Guarding a Notorious Lady (7 page)

And then suddenly, Nicholas’s hand dropped away.

She opened her eyes in just enough time to see him give his head a quick shake. Then he closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath before opening them again.

“You were . . . ,” she began breathlessly, “. . . you were about to . . .”

Reaching down, he removed his tie pin, disrupting the simple knot of his cravat. “There,” he said quietly.

“We are free.” He leaned back in the chair, his strength surrounding her.

He had been about to kiss her, she was sure of it.

But why had he stopped? Oh, she could scream. Why did he hesitate?

There was some desperate, discontented part of her that flirted with the idea of grabbing him and kissing him herself, but she resisted.

“You can stand now,” he pointed out rather gruffly.

She nodded, staring up at him, trying to figure him out.

Sighing, he reached out, grabbed her at the waist, and practically shoved her up before him.

“My, you’re as gentle as a lamb,” she muttered, straightening.

He nodded his thanks, a half smile upon his lips.

“I did not intend that as a compliment,” she said, her tone stern.

Nicholas chuckled. He couldn’t help it. And he hadn’t wanted her to move. The thought shook him. If he could do whatever he wanted at that moment, hang the consequences, he would want nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and drag her back down onto his lap and pin her to his shirt for good.

For safekeeping, of course. It would be a lot easier to watch her, wouldn’t it?

Och, what was he thinking? He had almost kissed her. Hell, he had practically invited her to do so should she have the desire. And the equally terrifying thing was he rather thought she desired—just as much as he did.

And just what the hell had he been doing with the tie pin? He could have disengaged them within seconds, but instead he’d tarried, lingered, savored. The view, dear Lord, the view . . .

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

He stood and crossed the room with brisk strides.

The further away she was from him right now, the better.

Standing in the same spot he’d put her in, Rosalind brushed at her skirts. Her head jerked up at the sound of raised voices floating in from the hall.

“It’s one of my brothers,” she announced, her slightly alarmed gaze sliding to meet Nicholas’s.

He nodded to the cat that was currently trotting his way to the door. The thing looked positively harmless now.

“Go,” he ordered quietly. “I’ll wait until you’ve moved on before I leave.”

She nodded, following the cat from the room.

As Nicholas looked down to refasten his tie pin, he swore he heard Rosalind whisper, “Thank you, Oliver, for being such a naughty kitty.”

R
osalind didn’t think it could be possible, but three hours later, her mood had darkened considerably.

Her guardian was here tonight, she was sure of it, and she had failed to reveal him. However, it was possible that he retained his cover so well for the simple fact that there hadn’t been any real danger here at Devine Mansion.

Or, perhaps, if her ears hadn’t been abused with constant blithering speculations concerning the new marquess in their midst, Rosalind would have been able to concentrate.

If they only knew she had sat upon his lap in a room down the hall, she’d be delegated from respectable almost-spinster to a hoyden in the course of a single evening.

“I heard the Scots have insatiable carnal appetites,” someone whispered from behind a fan, which caused someone else to gasp.

“Truly?”

“How frightening!”

Rosalind flicked a glance toward the small grouping of women on her right, her brow rising in wonder. A seated young lady seemed to be sliding out of her chair. Had she fall en asleep?

Strangely, several other ladies seemed to have an odd tilt to their heads. What was happening to their necks?

Rosalind turned to look past the dancers at the other side of the room. Even the women over there seemed to be suffering from the same peculiar head tilt.

She followed their gazes . . . directly to Nicholas’s kilt. Her mouth opened on a small gasp. Apparently, the sly creatures were all trying to get a peek.

A new surge of jealousy sprouted within her. She didn’t begrudge him his inheritance. She was delighted for him. But life had seemed so much simpler when he had been her own little secret.

Rosalind smirked. Could she blame them? He was rather breathtaking.

But she’d had about enough of all these women ogling Nicholas and his bare knees. And his sculpted calves. And his trim waist.

Seven dances. Seven! And he had not asked her once.

“Rosalind.”

Blinking out of her musings, she turned to find Gabriel standing before her.

She smiled in greeting, her brows lifting. “Yes?” Another minuet had ended and some guests were marveling at the grace of the dancers.

“As the last dance of the evening is approaching, I wanted to give you one last instruction.”

“What is it?”

“It was not below my notice that you danced with a number of gentlemen this evening. More than usual, more than you ought to have.”

She sighed quietly.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Tomorrow, after Madelyn and I depart, when
they
come calling, and you and I both know who I’m talking about, you are to inform Briggs to tell them that you are not at home.

They will insist on leaving cards, I realize, but then they had better get the hell out of my house. It’s not safe.

