“You relieve my mind,” Tamsyn muttered, but Julian chose not to hear.

Releasing her, he walked round to the front of her chair and examined her. “Put your feet together, so your anklebones are touching, and let your hands rest lightly in your lap.”

Tamsyn followed these instructions with exaggerated care, then sat staring fixedly in front of her.

“Relax.”

“How can I possibly relax sitting like this?” she asked, barely opening her mouth so her expression remained as rigid as her posture.

Julian refused to be amused. “If you're going to insist on making a game of this, then I'm washing my hands of the whole ridiculous business. Believe it or not, I have better things to do with my life than playing governess and dancing master to an uncivilized brigand. Stand up.”

Tamsyn obeyed. The colonel was clearly not in the mood to be diverted. She stood with her hands hanging loosely at her sides, gazing straight ahead of her, awaiting further instruction, trying to keep her expression impassive.

“For heaven's sake, you're as round-shouldered as a hunchback.” Impatiently, he pulled her shoulders back again. “Tuck your bottom in.” His palm tapped emphatically against the curve in question.

“Anyone would think I was made of wire,” Tamsyn grumbled. “My body doesn't bend like this.”

“Oh, you forget, buttercup. I've seen you perform some amazing gymnastic feats,” Julian stated, stepping back and examining her critically. “Now smile.”

Tamsyn offered him a simpering smile, elongating her neck, pushing back her shoulders and clenching her backside. “Like this?”

“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, losing the battle with his laughter. He turned away abruptly, struggling to regain his critical demeanor. He swung back to her just in time to catch her satisfied grin before she wiped it off her face and tried to look once more suitably solemn.

“This is not a laughing matter!”

“No,” she agreed. “Of course not, sir.” But her lips twitched.

“If you can't do it on your own, then you'll have to have some help,” Julian stated. “A backboard should do the trick.”

“A what?” All desire to laugh vanished.

“A backboard,” he said, explaining with great gravity. “It's used in most schoolrooms. Girls wear it strapped to their backs to correct posture. Of course, they're usually a lot younger than you, but it might do some good, nevertheless.”

“That's barbaric!” Tamsyn exclaimed.

“Not at all. My sister wore one for several hours a day for a year or two,” he responded with a bland smile. “I'll go into town and procure one. We'll see how you improve by wearing it every morning. If that doesn't have the desired effect, then you must wear it all day.”

Tamsyn regarded him in fulminating silence, recognizing that he'd fired the opening shots in a war that she had hoped would become a game, even if for her it was a deadly serious one.

“But until I can procure a board, we'll try something else,” Julian continued with the same suave insouciance. Going over to the bookshelves, he selected two heavy leather-bound volumes. “Come over here.”

Tamsyn approached him warily.

“Stand very still.” Delicately, he balanced the books on top of her head. “Now, walk around the room without dislodging them. You'll have to keep your head up and absolutely immobile. It'll also ensure you have to take small steps instead of galloping along like some unruly puppy.”

Tamsyn drew in her breath sharply but closed her lips and refused to rise to the bait. Her neck wobbled under the weight of the books. Grimly, she fixed her gaze on a knot in the paneling and balanced herself If Colonel, Lord St. Simon was trying to drive her to give up her scheme, he'd discover she was a lot tougher than he bargained for. She took a hesitant step, and the books shivered but stayed put.

Julian grinned and flung himself down on the sofa, casually picking up his discarded newspaper. “An hour of that exercise should prove beneficial,” he said. “And when you've learned to keep your back straight, I'll teach you how to curtsy, as you'll have to if you're intending to be presented at court.”

That didn't figure in Tamsyn's plans, but she could hardly admit that. Julian returned to his reading as if he considered his morning's task accomplished.

Tamsyn swore silently, allowing her mental tongue free reign as she cursed him for a self-satisfied odious, vindictive, gloating cur. She walked up and down the room, trying to keep the books from falling. Several times they did so, crashing to the carpet with a loud thump. The colonel raised his head waited until she'd replaced them and begun her walk again, then returned to the Gazette.

Her neck was aching, her shoulders cramping, and her head began to feel as if the books were wearing a hole through her scalp. She glanced at the clock and saw a bare fifteen minutes had passed. It was a torture to beat anything, even riding through the broiling midday heat of a Spanish summer with an empty water flask, flies feeding on her sweaty face, every muscle in her body aching.

Don't be silly! Of course it isn't as bad as that. She'd endured much worse, although she didn't think she'd ever looked more ridiculous. But the damned English colonel wanted her to throw in the towel, and she couldn't afford to do that, even if she was prepared at this point to give him that satisfaction.

Julian could guess her thoughts; they were clearly written on the mobile countenance where disgust warred with determination. He leaned back, linking his hands behind his head, watching her through half-closed eyes, contemplating what other diabolical little training methods he could devise. She did have a very dainty figure in that dress, he thought dreamily; it somehow softened the athletic lines of her body without in any way diminishing her compact grace.

There was a knock at the door. Tamsyn immediately ceased her promenading, reaching up to lift the books from her head.

Hibbert, the butler, entered. “Visitors, my lord. Mrs. and Miss Marshall, Lord and Lady Pendragon, the Vicar and Mrs. Thornton.”

He cast a swift covert glance in the direction of his lordship's guest. The household was in a ferment of speculation about the young lady and her foreign maid and the giant Scotsman who was a law unto himself Lord St. Simon had offered only the information that the young lady was in his care and would be spending the summer at Tregarthan before making her debut in London the following October.

Julian grimaced. Presumably every kitchen in the vicinity had been buzzing since early morning with the interesting news from Tregarthan. And what was told in the kitchens was taken above stairs with the morning chocolate. The local gossips hadn't waited long before coming to see for themselves.

“You've shown them into the drawing room, Hibbert?”

“Yes, of course, my lord.”

“I'll join them directly. You'd best bring up a bottle of the ninety-eight burgundy for Lord Pendragon and the Reverend Thornton. Tea for the ladies, unless they'd prefer ratafia. Do we have any ratafia?” he asked in afterthought.

“Yes, my lord. Miss Lucy is partial to it, if you recall, so we always keep a few bottles in the cellar.”

“What's ratafia?” Tamsyn asked when the butler had departed.

Julian's expression of distaste grew more pronounced.

“A disgusting sweet cordial.”

“Who's Miss Lucy?”

“My sister.” He stood for a minute staring at her, frowning. “You're going to have to be introduced, since that's what they've come for… unless I say that you're unwell after the journey.” He shook his head. “That won't wash for more than a couple of days. We'd best get it over with.”

“I'm not a complete social pariah,” Tamsyn protested, rather hurt at his obvious dismay.

“My dear girl, you're impossible. In this society you'll stick out like a sore thumb,” he said shortly. “You can't even sit properly.” He glanced up at the clock, his frown deepening. “I'll go and greet them and explain who you're supposed to be, and you may join us in about ten minutes. When you're introduced, you must bow, just a slight bend from the waist, like this.” He demonstrated while Tamsyn nodded solemnly.