“Hmph, you’re hardly a criminal, Nic,” Miss Sweeting scoffed. “The Crown has sanctioned your activities, and only a codspate would dare speak against you now that the dukedom is yours.” Aunt Bertie removed her spectacles and, after holding them to the window light, proceeded to wipe the lenses with her shawl’s edge. “You needn’t rush into a union quite yet. Though I’m certain eligible misses will flock round you like flies to sweets.”
The duckling image popped to mind again, accompanied by a violent shudder.
Preposterous, a man of his stature and experience trembling in his boots at the prospect of parleying with eager parents and eligible misses hoping to make a brilliant match.
“No, I think I must enter the parson’s mousetrap. For my sisters’ sakes.” No matter how much the idea appalled him. By God, nothing else would drive him to such extremes. However, he’d not parade before the ton on his quest. There had to be a better way.
“How old are your sisters? I confess I cannot remember if I’ve ever been told.” Miss Needham stirred a fresh cup of tea.
“Daphne is thirteen and Delilah eleven.” Idly rubbing his scar, he pictured his sisters the last time he’d seen them from afar, their red-blond heads dipped together as they crooned over a dame’s fluffy white, beribboned kitten. He’d never been permitted a formal introduction, though he’d requested one multiple times. “With their mother gone, they’ll need a woman’s gentle presence, and I know naught of young innocents’ ways or needs.”
Miss Needham coughed into her hand, muttering something which sounded suspiciously like, “Bold truth there.”
He grinned. Saucy wench.
“Dominic …?” His aunt dashed at her papery cheek. Tears? Why now?
Nic swallowed his spicy-sweet mouthful before angling his head.
Aunt Bertie rarely used his full given name. His mouth twitched. Well, she had often enough when he’d been into mischief as a lad, which, given his propensity for adventure and mayhem, had been more often than he cared to admit. However had she put up with his antics? His anger and petulance? His naughty humor? Frogs and snakes and caterpillars in the kitchen and parlor?
He knew the answer, of course. She adored him.
Love covered a multitude of sins, thank God.
“What has you distressed, Bertie, love? My marrying so speedily? I must find a willing bride yet, and that may take a few weeks.” She fretted for him, even after he’d proved his prowess as a privateer. That was what normal, loving parents did. What he’d do when he became a father. “What if I promise to allow you input regarding the lady I select, and if you object to her, I’ll consider another? Would that satisfy you?
After all, he intended Aunt Bertie reside with him, and his wife must treat his cherished aunt with respect. As she must his impressionable sisters. The girls might prove to be a trifle difficult at the onset, and he would insist upon a patient and sympathetic duchess, not a feckless, selfish shrew.
Blast, if Collingsworth weren’t respectably married, Nic might wait to venture down matrimony’s prickly path himself. “I’m confident between us, we can select a lady who we’ll rub along well with.”
He wasn’t at all confident, but that burden was his to bear.
“Yes,” said Miss Needham. “A lady who will adopt the role of a loving elder sister, rather than attempt to replace their mother. They’d resent that, I think.” Daintily nibbling a buttered bread triangle, she considered Nic. A dab of butter remained at her mouth’s corner, and she darted her tongue out to lift the trace.
If Aphrodite had manifested from the linen-wrapped teapot’s steam, he wouldn’t have been able to haul his attention from the moist pillow passing for her lower lip. His own tongue breached his lips briefly before he snatched the traitorous organ inside again.
Nic wiped his moist brow. Less than half an hour in Miss Needham’s presence and he’d contemplated bedding her multiple times. Her qualifications and appeal grew by the minute.
“A woman boasting a degree of acumen and wit, too.” Gazing into the fire, her eyes half-closed, Miss Needham tapped her chin. “And not given to vapors or histrionics. Can’t abide either, personally. Musical and artistic aptitudes are desirable, as is a strong constitution. And since you’ve traveled extensively, a well-read lady with geographical knowledge would provide you discussion fodder other than fashion or weather twaddle.”
“Absolutely.” Nic’s hearty agreement earned him a grateful tilt of her lips. Sharp-witted, she’d neatly and concisely described his ideal duchess. Particularly that last bit. By Jove, he’d go mad, listening to bilge-water prattle about bonnets and ribbons and parasols or the latest on dit. His duchess must at least be able to carry on an intelligent conversation about something other than fripperies and gossip.
Undoubtedly, Miss Needham would be able to.
Soft snuffling drew his attention to his aunt hunched in her chair.
“Aunt Bertie?” he prompted gently, setting his cup upon the low table this time. “Please tell me what has you distraught?”
She sniffed and dabbed her damp face. “It was selfish of me, I know, and I’ve wronged you, Nic. I meant to tell you. Truly, I did.”
“What was? Tell me what?” He shot Miss Needham a puzzled look.
Slightly lifting a shoulder, she gave a tiny shake of her head. She had no more inclination what caused his aunt’s upset than he did.
“I should’ve suspected Wainwright possessed evidence verifying Maureen married Pendergast, but I knew you’d be taken from me if your legitimacy was confirmed. And Pendergast, the cur, would’ve destroyed me—threatened to do so if I questioned him or pursued the issue further. How could I, a poor spinster without means, prove my sister married the duke prior to his and Lady Trehmain’s nuptials?”
“You did what you thought best, and I cannot fault you for it, my dear.” Nic leaned across the table and took her thin hand in his. “I shall always be grateful for your sacrifice, and I’m a far better man having been raised by you than that spineless sot.” He kissed her fingertips before releasing her.
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 intimat
e 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.
Lords of the Kingdom Page 110
