Misery still etched her lined face, and she spluttered into her handkerchief. “I cannot quite recall how, but Wainwright and the late duchess claimed a distant connection.”
“And rest assured, neither benevolence nor misguided loyalty motivated Wainwright’s silence all this while. I haven’t a doubt he blackmailed my father. Wainwright’s first letter to me indicated he expected a hefty settlement for confiding the truth at long last.”
“Hellfired cull.” Miss Needham’s teacup clacked violently against her saucer, and tea sloshed over the brim. Using a serviette to mop her spill, she didn’t apologize for her unladylike outburst. “I hope you do not intend to pay him a pence.”
No simpering miss there. No indeed.
Better and better.
“I do not,” Nic said.
“Don’t you blame yourself, Miss Sweeting. Papa often warns me about the extreme measures compunctionless people will go to in order to protect themselves. I fear it’s not a trait reserved for the highborn.” Her hands now folded primly in her lap, Miss Needham slid Nic a contemplative glance and bounced her thumbs together, revealing her agitation, or perhaps, her pent-up energy. “Had you not cared for his grace, he might have ended up a pitiable, uneducated urchin instead of a respected privateer.”
His grace. God above, how would Nic ever get used to that form of address?
A log shifted, and the flames crackled with renewed vigor.
Percival hopped to the floor, and after stretching and yawning, pattered to the hearth and plopped his corpulent self before the fire.
A man of Nic’s prior profession wasn’t typically respected or embraced by the upper ten thousand, not that he gave a damn what that pernicious lot believed. He did, however, care what she thought, dammit.
Relaxing against the settee, he draped an arm across the top. Miss Needham’s shoulder was but a hand’s width away. “Please, when we are in intimate company, Miss Needham, might you address me more informally? Perhaps merely Nic or Saint, or if you must use my new title, Pendergast?” He winked and bent nearer. “Though I cannot guarantee I’ll answer to the latter.”
“That’s not at all proper, as I’m sure you’re aware.” A sable eyebrow swooped upward as she teased. “However, since I’ve always thought of you as St. Monté, if you’ve no objection, I’ll address you as such.”
“I would be honored.” She’d thought of him? How often?
From the pink tinting her face and her sudden fascination with her spencer’s buttons, often.
She captured her lush lower lip between her pretty teeth.
Quite often.
Satisfaction burgeoned behind his ribs. Well now. What an interesting, and most agreeable, development.
“And there were the children to think of too,” Aunt Bertie said, her tears finally dried.
She prattled on, oblivious to the intense, sensual undercurrent between him and Miss Needham.
“As a bastard—oh, I quite hate that word—poor Nic suffered rejection and humiliation, but he possessed the strength of character to overcome the jibes and ridicule.” Aunt Bertie folded her serviette. “Leopold, though sweet, was a soft, weak hobbledehoy. And those darling girls ... Well, I’ll tell you, they’ll suffer the most from their sire’s perfidy.”
“And that is why I must wed. To ensure their wellbeing and futures.” Nic drummed his fingertips atop the settee’s carved wood. “Perhaps you’d consider aiding me in my venture, Miss Needham? With your parents’ permission, naturally. I’m not up to snuff on niceties, and my dancing skills are rather rusty.”
No understatement there.
Why not make her an offer now? No, she didn’t seem the type to rush pell-mell into things. Well, actually she did, but best to woo her for a week or two at least. Make certain she didn’t possess an objectionable trait or habit.
Aunt Bertie fairly beamed, appearing perkier than she had since he’d arrived. “What a grand notion, Nic.”
Eagerness lent a becoming glow to Miss Needham’s already rosy cheeks. “I should be delighted to, and I’m sure I speak for Mama when I say she will be as well. We must start by introducing you to all the eligible misses in the area. No, no, not yet.” She shook her head, and the mahogany tendrils she’d repinned tumbled forth once more. Absently tucking them behind her ear, she said, “We need to make a list of what attributes you require in a duchess and what things you cannot abide. That will save time and avoid introducing you to ladies who won’t suit.”
“But of course.” Almond brown hair, blue eyes that change color depending on her mood, an exuberant smile, a penchant for speaking her mind, as well as a sumptuously rounded form topped his preferences. In a word—her. “Since I intend to return to the sea when my sisters are raised and wed, she’ll need to be amenable to spending months alone.”
Miss Needham’s face puckered before she smoothed the delicate planes once more. “Why not take her with you if she’s of a mind to accompany you?”
