Guarding a Notorious Lady (14 page)

“Ah. Hiding, is he?” Rosalind stood abruptly, nearly disrupting the table. “Lucy,” she called without looking at her.

Her friend shot up as well, and together, arm in arm, they approached him.

His eyes centered on Rosalind, Nicholas tipped his hat and bowed his head in greeting but didn’t say a word. She was quite peeved to discern that he did not look sheepish, or regretful, or guilty. He looked . . . like he wanted to throttle her right here in front of everyone.

Rosalind and Lucy dipped into shallow curtsies.

“How interesting to find you here,” Rosalind murmured saucily.

He said nothing and gave her a barely perceptible nod.

“There you are, my lordship,” Lady Beecham exclaimed, coming to stand next to their little group.

“Did you enjoy your walk, sir?”

“Indeed,” he nodded, bestowing a devastatingly charming grin on the widow, the ring of silver in his eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

“Lady Rosalind and Miss Meriwether have only just arrived.” She turned to give Rosalind’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “And now that you’re all together

I

should

like

to

make

a

happy

announcement.” The last she said loudly and with a turn to address all of her guests.

“My son, Lord Beecham, has surprised us all yesterday morning and informed us that he has asked Miss Honeywel for her hand in marriage,” the dowager beamed with barely concealed joy. “And the lady has accepted.”

Gasps of delight and murmurs of congratulations trickled through the crowd.

“And I invite all of you to a small impromptu engagement ball later this evening. It’ll be most fun! I daresay my staff is always at the ready to throw a party, are they not?”

After this she laughed uproariously, which prompted a few guests to laugh as well, which, in turn, prompted Rosalind to have the peculiar feeling she’d missed a joke of some sort. In truth, she had never attended one of the dowager’s parties, but her curiosity was indeed piqued.

Smiling, the dowager turned back to look at Nicholas, and then said candidly, “I’ve to thank Lady Rosalind here for this outcome. I didn’t think my son would ever remarry. Do you know she introduced them?”

Nicholas shook his head, pressing his lips together tightly in some semblance of a smile.

“She introduced them and encouraged them when she could, inviting them to join her and Lucy for walks and ices and such.”

Someone beckoned the dowager and, still smiling, she excused herself from their company, giving Rosalind a wink.

Hmmph. And Nicholas thought her matchmaking was nothing but fruitless meddling that would do nothing but get her in trouble.

She turned to him with a smug smile, then remembered that he had tricked her. Well, not exactly tricked. He had misled her.

Because the truth was, she was hurt. If it wasn’t for the fact that her brother had asked him to watch over her, he’d still be in Yorkshire, ignoring her, while she spent yet another season praying that she would return home in the fall to discover Nicholas hadn’t married someone else.

She was tired of this game. If he had feelings for her, why wouldn’t he come out with them? She wasn’t a vain creature. But she did realize he was at least attracted to her.

Was that it? Did he feel guilty for desiring his best friend’s sister? But if he felt guilty, then that would imply that those were the
only
feelings he had for her.

That wasn’t enough. She wanted his heart, too.

She was just going to have to come right out and ask him.

She turned her back to him and, without looking behind her, trudged to the iron gate of the rose garden, her strides angry and quick.

And he followed, albeit from a distance, just like she knew he would.

She flung a glare over her shoulder and noticed Lucy running up to catch her.

“Wait,” Lucy breathed. “Lady Beecham might have slightly lax rules here, but you cannot go off with Lord Winterbourne alone. At least not so obviously.” Rosalind only huffed in response. She unhooked the latch and the gate opened with a groan.

Together they stepped inside the small garden.

Green vines heavy with pale pink roses crawled over the brick walls, swelling near the top. A tall, silver-leafed pear tree punctuated the center of the garden, and several paths radiated from that focal point, rather like the rays of the sun.

Reaching the tree, Rosalind nodded to Lucy, who wandered down the path directly opposite the graveled path that Rosalind took. It would be a respectable distance from Lucy, one that would still provide privacy for her conversation with Nicholas.

Rosalind ambled toward the end of the path, which was marked by a stone bench, roses curling along its legs. With serenity she did not feel, Rosalind sank down slowly, adjusting the cream-colored skirts of her frock. She turned her head away from the sight of Nicholas’s slow approach, his hands tucked behind his back.

When he came to a stop before her, she finally looked up at him.

It was a mistake. She ought to have continued to avert her gaze.

