A Wedding by Dawn (22 page)

She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Stop, Mr. Warre. You’re terrifying me.”

“You find this
amusing?
”

“Not at all. I’ve endured worse, as you well know. Sharing your embarrassed circumstances while we await my father’s return is a small price to pay.”

He wished suddenly, painfully, that all of this resistance was because of him and not because of the living she believed he owed her. “The longer you stay,” he said now, “the harder it’s going to be for Emilie when you leave.”

The truth of that hit its mark. He saw it in her eyes—a flash of concern, a dampening of her spirits. And now he almost wished he’d let her continue this ridiculous drama until twenty years had gone by and the living she demanded from him became the life they shared together, whatever and wherever that might be.

But that was only a fool’s fantasy. India wanted her freedom, and the shackles of genteel poverty would only crush her spirit.

“I doubt I’ll ever be leaving,” she retorted with noticeably less vigor, “since you’ll never be able to afford to send me away.” She set her godawful needlework aside and stood up, moving past him to leave. “How will you like that, Lord Taggart? Only imagine being stuck with me as your wife for the rest of your life.”

* * *

I
NDIA
SHUT
THE
door to her room and, this time, bolted the latch herself.

He was right. And it hurt so much she could hardly see through the swim of tears filling her eyes. She leaned against the door, staring up at the ceiling, blinking furiously.

Of course she had to leave. She could tell herself whatever she liked, but staying with him would be impossible if he truly didn’t want her here.

And she was such a ninny, because he’d made it perfectly clear from the beginning that he needed the money. Only imagine what he would say now if she told him the truth:
Surely you didn’t think—for God’s sake, India, you’ve known all along my reasons for this marriage.

A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, and she brushed it away furiously. She couldn’t even blame him for what they’d done at Madame Gravelle’s. Hadn’t she been telling him for weeks that she wanted to be rid of her virtue? Hadn’t she tried to seduce him herself?

And heaven help her, she wanted to feel that way with him again.

But he didn’t. He wanted her to leave. And he was right about that—she needed to return to Auntie Phil’s, for Emilie’s sake. Insisting on staying, continuing this game about wanting a living from him...it wouldn’t even salvage her pride. All it would do was hurt—a little more, each time she heard him say how much he wanted her to go—until she ended up entirely crushed.

Thinking of leaving Nicholas, leaving Emilie, she felt crushed already.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

T
HE
AFTERNOON
’
S
MEETING
, it turned out, had been even more productive than Nick expected. The man was interested in Taggart. Nick spent the evening with him, discussing possible terms and arrangements, and returned late—spent, exhausted and with an ache in his chest that made it difficult to breathe. Tomorrow, he would need to leave for Taggart to take care of things before the sale. He would take Emilie with him. But he’d made arrangements for India to stay with Honoria.

James’s town house was silent as he climbed the grand staircase, on his way up to tell India the news. That his brother was not in town was more of a blessing than Nick could have hoped for. It made their stay feel slightly less like charity, and it saved him from James offering to help the situation.

James didn’t understand why Nick so stubbornly refused assistance. But James had no idea they were only half brothers, not full. That only James Warre could trace his heritage to Croston.

Nick paused on the familiar landing and remembered those weeks he’d spent so much time in this house, when all of Britain thought James had perished after the Royal Navy ship he’d been captaining had wrecked off the coast of Spain. Nick had been next in line to accede to the Croston title.

Those were the worst weeks of his life.

And with James rightfully the Earl of Croston once more, Nick would never accept Croston assets. Not ever, and it didn’t matter if James thought he was clubbing himself in the ankle out of pride.

Upstairs, he started toward the rooms where he was staying, but thought better of it at the last minute. He should look in on Emilie. But as he approached her rooms, he noticed the door standing open and candlelight flickering from within. He paused outside and heard India’s voice speaking softly.

“Oh,
yes,
” she was saying. “He is
very
courageous.”

“Really? Tell me.”

“We sailed together on a ship once,” India said.

She must be telling Emilie about James. Devil take it—he didn’t want Emilie to know about James. Not yet, not until she was old enough to understand. Too late now, thanks to India and her blasted loose tongue.

“A ship like the one we sailed on from France?” Emilie asked.

“Oh, much grander than that. It had three masts and great, white, billowing sails that stood out like clean linens against the blue sky. She cut through the sparkling sea like a warm knife through butter.”

India had a way of making the sea sound so much more magnificent than it actually was. But then, India loved the sea. It was where she wanted to be, and if he’d never attempted this fool’s errand she would be there still.

But she wasn’t, and the clarity of hindsight couldn’t change that now.

“Dit-moi,”
Emilie pressed. “What did he do?”

