“Do you truly think Nina will be happy if she marries Fernbridge?”
The Dowager glanced around the room. “I believe if my granddaughter marries him, she will bear his heir. The next Duke of Fernbridge.”
But that isn’t love. Not the emotion that keeps one up at night. That makes the heart beat a bit faster when they’re near that person. His own thoughts made him laugh.
The old woman’s gaze jerked to him. “What do you find so humorous?”
His Byronic thoughts. That Nina had managed to turn him inside out. And the crystalline truth. That he did think of her when apart. That those thoughts did keep him awake. He removed the dowager’s hand from his arm.
“Lord Ralston, don’t you walk away,” she hissed in a low voice.
Without giving the old woman another look, he strode toward Nina.
As Elliot stepped up to the group Nina and Fernbridge conversed with, he noticed the slight grin on his cousin Victoria’s face. He also noticed the narrowing of Fernbridge’s eyes, and the man’s bruised lip, which looked inflated with air.
Next to him, Nina blinked, then gave a tentative smile.
“Lady Nina, might I have the honor of the last dance?”
Her lips turned up into a full smile. “Yes. I’d be honored.”
They stepped onto the dance floor.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said, as the music started, and he led her into the first steps.
“I thought it best I give you some space.” That was a lie. He had needed the space.
“I don’t want things to become awkward between us.”
As if someone reached into his gut and twisted it, he experienced a sharp pain. “Has Fernbridge proposed?”
She glanced away. “No.”
“But you expect him to, don’t you?”
“I believe so.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
They continued the dance in strained silence, but as the last note whispered in the air, Elliot said, “I hope you will be happy together. I wish you all the best.”
Then he forced himself to walk away.
Chapter Twenty-One
Someone shuffling around in Elliot’s bedchamber, along with the sun seeping through his eyelids, caused Elliot to blink.
Wilson stood by the windows, drawing the curtain panels open.
The bright light streaming through the window made Elliot’s head feel as though a villain poked it with a sharp object. After leaving the ballroom last night, he’d gone to the library and indulged in an excess of Lord Hathaway’s fine whiskey.
Wilson slowly shuffled over the wine and navy Turkish rug as if glue were smeared on the soles of his shoes, making each step difficult. The valet’s rheumy eyes stared at him through thick glasses. “Do you wish to take breakfast downstairs, my lord, or in your room? Many of the guests are breakfasting on the terrace before departing for the train station.”
His tongue felt coated with sawdust. He dragged his hands over his face. “I’ll join the others.”
“Very well, then. I’ll have the staff bring up a bath.”
“Thank you, Wilson.”
An hour later, anxious to be on his way home, Elliot strode toward the dining room. When he arrived back in London today, he would confirm that the inventory had been completed at Langford Teas’ East End warehouse, and then he’d send a letter to his stubborn sister. He’d promised she could stay for a month, but perhaps she was growing weary of playing maid and would want to return to school.
Once again, he thought about what Fernbridge had said about Meg. The bastard. Guilt more extreme than normal settled over Elliot.
He entered the dining room. No one sat at the long cherry table. Instead, the three sets of French doors that lined the back of the room were open, allowing guests to take advantage of the mild weather and dine alfresco on the flagstone terrace. He stepped outside and stopped. His gaze searched those seated at the wrought-iron tables for Nina. He had expected to find her sitting next to the duke, but he saw neither of them.
Lady Pendleton, who sat at the table directly in front of him, gasped, lifted a trembling hand, and pointed to the roof. She released an ear-splitting scream.
Elliot looked up to see one of the stone pots, which ran between the balustrade on the roof, teetering like a nicked lawn pin about to topple.
“Good God, Ralston, move!” Lord Pendleton yelled.
Elliot had only taken a few steps when the stone vase crashed to the terrace with an explosive noise and landed only a foot from where he’d been standing.
Shards of stone and soil exploded in the air like lit dynamite buried into a rocky hillside.
A collective scream rang through the air, along with several gasps.
Lord Hathaway bounced up from where he’d been sitting at one of the tables and rushed over. The man’s complexion was the color of Wiltshire chalk. “Ralston, are you hurt?”
Elliot brushed off the dirt and stone that had flown at him with a volatile force. “No, I’m fine.”
“I have no idea how that happened. Those urns have stood there for nearly a century. One has never fallen before.” Hathaway rubbed at the back of his neck as he stared at the other urns lining the roofline.
Elliot peered up. When on the roof with Nina, he hadn’t noticed anything wrong with the urns. They’d looked perfectly centered on their stands—none too close to the edge—but he couldn’t say for sure.
As he brushed off his clothing, Elliot glanced at those gathered around. He still didn’t see Fernbridge. You’ll regret that. The duke’s threat after Elliot had struck him in the face repeated in his head. Maybe the vase falling wasn’t an accident. Elliot’s thoughts shifted to the Dowager of Huntington. Nina’s grandmother had warned him away from Nina, but he doubted the woman would resort to paying someone to split his head open.
Christ. He was letting his mind run wild with a conspiracy theory. He realized Hathaway was still talking to him.
