Nicholas: Lord of Secrets (10 page)

With Nick, it was ever a problem with the ladies. The predictability of this also gratified. “What manner of young lady? I’ve no need to take on one of your lightskirts, Nicholas.”

“She’s a decent woman. I’ve asked Della to invite her to Clover Down for the week, or until I can get free of Bellefonte. Her dear father, the Earl of Wilton, seeks to wed her to Hellerington, or somebody of that ilk. If she can’t secure such a match, the old man might procure a different sort of situation for her.”

Ethan didn’t bother to keep amusement from his face. “You are in the shining-armor business, it appears.”

“I am not, but neither can I leave somebody who is essentially helpless in harm’s way.” Nick’s pronouncement was made in tones of self-disgust, which Ethan allowed to remain unremarked.

“What am I supposed to do? Wilton is a nasty bugger, Nick, and I am not anybody’s heir.”

“Just escort Della and Lady Leah out to Clover Down,” Nick said, “and hang about until I come back from Belle Maison.”

“I can do that.” Ethan was surprised to see the depth of the gratitude in Nick’s eyes. “Christ, Nick, are you really so alone as all that?”

Nick’s gaze slid away, and Ethan had his answer.

“Your ladies will be safely tucked away in the country,” Ethan assured him. “Is there more you would ask of me?”

Nick was silent, and Ethan reached over and plucked Nick’s empty teacup from his hand.

“This is me, Nicholas,” Ethan said in low, impatient tones. “I accidentally branded your bony little arse, I was the first person to get drunk with you, and I wouldn’t know how to read if you hadn’t taught me my letters. What?”

“Come to his funeral,” Nick said, his gaze on his empty hands. “Not the service, if you don’t want to, but to Belle Maison.”

Ethan rose and ran a hand across hair slightly darker than Nick’s. “I did ask.”

He turned his back to Nick, staring into the fire as a plethora of emotions rioted through him—resentment, surprise, and something else. An elusive little bolt of warmth Ethan wasn’t about to examine too closely. Nick needed him, and for the first time in more than ten years, Ethan could help. The sneering, righteous rejection he’d practiced off and on for all that time was the last thing on Ethan’s mind.

“You don’t have to.” Nick rose as well. “I’m presuming, to put such a request to you.”

Ethan half turned and regarded his younger brother—his harried, tired, worried, very large younger brother who had gone into the shining-armor business, whether he admitted it or not. “I’ll go. I’ll escort Della and your damsel, and when Bellefonte goes to his reward, I’ll at least put in an appearance, if you’re still certain you want me there when the time comes.”

“I will,” Nick assured him, eyeing him grimly. “Beck is lying low in Portsmouth, Dolph and George will probably be skipping around from one house party to the next, you’ll be easy to reach, and…”

“And?”

Nick slapped riding gloves against his thigh in a slow, solid rhythm. “And of real use. To me. To the girls. They’ve missed you.”

Ethan said nothing rather than remark on all the letters he’d never received from his devoted sisters.

Nick turned his back and reached for the door latch. “God knows I’ve missed you too.”

And then he was gone.

***

“Wilton has made it plain that I’m to secure Lady Warne’s sponsorship for Emily, and that’s the only reason he’s allowing me to accept this invitation.” Leah ambled along on Nick’s arm at a decorous pace completely at variance with the panic building inside her.

“What aren’t you telling me, Leah?” Nick’s tone was pleasant, a gentleman escorting a lady on a casual ramble by the duck pond on a spring day.

She wasn’t telling him she was scared nigh to death, wasn’t telling him she needed his embrace with a desperation that qualified as pathetic.

“Wilton’s getting worse, Nick. He no longer seems to care what befalls me or who learns of it.”

Nick’s hand closed over hers in a warm, reassuring squeeze. “In two days’ time, you’ll be ensconced at Clover Down. Because I must away to Belle Maison, my brother Ethan will escort you, and you can pry all my boyhood secrets from him. We were incorrigible, of course…”

She let the soothing patter of his voice wash over her, let herself believe that a week in the country would work some miracle where Wilton was concerned. She also let Nick draw her once again into the privacy of the willow bower on the far side of the pond.

“You are pale, lovey,” Nick said, wrapping his arms around her. “Your eyes are haunted, and fatigue shows around your mouth.” He bent his head and brushed his lips over that mouth. “You must not fret. All will be well.”

When he held her like this, Leah could believe it—Nicholas seemed to believe it, but then, his father hadn’t murdered his betrothed, and all but promised to deliver him, bound hand and foot, into a life of abject depravity.