He chuckled and raked a hand through his long hair. For certain, she knew little of sailing. “Women aboard a vessel are notoriously bad luck, and I hardly think my duchess would relish jaunting about the oceans. It’s a rough life and not for the fainthearted, let alone a lady accustomed to life’s luxuries. Nay, better she stay ashore.”
“Hmph, I should think a man and woman dedicated to one another wouldn’t want to be separated.” She sat straighter, disapproval turning her mouth downward.
Had he riled her? “Aye, but I’m not wedding for love, but rather for convenience, which, you have to admit, doesn’t require devotion or constant company. Does that preclude you from aiding me?”
“Oh, flim-flam, of course not. Don’t be a goose.” She flapped her hand, giving him an incredulous look that suggested he had more hair than wit.
No other person had ever called him a goose. Several other choice words, yes, but never a goose. Miss Needham unquestionably topped his list of potential brides. That business about wanting to be with her spouse might present an issue, but he’d deal with that obstacle when the time came.
“We’re having a dinner party, three nights hence. You must join us. Mama won’t object. In fact, she’ll be delighted to have such a prestigious guest, and your presence will balance our guest list. We’re one gentleman short. That is, we will be if the major arrives by then.” She tapped Nic’s forearm lightly before attending to her tumbled curls once more. “And naturally, you’ll attend the Wimpletons’ ball with us as well. I believe there’s a soirée and another dinner party before then too.”
“The major?” One of her brothers? She had two older ones, if he recalled correctly.
She stopped fussing with her gloriously shiny hair, and graced him with a beatific smile. “Yes. Major Richard Domont, my intended.”
Chapter Four
Katrina stood and after shaking out her skirts, gathered her gloves and reticule. She had stayed longer than she’d planned, after all, but her reasons were most altruistic. On his own St. Monté—no, Nic suited him much better—would botch the business of finding a wife. He was a rather endearing oaf. “I must be on my way, but please do call when you return from London, and we can put our heads together and compile an acceptable list of qualifications for your duchess.”
“Don’t forget the dance lessons or refresher on protocol and decorum,” Miss Sweeting said, almost too enthusiastically, before finishing her biscuit. She tossed Percival a crumb, which he pounced upon with portly enthusiasm.
“I feel like a damned lad in shortpants again.” Nic didn’t appear half as agreeable as he had a moment before, no indeed. His tawny brows formed a harsh vee, and an assessing glimmer had replaced the jovial glint in his eye.
Had Katrina said something to displease him?
She wracked her brain.
No. He’d asked for her help, and she’d willingly offered it, so why now did he act all starchy and offended?
“Thank you for visiting, my dear. You know how much I look forward to
your company.” Miss Sweeting angled her cheek for a kiss. “You’ll come again, on Thursday, as always?”
“Of course. Mama should be recovered too. I know she’s been experimenting with a new scent, so prepare to receive a bottle or two of perfume if she cannot decide betwixt them.” As she bussed Miss Sweeting’s dry, crepey cheek, concern again inundated Katrina. Miss Sweeting wasn’t well. “Would you see me out, Your— Nic?”
Terribly brazen to use his given name, but of all his forms of address, Nic fit him—the man, not the privateer, not the duke, not the brother, or bastard son—simply him.
He extended his arm, the coat fabric worn a bit threadbare at the elbow. “It would be my utmost pleasure.”
Katrina cut him an arch look.
Goodness. She could almost believe he’d insinuated something more as she laid her bare hand upon his sinewy arm. Not an ounce of fat on him anywhere, she would wager. Did he climb the mast and rigging himself? Probably. He didn’t seem the type to leave the dangerous work to his crew while he sat idly by.
She could more easily picture him clinging aloft, his muscles straining and bulging, than circling a dance floor, although, each required a certain form of animal-like grace and carriage, and he exhibited a masterful command of both.
Katrina’s step faltered to a stop once out of Miss Sweeting’s earshot. She still held Nic’s arm and had accidentally brushed against him when exiting the salon’s narrow doorway, not that she permitted herself to acknowledge the heat permeating her spencer and gown once more.
Affianced—almost affianced—ladies did not notice, and most certainly did not enjoy, a gentleman’s attention or touch other than their betrothed’s.
“I’m concerned about your aunt.” Katrina gestured toward the door. “The parlor is unbearably warm, yet she complains of cold, and her skin is too dry to the touch. I think a physician ought to be consulted, but I know you intend to leave straightaway.”
Nic swiveled to stare at the empty doorway, consternation creasing his forehead. “I’ll delay my departure. She’s too important to me to risk her health by waiting until I return. Can you recommend a physician?”
