Nicholas: Lord of Secrets (6 page)

“Good day to you as well, Lady Leah.” He bowed correctly over her hand. “And my regards to your dear sister.”

He appropriated the bench again and watched until she’d left the park, footman in tow. The ducks set up another squawking, and Nick glanced over to see his little scrapper swimming hell-bent for the next offering of crumbs tossed forth from the hand of another pretty young lady.

Scrappers, he reminded himself, were sometimes not fussy enough about how they gained their ends; and eating just any old handout could leave a fellow with a mighty sorry bellyache.

***

The solicitor’s spectacled gaze put Wilton in mind of a rabbit tracking the location of a fox at the watering hole.

“We have yet to receive any indication Lord Hellerington’s intentions are sincere, my lord. There’s been no subtle inquiry, no overt interest, no draft documents sent over by mistake, if you take my meaning.”

Wilton knew a spike of murderous frustration, because Hellerington’s innuendo had become flagrant—and now this coy behavior. The man intended to offer for the trollop masquerading as Wilton’s oldest daughter; he’d all but announced it at his club.

“You’ve canvassed his clerks?”

“We have, my lord. We were particularly encouraged when there was an indication of general interest in your situation, but it came from the wrong firm.”

“Explain yourself.” Wilton rose to pace, knowing that leaving the solicitor seated would irk the man no end. Petty, self-important little thieves they were, but necessary if business was to be done in a businesslike manner.

“A junior clerk in the firm is related to some fellow in the offices around the corner,” the solicitor began, “and they occasionally share a pint and so forth.”

Wilton glowered at the man, lest the roundaboutation go on all morning.

“A Lord Reston is sniffing about.”

Wilton paused in his pacing. “Bellefonte’s heir?”

“Nicholas Haddonfield.” The solicitor shifted in his seat, keeping the earl in his line of sight. “The old earl is rumored to be in poor health.”

“How poor?”

“He is not expected to last out the year, my lord. Perhaps not even the month.”

“Interesting.” Wilton tried to keep his pleasure from showing on his face. This was the same callow swain who’d been sniffing around little Emily’s skirts this past week. “You’re dismissed.”

The solicitor rose and bowed without comment. In the solitude of his study, Wilton sat back in his cushioned chair and considered Reston’s inquiries. He’d have to see what this Reston fellow was made of. An earl’s younger son was about as high as Emily could hope to reach, but for her to become a countess…

It was fitting, Wilton decided, a rare smile twisting his lips. Emily was the product of rape, though legally a man could not rape his wife. Still, Wilton had forced himself on his errant wife, as brutally and as often as it had taken to get the arrogant bitch pregnant—and it had taken years. He’d relished her resistance, and relished even more the measures taken to impose himself on her. Full of fight, she’d been, and then she’d been full of his child.

Having made his point, however, he’d turned from his countess, unwilling to risk the child in further displays of marital discipline.

If Emily could be married off this year, without the fuss and bother of a Season, it would be her husband’s family who bore responsibility for presenting her at court and to Society as a whole.

And if Hellerington wiggled off the hook, then other arrangements could be made for Emily’s older sibling. Leah was used goods, and oddly enough, the market for used goods was more brisk than the market for their virtuous sisters. On that thought, Wilton rang for his carriage to be brought around, as a celebratory visit to the fair—and routinely vicious—Monique was in order.

***

“Who in their right mind has a ball on a Wednesday night? I thought Wednesday was for suppers and theatre outings.” Nick directed his grumbling at Valentine, with whom he was speeding through Town in the Bellefonte coach.

“Why exactly did we jaunt out to Kent yesterday?” Val asked.

Nick smiled at his friend. “To check on my holdings, to have dinner with David and Letty, and to admire their wee addition.”

Val gave a shudder Nick thought only partly feigned. “To me, a child that young does look wee, but then I think a woman must actually birth that small person, and suddenly…”

“You wonder why we’re not all only children,” Nick concluded the thought. “One must attribute to fathers of multiple children a certain irresistible charm, I suppose.”

“Or insatiability in their spouses. You’re going to make a wonderful father.”