She let herself cling to him for just a few more minutes, storing up the sandalwood scent of him, the heat of his tall body, the solid muscles enveloping her, and then she forced herself to step away.

“For two more days, I can manage, Nicholas. I’m not usually inclined to such dramatics.”

The look he gave her was searching, far more serious than his usual genial expression. Meeting his gaze, Leah was struck in a whole different way with how very attractive he was, and how male. The woman he married had best guard her heart and guard it well.

The breeze stirred, teasing a lock of blond hair across Nick’s brow. They were still in the sheltering embrace of the willow branches, so Leah allowed herself to smooth that errant lock back into place.

“Two days, lovey, and then Ethan and Lady Warne will kidnap you from your tower. Wilton won’t risk anything drastic when he knows you’re expected by a dowager marchioness at week’s end. Be strong for two more days.”

He kissed her again, a sound smack on the lips. One of his kisses for courage—though what did it say about her, that she was starting to catalogue the kisses of a man whom she had no intention of marrying?

It nearly killed Nick to leave Clover Down without stopping in at Blossom Court, but he’d learned years ago that Leonie was a creature of routine. She loved him, and he loved her, but that meant he loved her enough that if she wasn’t expecting him, he could no longer disturb her peace by just dropping by.

When he did reach his father’s side, he was glad he hadn’t tarried on the way.

“What took you so infernally long to get here, boy?” Bellefonte’s voice had lost volume but not bite, Nick noted as he mentally armored himself for this interview.

“One doesn’t leave Town in the middle of the Season without having to send out regrets, confer with solicitors, and make other arrangements.” He met his father’s gaze, but it was an effort. The old man was losing ground, and that, not the earl’s temper, his displeasure, or his infernal meddling, was what bothered Nick most.

I’m losing him.
Nick wandered around the overly warm, camphor-and-books-scented study, the better to avoid looking at his father.
We’re losing him.
Nick would never again be a little boy who could throw himself into his father’s arms and feel small and protected, knowing a robust, if irascible, father would defeat all demons and slay all dragons.

“Perhaps one doesn’t.” The earl’s scowl eased. “You’re too skinny, Reston.”

“Too much dancing.”

“Not enough dancing. You’ve brought me no sweet young thing for my approval.”

“I’m considering a few possibilities,” Nick said, “but I figure you’re too stubborn to die until I find the right lady, so there is no real hurry.”

“Cheeky.” The earl grinned fleetingly. “You get that from me, but don’t be too cocky, my boy.”

“Of course not.” Nick nodded graciously and forced himself to take a seat opposite the desk that now seemed to dwarf its owner. “I want this marriage business over with probably more than you do.”

The grin evaporated. “You don’t make sense. Of all my lusty boys, you are the lustiest of the lot. Word is you’ll swive anything in skirts—unlike your nancy brother, George, by the way—so what’s the delay in finding a countess?”

“In the first place,” Nick said pleasantly, “I do not swive anything in skirts, but am, rather, very choosy about my partners. In the second place, keep your beak out of my personal business, or I’ll dawdle until June to make a selection and let her choose the wedding date. In the third place, not just any woman could take on the family you’ve created, my lord, much less your rather generously proportioned heir.”

The earl waved a bony, mottled hand. “Marry some bovine parson’s daughter, my boy. You know I believe in the occasional outcross.”

“I will consider that advice,” Nick said, his tone somewhere between bored and pleasant.

“See that you do,” Bellefonte snapped. “This dying business is tedious, young man. I do not relish becoming an ugly, odoriferous old stick, and I would be done with it sooner rather than later. Your dithering wears on me, sir.”

Nick suffered that hit, as it hid a genuine plea for haste and for understanding.

“So how fare you, Father?” Nick asked, all hint of posturing gone.

Bellefonte smiled thinly. “I do not suffer, particularly, except that indignities bring a pain all their own. I am not bedridden yet, though, so you have some time. I truly do wish only to see you happy.”

“One would never accuse you of having any other motivation,” Nick drawled, returning the smile.

“And as to that brother of yours…” Bellefonte shoved the momentary sentimentality aside with another dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m going to formally acknowledge him.”

Nick went still, not having seen this pronouncement coming.

“You haven’t told Ethan,” Nick surmised. “Don’t expect me to tell him. This is between the two of you.”

“Don’t preach to me, Nicholas. I know how to deal with my own children.”

“By sending them all away,” Nick said. “You wanted to spare them the ordeal of watching your decline.” A final, poignant display of patriarchal kindness.

