The Making of a Gentleman by Shana Galen

painting of a partially clothed woman and a statue, as well. But those were artist’s renderings, not real women. Miss Bennett was real, with her curves and her softness. He wanted to see it all, to touch it all, to touch her.
    But that would never be possible. Not with The Rules. He allowed the thought to sink in and to cool his heating blood. She was his tutor, nothing more. She thought of him as a pupil and probably as little more than a wild animal to tame. She would never allow him to touch her in the ways he wanted. Would any woman?
    For now, he needed to clear his mind, to rid his head of the voices and images. He stepped out into the corridor and saw it was much later than he had thought. The wall sconces were already lit. Stepping back into his room, he realized he had forgotten to part the draperies and open the window. Amazing. The enclosure had not even bothered him. He parted them now. Dusk had long since faded into the dark night.
    He had missed dinner and had not even known it. His stomach protested now, but he had long ago learned to control hunger and thirst. He ignored the sensations and made his way toward the servants’ stairs. He wanted to be outside, in the blanket of darkness. He wanted to feel free—and be free of these thoughts and feelings. He would have to deal with them all again in the morning, of that he was certain. But tonight, he would put them aside.
    He stepped into the garden and inhaled the night air. It smelled like London, like the city. He compared it to the country air at his brother’s house in Southampton. He preferred the fresh smell of grass and hay to that of coal and too much horse manure, but the London garden was better than the house. He stepped out farther, looking up at the stars, and then remembering the night before, he glanced down at the ground.
    The holes had been refilled and covered over. There was no trace of them now, and the earth appeared undisturbed. Maybe that would be the end of it. Maybe the holes were not what he feared. He wondered if Miss Bennett knew the holes were covered, wondered what would have happened last night if she had not tripped over one of those holes. Would he have kissed her?
    He knew he would have. And he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if given the opportunity to kiss her again, he would take it. Society and its Rules be damned.
    Something moved in the path ahead of him, and he froze, his senses alerted to danger. He felt the instinctive need to crouch, but he held himself stiff and upright, a growl rising in his throat. This was his home. The garden was his territory, his to protect. He would stop any intruder.
    And then the shape became more defined—a long white gown like a beam of moonlight floated on the path. He squinted, and a yellow-haired woman walked slowly toward him.
    Armand was almost convinced his mind was once again throwing images at him, but he knew this woman, knew she was no figment of his imagination.
    Miss Bennett was still moving toward him, and he saw the moment she realized she was not alone. She stiffened and paused, her head tilting to get a better look. And then he heard her breath whoosh out, and she murmured, “Oh, it’s you.”
    Since none of the words he had practiced seemed appropriate for the moment, he remained silent, watching her move slowly closer to him. His eyes were on her lips, and he almost willed her to walk away, because he knew if she continued on her current course, he would not be able to resist kissing her. But, of course, she did not walk away. She continued toward him, smiling because she did not know the danger she was in.
    “I heard a noise and thought—” She waved a hand, dismissing the idea. “Well, I didn’t realize it was you, my lord.” She stopped before him now, and his hands began to itch. He had to clench them at his sides to keep from reaching out to touch her hair. It was so much like sunlight. Even in the moonlight it managed to shine. “We missed you at