When She Loved Me (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 1)

by Rebecca Ruger

  Then Nicki was standing before him. And while evidence of Sabrina’s tears had moved him not at all, to see that Nicki apparently had suffered the same circumstance—this evidence being not so pretty as Sabrina’s, Nicki’s face being blotchy and her nose bright still—weakened Trevor that he stumbled over his words of greeting when she finally raised haunted green eyes to him. His jaw tightened imperceptibly, and he was struck with the sure knowledge that likely these two sisters had not shared their separate turmoil, whatever they be—Trevor had only ideas—but had only cried separately.

  “Hello, Nicki,” he said in a lowered voice.

  He watched her back straighten, saw a determined smile overtake her features, and bent over her hand just as he had with Sabrina while Nicki said, “Good Evening, my lord. What a beautiful home you have.”

  He stared knowingly into her eyes, he let his expression tell her that this false attempt at trite pleasantries was both unnecessary and transparent. But Nicki, being unable to hide herself completely from him, being ever, he supposed, of a forthright nature, shrugged at him as if to say, “I don’t know how to do this after all.”

  “You look lovely, sister,” he said purposefully, putting them both into an awareness of their positions. But she was truly lovely, outshining, he thought once again, even the bride-to-be. Dressed in a high-waisted gown of pink silk gauze, the bodice was low and trimmed with darker pink cording and silk ribbons, the sleeves pleated and decorated with ribbon as well. The skirt of her gown was gored and flowed outward and behind in a small train. He then belied his pointed words by allowing his gaze to stay perhaps a moment too long and hungrily upon the presentation of her bosom, shaped so prettily, so temptingly within the confines of the tight-fitted bodice. If Nicki noticed, she gave no indication, indeed seemed to be more concerned with those words, happily latching onto them as a model for the evening.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said then lightly, her smile relaxing just a bit as she moved away from him, affecting a great interest in the foyer itself.

  While he stared rather fixedly at her, she pretended that she knew not of his attention. The stark contrast of Nicki’s dark hair and eyes against the paleness of her gown was truly an eye-drawing sight. But he had no business even considering how exquisite she looked tonight. He had no business thinking about her at all, truth be told, certainly not with such prominence as his mind allowed. Shaking himself internally, he warned himself that she was off limits for more reasons than one. Trevor knew, without a doubt, that he needed to lose this sudden and vexing fixation with her, that it had no place in his life, that it would come to no good end, and most importantly—as he’d tried to convince himself—that it was a nebulous and fleeting infatuation formed solely because he’d always been tempted by things he thought he could not have.

  Wentworth’s butler pulled open the door then and a small influx of people entered his Mayfair residence. Taking his place beside Sabrina, now began the tedium of his evening. His betrothed proved to be the epitome of refined gentility as she accepted warm greetings and some heartfelt congratulations, never once betraying her true feelings, and then neither sparing one happy glance at her fiancé at her side.

  He knew exactly when Nicki left the foyer, venturing up the stairs to the second floor ballroom, now accompanied by several girlfriends who’d arrived. She, too, cast no glance in his direction, but surely, he surmised, she must be plagued by that prickle of awareness as his eyes strayed again and again to her.

  With deliberation, he brought his attention back to Archibald Foote, now standing before him and pumping his hand vigorously while he offered his felicitations and wishes for a long and happy life. Feeling other eyes upon him as well, Trevor presented Mr. Foote to Sabrina, somewhat perturbed to find that her gaze studied him with a perceptive little gleam before she managed to erase that shrewd glare. She said a pretty hello to Mr. Foote, returning to her perfect persona, causing Trevor to wonder if he’d only imagined that she’d given him such a knowing and calculating look.

  It was, quite possibly, the longest evening of Nicole’s short life. Oh, she thought her gown was very lovely, one of her favorites, and her hair had seemed to agree with all of Amelia’s plans for it, and there wasn’t a person present that she did not like, the Countess of Leven exempted of course. And she was in Trevor’s home.

