Guarding a Notorious Lady (19 page)

Finding a shady, reasonably dry patch for her picnic was difficult indeed. The air smelled fresh, for London that is, and was matched with a warm breeze and bright summer sunshine. The fine weather coaxed many to enjoy the delights of Hyde Park.

Men flaunted their horsemanship, children rode alongside their papas on their ponies, while others played lawn games or flew kites with their nursemaids. Ladies strolled the clipped lawns and graveled paths with pretty parasols shading them from the glare of the sun.

Rosalind stifled an impatient sigh, thinking of the pretty parasol she’d seen in the Wedgwood shop an hour before. She’d had her heart set on buying it, but when she’d inquired after it, they’d told her they were to wrap it up for a customer who had purchased it mere moments before she’d gotten there.

Rosalind heard the coo of a baby and turned her head. Alice sat on a bench in the shade at a distance, cradling her new grandchild in her lap, her daughter chatting next to her.

Nicholas sat on a bench in the distance, his top hat low and his head bent as he feigned reading a book.

Oh, he was watching her. She could feel his gaze upon her. But he hadn’t made any pretense to approach her at all, and she was starting to get a bit annoyed.

After all, she had eaten at least seventeen strawberries (they were rather small ) and she was starting to feel quite ill. This was rather silly. Here they were at the park together, but separate. Dear Lord, she was tired of this game.

She was four and twenty and every season was the same. She’d come to London, dodge a plethora of hopeful suitors, dance, make merry, and, of course, pine for Nicholas secretly.

Was this all there was? Would she simply grow old waiting for Nicholas to make some sort of indication, either way, of his feelings? She knew he felt lust for her, but was that all? She refused to believe it.

He’d mentioned in the morning room the day she’d stuffed cake in her mouth that some men feared love, avoided love, thought love brought them unbearable vulnerability—as if they believed, she mused, that in opening their hearts, they opened a wound.

Could he have been talking about himself?

She looked down at her pale pink skirt, shooing a tiny beetle from her hem.

This season was different from all the others. He was here—Nicholas, not the beetle—and while perhaps he wasn’t here for the reasons in her romantic daydreams, it occurred to her that she should seize this opportunity to tell him how she felt once and for all.

She was going to tell him that she loved him. She needed to.

Resolved, she collected her plate and napkin and placed them in her basket. As soon as she was all packed up, she was marching straight over to him and confess. In truth, she rather thought that he might already know.

A pair of tall, polished boots came to a stop at her side.

She looked up to find Nicholas staring down at her.

He grinned.

“May I join you?”

She nodded.

He settled himself beside her, one knee bent, his other leg slightly gaping. He leaned back on his hands.

Rosalind had never felt so very feminine, just by having a man sit next to her on a blanket. Her gaze fell to his lap, where a long box rested on his taut thighs.

Looking up at him, she noticed that his gray eyes shown like shards of broken glass. Those eyes drank in every inch of her.

Her breathing sped up in response. “What is it?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“That dress.”

She raised a brow. “Do you like it?”

A short, low chuckle rumbled in his chest. She felt it all the way through her bones.

His smile was devastatingly handsome . . . and dangerous. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing, lass?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes you do. And I like the dress.”

“Thank you,” she responded pertly, straightening her spine.

“And the strawberries,” he swallowed. “You have such a delightful way of eating them. Sucking slightly before popping them into your mouth.”

“Enjoyable for you?”

Shaking his head slowly, he chuckled, low and quiet. “I don’t like to be teased.”

She swallowed. “Teasing implies that I wish to arouse your hope, only with no intentions of giving you satisfaction.”

“And do you?”

“You can have what you want, Nicholas.” He licked his bottom lip and dropped his gaze to her mouth briefly before speaking again. “Be careful, Rosalind. You may think you know exactly what I want, but you can only imagine.”

With those words hanging in the air, he leaned toward her, handing her the box.

“What is it?”

“A gift.”

She blinked in surprise. “A gift? For me? Why?” He nodded, his brow furrowing in such an adorable fashion that she couldn’t help but grin. “Is it not the eighteenth?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I suppose. But what would that have to do with—?”

“Isn’t it your birthday?”

Her mouth opened on a gasp. It was her birthday, and she had completely forgotten all about it. “You knew it was my birthday?”

“I know a lot of things about you. Here.” He handed her the long, narrow box, a neat band of blue ribbon looped artfully on the top.

She stared at it for a moment, not sure what to do.

“Take it,” he said.

Quickly untying the ribbon, she balanced the box on her hip and lifted the lid. She gasped in delight at the contents. Tucked inside was the parasol she had seen at the Wedgwood Shop.