“And spare myself the pleasure of being watched as I decline,” the earl added. “I’ve unfinished business with you and your brother.”

Your brother, Nick noted, meant Ethan, as if those other three young men were something else.

“So finish it.” Nick fell silent, waiting and wondering what in the world his father had to say to him. In recent years, they’d gotten better at bickering, taunting, and insulting their way through difficult matters, such that what needed discussion was in some-wise discussed. So what did that leave?

“I owe you and Ethan an apology,” the earl said, spearing Nick with a glare. “I was wrong to separate you all those years ago, and more wrong for how I went about it.”

“Apology accepted,” Nick heard himself say, though inside, in his chest, his vitals, his brain, a shivery feeling came over him. “Will you be joining us for dinner? I’ve brought one of Moreland’s sons with me from Town.”

“Bother that.” Bellefonte rummaged in a drawer of the desk. “My hands shake so badly, eating is no longer pretty, if it ever was.”

“You had exquisite manners,” Nick said softly, knowing his own delicacy at table was gained by following his father’s example. “Is this why you’re turning into a shadow?”

The old man banged the drawer shut. “Assuredly not. It’s because I’m fretting over the succession, you insolent, thoughtless, self-centered puppy.”

Only his father had ever called him a puppy and managed to make him feel like one.

“Of course.” Nick rose, his smile genuine. “Then you won’t mind if I have a word with Nita and the cooks regarding your menus.”

“Listen, pup.” The earl struggled to rise, and Nick let him. Pure cussedness got the old man to his feet, and love of a good scrap had him leaning over the desk, bracing himself on gnarled knuckles. “You will not go telling Cookie to feed me beef tea through a damned straw. The day I can’t chew my own food is the day I stop eating.”

Nick’s smile broadened, knowing his father’s display of temper had been for his benefit. He sidled around the desk and bent to kiss his father’s cheek.

“I love you too, Papa,” he said before sauntering off, knowing the earl was grinning like a lunatic at his retreating back. Over his shoulder, Nick called, “And see that you finish your pudding. I have my spies too, and locating a worthy countess may yet take some time.”

***

“You sent for me?” Leah joined Nick in his study at the back of the Clover Down manor house, trying not to let her anxiety show. She’d left the door open, of course, but when Nick silently padded across the room and closed it, the anxiety she’d carried with her everywhere of late congealed low in her belly.

Since his arrival the previous night, he’d been distracted and distant, though never rude. As much as she studied him, as carefully as she’d tried to pry details from Mr. Grey or Lord Valentine, Nick’s present mood was a mystery to her.

“Sit down, Leah,” Nick said, his eyes on her with an unnerving intensity. “We have things to discuss. You have enjoyed your stay here?”

“Very much.” She took a seat on the couch rather than one of the huge reading chairs. She’d sat in one for much of the previous morning, reading and enjoying its subtle hint of Nick’s scent—and feeling utterly dwarfed by its dimensions.

“Ethan has behaved?”

“Your brother was slow to warm up,” Leah said, watching Nick as he paced the room, “but he has proven to be charming company.”

“Good.” Nick stalked over and seated himself beside her, taking her hand in his. His hands were warm and callused across the palms and pads of his fingers. Not exactly a gentleman’s hands, but capable of tenderness.

“I want you to hear me out,” he said, glancing at her then at their hands. “I have a proposition for you—a proposal, really—but it won’t be what you want or what you deserve.”

She wanted to pace as he’d been pacing. “I’m listening.”

“I know.” Nick ran his free hand through his hair. “Christ’s blessed, hairy…” He dropped her hand and rose again, tramping the length of the room like a stall-bound horse.

Leah rose and stood in front of him where he’d paused at the window. “Whatever it is, just say it. I know you have many responsibilities, and I am just a passing obligation you’ve taken on out of the goodness of your heart. I will always be grateful to you.”

“Grateful. God’s holy… drawers.”

Leah raised herself up on her toes and brushed her lips over his. “Grateful,” she repeated with soft insistence.

“Oh, hell and the devil,” Nick muttered, his arms going around her, pulling her snugly into his body. Leah felt something in him ease, or possibly
give
up
as his chin came to rest on her crown. “Lovey—Leah, Lady Leah—we need to have a somewhat awkward discussion.”

What she needed was to remain right where she was, wrapped in his embrace, breathing in the scent of him, reveling in his warmth and the way their bodies fit so wonderfully together. Nick’s physical power was only part of what made him attractive, she thought, as his hand stroked down her back. He also exuded a sense of masculine competence that revived Leah’s flagging spirits like all of her brothers’ long-suffering devotion had not.