  But she was miserable, having watched the newly betrothed couple lead off the dancing while a small quartet of musicians accompanied them. Sabrina was beautiful, smiling in Trevor’s arms as if she were the happiest woman in the world. Nicole was sickened by it, knowing full well that earlier this evening, while still at home, her sister had tearfully begged her father to call the whole thing off, though obviously to no effect. Nicole had cried as well, seemingly in a mirrored plea for Sabrina’s release, though in fact she’d cried for her own broken heart as the baron had raged at them, promising Sabrina she would be penniless if she chose not to honor his contract with Leven.

  Trevor, dancing with Sabrina, was tall and imposing and without a smile, but likely no one would make too much of this—an earl of his stature and regard did not deign to show his private feelings upon the public dance floor. Nicole had watched them for a bare few minutes before exiting the ballroom, and finding her way downstairs, where there was relative quiet. She wandered through the foyer and down the corridor, peeking into opened doorways, finding eventually Trevor’s study. Curious, she entered the darkened room, shadow lit by only one small taper lighted upon the mantle. The walls of this room were lined with books, some very old, she noticed with a quick glance. His desk, a huge Chippendale piece, sat near to the far windows, his chair being then able to face inside or out.

  While above her the musicians struck up another tune for the agreeable dancers, Nicole gingerly sat in Trevor’s chair, running her hands along the finely carved arms, looking upon his desk, wondering what occupied his time. No papers or work of any kind sat atop the leather inlaid desk. Likely all tucked away into drawers, she guessed, but dared not peruse these. She glanced up, seeing what he might see when he sat here. Negligently, her mind wandered, sadly thinking that one day he would sit here and work, or read the Times, and he would glance up as the door opened. And Sabrina would walk in. Would he smile? Would their marriage get to that point? Would he think of her?

  “Ah, here you are,” said a voice at the door now.

  Nicole found Edmund Campion—and not Sabrina—standing at the threshold. Edmund was young, like she, and presently a viscount but one day to be the Marquess of Campion. He’d said a brief hello to her earlier, but his attention had been drawn away by his doting mother, who’d rather have seen his time spent with men of business, and not yet ladies of little consequence.

  “Hello, Edmund,” she said with a rueful little smile. They were cousins of a sort and had through the years met quite often. He’d always been kind to her. But just now, she’d wanted to sit here alone, just she and Trevor’s things, the feel of Trevor all around her.

  “I saw you leave,” he said, coming fully into the room, even daring as she had, and taking the chair in front of the desk. “You cannot be so wearied at your own sister’s betrothal ball to have need of solitude. And as I was quite aware of all the eyes that did follow you, I know that you would not lack for partners.” He gave an impression of a boy in possession of a man’s mind and demeanor, being quite serious and thoughtful. “But are you truly not enjoying yourself?”

  Nicole offered a brief laugh. No, she most certainly was not. She tried then to make it about something else, and not the earl. “Perhaps the season isn’t all a girl hopes it might be,” she suggested. “Same people, same dances, same market.”

  A thick brow raised in his too-thin face. “Rather jaded, that judgment,” he said with a queer little smile.

  “Am I far off the mark?” She wondered, leaning back in the chair.

  “I suppose not,” he answered, his present stare causing her a bit of alarm. “But some people, I b
elieve, are genuine despite society’s creed that all this market business is only that—business.”

  “Perhaps,” was all she allowed, but her mind was again thinking on Trevor.

  “Come upstairs with me, Nicole.” Edmund urged, standing again. “Dance with me,” he said, putting great emphasis on ‘me’, intimating that his interest was sincere.

  Nicole was saved having to answer by the arrival of Trevor himself, throwing open the door fully and giving a hard glare at poor Edmund.

  “My future sister-in-law has promised this set to me,” Trevor said, his voice clipped.