“Ralston, perhaps I should call the local doctor. You’ve got several cuts on your face.”
Did he? He hadn’t noticed the stinging until the man mentioned it. He touched his cheek and looked at the blood on the tips of his finger. “Scratches. Nothing more. No need to call a physician.”
A crowd gathered around him.
“That was a close call, Ralston,” Lord Pendleton said.
“Are you sure you don’t wish me to summon the doctor?” Hathaway repeated, appearing more shaken than Elliot.
“No. I’m fine.”
“At least come inside, so your cuts can be examined. My housekeeper has an assortment of salves she keeps belowstairs.”
“I’ll just go to my room and change.”
“Yes, of course.” Hathaway was so nervous he cast spittle into the air as he talked. The man followed him inside. “First a bloody poacher endangers the Duke of Fernbridge. Now a fallen urn. No one shall want to come next time I have a house party.” The man looked like he wanted to weep.
To hell with Fernbridge. That stray shot had nearly caused Nina to be thrown from her horse. “Did you ever find the poacher?”
“No, but my men could see tracks in the dew-covered soil near the woods.”
Without commenting, Elliot jogged up the steps. Inside his bedchamber, he stood before a dresser with a mirror hanging above it and viewed his reflection.
Damnation. He looked as if he’d engaged in a fight with a feline and lost the battle. Several scratches and small cuts dotted his face from where shards of stone had struck him.
Thankfully, his trunk remained in the room. Elliot stripped down to his drawers and shoved the soiled garments into a compartment in the trunk and tossed clean clothing on the bed. He poured water from the ceramic pitcher into the matching basin, splashed it on his face, and dabbed at the cuts with a towel, then dressed.
A soft knock sounded on his door.
“Hathaway, I told you I don’t need . . .” He opened it to find Nina.
“Oh good
ness,” she exclaimed and gently touched his cheek. “I heard what happened and wanted to make sure you are all right.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” She scooted by him.
He reluctantly closed the door. She shouldn’t be in his room. Hathaway might send a servant with the ointment he spoke of or Elliot’s valet.
Nina walked over to the basin and dipped one corner of the cloth into the water. She brushed the wet material over his cheek, then combed her fingers through the hair at his forehead. “You have a cut here as well.”
He couldn’t remember anyone ever tending to him. He’d always been on his own after his parents had decamped to their separate houses. Meg with Mother. Him with Father. Then he’d been shipped off to boarding school. Even before his parents’ separation, he couldn’t remember his mother ever tending to him—only disinterested servants who cared for him because they were paid to do so. Yet, Nina was here washing his face, and he thought his heart might explode from the tenderness he saw in her eyes.
Thank God, she’d not been standing next to him. He didn’t want to think about what could have happened to her.
“There,” she said, smiling up at him. “All cleaned up, and the cut on your cheek isn’t bleeding any longer.”
“Thank you.”
She strode to the basin and rinsed out the cloth, then took an inordinate amount of time folding it before draping it over the washbowl’s edge. Still standing with her back to him, she cleared her throat. “When I heard what happened to you, my heart beat so fast I thought it might snap one of my ribs.”
He stepped behind her, pulled her back against his chest, and tangled her fingers with his. Holding her felt so right. Like they were the last two pieces in a puzzle.
She relaxed against him, then turned, and slipped her arms about his neck. Her gaze drifted to his mouth.
By God, he’d taught her well. Without hesitation, he lowered his mouth to the soft texture of Nina’s lips.
She made a sound of pleasure.
His undoing. He coaxed her lips open and deepened the kiss. Another sound of pleasure. This one his as he pulled her tighter to him.
A loud knock on the door froze them like pillars. “Ralston, it’s Hathaway. I brought you the ointment I mentioned.”
The color drained from Nina’s face. If found here, she’d be ruined. For a brief minute, Elliot contemplated strolling to the door and opening it—all but sealing Nina’s fate. That bastard Fernbridge did not deserve her. He reminded himself, neither did he.
The earl knocked again. “Ralston?”
“Quite unnecessary, Hathaway.”
“Are you sure?” the man asked.
“Yes, forgive me, but I’m changing.”
“Very well. If you’re sure . . .”
“I am.”
The sound of the man’s footfalls grew lighter as he walked away.
Nina stepped out of his embrace and strode toward the door.
Was she leaving?
He caught her delicate hand in his. “Don’t marry Fernbridge.”
“He hasn’t asked.”
“He will.”
She gnawed on her lower lip.
“Marry me.”
A lump moved in her throat. “Elliot, what’s between us isn’t love. It’s lust. I want something that will last. Lust doesn’t. It sparks, then burns out. I saw what that type of marriage did to my mother. I don’t think I could take that.”
“So, your alternative is to marry a man you have no strong emotions for at all? I saw what that did to my parents. That type of marriage is not charitable either.”
“I might grow to love him.”
“You could also grow to hate him. And there you’d be for the rest of your life, bound to a man you never loved. Then you might turn into your father.”
As if baffled, she stared at him with her brows pinched together. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe it won’t be Fernbridge who strays. Perhaps it will be you.”
“I would never.”
“You’re in my room. You returned my kiss. Passionately.”