“Certainly. Doctor Cutter is attending Mama this afternoon. I’ll ask him to stop here on the return trip.”
“I’d appreciate that. Very much.”
Gratitude shone in his genial gaze. He had the most astonishingly beautiful and expressive eyes. He might be coarse and rugged from his privateer life, but within the depths of his spectacular, thick-lashed eyes, humility and kindness lurked.
His willingness to set aside his vocation, for the time being, at least, to care for his sisters touched her deeply. Most titled men of her acquaintance were arrogant, selfish boors concerned only with their pleasures and interests.
After withdrawing her arm, Katrina went about donning her gloves. Once finished, she permitted him to assist her into her pelisse, steadfastly ignoring the rush of pleasure the simple act elicited. The brush of his calloused fingertips at her nape and shoulder produced curious little quivers.
Quivers she oughtn’t to have noticed, let alone enjoyed.
Richard possessed work-roughened hands too.
So why didn’t Richard’s fingers accidently sweeping her skin provoke the same tingling response? Assuredly, she felt tender arousal when he kissed her, but his mild caresses never had the ability to turn her knees custard soft or caused her to want to arch into him. Oh, he’d wanted to do more, had pressed her to do much more, but Katrina had been adamant about having a ring on her finger before she succumbed to passion’s lure.
Far past time she wed and experienced the marriage bed. Once her virginal curiosity had been satisfied, she’d not respond like an untried maid when a dashing man paid her attention.
Only one man has ever had this effect on you, Katrina Lorraine Rebecca Needham.
Stubble it!
She was not fast or fickle. She loved Richard. She couldn’t wait to be his bride.
She needed to think of something else.
“It’s an honorable thing you’re doing, Nic. I can only guess at the sacrifice you’re making and how difficult it must be to relinquish captaining your ship.”
Katrina tilted her head to meet his gaze. She wasn’t short, but his height topped hers by several inches. For a man reputed to have seized over fifty ships and taken innumerable lives, he possessed the gentlest eyes she’d ever seen. In the salon, they’d been a mossy green, but in the entry’s dimmer light, they appeared more marine, and a deeper forest green rimmed his outer iris.
“I’ve always wanted to be part of a large family, and I’ll admit, Pendergast’s refusal to allow me to know my brother and sisters has chafed my ar—that is, my pride.” He scratched his cheek, charmingly nonplussed.
Tying her bonnet’s ribbons, she grinned. “Never feel you cannot be completely candid with me, Nic. Chafed your pride isn’t at all the same as chafed your arse. The duke was a selfish, inconsiderate blackguard for what he did to you, her grace, and his other offspring. You’ve been remarkably civilized and shown great restraint in a deucedly awkward circumstance. I’m not at all sure I could have been as gracious.”
“Has anyone ever told you how refreshingly honest you are, Miss Needham?” Nic chuckled and tucked the curl teasing her cheek beneath her bonnet’s rim. “I quite like it.” He touched her nose and winked. “I quite like you.”
Best to ignore that last bit, though her woman’s pride puffed proudly. Gathering her wits, which had scattered about the entry like minute dust particles floating in the sun, Katrina pulled a face. “Yes, it is an unfortunate habit. I’ve been known to say the most shocking and improper things. Mama tells me it will land me in a scrape one day.”
“Well, promise you’ll always be entirely straightforward with me.” Nic opened the door, but didn’t step through. “When are you to wed?”
Katrina eyed the driver patiently standing beside Papa’s carriage. “No date has been set. Actually, Major Domont hasn’t asked Papa for my hand yet. He’s promised to as soon as he returns from Cambridge.” He’s taking his dratted sweet time. “I expect we’ll announce our official betrothal at the Wimpletons’ winter ball.”
Why had she confessed that drivel? Nic didn’t need to hear her personal business. Perhaps he’d decided his request to help him find a duchess had imposed since she was about to marry. The notion distressed her more than it ought to.
“A major in His Majesty’s Army. An honorable profession.” Nic opened the door. “I greatly admire men committed to serving the crown and protecting Britain.”
“Don’t you do much the same? I’d vow your vocation is as worthy and certainly at least as dangerous. Probably more so.” It astounded her that she meant every word when, an hour ago, she’d considered him and his chosen profession improper. A cool breeze ruffled her hem, and she grinned again. “And I dare say, you’ve had grand adventures. I should love to hear of them sometime.”
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 marre
d 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.
To Tame a Scoundrel's Heart (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 4) Page 4
