Guarding a Notorious Lady (20 page)

As Nicholas had nicely dumped his water in the bowl on the floor, Rosalind poured herself fresh water and began her nightly regimen. She thought perhaps she might ease the tension in the room by talking to him.

But then again, it wasn’t an easy task when the other person wouldn’t look at you and only responded in grunts.

“Did you eat?” she asked.

“Yes. Downstairs.” He was sitting in the chair. “Did you?”

“Yes. Thanks for ordering it for me.”

He grunted.

“The strawberry tarts were delicious. I ate all four.”

“Good,” he said with some satisfaction. “I knew you would like them.”

“How?”

“Hmm?”

“The tarts?” Gently, she patted her freshly washed face with a small, clean towel. “Were you just guessing?”

“Actually,” he said smoothly, “I remember an incident Gabriel had mentioned a while ago involving the last strawberry tart at a spring luncheon. Your birthday picnic, if I remember correctly.” She laughed. “Oh, yes, I remember. Tristan challenged me to an arm wrestling match. The winner got the last tart. He won the match within seconds, of course, but I snatched the thing from his grasp before he could take a bite.”

“Thief.”

“Indeed. I ran all the way to my room and locked the door behind me. I was just about to take a bite, and then it dropped, fruit side down, on my dirty shoe.” His lips twitched with a suppressed smile.

“I suppose you think I deserved such an outcome?”

“No. I think your brother should have let you have it.

It was your birthday, after all.”

“Good,” she replied, folding the towel and placing it on the washstand. “We finally agree on something.” Finished, Rosalind approached the dressing screen, sudden trepidation taking hold. She hadn’t fretted over the potential problem of not having a maid with her until that moment. She assumed that his sister would have a maid who could assist her in dressing and undressing. But she hadn’t planned on spending the night at an inn.

She took a deep breath and nodded.
I can do this,
she told herself.

Flinging her nightgown over the screen, she removed her boots, and then her stockings, replacing them with the soft, wooly ones. With her chin hardened in determination, she reached behind her to begin unfastening the row of buttons marching down her back. Several minutes later she’d managed to get three or four done before her arms cramped from the awkward position and her elbow whacked into the screen.

“Ouch!”

A heavy, masculine sigh erupted from the other side. “What the devil are you doing, lass?”

“Trying to remove my gown.”

Silence.

She tried once more, but her arm cramped again.

“Oh, I surrender! I will simply wear the dratted thing to bed.”

“Although I think it might kill me,” came his quiet, deep baritone from across the room, “do you want me to help you?”

She thought about it for a moment. Somehow sleeping in yards of damp muslin was not appealing.

“Yes, I require it.”

“Come here, then,” he muttered in resignation.

She walked around the screen to see Nicholas sitting in the chair, long legs spread out before him, white shirt open, revealing a beautiful expanse of his chest. His dark brown hair had curled slightly at the ends from the humidity. It simply was not fair that a man should look so devastatingly handsome with no effort.

She swallowed, her heart beating a wild staccato with anticipation of his touch.

She came to his chair and peered down. His eyes were shut and he lifted a hand, motioning her closer.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nicholas! Just unbutton the back of my gown. And please hurry.”

He grinned but didn’t open his eyes.

She sat on the arm of the chair and he went to work on the buttons. Shivers danced all along her spine.

“Now the corset.”

He sighed, and it sounded quite like a moan of pain. Deftly untying her laces, he soon loosened the corset, and goose pimples fanned up her arms and down her chest, hardening the tips of her breasts as well.

“Done?” he asked, voice almost pleading.

“Yes, thank you,” she intoned.

He nodded and she returned to the screen, where she finished undressing and donned her nightclothes.

Brush in hand, she plopped down on the bed, surprised at how soft it was. She began the process of unpinning her long hair.

She watched Nicholas while she worked, waiting for him to open his eyes. When the silence stretched, and his eyes remained closed, she allowed her gaze to rake his entire body freely.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you want your blanket?”

“I’m not cold right now.”

She loved how the muscles of his abdomen twitched as he spoke. “Are you going to sleep in the chair?” she asked, brushing out her hair now.

“Yes.” A short pause. “Rosalind?” Her name rumbled sleepily from his lips.