And yet, they were to discuss something awkward. Leah burrowed closer. “I’m listening.”

She felt his lips brush against her temple. “I’ll have you know, my lady, I had no intention of worrying about you. You were safe, I knew that, and yet—”

Another soft brush of lips and nose, this time against her brow.

And yet, he’d appeared at Clover Down a day earlier than planned. Leah began to hope that in Nicholas Haddonfield’s lexicon, a proposal of marriage was an awkward topic.

“I missed you too, Nicholas.” She kissed him for emphasis, right on the mouth. He’d consumed a quantity of ginger cake at breakfast, and Leah could taste the spice and sweetness on him. “And that wasn’t in my plans either.”

He growled and wrapped her closer. “We should not—”

Leah arched into him, finding evidence of his arousal rising against her belly. Rather than listen to his infernal, misguided, male should-nots, she resumed kissing him.

She had been the object of a passionate young man’s fancy and had concluded with some puzzlement that while marital intimacies had the potential to be
pleasant
, the poets (being male) were given to exaggerations and flights regarding the whole business.

Nick Haddonfield in a kissing mood was not pleasant. Whereas Leah’s earlier experiences had been accompanied by hesitance, shyness, and a quality of reverence, Nick’s approach to intimate matters approximated the arrival of a gale-force wind, knocking Leah’s sensibilities end over end. His tongue swept over her lips, bringing heat and spice, and igniting a conflagration of wanting beneath the pit of Leah’s stomach.

She got a hand wrapped in his hair and drew her slippered foot up the back of his riding boot, as if she’d climb straight up him. “Nicholas, I want—”
You.
She could not quite say that, not yet.

“I want you too, lovey, but we mustn’t—”

We
mustn’t
was worse than
we
shouldn’t
, and Leah might have spared some concern over whatever was troubling Nick, except she had missed him, missed not only the pleasant gentleman and handsome escort, but the lusty, sexually astute, desirable man who made Leah feel, for the first time in her life, that being a woman was a lovely, wonderful thing.

A gift.

“Hold me,” Nick coaxed, startling a squeak out of her as he hoisted her raised leg even higher, up around his hip. “Hold tight.”

His strength was such that he could easily take her weight with his arms, and he hiked her up, so through the layers of their clothing, her sex was pressed against the surprising length of his arousal.

“Nicholas.” Leah gasped as her body reacted to the pleasure—and frustration—of his proximity.

“Hang on to me.” Nick took a few steps and settled her back against the wainscoted wall, leaving him free to hold her in place with one arm while his other hand brushed down over her breast, shaping its fullness with the exact, perfectly right degree of pressure to her nipple.

This
was what the poets had been blathering about; this was passion, madness, pleasure, and desire all rolled into one experience, and Leah wanted as much of this experience with Nick as she could get. She used the wall at her back for leverage and arched forward, such that a particular, hot, female part of her body pushed directly against the rigid length of his arousal. The pleasure of that boldness, even through their clothing, was startling—and inspiring. She did it again, then again, and then felt his mouth covering hers, his tongue sweeping forward, and bliss rising up to eclipse worry, misgivings, common sense—everything.

***

“Sweetheart, slow down,” Nick rasped. “We shouldn’t…”

Leah arched against him, her thrust having enough determination to be almost angry, and Nick’s ability to speak was swamped by the pleasure of her writhing in his arms. All he could think was that she felt
right
. Not too small—many women were too small—but not too large, not that bovine peasant his father had urged on him. She felt womanly and good and pleasurable.

He should stop, Nick knew that, just as he knew the royal succession from generations before the doomed Harold Godwinson on down to the Regent. Stopping was sensible, but Leah’s breast had found its way into Nick’s hand, and the sensation of that soft weight arching against his palms…

“Ah, God.” Nick closed his eyes and lifted his mouth from hers long enough to bury his lips at her neck, inhale the fragrance of her, and gently, gently, palm the weight of that lovely breast again.

“Nicholas…” Leah’s voice saying his name with need, and desire… He applied the least hint of pressure to her nipple again, but covered her mouth with his own and pressed his cock tightly against her.

He could come like this. He could make her come like this. The notions illuminated his awareness between one breath and the next, a delightful, intoxicating couplet of pleasure that had him going still, debating logistics—he’d pleasured more than one woman against a stout wall—and trying to recall if he’d locked the library door.