  Trevor’s annoyance only grew as the much younger man showed only a self-possession and not even a small fear, despite Trevor’s darkest scowl. The viscount did not scurry to be away, but sauntered actually, Trevor thought with growing intolerance. And then the young viscount risked his life yet more by giving only a half-hearted and unintimidated apology for his attempts to sway Miss Kent, though Trevor had only a moment ago quite clearly and brazenly heard the man call her Nicole.

  Wanting very badly to close the door behind the man, Trevor denied himself the possibilities that action might allow and turned to face Nicki, still sitting in his chair. He liked her there, despite the fact that her eyes were unsettled upon him, and he was then disheartened when she stood and came around the desk, trying to leave the room as well.

  “What is it about you and strange men in darkened places with no other persons around?”

  “I did not invite Edmund—”

  “I’ve cautioned you about this before,” he growled at her, catching her wrist in a tight grip as she attempted to sidle around him and away from him. “If I so much as catch you wandering in darkened rooms or upon terraces or in gardens without a chaperone, I will return you so fast to Kent House, those curls of yours will spin into tight knots upon your head.”

  Her dander rose, he could see it in her eyes, storminess replacing the wariness, her brows crinkling over darkened green.

  “Sounds shamefully equal to the wolf guarding the sheep, my lord,” she said, a bit of an uncharacteristic sneer to her tone. “You of all people haven’t any justification to treat me in such an irrational manner and with such coarse behavior.” She looked down to where his hand held her wrist.

  He was overbearing, he knew. He couldn’t seem to help himself. He didn’t care that Sabrina quite obviously preferred another man to him. Oh, it made him angry, but not because of the obvious rejection, and Sabrina’s unwillingness to even give him a chance, but rather because of his own distaste, being the one who was removing all their choices. Regarding Nicki, there was an anger, illogical though it be—she wasn’t his, for God’s sake!

  “If you won’t guard your reputation, Nicki, then I will. I’ll have to soon enough, if I’m to be part of your family. Someone has to take control of you.”

  She stared at him, aghast, her expression telling him in no uncertain terms that she thought—correctly—that he was indeed acting absurdly. With great intent, she said to him, “It is not presently your duty to see after me. Perhaps it never will be, if Sabrina and Marcus Trent have anything to say about it.”

  “I don’t give a damn about Marcus Trent!”

  Toe to toe now, she raged right back at him. “You are betrothed to Sabrina! Chase her around with your brooding presence—why do you care what I do?”

  With a gentler tone, seemingly hampered by his own demons, he said, “Christ, Nicki. I can’t seem to help myself.” And he swept her up in his arms and kissed her. It was easy to ignore her want to be away, easy to manipulate her body against him that in a moment she was pliable and near eager in his arms, her lips soft as he ground his against her. He persuaded her to open for him, sliding his tongue into the sweet wetness of her, tasting her. His arms flexed, crushing her more tightly against the hardness of him, then sliding lower, cupping the rounds of her bottom, bringing her hotly against his fast growing erection. She allowed this, moaning into his mouth, answering his need with a passion of her own until her hands raised, not pulling him closer, but pushing him away.

  “Please don’t do this to me, my lord,” she begged in a broken whisper against his lips. “I can only stand so much.”

  Barely raising his head, so that still their noses almost touched, Trevor replied, “But you see where the problem lies, little Nicki. You respond so sweetly—you taste so damn good—how can I resist you?”

  “This has to stop. We cannot pursue this, my lord,” she persisted. “This is madness! Perhaps,” she continued, drawing further away from him, until they only touched where her hands held still at his forearms, “we might be best served if I went away for a while.”

  Instantly, he was still and frowning darkly. “Go where? You cannot leave, Nicki. Not now.”

  She moaned audibly. “If not now, when? After we’ve...sinned completely against my sister?” She removed her hands from his arms, clasping them together in front of her.

  “Goddamn Sabrina!” He cursed thickly.

  “My lord, you are betrothed to her—do you not even consider that?”

  “Not when you are in my arms.”

  “And when I am not?” She asked sadly.