“How did you know?”

He grinned. “Not telling.”

“It’s lovely, Nicholas. Thank you,” she murmured.

“You’re very welcome.” He stood suddenly, holding out his hand to assist her to stand. “I have something to ask you as well.”

“Hmm?”

“My niece’s birthday is a week after yours, but my sister is having a party for her two days hence. Would you come?”

“I’d love to.”

“Your aunt is welcome, of course.”

“Thank you, but she’s not feeling very well.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat and she laughed. “I mean, that’s too bad. Certainly you could have Tristan bring you?”

She nodded, smiling.

“I’ll walk you back to your maid.” He looked off in that direction and cringed. “It seems she’s caught your butler’s cold as well.”

Rosalind looked over to see that Alice was handing her grandchild back to her daughter. Once the baby was settled, Alice shook out a handkerchief and sneezed into it.

Nicholas plucked Rosalind’s blanket and basket from the grass. Together they crossed the lawn. She took out her new parasol and opened it, marveling at its beauty.

“Nicholas?” she beckoned softly once they were halfway there. It was time to declare her love.

“Yes?” He stopped, turned, and looked down at her patiently.

“I want you to know. I . . . I’ve always . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’ve always . . . I’ve always wanted a parasol just like this one.”

What a coward.

“T
he road’s washed out ahead, my lady. We’ll have to turn back.”

“To London?” Rosalind shouted over the sound of raindrops pummeling the carriage rooftop like the pounding of a hundred drums.

The driver shook his head, rain dripping relentlessly over the brim on his hat. “No. I’m to take you to an inn, Bleak Hill.”

She smiled, her eyes widening. “My, it sounds welcoming.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, it sounds lovely,” she shouted, sitting up. “Is it nearby?”

He gestured behind the carriage with a nod of his head. “His lordship says it’s back down the road in the village. You’ll wait out the storm there.”

“Did my brother say how close we are to Lord Winterbourne’s sister’s?”

After a brief hesitation that gave Rosalind the impression that she had somehow confused the man, he shook his head. “No, my lady. But you’ll be spending the night. Even if the rains stop, it’ll take some time for the water to recede.”

She nodded and settled back against the squabs.

He gave her a queer look before shutting the carriage door.

“Lud, whatever did I say to provoke such a look?” she asked no one in particular, being quite alone in the carriage.

Alice and Aunt Eugenia were back in London suffering from the atrocious head cold Briggs had undoubtedly passed to them. Rosalind couldn’t have been more pleased—not that they were ill, of course, but she was delighted that she would arrive without her disagreeable aunt in tow.

Of course, she wasn’t traveling
completely
alone. It had been agreed upon that Tristan would escort her to her destination. He had been riding behind the carriage for the past several miles. They’d had a late start, and evening was fast approaching.

Reaching up to unbutton the clasps of her midnight blue

pelisse,

she

sighed,

suddenly

feeling

overheated.

Where London could be at times cold and damp, the southeast had some of the warmest temperatures in England. Rain often brought a warm humidity and, being from the North Country, Rosalind soon deemed it positively sweltering and shrugged out of her coat completely.

She gazed out the window at a darkening gray sky.

The rain had lessened to a steady drizzle, but it showed no signs of stopping. Still, the landscape was quite marvelous—fruit orchards and fields of strawberries, hop gardens, and oast houses, with their steeple-like kilns.

A blur of a shadow at the window caught her attention. Rosalind leaned forward and spied the shadow of a rider practically fly past the carriage.

“Oh, Tristan, you reckless boy,” she said with a wry smile.

Before long, they rolled to a stop, the carriage jostling a bit as the driver jumped down.

“Thank the Lord,” Rosalind muttered, the muscles in her back stiff from a long day of travel. Scooting to the edge of the seat, she stretched, thrusting out her chest with her arms thrown over her head.

Sloshing footsteps approached, and in the next second, the carriage door flung open. “Sweet Christ,” someone shouted, then slammed the door shut.

Rosalind’s eyes widened. “Nicholas?”

Slowly, she opened the door and looked left and right. Finally, she spied him, carrying her heavy trunk up the steps and into the Bleak Hill Inn.

Bemused, she sat there for a moment, staring out into the drizzle.

A second later, Nicholas reappeared and strode over to the carriage with such brisk, determined strides that she almost shrank away.

Without saying a word, he grabbed her pelisse, threw it over her head, scooped her up and out of the carriage, and started toward the entrance of the inn.

Or, at least she thought he was. She really had no idea, for she couldn’t see a thing but the inside of her coat.

