“They have been friends for years, and it is lucky for him that he has friends who are not so critical as you,” Lizzie snapped. “You must not forget, his life has not been as pleasant as ours.”
“Yes, yes, I know, he’s an orphan and all that,” Jules muttered, sinking deeper into the chaise. “Obviously my character needs more work. Still, if the man would simply smile now and again…”
“He does smile now and again,” Lizzie said more to herself than to her sister. And it was a smile made all the more wonderful for its rarity.
Nicholas Collingsworth had entered their circle of acquaintances more than a decade or so ago after the death of his parents. The orphaned boy had come to live with his bachelor uncle, the Earl of Thornecroft, who, in turn, was a longtime friend of Lizzie’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Roxborough. Jonathon and Charles had immediately accepted the young man as one of their own, and the trio had been inseparable in their youth, attending the same schools and spending holidays variously at one of their respective families’ estates or another. Nicholas was somewhat more reserved than the other boys, and Lizzie had paid this friend of her brother’s, as she’d paid all her brother’s friends, scant attention. He, like Charles, was simply always present and, unlike Charles, of no real significance.
Three years ago, Nicholas and his uncle had gone off on a Grand Tour, not simply of Europe but of the entire world. They’d returned four months ago. The earl was unchanged by their travels, as friendly and jolly as ever, if a shade older in appearance, but Nicholas was not at all as she’d remembered.
The boy she’d paid no heed to had become a man she could not put out of her thoughts.
He was strong and handsome and even mysterious, with a jaw chiseled by determination and a look in his dark eyes of purpose and resolve. He seemed to stand apart from the rest of them, in truth from the rest of life really, as if he were an observer rather than a participant and was indeed as somber and serious as Jules had claimed. But it was a sobriety born of desire and ambition. She had never known anyone with the ambition of Nicholas Collingsworth.
He was the only heir to his uncle’s wealth and title and had no need for more, yet he was set on making his own fortune. Jonathon had told her it was a point of honor and pride. Nicholas wanted to atone for the failures of his father, who had also sought to make his own fortune but had been trusting and naïve and unsuccessful in every venture he’d attempted.
From the very moment Lizzie had laid eyes upon Nicholas again, she’d been intrigued and curious. Soon after his return to London, she had made it a point to come upon him alone on the terrace at some now-forgotten event. For the first time in their years of acquaintanceship they’d spoken of matters not relating to friends or the weather or other polite utterances. Her well-practiced flirtatious banter had faded under the assault of his steady, assessing gaze, and she’d found herself asking about his travels and confessing her envy at what he as a man could do and would do and she could not.
He’d talked of lands as yet unexplored and endless possibilities and his own awe at the carefree nature of her family and their obvious affection for one another. She’d spoken of wishes and desires and the curiosities life might hold. He’d responded in kind with his own hopes and dreams and his determination to make his mark on the world beyond what he would achieve by virtue of who he was rather than what he was.
He’d spoken to her as he might have to her brother or his friends. As if she were not pretty and frivolous and lighthearted but rather intelligent and competent and of an interest beyond her blond hair and green eyes and dowry. No man had ever spoken to her like that before.
But then she had never known a man like Nicholas Collingsworth before.
It had been the beginning of these odd feelings for him that now churned within her and the start of a friendship that was odder yet. More and more she’d found herself seeking him out, and she’d fancied he’d sought her out as well, for a continuation of their private discussions about their lives and their futures, their opinions and reflections. And more, they’d spoken of art and music and even politics and the state of the world. And the wonders it might hold.
Their conversations in the presence of others had remained of little significance. They would dance together, on occasion, no more or less often than she would dance with any other young man. And if he’d held her during a waltz a shade tighter than the others or murmured polite, proper phrases with an underlying meaning only she could understand, no one had known it save Lizzie and Nicholas.
