by Cheryl Holt
He suffered a wave of yearning, and he attempted to identity it. Was he wishing he was away on an expedition? He didn’t think so.
The clock on the mantle struck eleven, and he should have headed to bed, but insomnia was his constant companion.
An image of Nell Drummond flashed in his mind. His interest in her was so blatant that the servants were gossiping and Edwina had been apprised.
He’d enjoyed their picnic so much that, when he’d returned to the manor afterward, he’d been extremely disconcerted. He’d saddled a horse and had gone riding for hours. He’d galloped down the rural country lanes, expecting the fresh air to clear his thoughts of her, but it hadn’t worked.
Edwina was correct that he should be cautious with Nell, but the sad fact was that he liked her very much. She wasn’t in awe of him, wasn’t agog over his station or his wealth or his infamous exploits with Sir Sidney. She was kind too, and she recognized that he had wounded spots that needed healing.
Might she still be awake? He’d learned where her bedchamber was located, and Edwina had her housed in a deserted wing of the manor, where there were smaller rooms for less important guests, which Edwina deemed Nell to be.
If he snuck in to talk to her, what would she do? Did he care?
No, he did not.
Though he’d never admit it in a thousand years, he was desperately lonely. He craved her sunny company like a flower craved sunshine. At the moment, he couldn’t bear to be by himself with his morbid reflections, and he was convinced there was no one who could soothe him as she could.
He downed his brandy and went to the hall. He didn’t exactly tiptoe, so he wasn’t being furtive, but he wasn’t keen to be observed either. He could act however he pleased, but she couldn’t. He wasn’t concerned about any consequences though. He was only concerned about feeling better, and she made him feel better.
When he arrived at her door, he slipped in without knocking. Her bedchamber was the one place he should never be, so what was his plan?
He had no idea.
Her door opened straight into the room, with no sitting room. He could see her bed, and she wasn’t in it. There was a dressing room behind though, and he paused, listening, and she was humming to herself.
Without giving himself a chance to come to his senses and depart undetected, he walked over and leaned against the door jam. She was seated at her dressing table, tugging a brush through her beautiful hair.
She was ready for bed, wearing a nightgown, no robe over top. The gown was white, virginal, sewn from a flimsy summer fabric. It had tiny straps over her shoulders, so her arms were bare, her upper back and bosom bare.
She hadn’t heard him enter, so when he spoke, she jumped so violently she nearly fell off the stool.
“Hello, Nell.”
“Lord Selby! What are you doing in here?”
She whipped around and glared at him, and the interval was so fraught with odd energy that electricity seemed to bounce off the walls.
“I missed you,” he said.
“I’ve missed you too,” she responded, “but that doesn’t supply you with a reason to bluster into my bedchamber.”
“This drafty old mansion is my castle, and I’m king of it. And you know what they say about kings.”
“They can do whatever they want?”
“Yes.”
The room was very small, and in two quick strides, he was across the floor. He scooped her off the stool, then he was kissing her and kissing her, immediately growing so overwhelmed by contentment that he could hardly breathe.
She didn’t hesitate, but leapt into the fray and participated with incredible relish. They bit and nipped, grappled and moaned, carrying on as if they were lovers who’d been separated for years, as if they’d survived a horrendous accident and were rejoicing at finding themselves still alive.
He picked her up and marched her out to the bedchamber to drop her onto the bed. By the time she realized that she should scoot away, he’d joined her on the mattress, a thigh draped over her legs so she couldn’t escape.
Through it all, he hadn’t stopped kissing her, and she finally yanked her mouth from his.
“Are you insane?” she demanded. “It’s the middle of the night. You can’t be in here!”
“Are you claiming—if it was the middle of the afternoon—I’d be allowed?”
“No! You’re going to get me into so much trouble.”
“Probably,” he agreed, and he grinned.
“Have you the slightest clue of what would happen to me if we’re caught?”
“I have a fairly good idea.”
“Mrs. Middleton would wash her hands of me. She’d toss me out on the road with only the clothes on my back.”
“I wouldn’t let her.”
“How could you prevent her? You have no connection to her and no control over her.”
If he’d had a heart—or a conscience—he might have felt bad about the risk he was forcing her to assume. But he didn’t have a heart, and his conscience had never been overly loud. He definitely never heeded it.
“Could we please not quarrel?” he said. “I just endured a miserable conversation with my aunt, and my ears are still ringing. Could we not bicker?”
She studied his eyes, then snorted with disgust. “I can’t ever tell you no and mean it. You always seem so despondent to me. It makes me yearn to pamper you.”
“If I’m suffering from melancholia, I’m much too manly to admit it.”
She wasn’t struggling to free herself, proving she was dangerously, stupidly nice, and he was much too clever in having figured out how to coerce her. When he was finished with her, where would she be? Nowhere she ought to be, that was for sure.
“Why was your aunt complaining?” she asked. “What did you do to her?”
“Why would you automatically presume that I was the cause of any spat?”
“You’re stubborn, and you don’t like her. It doesn’t take a genius to guess how it went.”