Not
this
again.
“On the contrary, I am not going to make any kind of father at all.”

“You?” Val snorted. “If anybody enjoys the activities that lead to conception, it’s you. And I’ve yet to see the child who doesn’t love you on sight.”

“And yet there are no baby Nicks underfoot, are there?”

“Don’t suppose you had measles?”

“I have restraint,” Nick shot back. “Not as contagious, but equally effective. So how many of your sisters are we meeting tonight?”

“Probably the three youngest.” Val shifted into a more upright posture on his upholstered seat. “They are the most enthusiastic about this sort of thing.”

“I like your sisters,” Nick said, donning his hat as the coach slowed. “They are tall, but for Lady Eve, and smarter than they want you to think they are.”

“You might consider wiping that look of martyred resignation off your face,” Val suggested gently. “Rather defeats the purpose of coming.”

“I wish there were another way to do this.” Nick looked out at the street on a sigh. “Why can’t a man simply take an ad in the newspaper: prospective earl looking for a duty-countess who will forget he ever married her?”

In the first hour of dancing, Nick stood up with three wallflowers, each chosen for her height and lack of partners, before he ducked out onto the well-lit terraces for a breath of fresh air. The weather was moderate, which meant the ballroom was quickly heating up, and the well-spaced urns of hothouse flowers were losing their battle with the scent of overheated, overperfumed, underwashed humans.

“We seem destined to hide in the same places.” Leah’s voice drifted out of the gloom to Nick’s left, and he felt a lightening of both body and mood.

“My lady.” He bowed over her hand, covertly assessing her appearance in the subdued light. “At least we both hide in pleasant, well-ventilated places. How fare you?”

“Honestly?” Leah peered up at him. “I was getting slightly nauseated in there. I lost Darius after the first set and thought perhaps to find him out here.”

Darius being one of her two brothers whom Nick was quietly having investigated. “Darius should not have lost you. Shall I search the gentlemen’s rooms for you?”

“Not yet,” she said as he led her to a bench several dark yards off the well-lit terrace. “Dare lets me slip the leash on purpose. I see no evidence of Hellerington tonight, so Darius has relaxed his guard. You should not have sent flowers, by the way.”

“You must not say such things, for I will send twice as many tomorrow.”

“What do they mean?” she asked after a time. “The flowers you sent?”

“The snowdrop is for hope,” Nick said, pleased she would ask. He’d chosen the bouquet carefully and visited more than one shop in the process. “The little sprig of wood sorrel is for joy, the wallflowers are for fidelity in adversity, and the lilies of the valley, as you know, are for a return to happiness.”

“There was a very pretty blue flower as well.” Beside him, she took a deep breath of the night air. “It reminded me of your eyes.”

That was a compliment. He was sure of it, and equally sure his eyes had never received a lady’s compliment before.

“Salvia,” Nick said, finding himself fascinated by the rise and fall of her chest.

“It has no meaning?”

“I cannot recall at the moment.” Nick shifted his gaze to the dark foliage around them. What on earth had he been thinking, sending blue salvia?

“You met with Hellerington earlier in the week?” Leah asked, leaning more closely against his side.

“I most assuredly did.” Nick forced himself to attend the sense of her words rather than her scent, the pure pleasure of her voice in the darkness, or the warmth of her body next to his. “We had a delicate little exchange, with me giving him to understand I’d appreciate it if those fellows whose vowels I hold would behave in a gentlemanly fashion toward their creditors, particularly before they take on additional familial obligations.”

“Did he respond to that?”

“I wish I could tell you he caught a packet for France, lovey,” Nick said, “but I was firing an opening salvo, and he understood it as such. I’ll next make a few pointed remarks at the club, maybe suggest something ought to be put in the betting book at your father’s club, call upon the baron again, and loudly hope I need not reduce my demands to writing or perhaps seek satisfaction through other means.”

Leah leaned closer still, maybe hunching in on herself but also dropping her voice to a near whisper. “What other means?”

“Typically, one offers a challenge in such a circumstance or simply beats the stuffing out of the party who’s refusing to pay a debt of honor,” Nick said, letting her scent come to him on the soft night air.