Nothing improper or personal or untoward at all had passed between them in public. Nothing anyone could raise an eyebrow at, nothing even the most ardent gossip could speak about in hushed, smug tones. But her gaze would meet his across a room and her heart would leap in her throat, and she’d known, with a certainty that had come from somewhere deep inside, that what she’d been feeling had been shared.
Until finally, inevitably perhaps, they had met privately at some gathering or another and their voices had faltered. For the first time they’d been awkward and ill at ease, as if what had been silently growing between them had sprung now full blown. There had been a hundred things, a thousand things she’d wanted to say. A thousand things she’d wanted to hear in return, yet the words would not come for her or for him. She’d turned to leave and brushed against him, and his gaze had met and meshed with hers in an endless instant of recognition and desire and even, perhaps, love.
Then she’d been in his arms and his lips had crushed hers in a kiss that had stolen her breath and her heart. A kiss she had never imagined possible save in her dreams. A kiss that lingered in her soul.
It had lasted forever and no time at all. When they’d parted he’d looked as shocked as she and as moved. He’d muttered a polite apology. She’d waved it off with an awkward laugh. And they’d pretended it hadn’t happened and had gone on as before save they did not meet privately again. But she could not forget his kiss or the look in his eyes or the tremulous feelings he’d aroused within her.
“He’s leaving London, you know,” Jules said with a casual shrug, as if Nicholas Collingsworth’s leaving was of no importance whatsoever.
“So I have heard.” Lizzie’s tone was as casual as her sister’s, belying the urgency that Nicholas’s plans triggered within her. “Jonathon said he’s sailing tomorrow. For America, I believe.”
“Well, I for one shan’t miss him, although I daresay he’ll be here tonight. I can’t imagine anyone missing the Effington Christmas Ball.”
“It would be most impolite of him.” And disastrous to Lizzie’s plans. She had to know if what she felt about him was real or imagined. Simply a momentary lapse in judgment, and nothing at all serious, or lasting and important. And if her feelings were real, did he feel the same?
“I can’t wait for tonight.” Excitement sparkled in Jules’s eyes. “This will be the very first Effington Christmas Ball that I won’t have to watch in secret.”
For as long as Lizzie could remember, the younger Effington children and their cousins had watched the Christmas ball festivities from a hiding place in an unused balcony overlooking the ballroom. Although to say they watched in secret was not entirely accurate, since every year, promptly when the clock struck ten, whatever governess was in residence at the time would fetch them and send them off to bed.
“I still can’t believe Mother is allowing you to attend. She did not allow me to attend until I had come out in society, and you won’t do that until spring.”
“But I am nearly seventeen and Mother is not tied down by antiquated conventions. She is a modern woman,” Jules said loftily, then grinned. “In truth, though, I think I simply wore her down.”
“I know the rest of us have certainly been worn down,” Lizzie said wryly.
Jules’s campaign to be allowed to attend the grand party had begun in earnest two years earlier, when Lizzie, at age seventeen, had been allowed to attend her first Christmas ball. Jules’s unending assault
on her mother was a subject of great amusement in the household, if a bit trying.
“Besides, Lizzie” — Jules leapt to her feet and twirled about the room — “it’s Christmas and anything is possible at Christmas. Anything at all.”
“I do hope so,” Lizzie murmured.
Jules stopped abruptly and stared. “Whatever is the matter with you? You’ve been exceedingly quiet and even thoughtful in recent days. Not at all like your usual self. One would think you had a world of troubles on your mind.”
“Not at all,” Lizzie said firmly. “Why, what on earth could possibly trouble the frivolous Lizzie Effington?” She forced her brightest smile. “And you’re right, it is Christmastime, and anything is indeed possible at Christmas. Now, shouldn’t you be getting ready for tonight?”
“I most certainly should.” Jules nodded and headed toward the door to her room. “I have a scant six hours, and as this is my first Christmas ball, my first ball ever, I want to look my best. Better than my best. I want to look,” she tossed her head and cast her sister a wicked look over her shoulder that was far more adult than was seemly for a girl her age, “better than you.”
