To Tame a Scoundrel's Heart (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 4) (6 page)

Instead of taking her arm, Nic tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and escorted her down the short flight of stairs. Her hand nestled against his side felt so right, so comfortable, she couldn’t object.

Frost dotted the ground where the feeble sunlight failed to penetrate, and she shivered. Beastly hot inside and monstrously cold without. How could a person accommodate such extremes?

“Have you known the major long, Miss Needham?” Nic bent his neck to ask the question, and his breath tickled her ear.

“Since September.” Katrina tipped her chin, her face but inches from his. He
did
have amber and gold shards in his eyes. That was what gave them the yellowish tint.

He scrutinized his aunt’s overgrown yard, the sagging fence, and the tilting chimney before lowering his gaze. “A love match, I presume? And of course, he’s tall, dark, and ever-so-handsome in his scarlet uniform.”

Katrina gave one partial nod, not at all certain the conversation should continue. She didn’t want to speak of Richard with Nic. To do so marred the natural affinity that had sprung up between them. Her reluctance to disturb their kinship ought to have her darting straight for the carriage without a backward glance.

Instead, she murmured, “Couples should marry for love, should they not?”

“Aye, whenever possible.” Nic smiled, a cordial arcing of his handsome mouth, exposing a dimple in his right cheek. “I’m glad for you. I hope, with your assistance, I might find a portion of your joy.” He lifted a shoulder an inch. “Still, I’d be content with a kind, patient, and faithful woman. Even if she doesn’t love me.”

Katrina gripped his forearm, staring into his eyes and seeing the wounds he strove to disguise: the rejected little boy, the disparaged privateer, and now the disdained duke—at least until he proved himself.

“Don’t settle for mediocrity, Nic. Wait for love. Your sisters will be the better for it, and you deserve to be loved for yourself, not for what your title promises.”

My, but she’d achieved a new level of audaciousness, advising a privateer on matters of love. No, a duke now, and one most assuredly more experienced in such matters than she. Had he ever loved a woman? She opened her mouth to ask, but this time, common sense prodded her hard. That was much too forward a thing to ask a man who’d been a stranger but an hour ago.

Why did it seem like she’d known him for years then?

“Katrina, you’ve called me Nic several times now, so I think it only fair I address you by your given name, scandalous though it might be.”

Never had her name sounded half so lovely rolling off a man’s tongue. She wanted to ask him to say it again, and again, and again. Instead, she acquiesced with a tilt of her chin. “Only when we are alone, Nic.”

He touched her chin with the familiarity of an older, beloved brother. “I’ll ponder your genial advice and look forward to calling on you once I’ve completed my business in London.”

Long after Nic had handed her into Papa’s carriage, and she’d settled into the comfortable ruby squabs, a lap robe across her knees, Katrina still felt his fingertip upon her nose, heard her name on his lips, and saw his eyes alight with humor. He smelled rather lovely too, and he was a good man, through and through. Despite the challenges Fate had dealt him, he’d overcome them while retaining a rare, soul-deep decency.

A gentleman privateer. No, a ducal privateer.

Before she left the carriage, Katrina had assimilated a partial list of qualifications she believed made for Nic’s perfect bride, yet she couldn’t summon the name of a single female she deemed worthy to be his duchess.

* * *

Late in the afternoon three days later, Katrina sat at her library writing desk, determined to have a list prepared for Nic when he came to dinner. Biting a fingernail and tapping her toes in an unsteady cadence, she deliberated the messy, crossed off
duchess prospectus
, as she’d come to call the list. Over the past hour, she’d scribbled name after name and found fault or exception with every lady she chose.

She barely knew him; so how could she be so certain each of the ladies wouldn’t suit?

Still, Katrina stubbornly refused to admit defeat. She’d made Nic a promise and meant to keep it. Who else would aid him if she didn’t? More on point, who could he trust not to have an ulterior motive? She was already affianced—
almost
—so he needn’t worry she’d set her cap for him.

“Miss Delores Barringsworth?”

Katrina scritched the name onto the foolscap. And promptly scratched it off.

“Too flighty. She’d drive Nic mad, batting her eyelashes, and that horrid giggle ...? Sounds like cats drowning. He’d toss her overboard in a fortnight.”

Katrina set the nib to the paper again.

Think
.