He was so achingly handsome. Broad shoulders, encased in an expertly fitted dark gray coat, effectively blocked out the sun. His cravat, for once, was straight, tied in a cascade of folds; the offending green-tipped pin from the evening before nestled inside.

His eyes, without the glare from the sun, were dark gray today, and there was a softness to them as well.

And presently, while he looked down at her quite like she was the executioner and he the brave offender awaiting his fate, she was almost inclined to forgive him. Gabriel could be heavy-handed, but her pride wouldn’t let Nicholas off so easily.

Or her heart. It was what had prohibited her from falling back asleep this morning.

She had tossed and turned, finally finding comfort in the odd position of hanging half off her bed, her arms stretched downward to pull and tug at the threads of her carpet. Over and over, she’d rehearsed what she would say to him, but now that the time had come, a hollow ache settled in her chest and the cool indignation she had nurtured now smarted with an unexpected sting of wretchedness.

She took a deep breath, composing herself. “You are the man my brother hired,” she stated simply.

“Aye,” he said, his face an unreadable mask.

Her heart gave a little triumphant twist to hear it said aloud. She swallowed several times before she trusted herself to speak. “Why?”

“He trusts me. He needed my help. I reckon he had no choice other than to force you to stay in the country.

You and I both know he wouldn’t do that.”

“How much?”

His brow quirked.

“How much did he pay you?” she repeated a bit more forcefully. It was a guess. In truth, she had no idea if her brother compensated him or not.

At first he said nothing, and then, having come to some decision within his own mind, he muttered, “A crate of his finest Scotch whisky.”

There, he said it. Now let her hate him. It was better this way. Easier. For Nicholas didn’t think he could resist the need to kiss her, touch her, hell, just to be near her, much longer. Since coming to London, every time he thought of her, which was all the time, he could feel himself falling deeper.

When Gabriel had first introduced them when Rosalind was just seventeen, Nicholas had been immediately aware of a natural affinity between them.

Not only had he been attracted to her but it had almost felt like he’d known her soul. It had frightened him.

Up until that point in his life, he had evaded love for fear of experiencing the pain his father had endured. It was the easiest task Nicholas had ever upheld, but then he’d never met a woman who threatened to topple it. Until Rosalind.

So he tried to dismiss her in his own mind. He told himself she was just a spoiled lass who would grow fickle and vain—those thoughts made him feel safe from her. But he was a fool. She was none of those things.

She was surprisingly giving, compassionate, loyal, humble about her appearance, and incredibly passionate. She was also the owner of his heart, he feared, but nothing would come of it. He wasn’t going to let it. If he had to, he would force things to go his way.

Still, it pained him to see the hurt in her gaze. A gaze that had grown suspiciously teary. Christ, don’t let her cry.

He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. From the look on her face, he now realized that in the guarding of his own heart, he just might be hurting hers.

She blinked several times, her head shaking slightly in apparent disbelief. “A-A case of whisky?” He nodded. This would make her angry, possibly despise him, and he would, once again, evade her power over him.

Outraged vehemence replaced the hurt in her eyes.

“I . . . am . . . worth . . . a case of whisky?” Her jaw worked, and then she blurted, “Whisky!?” He closed his eyes on a slow blink.

“How lucky for the both of you to reach such an agreeable compensation.” She shot up, the brim of her bonnet skimming his chin.

He did not take a step back and neither did she.

Her chin hardened and all he wanted to do was kiss it. Toss off her bonnet and bury his fists in her hair.

He’d kiss her until she begged him to take her right here on the bench. He’d sit her down and duck under her skirts. He’d start at her ankles and bite and lick his way up to her inner thighs.

Although it was impossible for her to see his thoughts, something in his gaze sparked her to poke the middle of his chest with her finger and declare, “I am not afraid of you.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

“I won’t have you following me around.”

“You don’t have a choice,” he said darkly.

“I don’t need you,” she said quietly, her throat convulsing. “I don’t need any man.”

“Well, then, that makes my job a hell of a lot easier.”

“I’m fine on my own.”

“The hell you are,” he replied harshly.

She took a deep breath and the lapels of his coat brushed her bodice. He ignored it by grinding his teeth. What the hell was he doing? He couldn’t seem to control his thoughts. She was upset, more deeply upset than he had anticipated. He had thought she’d screech at him for misleading her, tell him to bugger off, but it seemed something deep and painful had been brought to the surface.

“I’m fine on my own,” she repeated. “I always have been. And it will always be as such.”

Her voice seemed to break on that last sentence, and it undid him. He reached up to touch her cheek with the back of his gloved fingers.