Not with that damnable wager setting fire to their heels. ”

Rosalind blinked slowly. He had just given her a splendid idea.

“Please, do not fret,” she said simply.

The chords signaled that the waltz was about to begin. It was the only waltz of the evening.

Gabriel gave her a nod, then strode across the room to retrieve his wife for the dance.

Tomorrow, Rosalind would welcome the deluge of men coming to call. Perhaps with a houseful of male visitors, her guardian would have no choice but to lurk about the windows—or perhaps he’d be bold enough to come to call himself.

And once the matter of dismissing her guardian was settled, she could focus all her energy on an entirely different matter.

Season after season she had concentrated on other people’s happiness in matters of love. And now with Nicholas in London, it was time for her to make her own match.

He had wanted to kiss her, she was sure of it. And yet, he’d hesitated. She wasn’t certain why, but she knew without a doubt that if Nicholas Kincaid had come to London to find a bride, that woman was come to London to find a bride, that woman was going to be her.

Her plan set, Rosalind couldn’t help but smile with proud satisfaction as she watched her brother sweep his wife into his arms, gliding her effortlessly onto the dance floor. They looked perfect together, quite like they completed each other. No one could deny their being in love.

It occurred to Rosalind then that no one had asked her to dance. She looked about, spying Nicholas sauntering in her direction.

Her heart skittered. It was the last dance of the evening, the only waltz, and very fitting that he ask her.

He neared, his paces slowing.

Lifting her chin, she straightened her spine and took a deep breath, her acquiescence poised on the tip of her tongue.

And then he passed her by and walked out of the room.

ll
ong walks in the countryside had never failed to clear Nicholas’s head in the past.

Unfortunately, he was currently traversing a crowded, sooty city, and any thought-clearing he managed amid the clattering of wagons, carriages, and bustling people only seemed to make more room for all things Lady Rosalind Devine.

And when it came to that particular woman, his imagination often wandered into dangerous territory.

As he turned the corner that would bring him to Hyde Park and closer to the Devine residence, he told himself he was only a man. A man attracted to his charge.

He hadn’t wanted to hurt her last night, but maybe it would do the proud lassie a wee bit of good to be brought down a peg or two.

However, his mind kept replaying the way her shoulders had lowered, the way she’d twisted her hands in the folds of her gown, when he had passed her by.

She hadn’t stood alone for long, however. Some gangly, young lad had approached her, and, after gracefully accepting his offer, she’d allowed him to twirl her enthusiastically around the ball room floor.

She had smiled graciously, all infallible politeness.

He had gone to bed last night, his mind replaying the events of the evening: the look of open interest gracing her features when Gabriel had introduced them, the way his blood had surged at the sight of her kneeling on the floor between his legs, the smell of her. And once Nicholas had managed to fall asleep, she’d haunted his dreams. In his uninhibited imaginings, it was
he
who had swept her up into the dance.

He had clutched her tightly to him, his fingers sliding roughly through her hair. He had bent down and plundered her rosebud mouth until she’d surrendered and sunk into him for support and more of his kiss.

Right there in the middle of the ball room for everyone to see.

He had woken sheathed in sweat, the sheets twisted in his hands. It surprised him that just the idea of this particular woman engaged so intimately with him in the dance was enough to set his blood to an immediate boil.

Aye, it was wise of him not to dance with her. After that dream, he wasn’t so sure that he would have held her respectfully nor kept the secrets of his mind so easily hidden.

Especially from her brother.

And Nicholas wanted Gabriel to know she was safe with him,
from him
.

Her brother placed his rare trust in him. As Gabriel’s friend, Nicholas had to uphold a certain code of conduct. And that included keeping his eyes, hands, and mouth from roving over Gabriel’s sister.

“Pardon,” Nicholas muttered to a group of ladies as he stepped around their meandering gait in order to pass them.

They lifted their noses at his words. He sighed. So lofty and unforgiving. Perhaps they’d heard about his choice of attire the other night and feared he was indeed a real-life Scottish beastie.

Smothering a grin, he strode onward through Hyde Park, aiming for Grosvenor Square and Devine Mansion.

The decision to walk was made in part by a stubborn horse who was proving to be the biggest, hairiest bairn when it came to the distractions of the city, and partly because it wasn’t that far from his rented town house.

Accustomed to much more strenuous exercise in the country, it was really just a small trek to their home, and he needn’t fight with the congestion of the streets either.

Was it really midmorning already? It felt as if he had just left Devine Mansion.

He pulled out his pocket watch. “Twelve o’clock.” Well, it was some ten hours ago.