Good God. Listing James’s seafaring accomplishments could take all night.

“He did something very brave, after I’d done something very foolish and I was in grave danger. He stood up to an angry mob of sailors who were very upset with me.”

Nick’s heart stopped. She wasn’t talking about James.

“Did he fight for you?”

“He would have, if it had come to that. But your brother is a very intelligent man. He knew exactly the right things to say. He defended me ferociously.”

“And he saved you?”

“He did.”

“Just like he saved me.”

“Yes,
exactly
like that. Now. No more stories. It’s time for you to go to sleep.”

Nick backed away from the door, his pulse thudding so hard now he could feel it in his throat. She’d been talking about
him.
Telling Emilie he was all those things. That he had been her savior.

He turned toward his rooms. Didn’t quite make it before he heard Emilie’s door click shut behind him and a soft, “Oh. Nicholas.”

Hearing her say his name did something to him on the inside. He was such a damned fool.

He turned, mere feet shy of his own door. She held a candle that flickered over a billowing white nightgown. Her hair fell over one shoulder in a gleaming, golden braid.

“I was just...saying good-night to Emilie,” she told him, taking a few steps forward—her door was across from his—and he could see the question in her eyes. The fear that he might have been listening. “I kept her up much too late playing pick-up-sticks.”

“I’ve just returned from...some business,” he told her.

“Yes. Of course.” She was looking at him with eyes that held none of her usual taunting combativeness. None of the careful calculation that had marked their games in Paris.

She looked so vulnerable without it. So real.

“I’ve found someone interested in Taggart,” he said. “I met with him tonight to discuss the arrangements.” Saying the words out loud was harder than he’d anticipated, and his throat suddenly felt tight.

“Oh,” she said, looking almost...sad. “That didn’t take long.”

Perhaps she’d been holding out hope that there would still be some other solution—one that would produce more money.

“I need to go to Taggart tomorrow.”
Emilie and I, while you stay with Honoria.
“For a few days. To make preparations.”

“Of course.”

Was this more of the numb compliance he’d seen on the journey from Paris? Where was her belligerence? The jabs about demanding a living? Perhaps she was embarrassed that he’d so obviously overheard her wild exaggerations.

Honoria’s coach will be here for you at noon,
he needed to tell her
. She will help you make arrangements for Paris.

India picked at a fingernail. Her nightgown nearly swallowed her figure, but hints of curves taunted him. He didn’t want to send her to Paris—he wanted to take her to his bed, remove that nightgown and lose himself inside her.

“I’ll expect you and Emilie to be ready by seven.” The words came out, surprising him, and—from the way she looked up suddenly—surprising her, as well.

“But I thought—”

“I’ve nowhere for you to stay while I’m gone—”
liar
“—and we’ve outstayed our welcome here.” Totally untrue. Good God. What was he doing? He needed her
away
from him.

But he just wasn’t ready to let her go.

* * *

I’
VE
DECIDED
TO
return to Paris.
That’s what she’d meant to say. But then she’d realized he’d overheard her talking to Emilie, and suddenly there she was in her nightgown and there he was staring at her, and her mouth had gone dry. And the last thing she’d wanted in the entire world was to return to Paris, and so she’d let him speak first, and now...

Now their carriage was arriving at Taggart. And one look was enough to know that coming here was a terrible mistake. The carriage emerged from the woods into a clearing, and her heart squeezed. Taggart was everything a dilapidated old country house should be—rough, brown stones with tendrils of ivy creeping all the way past the uppermost floors. Great chimneys that spoke of warm fires on cool days. Rows of windows that would brighten the rooms inside.

A long drive led directly to the front in a big loop, inside of which a flower garden bloomed. Someone had been caring for the place. In the distance, beyond the house, she could see the edge of a pond—not the formal, geometric kind, but a natural one surrounded partly by a wood and edged with grassy slopes where wildflowers grew.

Sunlight cast a warm glow over the meadows, the house, the flowers, the soft grass at the pond’s edge. And India wanted to stay here more than she could ever remember wanting anything in her life—even her adventurous life aboard the
Possession.

She hardly dared to breathe. They
couldn’t
stay here—not even if she told Nicholas she didn’t want Paris, didn’t want a ship, didn’t want a silly living that he could not afford to give her.

She dared a glance at him, but his gaze was fixed out the window at the road behind them.

The carriage stopped in front of the house, where a great wooden door looked as if it hadn’t opened in half a century.

India kept Emilie’s hand tightly in hers as they walked into the entry. Nicholas had already explained to Emilie that this was a house he would be selling and that they wouldn’t be staying here. But Emilie’s brown eyes went just as wide here as they had at his brother’s house in London.

