Guarding a Notorious Lady (2 page)

His new direction put Rosalind (and Lucy, too, but by this time she had quite forgotten other people existed) in his view for a brief moment. Those dazzling eyes of his connected with hers.

A hot sting jabbed low in her belly. Her heartbeat faltered and her limbs felt weak. Dry. Her lips felt dry.

She ran her tongue over them, belatedly realizing that her mouth must have been agape for quite some time.

Smile, you idiot
.
You know him and he knows you
.

Wiggle your fingers or
give a small nod of
acknowledgement.

But before her fogged mind cleared enough for her to react, Nicholas’s gaze turned a cold, gunmetal gray. Rounding a support column, he strode out of view.

Her shoulders sagged.

If he barely spoke to you in the country, why would
seeing you in the city be any different?

His indifferent manner toward her (coupled with an almost permanent scowl—which in Rosalind’s opinion looked more like he was always thinking about something rather than a true frown) had never deterred her from liking him.

Over the years she’d learned that Nicholas was gentle and protective, intelligent and strong, curiously secretive and handsome as sin. His only flaw was that he habitually kept his distance from her; sometimes she likened him to an impenetrable wall.

Certainly it would be easy enough to believe that he simply wasn’t fond of her, but Rosalind was a perceptive young lady, and she did not miss the spark in his eyes when he spoke to her or the way his touch lingered when he handed her a book she had (purposely) dropped at his feet.

His behavior confused her, and because she was uncertain of his true feelings, pride kept her from blurting her admission of love.

From below, Lucy gave the skirt of Rosalind’s dress a twitch. “Rosalind? Are you all right?” Rosalind blinked and stuttered, “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Lucy nodded knowingly. “Flustered you, did he?”

“No, no. Not at all,” Rosalind rushed out. “It’s just that I didn’t expect to see him . . . here. In London.” Her friend’s expression turned hopeful. “You know him, then?”

“Vaguely,” Rosalind lied.

A memory sparked in her mind. Once, in her youthful vanity, she had asked Gabriel if she could have Nicholas for a husband—as if he’d been a particularly fetching bonnet she’d seen on a fashion page. Her brother had laughed and tugged her braid, telling her “he would never do that to his friend.” She almost groaned aloud at the embarrassing memory. Brothers could be so cheeky.

“So you
don’t
know him very well?” Lucy persisted, redirecting her thoughts.

Rosalind exhaled and wobbled her head in a funny, not quite a nod, not quite a shake, manner.

“Right,” Lucy answered slowly, drawing out the word. “Well, when you’re done finding Miss Honeywel a match, I’d like you to make me one. With him.” She sighed, staring blankly at the spot where he had last stood. “All that’s left to do is find out who he is. Lud, I hope he’s hunting for a bride.”

“You wouldn’t want him,” Rosalind said, discomfited at the note of defensiveness in her own tone.

“Well, I can’t imagine any woman not wanting such a fine specimen for a husband. That’s it, isn’t it?” Lucy gasped. “He’s married?”

“No,” Rosalind muttered, feeling a bit adrift. “He’s not married. He’s a . . . he’s a farmer.” Her insides burned with shame for misleading Lucy.

“A farmer?” Lucy muttered in disbelief. “Here, in London for the season? Business perhaps?” Rosalind nodded, her own curiosity wrecking havoc on her concentration.

“A farmer, as in a
yeoman
farmer
?” Lucy whispered her question. “Or farmer as in a landowner? A
gentleman
farmer?” Rosalind gave a small nod. “Gentry.” With a twinge of guilt she withheld the rumor that he had a distant aristocratic relation. She had overheard Gabriel mentioning that fact late one night while at the Bill iard table at Wolverest. The men hadn’t known she’d been in the hall, her ear pressed against the closed door.

“Is he a man of substantial funds, then?” Lucy asked, giving a frustrated sigh when Rosalind failed to answer her.

Just what was Nicholas Kincaid doing here?

Gabriel would know. A surge of anticipation quickened Rosalind’s pulse. She wouldn’t have to wait long to ask her brother. Gabriel had requested wait long to ask her brother. Gabriel had requested her presence in his study for a brief discussion before their guests started to arrive this evening. She suspected she was due another lecture about her meddling—er,
matchmaking
.