City hours for the ton were vastly different. As they attended ball after ball, partygoers kept “town hours”—sleeping until noon, some of them. He hoped Tristan was awake or, at least, home.

He needed to speak with the lad. He needed to tell him that he’d be watching the back of the house this evening.

Upon leaving Devine Mansion late the night before, Nicholas had been about to mount his jittery horse when he’d noticed the redheaded man—the same man from outside the bookshop. He’d been standing near a shadowed row between houses across the lane.

Nicholas had approached the man and shouted a greeting.

Well, to be honest, it had been less a greeting and more specifically, “What the hell are you doing over there?” Subtlety was never his forte.

The man had run. Nicholas had chased him for half a block before the stranger had become winded and able to run no more. Reaching him, Nicholas had grabbed him, but the lanky man surprised him by wresting free enough to slip out a small dagger.

Nicholas had managed to dodge the blow aimed at his face, but he’d lost his hold. The vermin had scurried away, disappearing down another all ey like a rat slipping into some invisible crack in the foundation.

That creature could be anywhere, Nicholas thought grimly with a narrow-eyed glare as he scanned the people milling about the streets and surrounding park, his gaze snagging on the unsuspecting women in particular.

Dangers lurked everywhere.

Take that situation just over the rise, for instance, he pondered.

A young, bespectacled, flaxen-haired lass sat on a bench nestled under a tree with a book. Next to her dozed a woman he guessed was her mother, her head slack and resting on the back of the bench.

Unbeknownst to the sleeping woman, her charge was being watched by a man atop a glossy black stal ion.

As Nicholas passed, the man never took his eyes off the girl, and she seemed completely oblivious to his half-adoring, half-ravenous gaze.

A lion nearly salivating at a dainty mouse.

Just what were this fell ow’s intentions? Nicholas found himself wondering. It looked nefarious to him, but then again, Nicholas was admittedly more suspicious than most.

Shaking his head, he crossed the crowded street and quickened his steps. Before long the Devines’

town house came into view. He looked up, noticing a commotion near Rosalind’s front door. Och, were they hosting another party, and in the middle of the day?

The front door open wide, three men were coming down the steps as two more were trying to get up, their arms laden with blooms of every color and various wee, prettily wrapped packages.

Nicholas squinted. Was that a horse tethered to the railings, ribbons and small flowers twined through the beast’s mane and tail? What the devil was going on?

“AAAAAAA-CHOOOO!”

Nicholas nearly jolted out of his skin as a sneezing man sped past him, holding the largest bouquet of roses he’d ever seen in his life.

“You there! Sir!” Nicholas shouted. “Hold!” With a sigh, the man came to an abrupt stop and turned around. His eyes were red-rimmed and weeping, his bulbous nose shiny and damp. He looked miserable. “Yes?” he asked, sounding nasal and rather irritated.

“What is this all about?”

“Well,” the man started, looking peevish and sounding much like he was explaining something to a dull-wit, “these are flowers and I’m delivering them.”

“To whom?”

The man sighed. “To Devine Mansion. Again. And I suppose once I return to the shop other . . . ah . . .” Nicholas took a step back just in time.

“ . . . ACHOOOOOOOO!!” The man wiped at his nose with his sleeve. “When I return to the shop,” he began again, “I suppose there will be more . . . ah . . .

ahhh . . .”

“Here.” With one hand, Nicholas took the tall vase of pink roses from the man. “allow me.” Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, he grabbed some coin and handed it to the man.

He looked affronted for a moment, then glanced at the money, and then back at Nicholas. “How do I know you’ll not steal these for yourself?” His question was laced with suspicion. “We have a reputation to uphold

—”

Nicholas held up a hand. “You can watch me deliver it from over here. And,” he added with a grin, “you might want to think about another line of work.”

“I’ll say,” the man agreed, swiping at his sweaty brow.

“C
hrist, Rosie! The front hall looks like a bloody jungle.”

“Don’t I know,” Rosalind cringed from behind an enormous bundle of bright red tulips before dumping them in a vase brought by a maid. “And poor Briggs,” she continued, speaking of their butler. “I sent him off.

He couldn’t stop sneezing.”

“Ah,” Tristan said, shrugging out of his cloak. “That would explain his absence.” He glanced behind him before tossing the garment on the chair to the right of the door, then ceased abruptly once he realized the seat was already occupied by a large potted fern.

“Bloody bounders,” Tristan growled. “Gabriel’s been gone a whole of five hours and they’re upon you in an instant.”

“Shh! They’ll hear you.”

“Have you gone mad? Now you believe flowers have feelings?”

“Not the flowers, dunderhead. The gentlemen inside the morning room,” she muttered with a point in that direction.