Lizzie raised a brow and bit back a grin. “Oh?”
“You may well be the Effington everyone considers the most fun, but I fully intend to be the one most sought after.” Jules grinned, then sobered. “This will be a night I shall remember always, Lizzie. I’m certain of it.” She nodded, turned, and swept from the room.
Lizzie laughed. When Jules set her mind on something, there was no stopping her. If she was indeed determined to become the belle of London, she would succeed. Lizzie had no doubt that Jules would do whatever she wished to do in this life.
As for Lizzie’s own life, she had never once doubted where she was headed and what would become of her. She couldn’t remember ever being confused or uncertain.
Until Nicholas.
Now, she wasn’t certain she knew either her own mind or her heart. She loved Charles. She always had. There wasn’t a question at all about that. But did she love Nicholas as well? Was it even possible to love two men at the same time? One who warmed you with the comfort of his presence and the other who made you tremble at the mere sound of his voice?
She had to find out, and tonight would be her only chance. Before Charles asked for her hand. Before Nicholas left London, left her life, possibly forever.
Lizzie turned to the paper on the desk, thought for a moment, then penned a few lines. She sat back and studied them. Personal, but not too personal. Affectionate, but not overly so. One could read her words in any number of ways depending on the reader’s own feelings. Yes, it would do.
She pulled open a drawer and drew out the book she had purchased. She’d been lucky to find one still available. The bookseller had said they could well be sold out entirely before Christmas. She opened the small volume, drew a deep breath, then carefully wrote the decided-upon lines on the flyleaf and waited for the ink to dry.
It was the perfect Christmas gift for a man she might or might not love. A man who might or might not love her. The perfect gift for an old family friend about to embark on endless travels or someone who might well be very much more than a friend.
She closed the book gently and studied the red cloth cover with the words A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens emblazoned in gilt and encircled by a gold wreath.
Jules was right.
One way or another, this would most certainly be a night to remember.
* * *
* * *
Chapter 2
“There’s no reason for you to leave, none at all.” Frederick, the Earl of Thornecroft, sat in his favorite chair in his favorite room at Thornecroft House, sipping his favorite brandy with his favorite and ever-present cigar in his hand, and glared at his favorite, indeed his only, nephew. “You’ll have my money and my title as well when I’m gone.”
“Ah, but the key there, Uncle, is that you should have to die first,” Nicholas Collingsworth said mildly, prowling the perimeter of the Thornecroft library in a manner even more restless than usual. “And I am far and away too fond of you to wish that.”
“That’s something, at any rate,” Frederick muttered. “Still, I can well provide you with whatever you desire in life, and glad to do it.”
“You have provided for me since the day my parents died. It’s past time I provided for myself.”
“You’re just like your father, you know.”
“Thank you.” Nick flashed the older man a grin. For a moment, uncle and nephew fell silent, each with his own memories: one of a cherished younger brother, the other of a beloved father taken far too soon. “Still, I hope we are not too much alike.”
His uncle considered him thoughtfully, as if comparing father to son in his own mind. “James was a good man, but he had no head for business.”
“He was a dreamer,” Nick said absently, stepping around a precarious tower of books stacked unsteadily on the floor. The untidy appearance of the library was a constant source of dismay for Mrs. Smithers, the housekeeper. While the room was officially forbidden territory for Mrs. Smithers and her staff of maids, Frederick and Nick knew full well she managed a bit of clandestine cleaning nonetheless. “He refused to see past the dream of an endeavor to the reality.”
“And you are far more practical?” It was as much a statement as a question.
“Indeed I am,” Nick said, deftly skirting a pile of correspondence and unread manuscripts. Uncle Frederick had a secret passion for all manner of scientific and scholarly pursuits, especially those of a historic nature. While few of his social acquaintances knew of this more serious aspect of his character — indeed, he was better known for his pursuit of women than for anything else — in certain amateur academic circles, he was considered something of an expert on the flora and fauna of ancient Egypt.