She shivered. “Yes, Nicholas.”

“Go to sleep.”

She froze for a moment, her thumb smoothing over the soft bristles of the brush. She couldn’t possibly sleep. Not with him sprawled within reach. Did he
want
her to look at him? Was this some sort of test?

Why couldn’t he just cover himself up with the blanket?

She had the most scandalous urge just then. In her mind’s eye, she slid off the bed, stepped between his long legs.

She cleared her throat in an effort to steer her thoughts into a different direction. “Why have you never married?” she asked. After a long silence, however, she regretted the intrusive query. “I’m sorry. I tend to pry on occasion.”

He shifted more comfortably in the chair. Lifting his arms, he settled them behind his head like a makeshift pillow, which made him look even more enticing, if such a thing had been possible.

“I have never had the inclination,” he finally answered.

“Oh.” She suddenly felt happier for some reason.

And a touch brazen. “Ah . . . should you have the inclination,” she began carefully, “what sort of woman would suit you?”

He raised a brow but did not open his eyes. “What sort?”

“You know,” she murmured, her tone casual, “looks, temperament, situation. I-I’m just curious, really.”

“Looks. Hmm. Perhaps tall, blond.”

Rosalind’s mouth twisted as she looked down at her rather petite legs. She sighed audibly, then began braiding her long, black hair with a pensive tilt to her head. “Is that so?” she murmured, her voice small.

“And she needn’t be a lady of some social rank, either.”

“No?” Good Lord, she wanted to cry.

“In fact, a country miss might be just what I need.” She swallowed the lump in her throat, remembering his casual notice of the tall, will owy blond at Vauxhall.

Apparently, Rosalind was in the mood for a bit more self-torture, for she couldn’t help but ask, “And what of her temperament?”

“Now that’s the most important requirement of them all.”

“Is it?”

“Aye. Above all else, she must be quiet. No chatty lassies for me. Especially in the evening . . . when I’m trying to sleep.”

She had been dwelling so miserably on the words

“tall ” and “blond” that it took a moment to realize he was only teasing her. Or, at least she hoped he was.

Good Lord, she hated this dreadful cloud of uncertainty she was plagued with.

Silence reigned between them for several moments. Her hair now in one long plait, she sat back, pulling the covers up to her chin. “Nicholas?”

“Yes, Rosalind?”

“Why will you not look at me?” she asked.

“I already know what you look like.”

She threw her pillow at him.

He sat there for a moment, pillow on face and chest before he pulled it away. His expression terribly serious, he murmured, “Thank you,” then placed it behind his head.

Which left Rosalind without a pillow.

She inhaled sharply. “That was
my
pillow.”

“Then you shouldn’t have thrown it at me. It was rather childish of you.”

“Childish!” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “I’ll tell you what’s childish.
You
, refusing to look at me.”

“Why the pressing need for me to look at you?

Have you been away from your admirers too long and are suffering from the effects of inattention?” are suffering from the effects of inattention?”

“Oh, I think I despise you.”

“Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because usually,” he drawled, his voice low and deep, “people don’t converse with individuals they don’t like. And I’d like to sleep, but I can’t if you don’t hush.”

“Now I’m positive I don’t like you.”

“Yes, you do. I could tell by the way you looked at me once I relieved you of your burden and carried the trunk the rest of the way.”

“I was relieved that I didn’t have to hurt you again.” He shrugged, the faintest smile curving his lips.

“And do you like me?” she blurted without filtering her thoughts.

After a brief hesitation, he shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning downwards. “No,” he said simply.

“
NO
?” she couldn’t help but shout.

“Maybe a wee bit.”

“Oh, how my heart swells.”

He chuckled low and quiet.

She sighed, long and drawn out. “I
can’t
sleep,” she complained.

“Strangely, neither can I.”

“Do you want to know why I can’t sleep?” Silence.

She decided to answer anyway. “I can’t sleep because you look so uncomfortable over there.”

“I’m not.”

“But you appear to be.” She bit her lip. “Your neck will undoubtedly be sore tomorrow.”

One gray eye opened a tiny bit. “Then where should I sleep, Rosalind?”