  “I think about getting you there.” He reached for her again, his hands on her hips. She closed her eyes against his touch, and he knew she steeled herself not to respond.

  Decisively, Nicki told him, “You’ve had too much to drink. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  He had had too much to drink, and too quickly, but he was well aware of the thoughts and words he shared, perhaps the drink only served to do what sobriety could not—turn those thoughts into words. “Actually, I am quite possessed of all my faculties. Nicki, I want you—"

  She pushed resolutely at his hands, disengaging herself completely. “I won’t listen to this, Trevor. I want to, if I’m honest with myself. But I cannot.” She moved further and further away from him, until she stood near the door. “When you’re sober again, we’ll talk.”

  “Don’t leave me, Nicki,” he called, hating that she was so far out of his reach in so many regards.

  She pulled open the door fully and offered him one last glance. It was the first he’d noticed these fresh tears, shimmering beneath the green of her eyes, breaking his heart.

  “As if I could,” she murmured and left him.

  The very next morning, having some niggling recollection of Nicki saying perhaps it might serve them both to advantage if she went away for a while, Trevor dressed hurriedly and found himself once again at the Kent townhouse, admitted by the ever unflappable butler, Bennett.

  “Miss Nicole is abovestairs, my lord,” the butler informed him impertinently. “Shall I fetch her for you as Miss Sabrina is out calling.” The aged man managed to stare at Trevor with all the innocence of the unknowing, but lurking just beneath the surface, reflected in his words, was sure knowledge of Trevor’s intent.

  He did not answer vocally, but nodded stiffly, his jaw tight. He didn’t wait to be shown to the drawing room, where he’d so many times been welcomed by Nicki, but strode their purposefully. His head pounded still, the effects of last night’s foray into the world of spirits and depravity rearing its ugly head. When the ball had ended he’d not retired immediately, but, having been so brutally excused by Nicki, had found welcome among his cronies at White’s, where he no doubt lost several hundred pounds—he could not recall exactly even now—and had drank yet more, with the improbable hope that alcohol might indeed ease his troubles as the lovely Nicki had not.

  “You wanted to see me.”

  Trevor turned from his perusal of the small terrace outside the long windows to face Nicki at the drawing room door where she hovered, her stance poised, ready for flight.

  Without preamble, Trevor slipped his hands inside his trouser pockets and offered, “I wanted to apologize for my behavior of last eve.” His tone was curt, clipped. “You were right of course. I was inebriated.” He pursed his lips for a moment, se
eming to consider carefully his words. “I can promise you such an occurrence will not happen again. Ever.” And he finally settled his gaze upon her, finding her to be tense, her face tightened with anxiety.

  “Apology accepted, my lord,” she said stiffly, her eyes only coming so high as his rather hastily put together neckcloth. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve packing to do. I believe Sabrina is due—"

  “Packing?” He repeated, focusing on this, and nothing else. For just the space of a second, he fidgeted, seeming to want to move, to protest heartily.

  “I’m off to Audley End, Grandmother’s estate in Essex. I shall, of course, return in time for the...wedding.”

  “Nicki,” he began, his tone, even to his own ears, sounding ragged, pleading, “I assure you this is unnecessary. I have promised that my behavior—"

  “This has been arranged for months.”

  He knew she lied. She hadn’t been looking directly at him to have now evaded his gaze for him to know this, but he did all the same. A disquiet enveloped her as surely as his arms once had. She was lying to him.

  “Goodbye, my lord.”

  Clenching his teeth, he could only nod. He had no choice. He’d spent the last many days wondering if he had any other option available to save the Leven title, looking for any escape. And he hated that his honor would not allow him to say, screw the earldom and the estates and all the people who depended upon him for their livelihood. Fifty thousand pounds! Damn it.

  He watched, a pit of agony swelling in his belly as she moved to quit the room. At the last minute, he rushed her, reaching her in half a dozen swift and desperate strides, catching her just at the door. Trevor yanked her around by the arm, slamming the door closed behind her with the other hand.