She’d experienced two Seasons, and since half the
ton
owed Papa’s bank money, she’d been accepted into the most prestigious parlors. Well, accepted mightn’t be wholly accurate. Tolerated rang truer.
Le beau monde
might abide wealthy commoners, but they didn’t embrace them wholeheartedly.

Still, she knew women. A myriad of them. Young. Old. Short. Tall. Slender. Portly. Innocent, fresh-faced, dewy-eyed girls and cosmetic-tinted, sharp-clawed hellcats.

“Surely there must be scores of suitable ladies.” Many not altogether pleasant or the least compatible with Nic, however. She screwed up her face and pursed her lips. “Come now, Katrina. Put your mind to the task. In all of England, there has to be a handful of unobjectionable prospects.”

She’d intended to have a partial list of acceptable candidates for Nic tonight, but every time she sat to assemble duchess-worthy females, her mind went emptier than a parsonage’s coffers. And then she’d get lost in daydreams of his swashbuckling heroics.

What a dolt. Get to it.

Closing her eyes, she dredged up the last ball she’d attended and the dozens of elegantly clad ladies swirling about the dance floor. Miss Belinda Newcomber? Not with her penchant for tears and whining. Lady Mary Somerton? Hmm. Perhaps ... Bother, she wouldn’t do either. Too loud, too haughty, and too confident of her position. What about that sweet, plump widow, Leticia Chapman? No, she’d been moon-eyed over Sir Gibson Armstrong.

Katrina sighed, opened her eyes, and set aside the quill.

This shouldn’t be so confounded difficult.

A movement in the courtyard beyond the burgundy and gold brocade panels framing the window snared her attention. Had a dark-haired man passed? Her pulse leaped, and she dashed to the window, catching a glimpse of a deep cherry-red coat disappearing up the stairs.

Richard? At last. He’d returned in time for tonight’s dinner, as promised. A few moments later, the knocker sounded, and Osborne’s measured stride echoed through the corridor as he strode to answer the door.

Katrina had missed Richard, but her match-making undertakings for Nic had helped to pass the time as did planning her wedding. Also, Mama had several details she’d insisted on discussing with Katrina, admonishing, “It’s never too early to begin preliminary planning for such a special event, Kitty, and trust me, my darling, your major will be all the more grateful for not having to trouble himself with such trivialities.”

Nonetheless, it seemed somehow premature, even slightly disloyal, not to include Richard in the preparations. Papa assured her the majority of men were content to leave such frivolous details to females to hash out. Hopefully, Richard was one of those men.

Katrina hated to admit it, even to herself, but unease had niggled the tiniest bit when Papa hadn’t received his customary correspondence from Richard. Not permitted to write Katrina directly, another stuffy social protocol, Richard typically sent ’round a missive or two and until now, had steadfastly alerted them to his anticipated arrival time.

A glance at the chinoiserie black mantel clock as she smoothed her hair then her simple morning gown earned a slight grimace. Not quite half past four. Too early to arrive for dinner, but perhaps he’d been as eager to see her as she to see him and dared breach decorum. Fine by her. She’d greet Richard, settle him in the parlor with a tot of brandy or a cup of tea before changing for dinner. Mayhap he could recommend a few acceptable ladies for Nic’s consideration, some a mite less pretentious than those in her parents’ social circles.

Permitting a jubilant, relieved laugh, she whirled in a circle. Finally, her betrothal would become official, and in a short while, she’d be Mrs. Major Richard Domont. Sweeping around the corridor’s corner, she nearly plowed nose-first into a dark claret-covered chest.

Not Richard. The duke. Nic.

His manly scent wafted past, and she stifled the impulse to step nearer and sniff.

How could one be simultaneously so disappointed and excited?

“Easy, lass, what’s your hurry?” Momentarily grasping her upper arms to steady her, Nic cocked his head and winked. “Eager to see me?”

“No. Er. Yes. That is, I am pleased to see you, Your Grace.”

Nic and Osborne, the butler, exchanged an amused glance.

“I thought you were Major Domont.” Katrina disentangled herself, refusing to acknowledge her breathless tone or the giddy pulse turning flip-flops behind her ribs.

Beyond Nic, the entry stood empty, the heavy door firmly closed.

Shouldn’t she be horridly frustrated? Perhaps pout or shed a tear or two?

And have Nic believe her one of the ninnies she’d determined to protect him from?

