Royal Regard (38 page)

Never before had he felt the world would end
if he weren’t joined to a woman. Never had he met one with whom he
wanted to talk every day, all day, for as long as she would allow.
Every woman he had ever known was tedious by comparison. It was as
though the entire female population of England—minus his Bella—had
suddenly turned as dull and flat as old parchment.

“And why not?” she demanded. “Why would
someone like you marry someone like me without intending to seek
comfort in some other… some
prettier
woman’s bed? My husband
is paying you to take me off his hands, and as soon as you have his
money, I’ll be left at Wellstone and forgotten.”

If this were the tack she was taking, he
would never win by simply professing his sincerity—too many titled
men professed, but never kept, such promises. In fact, a few months
ago, had he been inspired to court one of Allie’s candidates, he
might have considered exactly that course.

But not today.

The very idea of being away from Bella most
of the year was agonizing; trying to replace her with another woman
was at best tiresome and at worst nauseating. Keeping her in
London, where she was always so unhappy, made him feel the worst
kind of lout, so he had already begun staffing Wellstone again, to
prepare for the duke and duchess to take up residence
year-round.

But, to convince her of his intent, he would
have to use what everyone agreed was a last resort. Quite possibly
the only way to render her completely speechless long enough to
bring her around, but it might, under some—no,
most—all—circumstances, set off her penchant for autonomy, and
might easily be twisted by female logic—if there were such a
thing—into one more reason to defy his wishes and her
husband’s.

“You honestly believe I want to marry you for
money
? Do you have any idea of the arrangements I’ve
made?”

She turned up her nose. “All contracts can be
broken.”

“Have you ever seen a contract written by the
Earl of Huntleigh?”

Apparently she had, as she unbent a little,
tipping her head with a tinge of curiosity, well covered by
continued disdain of the same type she had been leveling at him for
weeks.

Well, he could stand another hour or so of
that if need be. This might yet be managed by letting her yell at
him for the many advantages he was offering to share with her.

“Darling, I have seven generations of family
wealth, more money than Huntleigh many times over. I have no need
of his fortune—
your
fortune. The only provision involving
your money says you keep the lot of it, down to the last shilling,
and you may do anything you like with it.”

Her head snapped toward him, shocked to the
bone, but surprisingly, not suspicious. She quickly regained the
disdain, however. “You cannot promise to defy the law.”

“No? Have you any idea what a duke and an
earl can accomplish between them with a team of the king’s
solicitors in place? Even after your marriage—our marriage—
feme
sole
, suggested by the king and already approved by private
session in The Lords. Unless you’d like to brabble about it with
Prinny and Parliament, of course.”

She apparently lost her tongue—thankfully—at
the idea she had been discussed and her future decided in The House
of Lords. Recognized as an independent woman of property by the
highest legal body in the land, beholden to no man for her support
nor obligated to share her wealth. And she hadn’t been
consulted.

Nick knew that had been a bad idea, but her
husband had said the more input she was given into the terms, the
more difficult the negotiations would become. He had agreed at the
time, assuming Huntleigh knew her well enough to make the decision,
but her face now made him wince.

“How dare—”

Stop her before she gets started
,
Huntleigh had said. Charlotte’s suggestion had been more
instructive:
Cut her off at every turn, before she gathers
momentum. Once she gets going, she won’t stop for days
. As if
he didn’t know that by now.

Nick held his hand up and interrupted her
pointless objections. “On top of control of your own fortune, you
will receive a quarterly allowance of three thousand guineas, an
independent coastal estate in Cumbria in the event you can’t abide
me, all of the various accoutrements appropriate to your
position—carriages, jewels, gowns, and the like—the usual one-third
jointure, and the deference due the
chatelaine
of any and
all of my houses, numbering eleven currently.”

“You have
eleven houses
?”

“At present. Ten once we are married and
Whitecove is transferred to you, though I will pay the upkeep and
manage the property on your behalf.” At the censorious look, he
corrected, “Upon your request, of course.” When she nodded her
approval of his deference, he continued, “Two of the houses are
more reasonably classified as castles, but most are shuttered, and
most properties have no ducal residence at all.”

She was utterly speechless, which, as it was
the point, he encouraged by continuing his diatribe: “You know
about Wellstone, of course, and now Whitecove, but Rathemore, in
Málainn Mhór
, has just been closed, with
Goraidh
Caisteal
outside Edinburgh soon to follow. The
Taillebois
manor house in Annecy was not even grand enough
to be burned in the Revolution, and my crumbling
palazzo
in
Venice is currently rented to an even more minor aristocrat.
Estates in Hanover and Portugal operate under stewards, as do
working plantations in Bermuda, India and—”

“Does the list of houses include your
property on Harley Street?”

He had in no way expected this question.
First, while it was known he owned such a property, typically not
where it was located, the better to keep jealous husbands away.
Second, Huntleigh had pointedly told him to keep it from her,
Charlotte had agreed, and he didn’t know anyone else close enough
an acquaintance to mention it. Third, even had she known, he was
sure he shouldn’t let his wife discuss such things, even if he had
no idea how to stop her.

His nostrils flared as he responded in his
ducal register, “It does not. Your husband requested I divest
myself of the property, and I have done so. I will be restraining
myself to but one married woman and she will be living in my
bedroom suite.” Her face flushed, but her smile was smug, nothing
at all like the tortured grimace he was sure he displayed. “Do you
have further impertinent questions about mistresses, or may I carry
on enumerating your future wealth and influence?”

