he had seen her struggle to find the right word. “Equality.”
    “Excuse us, Grey,” Lady Sylvia said in her silky voice, “but whose equality are we discussing?”
    “Miss Emma’s to mine, obviously.” He circled the headmistress, his plans falling into order.
    “Surely not.” Alice tittered behind her fan, the expression of innocence on her face ridiculous. He didn’t know why she bothered with it any longer, unless she hoped to fool some unsuspecting halfwit. “Everyone knows a duke outranks a headmistress.”
    “Not that kind of equality,” Emma snapped, obviously so out of patience that she was neglecting her own rules of politeness. “ Mental equality.”
    And the trap clicked shut. “Then prove it,” Grey murmured, stopping directly before her and holding her hazel gaze.
    “How?”
    “As I mentioned,” he began, “I’m looking for a more efficient and profitable way to manage Haverly. I propose that you attempt to come up with a better plan than mine.”
    “An estate plan,” she said dubiously.
    If he didn’t secure her agreement quickly, she would realize he was trying to bully her into a corner, and she would escape. “If you can do it, I’ll pay your damned Academy’s rent, ad infinitum .”
    Emma pursed her lips, which made Grey want to kiss them. “All right,” she said slowly, “but I don’t see why I should be the only one to have to prove anything. Otherwise, when I do come up with a better plan than yours, we will simplyhave to assume that I am more intelligent than you are.”
    Uncle Dennis drew in a breath. “Sweet Mary,” he muttered, and Grey distinctly heard Tristan snicker.
    Accepting his challenge was one thing; insulting him while doing it was something else. “I don’t think you have a prayer of devising a better plan than mine,” he said.
    “Yes, but you’re wrong, Your Grace.”
    “I see. What do you suggest, then?”
    She looked at him speculatively. “As it happens, I take personal responsibility for a small group of students at this time each year. The topic of this special class is London Social Graces. You seem