Although it ought to be praise. Lonely Mr. Thwaites and the spinster Miss Crofton were now the happy Mr.

and Mrs. Thwaites as of just last season. And by the looks of things, Miss Honeywel here would find herself a viscountess very soon. Rosalind itched to take another peek in their direction.

“My Lady. Miss Meriwether,” a gentleman intoned from behind them.

Rosalind turned to see Lord Stokes stepping past the other end of the aisle. A veteran of the marriage mart, the redheaded viscount was rather reserved, but friendly. An acquaintance of Gabriel’s, he often attended all the Devines’ parties.

He tipped his hat, smiling at them in turn. His gaze lingered a touch longer on Lucy, which hardly went unnoticed by Rosalind.

“Well,” Rosalind whispered in her most beseeching tone. “Whatever are you doing here talking to me, dear Lucy, when there is a highly available bachelor right here in this very establishment? I daresay, he is completely smitten with you.”

“You think so? I rather thought he only had eyes for you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Rosalind replied lightly.

“Well . . . perhaps,” Lucy answered, sounding unsure.

“Why don’t you go and speak with him, then?” Lucy blinked in surprise. “I shouldn’t know what to say.”

“We are at a bookshop, for heaven’s sake. Ask him a question about a book.”

“What book?”

“Any book. It doesn’t matter.”

Hesitating, Lucy tapped her finger against her teeth.

“Go on,” Rosalind urged, jerking her chin in the direction Stokes had gone. “If I were you, I should think I’d sidle up next to him and start fretting about not being able to reach a book. It’s bound to work.” Lucy gasped, her eyes wide and her smile alight with enthusiasm. “A test of his gall antry,” she replied in a loud whisper. “brilliant!”

Rosalind nodded in encouragement. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll do just that. Superior idea!” As Lucy sped off down the aisle—busy with thoughts of snagging Lord Stokes—Rosalind turned her attention back to peeking through the bookshelf in order to gauge Miss Honeywel ’s progress.

“Oh, dear,” Rosalind whispered, her shoulders falling in disappointment. It appeared they had gone separate ways.

Rosalind carefully slid a particularly meaty tome two inches further down the shelf in order to get a better view. Lord Beecham had rounded the corner and was clearly exiting in a rush. What had happened?

Completely enthralled with just what exactly had occurred between the couple, she forgot her position on the ladder. She arched her feet and now stood on the tips of her toes.

Her head now in the shelf along with a dusty book, Rosalind nudged the thick tome further out of her way with the side of her forehead. Had they argued? And Miss Honeywel . . . where had she gone? She gazed up and down the aisle as far as she could see. Was she upset as well? Oh, dear, what had happened?

If Rosalind had been paying any attention at all to just how far she was leaning to the side, she would have surely caught herself by grabbing hold of the sides of the ladder. Instead, her toes slid on the rung.

She didn’t have time to scream. With nothing underneath for purchase, she toppled backwards, her knees bending. Gloved fingers grasped for the ladder but failed. Her entire body hardened, preparing for a jarring impact with the hard floor.

Her backside never found it.

Two strong hands caught her swiftly underneath the arms, her back slamming into the unforgiving wall of a man’s solid chest. While the air in her lungs seemed to be locked on a frozen scream, his warm, even breath feathered the top of her head. It felt as if time had been suspended.

The backs of her calves rested on the fourth rung, and her feet had pushed a row of books through to the other side. He held her thus, in this ridiculous position, before she realized he was waiting for her to pull her legs out and stand on the floor.

A scorching blush inflamed her entire body. How ungainly, how graceless.

Trembling, she pulled her legs through one by one, while he held her steady. With both of her feet firmly on the floor, he hesitated, his hands firm and reassuring against her back. She exhaled shakily before he finally let go.

Pressing her lips together, Rosalind wavered, reluctant to turn around and thank him for saving her from numerous broken bones. Perhaps he would just walk away and she could pretend this had never happened?

No. That would never do. Good manners decreed she thank him. Straightening, she turned and found herself staring at the middle of his chest. She cleared her throat. “Dear man, I must extend my sincerest . . .” She tilted her head back and met disapproving gray eyes.

“Nicholas,” she barely choked out.

“My lady,” he murmured with a slight dip of his head.