“She warned me to stay away from you.”
“Why would she be worried about that?”
“The servants are gossiping about our picnic. Apparently, I gazed at you too fondly, and if I’m polite to you, I might give you the wrong impression.”
She scoffed. “Believe me, where you’re concerned, I have no misconceptions. You couldn’t give me the wrong impression if you tried.”
“Why is that? Tell me the truth. Wouldn’t you love to have me as your husband?”
“No. I wouldn’t choose you if you paid me a thousand pounds.”
He bristled with annoyance. Every female in the kingdom would like to marry an earl, and in his experience, the earl’s flaws and foibles were irrelevant. He could be a violent drunkard or a gambler or a wretch. Only the title mattered. Not the actual man.
Why wouldn’t she want him? Why was she so odd?
“What’s so appalling about me?” he asked.
“Where should I start? You’re vain and impossible, and you have to have your own way. Your social skills have vanished—if you ever had any in the first place—and you’re a hermit. And you detest your relatives.”
“You mention all of that as if they’re failings.”
“In my view, they are. I like to have friends and to meet new people. I’m an orphan, so my dream is to have a big family. I’d like to have birthdays to celebrate, weddings to attend, and anniversaries to note.”
“I hate all of that.”
“I’ve already deduced that about you. I would never pick a husband who was so determined to not like anyone.”
“That’s me in a nutshell.”
“If I ever have the opportunity to marry, it will be to a man who loves me madly. I won’t settle for any other conclusion.”
“According to my aunt, you have no dowry and no prospects. Do you really suppose you’ll wed someday?”
“It’s not likely, but that won’t keep me from wishing for it.”
He smiled.
“You’re an optimist.”
“An eternal one, while you are the ultimate pessimist.”
“It’s not that I’m a pessimist. I’ve just always had such rare chances to be positive. My path through the world hasn’t exactly been easy.”
“Your life isn’t quite as awful as you imagine.” Her tone was scolding. “You’re rich and handsome and interesting. You own a huge estate and hold one of England’s oldest titles. You’ve been educated, and you’ve traveled the globe with famous companions. You have so much, while others have so little.”
“You’re correct.”
“You should stop pitying yourself and be a tad more grateful.” She clasped his hand and linked their fingers. “You’re home safe and sound. You’re a bit banged up, but you’re all right. Things will be better in the future.”
“I hope so,” he murmured.
“Now then, I’m certain I must have satisfied whatever urge drove you in here, so will you please leave?”
“No.”
He rolled onto his back and pulled her over him so she was partially draped across his body, her ear directly over his heart. They nestled in the quiet, and he stared at the ceiling.
Words were stirring inside him, and for once, he couldn’t swallow them down. He was just so angry about so many issues! He was desperate to share his fury with someone, desperate to have someone listen and commiserate. If he didn’t unburden himself, he was afraid he might suffocate on all the rage he’d been carrying.
“They left me to die,” he said, the terrible confession finally voiced.
“What? Who?”
She popped up to glare at him, and no doubt his woe was plainly visible. He couldn’t conceal it from her, but he couldn’t continue talking when she was looking at him. The facts were too daunting.
“In Africa,” he said as he snuggled her down, “we’d been living with a native tribe for a few weeks, but Sir Sidney was misbehaving with a chief’s…well…let’s simply state that he’s not the man you’ve heard about in the stories.”
“I won’t even try to figure out what that means.”
“His conduct was reprehensible, and he’d angered some of the tribal leaders. There was a fight, and he was stabbed over and over. I attempted to intervene, to drag him away, but I was attacked too.”
“My goodness.”
“I managed to crawl away and hide in the jungle, and my friend, Sebastian, sent some men to find me. I was so badly maimed that they feared I’d slow them down and prevent their escape.” Softly, brutally, he repeated, “They left me there to die.”
“Oh, Nathan, I’m so sorry.”
“No one else knows about it. Only you.”
“I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me.”
“The entire debacle was so dreadful. It’s why I won’t counter the articles in the newspapers. People would descend on me with prying, nosy questions, but I can’t answer them. It would be too grueling.”
“You won’t have to, and I won’t ever permit you to be pestered about it. I will be your fiercest defender.”
“My little champion.” He breathed out a heavy sigh. “If I ever see Sebastian again, I intend to murder him.”
She popped up again, and her expression was thunderous. “You’re not killing Sebastian Sinclair. I refuse to allow it.”
“It’s all I’ve thought about since I staggered out of that jungle.”
“Well, you’re not doing it, so get the insane notion out of your head.”
“I can’t. I’ve been focused on it for so long, and I truly believe it’s the sole conclusion that will bring me any peace.”
“You and I will work on it. I understand why you’re distraught, but you have to let some of it go. It’s the only way you’ll ever be able to move forward in a rational manner.”
He peered into her pretty green eyes, and there was such conviction there, such certainty that she could push him to surmount any obstacle in his path.