“Gentlemen?”

She nodded, adjusting the arrangement of a small bouquet of wildflowers.

“Inside our morning room?”

Her lips flattened. “With Aunt Eugenia.”

“With Aunt . . . what the devil is going on?” She shrugged innocently. “Every girl receives a few gentleman callers the day after a ball. It’s perfectly normal.”

Tristan shot her an incredulous look. “Normal is one or two, or hell, even ten! This place resembles a hothouse, Rosie.” He stared down at her with eyes the same frosty blue all the Devine siblings shared. “And what the hell is
that
?”

Rosalind followed his appalled gaze to a portrait propped up against the wall near her feet. Someone had had her likeness painted and sent it as a gift. She hoped it wasn’t an accurate likeness. She rather looked like she was part horse.

Tristan shook his head. “As you well know, I am not so overbearing as Gabriel, but you are my sister.

Please, do not tell me the number of men in the next room surpasses the number of bouquets in this one.”

“They’ve been coming and going since eleven.

However, rest assured, there are only two now. No, no. There are three. Or was it four?” She scratched at a tickle near her ear and mumbled, “No, Lord Dalhousie already left, that’s right. So that makes . . .”

“How many?” Tristan nearly growled.

“There are three,” she murmured very quickly.

He sighed and ran a slow hand through his tousled auburn locks. “Listen carefully. I’m going to allow them

—”

“Now wait just a minute,
little
brother,” she warned.

Tristan halted her puny threat in its tracks with a hardened jaw. “
I’m
going to allow them to stay until I change my clothes and I—”

“Are you going back out?”

“Later, but if you must know I’ve just returned from Angelo’s—”

“Fencing again?”

“Yes,” he answered with a slow blink. “Now will you cease interrupting me?”

She held her tongue.

“When I come back down, which will probably be in”—he glanced at the long case clock near the door

—“a half hour, I want all of them gone. Whoever is still in that morning room when I come down will find themselves thrown out on their posterior.” themselves thrown out on their posterior.” Rosalind couldn’t help but smile cheekily. “Does that include Aunt Eugenia?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied with a grave nod and a sparkle in his eye. “Indeed, it does.”

Turning, he shook his head and bounded up the steps, taking three at a time with ease.

There came a shuffling at the door, which was left open to accommodate the wealth of flower deliveries.

Rosalind turned to see a pair of long, male legs topped with the most enormous vase of pink blooms she had ever seen. The flowers must have numbered at least two dozen, but what was even more astonishing was the legs that had carried them in here. This was no delivery boy.

Snug, biscuit-colored breeches hugged every sinewy muscle of his thighs to sheer perfection. Tall, polished boots shown glossy in the light pouring in from the open door.

My, her newest caller possessed such dashing attire. And must favor physical activity, as well, for no man looked that muscular and virile without it, she was sure.

The soft heels of her kid boots made not a sound as she approached this new visitor. Reaching forward with both hands, she grasped around the middle of the wide vase, her fingers coming into brief contact with warm hands covered in smooth leather.

“Thank you,” she said politely, glancing down at the nest of blooms before looking up at the man. “I’ll put them . . .”

“Rosalind,” Nicholas said, his tone stiff, his gray eyes sparkling like jewels.

A shock of surprise burned in her chest. “Oh,” she said, affecting indifference. “It’s just
you
.” Her feelings were still smarting from yesterday’s ball. The constant swaying of his indifference to interest to slighting her for a dance grated on her mind. Years of being able to read the behavior of individuals in order to gauge the level of interest—or lack of—in others had not prepared her for Nicholas.

He was a conundrum.

She walked away from him, scooting a fat pot of begonias out of the way to make room for the roses.

He took off his hat as she did so and hung it on the rack next to the door.

“Those,” he said as he gestured to the roses with an indolent flick of his wrist, “are not from me.” She smiled stiffly. “I would never dream that they were.”

She hated to admit it, but the fickle-hearted buffoon that he was, he still looked gloriously attractive. And had he cut his hair?

“Is that someone coming up the walk?” She made a show of appearing to look past him and out the open door at his back. No, he hadn’t cut his hair. All those silky brown locks were pulled back and tied with a leather queue.

A peculiar slow heat crept through her. Last night he’d looked half gentleman, half wild and wonderful Scot. To her irritation, she hadn’t been the only one who’d noticed. However, amongst all the sighing and wistful looks he’d received from the younger set, Rosalind had also heard some older women mock his physical stature, claiming his muscles, strength, and tanned skin marked him as a common laborer.

Rosalind didn’t believe there was anything common about Nicholas.