“I . . . I—”

“—should watch what the devil you’re doing?” he reproved, one brow arched. “I certainly hope this isn’t a habit of yours—to behave so recklessly.”

“Er, not usually,” she managed to mumble.

Oh, what a witty girl,
she thought, nearly rolling her eyes at herself.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then paused, his eyes narrowing on her as he apparently weighed the words on the tip of his tongue.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He bent his head even closer, apparently so that no one else could overhear. Warmth spread from her head to her boots, and she felt her body tremble slightly. He was looking so intensely into her eyes that she blindly gripped the nearest shelf to brace herself for whatever it was he was about to say.

I love you, Rosalind
.
I worship you, Rosalind
.
I
followed you all the way to London just to tell you that
you are my sun, my stars, my moonlit . . .

“Apple tree.”

Rosalind blinked. “What?”

“Do you remember that day in the apple tree? I shal never forget it.” His voice was low, his slight Scot’s burr seeming to thrum through her. Having his silvery stare centered on her so unexpectedly and after so long fairly turned Rosalind’s mind to mush.

“It was the first time I saw you.” He shook his head slowly, his intense look never softening. “I spotted you sitting in one of your brother’s apple trees in the walled orchard. I had no idea what you were doing up there. It took me a half a moment to realize you were spying on a man and woman enjoying a picnic luncheon on the lawn.”

Oh, yes. Rosalind remembered that day. And she had arranged that picnic, too. In fact, she’d picked the menu herself and packed the basket as well. She had been helping a footman woo a scul ery maid for weeks. The girl had finally relented, agreeing to an outing. Within the weeks that had followed, the happy couple had married.

But contrary to what Nicholas believed, she had
not
been spying on the lovers. She had been spying on Nicholas. He had just finished helping their groundskeeper burn a diseased tree on the border of their properties. Believing he’d been alone, Nicholas had slipped off his shirt and washed up over a tub of rainwater near the wall of the orchard. Fascinated, her eyes had lingered upon the flat plane of his stomach and muscled chest, the light trail of hair that circled his navel and disappeared in the band of his breeches.

His skin had looked like the color of tea with two drops of cream—and just as warm and inviting. When he’d straightened, shaking the water out of his hair, she had thought he’d caught her eye. She had lurched back . . .

“You tipped backwards and would have come crashing down, but by some miracle you hung on to the tree limb by the backs of your knees.” He shifted his weight. Lord, he smelled wonderful and warm.

Light cologne and utterly masculine. “And there you swayed back and forth. The only thing that ended up falling to the ground was your bonnet.” Her skirts had flipped over her head, too. A flush of heat fanned through her upon realizing that Nicholas must have seen her unmentionables that day. She was just glad he didn’t reveal that particular fact.

His eyes sparkled mischievously, but only briefly. It still managed to trip up her heart. Perhaps he was remembering that flipped skirt after all.

She inhaled slowly, shakily, and rall ied her composure.

“So this is”—he looked off in the distance briefly, then swung those eyes back to her—“at least the second time you’ve fall en off or out of something.” The corners of his mouth turned downward in a teasing manner that made her feel like she was a debutante again. “One would think you would have learned your lesson.”

“To not climb trees,” she answered cheekily.

He sighed, giving a nod to the next row. “Perhaps if you weren’t so preoccupied spying on people,” he said, a muscle twitching in his jaw, “and paid attention to yourself, you wouldn’t have fall en off the ladder.” All of a sudden, her mind seemed to awaken out of a blanket of fog. Her eyes narrowed on him. “You
were
deliberately blocking my view,” she accused in a sharp whisper, taking a step closer to him.

“ A nd
you
are ever the wee snoop, I see,” he whispered back, his warm breath dusting her cheek as he, too, took a step closer to her.

Her mouth opened on a silent gasp. “How dare you make such assumptions,” she whispered as loudly as one could and have it still be considered a whisper.

A wicked gleam lit his gray eyes. “Is it quite beneath you, then? Women of society don’t meddle in people’s lives?”

Her mind, refined and knowledgeable in the art of giving someone a fantastic retort, went startlingly blank. Not only was he accusing her of spying, which of course was exactly what she’d been doing, but they were also standing so close to each other now that a deep thrumming began to vibrate through her. Did he feel it, too?