Before the fiasco, he’d been unstoppable. He’d been tough and brave and relentless, but anymore, he was simply weary and drained. There wasn’t much that mattered, wasn’t much worth having or fighting for.
“You make me feel better,” he said.
“I love hearing that.”
He kissed her again, this one dear and sweet, without any of the passion he’d exhibited in the dressing room. Then he relaxed onto the pillow, and she snuggled down again.
His admission had been cathartic, and he felt lighter, as if he’d shed half his weight. He grew very fatigued, and he began to doze off, his limbs slackening. After a bit, he realized she’d eased away. He forced himself to rouse, and she was perched on the edge of the bed, a palm on his chest, concern in her gaze.
“You have to leave now,” she gently said. “You know you do.”
“Could I stay with you? Could I sleep here tonight?”
It was a ridiculous query. Of course he couldn’t stay. Of course she couldn’t permit it. But it seemed wrong to depart. It seemed as if they belonged together. How could she expect him to blithely trot out?
“No, you can’t sleep here, Nathan. It’s impossible.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
He stared up at the ceiling again, studying a crack in the plaster. Ever since he’d fled Africa, he’d been afraid he’d gone mad. What was her opinion?
He glanced over at her and asked, “Do you think I might have lost my mind?”
She chuckled, but miserably. “No, I don’t think that. I think you’re a lonely person who survived a horrendous ordeal. You’re tired and worn out, and I’m relieved you’re home so we can all take care of you. I shall be your most devoted nurse.”
He grinned. “I like the sound of that. I’ll bet you’re adept at fixing broken things.”
“I am.” She went to the door and peeked into the hall, then she motioned to him. “Come. You have to sneak out while the coast is clear.”
“I probably should.” He slid to the floor and sidled over to her.
“Can you walk to your room on your own? Should we find Mr. Dobbs or maybe a footman to assist you?”
“I’ll be fine,” he claimed. “I’m always fine.”
“Head straight to your bed,” she said like a fussy nanny. “You’re exhausted, and you need to rest. We’ll talk more in the morning about what happened on your trip. We’ll discuss some options to get you back on track.”
“Does that mean I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. We’ll have some fun. I’ll plan an activity.”
“I shudder to imagine what it might be.”
“You’ll like it. I guarantee.”
A thousand unvoiced comments swirled between them, then he dipped in and kissed her a final time, inhaling her luscious scent, letting it wash over him.
As he smiled and left, he noticed there was almost a spring in his step. The Catholics insisted confession was good for the soul. Perhaps they were right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Good morning, Florence.”
“Edwina.”
Florence had forced herself down to breakfast, and she stared at Edwina across the small dining room table. Gossip had it that Edwina rose early and ate early, but Florence hadn’t expected to bump into her.
Shortly, they would be related by marriage, so Florence had to devise ways to tolerate the appalling woman, but Edwina was such a snob that civility didn’t seem possible. Florence viewed herself as a very cordial person who got along with everyone, but Edwina was arrogant and disagreeable, her blatant dislike of Florence practically palpable.
She recognized the limitations of her place in the world, but that didn’t mean she accepted them. She was constantly trying to improve her situation by moving up society’s ladder, but England was very stratified, the different classes intermingling on only the rarest occasions.
She and Albert were giving Percy Blake an enormous fortune, and Florence thought their generous act should buy them superior treatment fro
m Edwina, but Edwina remained as dreadful and aloof as ever.
“How has your stay been so far?” Edwina asked. “I trust everything has been suitable.”
“Yes, it’s all been lovely.”
“And the servants? They’re considerate and helpful?”
“Yes, yes, they’ve been wonderful.”
The admission was nearly painful. Before arriving at Selby, she’d been prepared to find fault at every turn, but while Edwina might be a pompous shrew, she ran a stellar home. The realization was galling.
“I’m glad I caught you,” Edwina said. “There is a delicate subject I must address.”
“It’s nothing awful I hope.”
“It might be nothing or it might be something.”
Two footmen were hovering, and Edwina waved them out. They shut the door, leaving Florence alone with Edwina. The silence was oppressive, and Florence was terrified that Edwina was about to discuss a hideous problem that would pitch the entire wedding into chaos, so when she finally spit it out, Florence wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.
“It’s about your ward, Miss Drummond,” Edwina said.
“Nell? What about her? What’s she done?”
“I can’t claim she’s done anything. Not yet anyway, but she is very young, and I’ve decided a word of warning might be appropriate.”
“Warning about what?”
“Lord Selby is back from Africa.”
“Yes, and I must confess to being a tad irked that we haven’t been introduced. I’m the bride’s mother. Shouldn’t I meet the head of your family? Is there some reason I haven’t?”
Edwina tsked with irritation. “The Earl has been away for years, and he’s been ill, so he’s extremely worn down. He’s resting and recuperating from his ordeal, so he’s not greeting any guests.”
“The newspapers are reporting he died.” Florence couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Apparently, he’s made a miraculous recovery.”
Edwina sighed as if Florence was a great burden. “Let’s focus on the topic at hand.”
“Which is?”