She swatted his hand away. “Men. You are all the same.” Her voice sounded husky to him now. “At least as you all pertain to me. And here I thought—y-you made me believe, if only for a moment last night, before you left, I had thought something was . . .”

“Rosalind . . .”

“Is there anything between us, Nicholas? Do you feel something for me?”

He remained silent.

“Nothing at all?”

He took a step back but held her indignant gaze.

Silence stretched before them, the only sound the drone of a buzzing bee.

“For all my good intentions . . . how easily I see sincerity in the eyes of others . . .” Her voice trailed away and she shook her head.

Footsteps approached, softly crunching in gravel.

“Rosalind,” Lucy whispered gently from behind Nicholas. “Rosalind, come away. Let us return to Lady Beecham.”

Rosalind leveled a hard stare at Nicholas. “Stay away from me.”

“I cannot.”

“Just stay away,” she warned in a beseeching tone that confused him.

“I will not.”

She raised a haughty brow. “Will another case of whisky change your mind?” she asked, her tone mocking.

“I have enough whisky.”

She stepped around him, her shoulders stiff, her posture ramrod straight. “Then I shal shake free of you,” she vowed.

“Then I shal hunt you down.”

“I’ll run,” she challenged with a lift of her chin.

“And I’ll catch you.”

“You’ll regret that you agreed to do this, Nicholas.”

“I already do, lass. I already do.”

“D
o you know what he needs?”

“Certainly not whisky,” Rosalind murmured, inspecting her glass of punch as discreetly as she possibly could. “What do you suppose is in here, Lucy? I thought it was simply punch, but there’s a distinctive flavor that I can’t quite identify.” She licked the vibrant flavor from her lips.

“He needs a distraction,” Lucy continued unabated.

Rosalind took another small sip, savoring the rich flavor before swallowing. The slow burn down her throat made her shiver. “It’s rather like a dessert wine, but more pungent.” She thrust the glass under Lucy’s nose. “Here. Taste it.”

Lucy shook her head, never taking her eyes off the guests ambling about the Beechams’ gardens.

Considering the spontaneity of the celebration, Rosalind was rather surprised to see such a crush.

The gardens were quite pretty by day but utterly dazzling in the evening. Gone were the tiny-bottom chairs and elegant teacups perched on delicate-looking tables. They had all been cleared away from the section of paved courtyard to make room for dancing.

A string quartet played from the terrace above, the honeyed music flowing gently throughout the gardens, where randomly spaced glass lanterns chased away the darkness.

And somewhere lurking in the shadows was her guardian, Rosalind mused with a rather unladylike scowl. What a little fool she was to believe that he harbored some sort of
feeling
for her.

Taking another inquisitive sniff of her glass of punch, Rosalind gulped the rest of it down.

“Just how many of those have you had?” Lucy asked, eyeing her curiously.

“Only this one,” Rosalind answered. “I think it might be potent stuff. Look at that gentleman over there.” She gestured with a nod of her head to a man standing to their far left. “I don’t believe he realizes that the woman he was talking to has walked off. He has been conversing with that armless statue for at least ten minutes now.”

Lucy laughed. “I do believe you’re right.” Rosalind giggled along with her friend despite her sour mood, which was certainly from the effects of the suspicious punch she had been drinking.

“Now tell me,” Rosalind began, clutching her empty glass on her lap, “what were you saying about what he needs?”

Lucy sat forward, her eyes alight with enthusiasm.

“If you want to rid yourself of him you need to find him a distraction.”

“Of what sort?”

“The female variety.” Lucy waggled her brows.

“With his focus redirected, he just might give up on his duty.”

Rosalind blinked and gave her head a slight shake.

She didn’t want to do that, but Lucy didn’t know that Rosalind loved this man.

“It really is a perfect idea,” Lucy pressed. “Now, go find out what sort of woman he fancies.”

“Right,” Rosalind agreed with false enthusiasm.

She stood and went to take a step, but her legs seemed to have grown heavier.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I think all that punch went to my head,” she guessed, staring down into her empty glass. “Or my legs.”

“I think you should stay away from that punch,” Lucy said, plucking the glass from Rosalind’s loose grip.

Rosalind nodded, feeling quite strange. Managing to smother it somehow, she smiled instead and scanned the gathering for Nicholas.

All swarthy good looks, he stood near the entrance to the maze, his scowl apparently keeping all the young ladies at bay.

Straightening her spine, she made no pretense to avoid him and headed straight for him. Despite the effects of the heady punch, she was determined to maintain cool poise.