“I came to see if you were all right.”
He cocked one brow.
“If Hathaway hadn’t knocked . . .” With a wave of his hand, he motioned to the bed. “Maybe we would have ended up there.”
Heat crept up her neck to her cheeks, causing two flaming red spots.
Nina set her hands on her hips. “I’m not married yet. If I was, I wouldn’t have come here.”
“No?”
Elliot drew a finger over her cheek. “I’m in your blood, Nina. Like you’re in mine. Sometimes lust is more. I will not lie and say I don’t want you in the physical sense. Good Lord, woman, the thought of making love to you keeps me awake at night, but it is not an exclusive emotion. Just because we lust after each other does not mean we cannot love each other.” He fisted his hand over his heart. “I love you. Is that so hard for you to believe?”
“You only think you do.” She walked over to the bed and started unfastening the row of buttons lining the front of her blue traveling dress.
“What are you doing?”
“Join me in your bed. Then, after you get what you want, tell me you still love me.”
Damn her and her beliefs. Her opinion of him ran as poor or equal to that of her brother’s and grandmother’s. In her eyes, he was no better than a rutting dog. One fuck and he’d be relieved of the pain in his cock.
He was capable of love. He would give his life for Meg. Not because of what had happened to her, but because he did love her. He stared at Nina as she worked the buttons loose. He’d give up his life for her as well.
God knew he wanted her. He was half tempted to take what Nina offered and let her believe him so heartless. To make love to her until she cried out his name, but he would hate himself afterward and she would, as well. Because she could end up carrying his child, and he’d not allow that bastard Fernbridge to raise it. So he would go to her brother and tell him what had transpired between them, and Elliot did not want her to marry him for that reason alone.
“Go on, love. Climb into my bed naked, but I will not join you.” He strode to the door and walked out.
* * *
Nina’s hand on her buttons stilled as if filled with concrete. She stared at the door Elliot pulled closed behind him. Its wooden surface blurred under the tears filling her eyes. Brushing them away, she sat on the edge of the bed.
He’d walked away—left her standing with the front of her dress gaping open.
What had she expected? She wasn’t sure, but not this.
Her heart ached as if the air in her lungs expanded and pressed on her heart. She felt worse than when she’d found out Avalon had a mistress. No, not a mistress, but a woman he truly loved.
How could this feel worse? It shouldn’t. She’d thought herself in love with Avalon. She didn’t love Elliot. Did she?
Nina stared down at her gaping bodice. What had she been about to do? Prove something to him or to herself? The possibility it might have been the latter made her want to weep. Had she wanted to sleep with him because she needed to get him out of her system? Not the other way around? What had she thought? One quick tumble with Elliot would cleanse her desire for him? As if he were something she could wash off her hands like dirt. No wonder he’d walked out of the room.
Idiot. She stood and fastened her buttons. Thank goodness they were leaving in a few hours. She couldn’t face him.
She stepped into the corridor and stopped. Elliot was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. The hard look in his eyes made her want to cringe.
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t hanging about contemplating whether I wanted to return so I could soil you. I need to lock my trunk; a footman should be coming for it shortly. I’m riding to the train station with Lord and Lady Pendleton. I need to get my hat and gloves. Good-bye, Nina.”
“Elliot?”
He opened his
bedchamber door, then closed it behind him.
She had a feeling he hadn’t just been waiting for her to leave to lock his trunk. He’d also not wanted anyone to enter his room and find her there. Everything he said and did made her opinion of him change, but her fear of making a grand mistake—again—kept her from knocking on his door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Since returning from Lord and Lady Hathaway’s house party, Nina had spent the last week avoiding any gatherings by claiming she felt unwell. The thought of running into Elliot held as much appeal as entering a ballroom naked, but she could not hide away forever.
She stepped out of her bedchamber and made her way down the stairs to join the family for breakfast. As she entered the dining room, all conversation stopped as everyone’s gazes centered on her. The whole family sat at the table except Caroline and James’s son, little Michael, and Anthony. The latter probably wasn’t home. Most likely the scoundrel remained in some woman’s bed or was sleeping off a night a cavorting.
“Feeling better, dear?” Caroline asked, her tone concerned.
“Yes, much improved.” Nina forced a cough.
As she sat, James reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “You had us worried. If you weren’t feeling better today, I was going to insist Dr. Trimble be called.”
“No need,” she replied, stepping up to the chafing dishes and placing an egg and a bacon rasher in her dish. Taking her seat, Nina felt the chill of Grandmother’s icy gray eyes on her.
Last week, as they traveled home from the Hathaways’, the dowager had stared at her like an owl would a field mouse after Nina had refused to talk about the Duke of Fernbridge. Once again, she’d lectured her about how Nina would be a fool not to accept His Grace if he proposed.
A footman offered her orange juice. She nodded, and the servant filled her glass.
“So, Nina, now that you are feeling well, will you be attending Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam’s ball tonight?” Caroline asked.
Nina’s fork, with a piece of egg on the tines, stilled midway to her mouth. Would Elliot be there? She couldn’t avoid him for the rest of her life. “Yes, I’ll attend.”
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