“With more desire as well,” Frederick said under his breath.
It was not a new thought for the older man, and Nick had accepted the truth of it a long time ago.
As the second son of the Earl of Thornecroft, James Collingsworth, Nick’s father, had been heir to nothing beyond the family name and had always seemed to have few aspirations beyond that. No one had been more surprised than his brother to learn of James’s determination to make his own fortune independent of his family. His quest had taken him, and his wife, away from England to America. Unfortunately, James’s desire had not coincided with either his ability or his nature. His disposition had been more suited, as Nick’s mother’s had, to a life of frivolity and gaiety. His had not at all been the kind of temperament needed to succeed in anything of a financial nature save the inheritance of great wealth. Even then, Nick had often wondered, after he’d come to live with his uncle, whether the family coffers would have been sorely depleted — indeed, would have survived at all — had his father been the oldest son.
Still, James had been a good man with a kind heart and generous spirit. Nick’s memories of his parents were shaded by laughter and love. And if their lives had been built on credit and the financial support of his uncle, as a child Nick had only been vaguely aware of his father’s failures. And as none of them had seemed important to his parents, why should they have seemed important to him?
It was only after their deaths in a flu epidemic that Nick had learned of the extent of his father’s incompetence. Knowledge gained not from his uncle, who Nick suspected would defend and protect his younger brother to his own dying day, but from James’s own words in long saved letters to Frederick and various papers and files and notes of indebtedness.
Nick was determined to succeed where his father had failed and, in doing so, redeem him, even if Nick realized the irony of such a pursuit. No one would have found more amusement in the idea of Nick following his father’s path in the pursuit of James’s redemption than James himself.
“It’s that American influence no doubt.” Frederick glared at his nephew. “All that land of opportunity business. The abs
urd notion that a man can become whatever he wishes if he works hard enough. I thought I’d managed to overcome the ill effects of those years you lived in America, but they’ve ruined you, my boy. Damn egalitarian nonsense.”
Nick laughed and pulled a volume from the shelves, more from a need to do something with his hands than the desire to read anything whatsoever. “You don’t believe that. Any of it.”
“I bloody well believe some of it,” Frederick snapped, then sighed. “I believe you should stay here and learn what you must of necessity learn to be the next Earl of Thornecroft.”
“You have already taught me well. Indeed, I am more than prepared to take on the responsibilities of your title and wealth when the time comes.” He caught his uncle’s gaze. “A time, I might point out, that will be very far from now.”
“Yes, yes.” Frederick waved off Nick’s comment. “You wish me to live forever.”
“You’ve barely passed forty-eight years of age and, I daresay, you have a good many years left in you.” Nick flipped open the book, glanced at the title page: The British Flora; or, Genera and Species of British Plants: Arranged after the Reformed Sexual System; and Illustrated by Numerous Tables, and Dissections by Robert John Thorton, M.D. and grimaced. “Of course, stuff like this may damn well kill you from sheer boredom alone.”
Frederick ignored him. “You’re not behaving at all as a proper Englishman and heir to a long-established and respectable title should behave.”
“And a proper Englishman heir to a long-established and respectable title would stay here?” Nick paged through the book idly. “Squandering your wealth while waiting for your demise?”
“It’s not uncommon,” Frederick said under his breath.
“Then I fear indeed I am not a proper Englishman. Besides, Uncle, you would hate that.” He snapped the book closed, then met his uncle’s gaze. “I have heard your comments, rather scathing I might add, about men who do nothing more with their lives than count the days until their father’s passing. You have no tolerance or patience for such wastrels.” He aimed the book at the older man. “And you would be damnably disappointed in me if I chose that path.”
A Visit From Sir Nicholas (Effington Family Book 9) Page 2