Unfortunately, he got taller the closer she got to him, and all that determination she had felt began to falter.

The thought occurred to her that she should turn back around and hurry back to Lucy, but she quickly dismissed the notion.

She stopped about two feet in front of him, her dark plum skirts swishing over his polished boots.

His gaze flicked downward before making a slow, measured ascent.

She shivered, ignored it, then cleared her throat delicately. “How strange it is to find you here, my lord.” His eyes appeared dark gray in the night, and they bore down on her with caged curiosity. “Not so strange, as we both know.”

“Of course,” she said. “The Beechams’ fêtes always seem to draw such a young crowd. The perfect spot to search for potential wives, don’t you agree, my lord?”

“I suppose.”

She had no intention of finding him a “distraction,” as Lucy had put it, but Rosalind was curious to know if Nicholas
was
looking for a bride. He had a new title.

Marrying and producing heirs to secure the line was perfectly logical.

But the opportunity to engage in a conversation with him on the matter was lost when, behind her, a group of young men with whom she was mildly acquainted approached and soon made a semicircle around her.

“Lord Bradley,” she said in greeting.

“My lady, you look lovely this evening.”

“She looks lovely every evening,” Lord Bentley drawled.

“Did you know,” Lord Hamel chimed in, “there is to be another waltz this evening?”

“How scandalous,” she remarked, to which all the men laughed in an exaggerated fashion.

“She already promised the next set to me,” Lord Noble intoned.

Had she? She couldn’t quite remember that he had asked her.

And then they all began speaking to her at once—

or so it seemed. Had Rosalind a clearer mind she would have made sense of it all, but as it was, she couldn’t separate their voices.

So she smiled and nodded, praying the punch would wear off already.

One of the men—the redheaded Lord Stokes—

stepped in close to Rosalind.

“Lord Stokes,” she called. “Have you seen Miss Meriwether this evening?”

He shook his head, then ducked close to her ear.

Whatever he was whispering was lost on her, however, because Nicholas grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her away.

He didn’t stop walking until they stood in a nook made by a half-circle of tall hedges.

Rosalind looked down at Nicholas’s hand at her arm. “What was that all about?”

“They were becoming unruly.”

“Indeed they were not.”

“I thought you didn’t like their attention.”

“I don’t. I like
your
attention, but you seem content to stand separate from me like some stone-faced sentry when we could be dancing.” Good Lord, had she said that aloud?

A pair of young debutantes caught Rosalind’s attention as they angled past the hedges, their eyes centered on Nicholas.

Rosalind couldn’t help but wonder if he would have returned their smiles if it hadn’t been for his obligation to watch out for her. Perhaps he would have followed them down the garden path. Oh, she despised this insecurity he evoked in her!

She turned back to him. “Do you know what Miss Meriwether thinks you need?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

Rosalind took a step closer to him. “A distraction.” A slow smile curved his lips. “allow me to assure you, my lady, you are all the distraction I will ever need.”

She was absurdly pleased at his words and smiled up at him.

Silver light winked in his eyes.

“Pardon?” a voice interrupted from behind her.

She turned to see Lord Noble, whose intentions reputedly never were, standing behind her.

“My lady, I believe the set you have promised me has begun,” he said smoothly.

“It is to be a waltz.”

“Indeed,” Noble agreed.

She looked back at Nicholas.
Say it. Say “You
must be mistaken, the lass is dancing with me.” Say
something.

But he said nothing. His expression darkening, he gave her a slight shake of his head.

He wanted her to refuse. Quite honestly, she didn’t harbor a pressing need to dance, but Nicholas’s stubbornness, coupled with his silent order for her not to do it, sparked her temper.

She certainly danced with other men before she knew he was her guardian. Why should she stop now? Lord Noble might be a rake, but they were surrounded by throngs of people. She wasn’t alone and it was just a dance.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, placing her hand on Lord Noble’s arm.

She allowed him to walk her to the dancing area, but the crowd thickened the closer they got, slowing their progress.

“I’ve a better way.” Reaching down, Noble grasped her hand and led her quickly through the throng. It wasn’t until they broke free that Rosalind realized he had steered her directly toward the bit of forest. There was but one small lamp near the opening of the woods, the darkness apparently keeping the other guests at bay.

Foolish girl! To think she could trust a snake not to lead her into the brush.

She tried to pull her hand free from his grasp, but he held fast. “Stop it, your lordship, I implore you.” He ignored her request. She looked about, but none of the other guests seemed to be paying them any attention. It was too dark.

