Chapter 13
Concerning Medieval Torture Dungeons; An Unconventional Use for Napkins; An Unsuccessful Quelling; And Experimental Elocution Exercises (Including the Emission of Linguolabial Trills) Result in Unexpected Consequences …
Following dinner, it was decided—at least Miss Davenport had decided—that they would both repair to the drawing room next door in order to commence Phinn’s elocution lessons.
Truth to tell, Phinn was relieved to be putting a wee bit of physical distance between himself and the comely governess.
What had started out as a thoroughly pleasant, diverting, and educational evening—the governess’s expert instruction on dinner table etiquette was very much appreciated—had rapidly descended into a torture session that any guard in charge of a medieval dungeon would have been proud to preside over.
Phinn had clearly miscalculated when he’d impulsively decided to sit beside Miss Davenport at the table.
He really did think it would help him to master the use of fiddly fish forks and knives and other equally ridiculous pieces of cutlery.
The problem was, he hadn’t taken into account that her very nearness would create havoc with his senses and disrupt his ability to think clearly.
Not to mention the effect she’d had on a particular, decidedly masculine part of his person that, thankfully, had been obscured by the napkin draped over his lap.
Unfortunately, there had been at least two occasions during dinner when the starched square of linen hadn’t been the only stiff thing beneath the table …
Indeed, it had been most disconcerting to discover that the mere drift of Miss Davenport’s floral scent, or the accidental brush of her skirts against his thigh, or the mere touch of her hand upon his sleeve, or even the melodic tinkle of her laughter, had set his blood rushing and pumping like he was a randy adolescent catching a glimpse of a woman’s cleavage for the very first time.
Phinn was not that sort of man. Not usually.
Of course, there’d been occasions in the past when he’d enjoyed a good tumble in the hay (at times, quite literally if the only place available to tryst had been a stable at a coaching inn) with a willing woman back in Ireland.
Phinn “Cutthroat” O’Connell had not been a saint, by any means, especially when his blood-lust had been up after a fight.
But he wasn’t a libidinous, rakish sort of fellow like his friend Marcus, Lord Hartwell, either.
Now, as Miss Davenport installed herself on the velvet-upholstered pianoforte stool, and lifted the glossy walnut lid of the instrument, exposing the ivory and ebony keys, Phinn ordered himself to stop admiring the young woman’s lovely countenance, to stop being so damned physically attracted to her womanly curves (he just knew she had a spectacular cleavage hidden beneath her severe Parasol Academy uniform; probably shapely legs and a luscious, peach-shaped derriere too). But he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Feck it.
With a grumble that would have done Brutus credit, he crossed to an overly ornate oak sideboard where he kept a decanter of Irish whisky.
Of course, Smedley had arched a disdainful brow when Phinn had made the request to have his favorite spirit on hand in both the dining room and drawing room.
But damn it. Kinsale House was his now. It no longer belonged to his late great-uncle, the former marquess, Columbus O’Connell.
What he needed to do was focus. Pay attention. Listen to all the bits of wisdom this clever governess was about to impart to help him get his cursed stammer under control. She could also help him to soften his accent so he sounded more cultured and refined. More English.
But it seemed he was utterly, hopelessly in the woman’s thrall.
He poured a measure of whisky—the same hue as Hermina Davenport’s pretty hazel eyes—into a crystal tumbler and took a sip.
He mustn’t drink too much. He was already having a devilish time trying to concentrate on what the governess was saying rather than how lovely she was.
But you didn’t hire her because she’s pretty.
You hired her for her knowledge and expertise, Phinn sternly reminded himself as he turned back to face the piano.
So you’d best get your money’s worth. It’ll be time to make your speech in the House o’ Lords before you know it.
And to be sure, you don’t want to be soundin’ like a right royal git like last time.
Miss Davenport looked up and the smile she sent him didn’t help quell Phinn’s less-than-gentlemanly thoughts in the slightest. But quell them he must. Quelling was imperative.
Yes, any and all libidinous urges would be so quelled they would cease to exist.
He was a rock. A lump of wood. As impervious to feeling as a sand-filled punching bag.
“Are you ready to try some of the exercises in my elocution guide, my lord?” Miss Davenport asked.