It was clear the house had been closed up. There were sheets draped over furniture. Nicholas grimly directed the footmen upstairs with their trunks, as if he would have preferred to stay elsewhere.

“The rooms won’t be ready,” he said now, as if he’d only just thought of it.

“We can find the linens,” India said. “Emilie will help me.”

“No,” he said sharply. “Miss Ursula will find them.”

He stood staring—at what, she couldn’t be sure. His eyes drifted over everything: the beautifully carved banister, burnished with age. The modest but stately plaster work on the ceiling.

Emilie let go of India’s hand and walked timidly toward an open pair of doors that led into a bright salon. “Pretty,” she said to India—one of the words India had taught her.

Nicholas looked at India. “Please take Emilie outside.” His distress was palpable. His voice sounded too thick. His face was strained. “There’s a gazebo by the pond—perhaps she would like to see it.”

A gazebo. India’s heart squeezed a little. Of course there would be one.

“Certainly.” Entertaining Emilie was something she could do.

“You’ll likely run into Miss Ursula—if you do, ask her to come to the house.”

“Certainly.” And she wished there was something she could do, some comfort to offer, but she didn’t have the first idea what to say, and he hadn’t even wanted her here in the first place.

She took Emilie’s hand and turned to go, but at the last minute turned back and reached out to touch his arm.

His eyes shot to hers.

She drew her hand back quickly and took Emilie outside.

* * *

N
ICK
WATCHED
I
NDIA
and Emilie walk hand in hand out the door, and it took all his effort to drag a breath into his lungs. His throat was so tight it hurt. His skin burned where she’d touched him, even through layers of clothes.

And he never, ever should have brought India here. He should have left them
both
in London with Honoria. Made up some story about Emilie—something Honoria would believe.

And now he would never erase the image of the two of them standing here witnessing his shame.

He’d needed them to leave—if only to take a turn outside—because he’d wanted to reach for India so much he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep from actually doing it. What he wouldn’t give for even a small taste of her devil-may-care spirit. The we’ll-make-do stubbornness that had her hiding in a hayloft covered with straw or making plans to sneak aboard a vessel in Marseille.

But even India would find little to hope for in this situation. It had never been more clear that he had absolutely nothing to offer her. All he’d ever really had to offer anyhow was her own father’s money.

As soon as this was over, he would make sure she returned to Lady Pennington in Paris. And he would keep his distance in the meantime. Because if he held her now, he wasn’t sure he could let her go.

* * *

T
HEY
FOUND
THEIR
way toward the pond. India tried to be cheerful for Emilie’s sake, but every word was an effort. Her heart was breaking for Nicholas, imagining him wandering alone through Taggart. As they walked, she kept her eyes open for any sign of Miss Ursula, but the only person she saw was an old man down at the far end of the flower garden fussing with the plants.

“My brother is sad to leave his house,” Emilie said quietly as they walked down the sloping meadow toward the pond.

“Yes, he is.” And he did not want her adding to his shame. It would have been one thing if he’d received the money from Father as expected. He could have kept Taggart, and then she would have been the only shame he would have had to hide.

But to add having her for a wife on top of losing Taggart—not to mention the terrible shame she knew he felt because of his parentage—it was too much.

She
was too much.

And he didn’t even know everything.

A short path through a wooded grove led to the pond—she could see the water sparkling through the trees, rippled by a light wind and dappled with sunshine. They emerged at its edge, and—

Oh. “Look,” she said to Emilie. “The gazebo.”

It sat on its own little knoll jutting into the water, so that when they stepped into it the pond surrounded them on three sides. The house was not visible at all from here, but it would be from the other side of the pond, where a grassy meadow stretched to another wooded grove.

They walked toward it, and India thought of the little gazebo nestled by the stream at Auntie Phil’s country house.... This one, quiet and peaceful, had its very own pond.

They went inside, straight to the back railing to look at the water.

“Des canards,”
Emilie said, pointing.

“Yes. Ducks,” India gave her the English word. She wondered if maybe they could have tea sent to the gazebo, but it didn’t seem there was anyone at the house to bring it, and Nicholas would certainly object. Below them, a rowboat sat on the shore with a pair of oars nearby. Perhaps—

No.

They weren’t here to enjoy themselves.

They were here so Nicholas could finish his business and say goodbye. And already she was realizing—too keenly, and much too late—how awful that must be.

“Ducks,” Emilie repeated carefully, trying to mimic the sound exactly. And then, “
J’adore les...
ducks.”

India couldn’t help laughing. “I...love...ducks,” she translated slowly.

Emilie repeated it back. And then, a bit haltingly, “I love...my brother.” She looked at India, waiting for confirmation that she’d said it right.