“Where’s Tristan?” she asked, her voice muffled.

“He rode ahead about two miles ago.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Precisely. Where’s your maid?”

“At home, ill, with my aunt and her maid.”

“How bloody convenient,” he muttered with disdain.

His tone had her writhing in his hold. He had no choice but to put her down, she supposed, or he might drop her. Feet on the hard surface of what could only be the front step of the inn, she flung out her arms, fighting with her coat until she managed to pull it down from her head.

She could tell that her bonnet now sat at an awkward angle on her head, but she didn’t care.

Fueled by her agitation, her chest rose and fell rapidly and her eyes narrowed on him. “Are you implying that the maids and my aunt are sick on purpose? Just to make things inconvenient for you?”

He didn’t answer but continued to scowl down at her from under his low-brimmed hat, his hair sodden and resting on his shoulders, his broad chest blocking out the view of the narrow, cobbled lane at his back.

She poked him in the chest, her temper ignited by his suspicious gaze. “I’ll tell you what’s inconvenient—

being saddled with a surly guardian. Oh!” She looked about her. “And let’s not forget the implication that I am worth my weight in whisky! Indeed, this whole experience has been nothing but unadulterated pleasure.”

He sighed, an odd sparkle in his eyes. Truly, he looked as if he would smile. Rosalind rather thought she’d stomp on his toes if he did.

“Are you finished, love?” he asked rather nicely, grinning like the handsome devil that he was.

She sniffed, shifting her stance. “I think so.”

“Good. Let’s go in.”

Clutching her pelisse to her chest, she allowed him to guide her inside, his hand at the small of her back.

A rather tiny wrinkled man with a full white beard greeted them. His name was Mr. Peters. While Nicholas spoke quietly to the proprietor, Rosalind removed her bonnet and looked about her, noting that her heavy trunk sat near her feet.

The glorious scent of roast beef and—she inhaled deeply—batter pudding wafted over to her, making her stomach growl. Lord, she hadn’t had batter pudding since she was a child. Her gaze flicked over to the room adjacent to the one they stood in. It seemed to be a small banquet room of sorts, and it was packed with hungry overnight guests.

Eager for a bit of privacy, a room to relax in, and a plate of food, she edged closer to where Nicholas spoke to the innkeeper.

He was trying to explain something to Mr. Peters, and she wished he’d hurry.

Her temper was still steaming with the notion that Nicholas thought she’d had a hand in the fact that she had no maid or chaperone. As if she was trying to orchestrate some sort of seduction. What arrogance, she thought with a roll of her eyes.

A scowling Nicholas came over to her then, bending his head low. “I’m going to have to lie, Rosalind. There is only one room left and you well know that there could be a hundred rooms and you still cannot travel alone and keep your reputation intact.”

“I suppose you think I anticipated this outcome and sent word ahead, asking the good people of Kent to rush to the Bleak Hill Inn and book all the rooms so that we’d be stuck together. Hmm?”

That curious sparkle returned to his gaze. “Just hush,” he drawled.

Her brow rose, as did a new facet of her temper.

Nicholas stepped away from her. “Mr. Peters. The one room will be fine. My wif—”

“Sister,” Rosalind announced rather loudly. “Sister. I am his sister.” If he wanted to treat her coldly and pretend there was absolutely nothing going on between them, then she certainly wasn’t going to allow him to play into some sort of fantasy wherein they got to pretend to be man and wife.

If he could be aloof and cool, then she would be an Ice Queen.

Nicholas’s gray gaze froze on her for a long moment before turning back to Mr. Peters. “Aye. My sister and I will share a room.”

“Splendid,” Mr. Peters beamed. “Shal I send up a tray of food?”

Nicholas nodded, then tossed the man a coin.

“I regret that I have no one to carry up your trunk, I could—”

“That’s all right,” Rosalind assured the old man, who was now shuffling toward the narrow staircase, step by rickety step.

She looked pointedly at Nicholas, gesturing to her trunk with an open palm. “Nicholas, my trunk.” A tight smile stretched across his mouth as he passed her by without picking it up. “Come now,
sis
.

You remember my leg injury? I couldn’t possibly carry that up all those stairs.”

Her lips hardened into a thin line. Exhaling on a huff, she grabbed her trunk with two hands and dragged it laboriously toward the steps, mumbling her displeasure along the way.

Mr. Peters had a hard time with the stairs, ascending them at a turtle’s pace. Nicholas offered to assist the man, but the innkeeper politely refused.

Thankful for the slow ascent, Rosalind found it easier to pull the trunk on the carpeted stairs.