“So we’re n-n-not goin’ to sing?” While Phinn was not averse to singing, more often than not it had been when he’d been belting out a tune at a public house when he was well in his cups. It had been a long time since he’d sung any sort of hymn. He was not really the church-attending type.
“Oh, we will,” said Miss Davenport. She was consulting her green guidebook.
“But it might help if we try a few warm-up exercises first. To that end”—she rose gracefully from her seat and crossed the Turkish rug toward him with light steps—“might I suggest that we … that we limber up a bit? Imagine you are about to start a bout of training and need to stretch and loosen your limbs.”
What the devil? Phinn put down his whisky. “Limb-limber up?”
“Yes,” said Miss Davenport. “My guidebook proposes a theory—that any tension in the muscles in your body, specifically those related to both breathing and speaking—can make it harder for speech to flow smoothly and easily. That the rhythm of talking is more likely to go awry.”
Phinn nodded. “That seems log-logical. But limberin’ up to b-b-box is surely different to limb-limberin’ up to speak.”
“Very true,” agreed the governess. “To that end, we’re going to focus on not just relaxing the muscles of your abdomen and chest and shoulders, but your neck and jaw and tongue and lips.”
Phinn couldn’t stop his mouth twisting in a wry smile.
All this talk of body parts—particularly his lips and tongue—was not conducive to relaxing at all.
If anything, the tension in the air was increasing with each passing second.
And was it getting hot in here? He had to resist the urge to run a finger around his suddenly too-tight collar.
“Now,” said Miss Davenport, all business and seemingly oblivious to the fact her employer was battling with his overwhelming attraction to her, “one should stand tall with one’s chest lifted but arms hanging loose. One’s feet should be comfortably apart, in line with one’s hips. Like this.”
She demonstrated and Phinn copied her. He kept his eyes steadfastly on her face because he would not focus on her admirable bust lifting. Or think about her legs slightly parted beneath her skirts. Or anything to do with her womanly hips. That way lay insanity.
“We’re also going to practice breathing from our diaphragm,” she added after a moment.
Was it Phinn’s imagination, or was Miss Davenport suddenly a trifle breathless? “Me-me diaphragm?” he asked, his voice none too steady either.
“Yes. From here.” Miss Davenport placed a slender hand on her cinched-in midriff. “Rather than lifting your chest or raising your shoulders, I want you to close your eyes and focus on inhaling and exhaling from this part of your abdomen. Your belly. Just gentle, easy breaths.”
Phinn let his eyelids drift down. Gentle, easy breaths? He was caught between the urge to laugh and the urge to curse. The desire to bolt from the room and the desire to sweep Miss Hermina Davenport into his arms and taste her sweet, sweet lips.
But he didn’t do any of those things. He curled his fingers into his palms and breathed slowly in, trying not to lift his chest or shoulders, then slowly out.
“That’s very good, my lord.” Miss Davenport’s voice drifted over him like a warm, barely there caress.
“Next, I want you to dip your chin down to your chest, then gently swing your head toward your right shoulder. That’s it.
Now … lift your left hand and stroke down the side of your neck.
That’s the way. Very good. And again. And now the other side … ”
Feck. These “exercises” were exquisite torture.
Nevertheless, Phinn’s pent-up physical tension slowly began to ebb away.
His body began to feel languid. His breathing grew deep and even as he diligently followed Miss Davenport’s directions.
He tipped his head up, then down, then all the way around in a circle.
He opened his eyes and pressed his fingertips into the hinge of his jaw until the tightness in the joint lessened.
He used his thumbs to massage beneath his chin to loosen the muscles at the base of his tongue.
But when Miss Davenport asked him to open his mouth, protrude his tongue slightly between his lips and blow a raspberry like a horse, he burst out laughing.
“You-you want me to do what, Miss Dav-Davenport?” he asked, his voice brimming with barely suppressed mirth and incredulity. “How in God’s n-n-name is that goin’ to help ease me stam-stammer?”
Miss Davenport shrugged a shoulder. “I imagine that the exercise—it’s apparently called a linguolabial trill—relaxes your tongue and lip muscles. It can’t hurt.”
Phinn snorted. “Except for the f-f-fact I’ll look and sound like a to-total f-f-fool. A king-sized ass.”
The governess smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, my lord, I’ll do it with you.”
“You’re jokin’.”