“Pray, continue.”

“You will also keep Huntleigh’s cottage in
Saltash and the estate bestowed by the king, but if it pleases you,
I intend to make our home in Bristol. I grow too old and too
cynical to spend my days at Court, and it is time there should be a
Wellbridge at Wellstone. I will send my proxy and spend my time
with you and any children we might have.”

She said then, even more tentative than when
she asked about his Harley Street house, “You want an heir.” It
wasn’t a question, but needed an answer anyway. He was not yet
certain how to respond, although he had talked through the problem
with Huntleigh and Charlotte and his sister until he was sick to
death of the entire topic.

“I have an heir. You may choose children or
no; I would have a happy wife.”

When she sought his eyes, he shrugged. “I
will absolutely insist on my conjugal rights—as will you, I can
assure you,” he said, with a licentious undertone he used to stroke
like fingertips between her thighs. “But as to children, it is
entirely up to you. There are measures—well—there are ways to—”

“I understand.” She looked down at her hands,
but her smile broadened. Nick let out a silent sigh of relief. Of
all the subjects in this conversation, he had never expected that
one to be the simplest.

“Much of my fortune is entailed, either to
Alistair Northope or the young Marquess of Abersham, should an
eldest son materialize, which is why Huntleigh could wring no more
from my pockets. But, my dear, that is not to say he didn’t try. No
one is taking you off anyone’s hands.”

As he finished the conversation that had,
remarkably, cut her objections off like an adze through a tree
trunk, she turned her face away, only quietly replying, “Myron only
said ‘equitable agreement.’”

“I’m sure he wished to leave me ammunition
for the next occasion you began harping about how you
aren’t
pretty enough for a man like me
. Which, incidentally, bothers
me more every time you say it. If you do not desist, I will cry
off, contract or no.”

She wasn’t quite ready to give up a refrain
she had been spouting since childhood. “But I’m
not
pretty
enough. Look at you. Listen to you! Your fortune alone… Every woman
in the
ton
wants to—”

He voice rose and his simmering temper began
to boil. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn what every woman in the
ton
wants. Only you, Bella. Heaven help me, only you, the
most obstinate woman in England.”

“But—”

He scrubbed his hand across his face again,
then his head popped up, intention glowing so brightly, he could
imagine it burning through her clothes. Predatory smile firmly in
place, he walked slowly across the room until he could see the
reflection of himself in her eyes, a cat considering how best to
pounce.

To hell with his sister and her ideas of
propriety. His animal nature had always been his best means of
seduction, and only a fool would ignore his best tools.

Bella’s hands fluttered and her knees twisted
back and forth in the chair, seeking a position that wouldn’t force
her to look him in the eye. Still, she couldn’t help being drawn
in. Perfect.

She swallowed hard, but could only whisper,
“What are you doing?”

He kept moving forward, holding her gaze. “I
am about to demonstrate exactly how
pretty
you are, and
while I am at it, I will pull my name from your lovely lips if it
takes all day and night.”

“All day and—?” An involuntary squeak caught
in her throat, and her papery voice wavered, “How do you expect to
do that?”

“In ways that will categorically invalidate
my contract with the Earl of Huntleigh, and give you every reason
to honor it anyway.”

Nick stood over her in the chair,
and before she could object, he leaned down and kissed her, hands
behind his back, never holding her down. As she didn’t object, and
almost came out of her chair to follow him anytime he pulled away,
he knelt down in front of her, deepening the passionate embrace
until he was possessing her without using anything but his lips and
tongue. She held on to the back of his neck with both hands.

Once she was weakly whimpering, trying to
drag his hands toward her, he gave free rein to his mouth, dragged
his tongue along her jaw, down her throat, licking just underneath
the gathered lace trim of her bodice, finding one of the spots on
which she used lavender oil, sending his tongue in between her
breasts to taste the scent of her. He was drunk on it, and on the
feel of his hands on her thighs, through muslin and satin and the
forty-seven layers of linen he was sure she wore.

“I think you have worn this dress and left
off your corset to try my honor, and I find I have none. Did you
choose pretty petticoats, too, when you dressed for your visit to
me?”

He hoped they were white with pink ribbons,
like a maiden on her wedding night, not scarlet to match the dress,
though he had never craved even the semblance of virginity
before.

She was somehow shy even as she looked him
right in the eye, biting her lip. “How do you…? A man should not
notice petticoats.”

He wanted to chuckle at her, but she was too
earnest to tease. He smiled instead and kissed her briefly, a
wordless “thank you” for the petticoats, his hands firmly stroking
up and down her sides, his thumbs swiping the sides of her breasts,
the stomach that drew in when she gasped, the back that arched
whenever she whimpered.

She looked down and whispered, with the
barest hint of the voice she used when she was trying some new bit
of flirtation as she had learned how to hold her own in London:
“Charlotte made me.”

“I am in her debt. Tell me about the layers I
will remove sometime in the next few hours.”

She whimpered, “Hours? We—I—” as Nick rubbed
her thighs atop her gown and its overskirt, underskirt, petticoats,
chemise, and anything else she might be wearing to defend against
him, fingertips inching ever closer to her center, but not close
enough, and not inclined to slide up under even one layer of
fabric, no matter that he had maneuvered himself between her knees,
leaving her legs spread immodestly around his waist.