Reaching Nicholas, she pulled hard and the trunk slid up the next step rather quickly. The corner rammed into the back of Nicholas’s knee.

“Ow!”

Rosalind smiled.

Mr. Peters looked over his shoulder. “Everything all right?”

“Indeed,” Rosalind chirped. “It’s just his bad leg.” She gave a happy sigh. “Everything is perfect now.”
H
e abandoned her.

Well,

perhaps

she

was

being

a

touch

melodramatic.

After the “accidental” leg wall oping on the stairs, Nicholas helped her carry her trunk the rest of the way to their room.

And if the Scot had the power to make a room appear smaller just by his mere presence, he made this room look positively tiny.

On the right, dominating the room, jutted the bed, a large and rustically designed four-poster, with a clean counterpane of ivory. A small dressing screen stood in the corner, closest to the door. In the opposite corner stood a small washstand and side table.

On the other side of the monstrous bed, a small hearth crouched in the center of the far wall. Before it sat a tiny scarred wooden table and the room’s only chair—a rather nice armchair with salmon-colored cushions that had probably been dark pink when new.

Rosalind reposed there now, plopping the last square of cheese in her mouth.

Nicholas had been gone for two hours, at least. She didn’t know precisely, as there wasn’t a clock in the room.

He’d claimed he would see that the horses were being properly cared for and expressed some interest in returning to the washed-out road to ascertain a way to drain it. Then he’d locked the door behind him and left.

Would he return?

Common sense told her that he would, but she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t return until the morning—having deemed a muddied road infinitely more exciting than spending the rest of his evening with her.

No. She knew what he was doing. He was avoiding being alone with her in this room.

Her eyes flicked over to the bed. Where would they both sleep?

Just then, the lock on the door clicked and Nicholas swept inside the room, setting a small bundle on the side table near the door.

Sparing her the briefest of glances, he shrugged out of his carrick coat and hung it on a peg on the wall near the door. His beaver hat joined it. Next were his riding gloves, which he took a ridiculously long time to pull off. He laid them on the side table next to the bundle.

Rosalind stood, patting the wrinkles out of her dark blue frock. “Ah, good evening?”

He grunted while pouring a splash of water in the basin.

“Did it stop raining?” It was a stupid question. She could have just looked out the window for herself.

He nodded and looked about the washstand. “Do you have soap in that trunk of yours?”

“Yes,” she answered. Loping over to her trunk, she flipped it open, located the small, square wedge, and handed it to him. “I hope you don’t mind . . . it’s slightly floral. Jas—”

“Jasmine and cream.”

She blinked, astonished that he knew. “All right, then,” she murmured, taking a step back from him.

“Do you like it?”

“Too much.”

“Ah,” she remarked, not quite sure how to respond.

“Would you like me to get you some for your private use? I could order it for you.”

“On you. I like it on you.”

“Oh.”

Dear me. He was certainly a man of few words this evening.

Hands folding demurely in front of her, she watched him wash up. There was nothing else to do, nowhere else to look. She supposed she could look out the single window next to the fireplace, but it only showed the side wall of the neighboring building—not terribly exciting.

The bed. All she could think about was the bed and where they would sleep. Quite honestly, with Nicholas in the room, the bed seemed to come alive, demanding she take notice of it.

She handed him a towel once he was done. After he finished drying himself, he took off his boots, set them near his coat, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Rosalind gulped. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to go to sleep.” In seconds, he stood before her, bare-chested, all that glorious, sun-kissed muscle bunching as he shook out his shirt, then hung it next to his coat.

Her heart started to race at the sight of him.

“Mr. Peters loaned me an extra blanket,” he said, pointing to the small bundle he had brought in the room. “And a shirt.” He unfolded it and shrugged it on.

Bringing his arms together in order to button it, a ripping sound rent through the room.

He looked over his shoulder and down his back.

Rosalind gasped, a hand thrown to her throat. “Oh, Nicholas. I think the shirt was too small.” Pressing his lips together, he nodded.

Unable to stop herself, she giggled. “No! No! Don’t take it off.”

“I can’t button it.”

“Yes, but it covers you mostly. And I think you’d get cold without a shirt.” And she wouldn’t be able to stop looking at him.

He shrugged out of it anyway.

Silence reigned for some time while she busied herself dragging his wet clothes over to the hearth, where she laid them on the table to dry by the fire.

When she was done, Rosalind supposed she ought to ready herself for bed as well. After rifling through her trunk, she located her brush, prim nightdress, and a pair of thick stockings that she liked to wear when she was away from home.