“Wait,” she ordered again. “Stop.” She dug her heels into the grass, but it did not impede him.

Once inside the woods, Rosalind jerked to a halt.

Enveloped in near darkness, she twisted her hand free, only to find herself yanked hard against Noble.

He bent his head, descending toward her lips.

She made a fist but never got to use it.

A second later, Noble simply disappeared.

Rosalind blinked, trying to get her eyes to focus in the darkness. Soon, she made out Lord Noble staggering on the path, his face pulled into a sneer.

He made a fist, and then made the mistake of looking at it before taking aim.

Nicholas planted a powerful blow to the underside of Noble’s jaw, sending the lanky man head over heels to land in a bush.

All tall indignation, Nicholas stood before her, the only movement was the angry rise and fall of his chest. Slowly, his shadowed gaze turned on her.

Rosalind nearly shrank back.

“What spurred you to the depths of idiocy, my
lady
?

The spiced rum in Beecham’s punch?” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Don’t you
ever
do something so foolish as that again.”

“All I did was accept a dance,” she muttered in her defense. “It wasn’t anything I’ve never done before.” Nicholas grabbed her arm and hauled her back down the path. His steps were purposeful, his hold gentle but firm. “Perhaps, but that was before there was a wager made by a bunch of wealthy, bored fools with entirely too much free time.”

They seamlessly threaded back into the light with the other guests. The waltz had just begun, and many crowded near to watch the couples dancing.

“Where’s your aunt?” he asked, letting go of her arm.

“She’s in the house, playing whist with some of her acquaintances.”

“Good,” he said, taking up her arm again. “Then she can’t protest should I occupy you for every dance at this ball.”

“I did not agree . . . ,” she stuttered.

But there was no time to talk. Her breath was nearly knocked out of her as Nicholas swept her into his arms and onto the dance floor. His rhythm was flawless, his hold shockingly possessive with a heavy hand low and hot on her waist.

What a good teacher she was.

Hardening her chin, she stomped on his foot. Hard.

“So sorry,” she said demurely.

In answer, he took the next turn with a dizzying spin, which forced Rosalind to clutch at his arms for support.

Once they fell back into pace with the other dancers, he raised a suggestive brow. A challenge.

She made to stomp on his foot again, but he swirled her into a new direction, deflecting the blow.

Settling back into the undulating rhythm, he glared down at her while she matched his stare with a narrow-eyed frown of her own.

Atop the terrace, the dowager Lady Beecham stood next to Lucy Meriwether as they both watched the same couple with avid interest.

“My word,” Lady Beecham exclaimed, waving her fan rapidly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the waltz performed so . . . so vigorously.”

“Indeed,” Lucy murmured. “They look like they want to murder each other.”

Lady Beecham sighed, long and sad. “And here I had hoped they liked each other. Such a handsome couple. Shal I separate them?”

The strains of the waltz came to a flourishing finish

—almost as if they played for Nicholas and Rosalind alone.

Lucy shook her head. “I don’t think there will be a need.”

Taking a step back from one another, Nicholas gave the customary bow, but Rosalind immediately presented him with her back and stalked off. She ascended the terrace steps at a near run.

Flushed and out of breath, she offered Lady Beecham a small smile. “Lady Beecham, it has been a pleasure to be a guest not once but twice in one day.”

“You’re always welcome, dear.”

“Thank you. I trust my aunt is yet playing whist in the house?”

“Ah, yes, I do believe you are correct. Although I did hear her mention that she hoped you were ready to depart soon.”

Rosalind smiled and gave her thanks again.

Lucy waited until the dowager had descended the steps before pulling Rosalind close.

“What were you doing?” she asked in a throaty whisper. “You were supposed to inquire what sort of woman he favors. You weren’t supposed to dance with him.”

“I wasn’t given much of a choice,” Rosalind answered, approaching the balustrade. “He’s incredibly charming and I wasn’t able to resist him.”

“Truly?” Lucy asked, sounding surprised.

“No.” Crossing her arms over her chest, Rosalind leaned a hip against the stone railing.

Nicholas stood slightly separated from the guests, his arms behind his back, his eyes trained at some point above her head.

Lucy gave Rosalind’s skirt a twitch. “What are you going to do about him?”

“Shake him free.” Rosalind’s heart lurched as his eyes unerringly met hers. Her gaze narrowed. He winked.

“And how do you suppose you’re going to do that?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered, nodding. “But it’ll be awful.”