“Would you go that far?”

“If I say yes, you will think me a brute beast. If I say no, you will think me a bully who threatens those weaker but backs down at the first hint of risk.”

She said nothing for a moment then surprised him.

“I wish I knew how to use a gun, or that I was as big and powerful as you are.” Her voice was low and bitter, a tone no lady should ever have cause to adopt. Nick slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her gently against his side.

“You must allow me to be your champion. I would meet him over pistols,” Nick said, nuzzling her temple, though only once and lightly. Very lightly. “I would not raise my hand to him.”

“Why not?” She sank against him easily, as if she’d been waiting for him to make the first overture.

“Murder is frowned upon,” Nick said, thinking it quite the pity in this case. “He’s old and sick, and it wouldn’t be sporting to beat the man with bare fists.” Ladies needed comfort, he told himself, and Leah was very much a lady.

Before he nuzzled her again—or worse—Nick bestirred himself to pose a question to the woman tucked to his side. “What manner of brother is it who allows you to languish here in the dark with me? I want to like the man, but one does wonder.”

“He’s the best of brothers, but he has troubles of his own. He knows if I’m languishing, it’s because I want to.”

“Hmm.” Nick’s fingers insinuated themselves over Leah’s hand. “And what if Hellerington were to appear here?”

“I’d not hesitate to scurry back to the ballroom. I know his coach. I know his scent. I know him. He’s not here.”

“So you can enjoy yourself with me. For this one night.”

“For a single dance,” Leah said. “More than that will call attention.”

“I hear the musicians tuning up,” Nick murmured, closing his eyes the better to feel her beside him. “I must ask for the pleasure. It’s an English waltz, and they are not played often enough.”

Other couples moved past them over on the path, returning to the dance floor.

“I don’t want to go in.”

And didn’t that sentiment just flatter a fellow shamelessly?

“We’ll dance out here,” Nick said, rising and drawing her to her feet. “My lady.” He offered her the required bow, she sank into a curtsy, and Nick led her to the wide terrace that wrapped around one side and the entire back of the ballroom. The area behind the ballroom, however, was only dimly lit and gratifyingly devoid of other people.

He drew her into waltz position then drew her just a hair closer; then, when she didn’t protest or poker up, he drew her flush against his body. She melted against him, resting her cheek against his sternum, and Nick knew a sensation of gratitude so intense it physically warmed the center of his chest.

The music started, a stately triple meter that let them find each other’s balance. Nick kept his steps simple and small, and then gradually relaxed as it became obvious she followed him with ease. On impulse, he folded their joined hands against his chest, and their fingers linked.

To dance with her this way was wicked, scandalous, naughty, and intoxicatingly lovely. When the music ended, Nick kept his arms around her.

“We should go in,” Leah murmured.

“We should,” Nick agreed, his chin resting on the top of her head. He was going to kiss her first though, even though he knew that was a bad idea and not gentlemanly of him. Dancing under the stars could qualify as a shared stolen pleasure; kissing a woman who needed his help…

Her lips brushed against his so lightly he went still, hoping she’d repeat the caress.

Bless
you
, Nick thought as Leah reached up to wrap a hand around the back of his neck, steadying herself for another sweet, slow sweep across his mouth.

“Lovey.” Nick told himself to open his eyes, not close them. “Lamb, we shouldn’t.”

Another achingly gentle pressure against his lips, and Nick growled, settled his hands on her hips, and resigned himself to having one more thing to regret. For long minutes, he let her explore his features, then—bold wench—his mouth. She wasn’t experienced, he could taste that easily, but she was avid, and increasingly uninhibited as Nick groaned and murmured encouragement when she came up for air.

Something else was coming up too, so Nick eased out of the kiss, resting his forehead on hers while they both caught their breath.

“You are taking advantage of me,” Nick scolded. “I’m out here all unchaperoned and lonely, and you are turning my head.” To his own ears, he sounded the tiniest bit sincere. “I don’t want to let you go,” Nick went on, his tone suggesting real regret, “but this can’t serve either of us.”

“It’s just a kiss,” Leah replied. She sounded as dazed and weak in the knees as Nick felt.