She suddenly felt like she had been prodding a sleeping bear, only to find out it was a dangerous game. She toyed with the edge of the coverlet. “Well, I mean . . . it’s a fairly large bed.”

“Quite.”

The other eye opened and heat pooled low in her belly. He looked like he wanted to gobble her up. “An invitation?”

She nodded.

To her surprise, he unfolded himself from the chair and stretched.

Rosalind watched him, realized she just might be drooling, then turned away. She scooted over and opened the blanket.

Eyes trained on her the entire time, he replaced the pillow she threw at him, then slid in next to her. “Good night,” he said, somewhat stiffly.

“Good night,” she answered, matching his tone.

“May you have pleasant dreams about tall, blond mutes frolicking in the countryside.”

He chuckled, silently, his mirth shaking the bed. “I’m afraid I’ll have nightmares instead.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. I’ve a suspicion there will be a raven-haired pixie in my dreams.” A smile was in his voice. “She’ll have the sweetest smile and the most beguiling blue eyes, the color of a Scottish loch in spring. She tortures me and I ache for her something fierce. But she’ll not let me rest—”

“Until you kiss her good night. I never got my birthday kiss, if you remember.”

“I’m not kissing you, Rosalind. If I kiss you, I’ll not stop.” He nodded slowly, his eyes intent upon her.

“You’ll find yourself naked and spread across this bed in whatever position suits me.”

She forgot to breathe. “Oh.”

“Exactly.” He gave her a fearsome scowl, though the silver in his gaze made it a sultry stare instead.

“You trust me because your brother does, and you respect his opinion. And, aye, I’ve always been an honorable man, but around you I think honorable is pretty damn boring. Stop tempting me, Rosalind.” She said nothing but met his harsh stare.

He leaned toward her and kissed . . . her nose. She was too stunned by his declaration to react.

“Consider it a warning. You only get one.” And then he rolled over and presented her with the broad expanse of his back.

Rosalind had about two seconds before she rolled helplessly toward him, bumping into his warm, solid back.

“Oomph! Sorry,” she mumbled. She scooted back to her side of the bed, tightened her muscles in order to stay put, but ending up giving in. She rolled back into him.

“Sorry,” she repeated, her face pressed between his shoulder blades. “I’m not trying to ravish you, you may depend upon it. I couldn’t help it. Perhaps if you roll over . . .”

Nicholas flipped over onto his back, his laughter shaking the bed. “It doesn’t matter. You’re such a wee thing. This mattress is misshapen and I’m heavy—

you’re going to keep sliding into my side.”

“Oh,” she said, rather distractedly, as she was now snuggled against his bare chest. She looked down at him, knowing he saw the yearning in her gaze.

“I think,” Nicholas said quietly, “I should return to my chair.”

She shook her head. “Stay.”

They stared at each other for several moments before he gave her the slightest nod. “Well, if you think you can keep your hands off me . . .”

Her jaw dropped. “If I didn’t cherish this pillow so much, I think I’d happily wall op you with it.”

“Aye, you’re such a fearsome lass.” He grinned and closed his eyes. “Good night, Rosalind.” Rosalind settled back onto the pillow, her body tense to keep from rolling into him.

After several minutes, she picked up her head and looked at him. Thick, dark lashes fanned against his cheekbones. His glorious chest rose and fell, deep and even.

Ever so slowly, she inched closer and closer still.

Sure he was asleep, she pressed against his side and carefully rested her cheek on his upper arm.

She didn’t plan on a sigh of contentment, but it came all the same. She didn’t think she’d ever been so comfortable in her whole life.

To her surprise, Nicholas lifted his arm, wrapped it around her, and held her close.

And then her heart truly did swell. “See, Nicholas,” she whispered. “I knew you liked me.”

To her chagrin he said nothing. She hoped it was because he had fall en asleep. Too afraid of what answer he might give her if she pressed and repeated herself, she merely sighed, then pressed her cheek against his chest.

Soon, she drifted off to sleep, but eventually doubt reared its pernicious presence in her dreams. She dreamed she was back at Wolverest, traversing the long, tree-lined lane her mother had named Canopy Row. As she approached a whimsical Aphrodite statue, Rosalind smiled at the goddess’s expression, her lips pursed as she blew a kiss in the wind.