Nic’s eyes shadowed briefly before his jovial gaze lit once more. “No, I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for me. I’m confident your major will arrive soon. I’m quite anticipating making his acquaintance.”

How kind of Nic to reassure her.

Beside Nic, Osborne notched a regal brow upward. “Shall I escort his grace to the drawing room, miss?”

“I’ll do it, but please notify Mama and Papa of his arrival. A tea tray would be most appreciated as well.” She touched Nic’s arm. “Unless you’d prefer something a big stronger?”

“Tea will suffice until after supper,” Nic said, taking in the grandeur surrounding him.

Hmm, didn’t he imbibe heavily? All sailors did, didn’t they? There appeared much about The Saint she didn’t know. Didn’t think his doting aunt knew either. “Just tea and a light repast, please, Osborne.”

“I shall see to it at once, miss.” After angling his head deferentially, Osborne trod the corridor ahead of them.

Conscious of her ink-stained fingertips, rather than hide them, Katrina lifted her hands and wiggled her fingers. “I’ve discolored fingers, Your Grace, but confess, other than a short list of desirable traits for your duchess, I’ve been woefully unsuccessful in compiling potential candidates’ names.”

“Well, one is all I require.” Nic clasped his hands behind him. “I am confident you will find me a most compatible woman.”

“I shall certainly try.”

He fell into step beside her, their strides well-matched. “Thank you for suggesting Doctor Cutter. He said Aunt Bertie’s not eating enough, particularly red meats, and not getting enough exercise either. She’s not that old, just eight-and-fifty, but a life besieged by grief and anxiety ages a person.”

“I’m sure it does. We’ve invited her to attend functions and dine with us several times, but she always refuses, saying the carriage ride would exhaust her.” More likely Miss Sweeting worried about Society’s reception as well as had nothing to wear. Katrina opened the drawing room’s doors then stepped aside. “I assume she’ll reside with you after your marriage?”

“That is my intent, though I expect she’ll argue.” With the ease of a man accustomed to being in command and knowing his surroundings, he entered the room and swiftly scrutinized the interior. No doubt his life had depended upon his acuteness more than once.

His attention hovered on Katrina’s newly completed portrait nestled between floor-to-ceiling windows. In the painting, she wore the blue and white gown she intended to wear for her betrothal announcement.

“You cut your hair, Nic.” Trailing him, she slowed her steps. “I suppose it was necessary.”

Gads, she sounded positively wistful, but his hair had been extraordinarily beautiful.

He shot her an unreadable sideways look and fanned his fingers over his nape. “Aye, my solicitor advised me to. More respectable and all that. My hair hasn’t been this short since I was a lad.” His eyes twinkled as he rubbed his bare neck. “It kept my ears warm, and I confess to feeling rather naked. I keep jerking my head to toss my hair off my face. I suppose I look rather idiotic.”

“It’s much darker, more of a burnished honey now rather than golden.” Which was why she’d mistaken him for Richard.

Where was Richard?

Why hadn’t he written?

Uneasiness plummeted her stomach. Enough. Fretting wouldn’t produce him. She tilted her head. “I trust your trip to London proved successful?”

Tugging his earlobe, Nic nodded slowly. “Aye, though contesting the guardianship of my sisters may take a month or two.”

“I imagine matters of that nature cannot be rushed.” What would his sisters do in the meanwhile?

“True, but it gives me additional time to seek my bride. I promoted my first mate to captain and bade my crew a temporary farewell.
The Weeping Siren
sailed for Tortuga with the tide this morning. I saw my sisters too. They weren’t exactly enthusiastic, but neither were they hostile. More than anything right now they are grieving and scared.”

“This situation is profoundly difficult for you all.” Uncertain why—Richard’s continued absence or empathy for Nic’s sisters—she swallowed against a surge of emotion tightening her throat. “I truly wish we were acquainted with Lady ... Miss—” Katrina faltered. What was she to call Nic’s sisters? Never mind. They could discuss that particular later. “If we were, we could invite them to winter with us.”

Nic sighed, his mossy gaze bleak and weary. “What happens if they refuse to accept me, Katrina? Cannot accept the change in their circumstances? Because of our sire’s duplicity, they’ve gone from coddled darlings to by-blows, and even at their tender ages, they understand full well what that means. They aren’t even ladies anymore, but the Misses Trehmain. He stripped them of everything, and I cannot help but think they must resent me, and rightfully so.”