“I can see that you are not,” Nicholas said, hiding a grin. “But perhaps you should take the driver's bench with me. It'll be a little more protected.”
She gave him a suspicious look, but Nicholas’ innocent expression must have looked convincing because she nodded and allowed the guard to help her onto the bench seat as Nicholas secured his mare to the carriage, letting her trail along behind.
“Well, shall we venture forward, Miss…?”
“It is Lady Lydia Waverly,” she said. “And how may I address you?”
“Well, if we are being proper, I am Nicholas Barrington, Duke of Winnefield, at your service.”
She colored slightly, and Nicholas realized with amusement that she’d assumed she had been talking to a country squire.
“Your grace, I beg your pardon.”
“Begging doesn't become you at all, Lady Lydia. Call me Nicholas, please.”
The coach rolled forward with a jolt as he called to the horses, and Lydia clutched on to his arm for a moment for balance before she let him go.
“That's hardly proper!”
“How proper is throwing your perfume into a bandit's eyes?”
“That was something that had to be done!”
“'I'm not saying it wasn't. It was necessary but hardly the proper thing for a young lady to do.”
“Oh?” Lydia's voice was testy, and for some reason, Nicholas found himself grinning at it. “And I suppose you're the one who knows everything about the proper thing for a young lady to do?”
“Well, I am a duke. That must count for something. But honestly, no, I couldn't care less. I'm only saying that there is a place where being useful and being proper diverge. I'm sure if you were a proper young lady, you would have fainted as soon as the bandit stopped the coach.”
“I was hardly going to let him rob the poor Fosters! And Mrs. Thackeray barely has enough to pay for lodgings until her husband gets to London, and Reverend Anderton—”
“Wait, who are all these people?”
“Oh. The Fosters are the Quakers in the carriage, and Mrs. Thackeray and her children are going to London to meet Mr. Thackeray when he returns home from sea. And Mr. Anderton is the other man who has a heart condition. All this excitement can't be good for him.”
“So, you acted to prevent harm from coming to the people you bonded with on the mail coach. Not very proper, Lady Lydia, but brave.”
For some reason, that made her look down at her hands. Was she thinking about whoever she was mourning? It might explain her distaste for guns.
“I'm not,” she said quietly. “Not very much at all.”
“I say you are. And unless it will get me that promised perfume bottle to the head, I don't give a damn about propriety. I would very much like it if you called me Nicholas.”
“I suppose I can.”
“And I can call you Lydia?”
“Your grace!”
“No.”
“Nicholas!”
He laughed and was rewarded with a tentative smile. He had thought her lovely in the carriage, but when she smiled, her green eyes sparkled, and he felt his body rouse with interest. Even in black, she was beautiful, and though he didn't make a habit of tumbling society girls, he found himself wanting to make an exception for this one.
“I'll work on it,” he said with a wink. “It's a bit of a ways to Berkhamsted.”
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CHAPTER TWO
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Two days ago, Lydia had started out for London feeling not capable but determined and strong. She left early in the day, so early that she was able to hitch a ride down to town with a man driving in a wagon of cabbages.
The jostling of the mail coach was irritating, but she got used to it, and there were the Quakers to talk to and Mrs. Thackeray's children, who would be still if she told them a story.
All in all, she was feeling cautiously optimistic about her plans before the bandit appeared. He was now hung off the side of the couch, his eyes likely still smarting from her Hungary water, but the ride on the driver's bench was proving rougher than she had anticipated.
The duke—Nicholas—had been right when he said the wind was cold, and she could feel every rut in the road. More than once, she found herself rocked up against Nicholas as he drove. At first, she blushed and apologized stiffly, but he smiled at her, glancing at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road.
“I'd rather have you snuggled up next to me than with your brains dashed on the road,” he said dryly. “Hang on to my arm if you need to.”
Lydia wasn't quite sure that she was willing to go that far, but it was more comfortable to sit close to him on the bench. She could feel herself relax a little.
Goodness, but he's warm. She made a face at herself. She was behaving like a senseless girl right out of the nursery, and she resolved to be as proper as she could be when they got off the coach.
She breathed a sigh of relief when they gained Berkhamsted. The light was failing, and even if they had wanted to continue, the driver's wrist needed to be tended to. Lydia had been trailing along with Mrs. Thackeray and her brood at the stops along the way, but it seemed the woman had cousins in town. She swept off with all her children, chattering about their terrible time, and Lydia was left quite alone. The Quakers had found their own people, and she had never really trusted Mr. Anderton, who was a vicar but who had eyed her a little too close for her taste when he appeared the day before.
Nicholas was talking with the wounded driver, and she took the opportunity to steal away, feeling a slight pang as she did so. She was reluctant to leave a man who had saved them all, she told herself. It had nothing to do with how warm he had felt against her side or the way her heart quickened a little when he looked down at her.
Get a grip on yourself. If you cannot be any more serious than that about your mission, you might as well go home!
Scolding herself made Lydia stand up a little straighter, and as she marched into the inn, she put on the stern expression that her governess had always used when she misbehaved.
The inn was surprisingly full of people, and for a moment, Lydia was intimidated by the crush. The men were of a rough sort, tradesmen at best, and the only women she could see were the one expertly tapping the keg and the half-grown girls running plates of steaming food out to the tables. As she watched, a man reached forward to smack a passing girl on the thigh, making her squawk with surprise and turn to scold him before she flounced on her way.
If they can bear it every day, I can bear it tonight. She made her way to the innkeeper who was overseeing the kitchen area.
“Excuse me, sir, but I am in need of a room.”
He gave her an uninterested look.
“Call your man to talk to me.”
“No, you see, I have money. I wish to pay for a room and some food to eat.”
The innkeeper snorted.
“Look, miss, this is a clean house, see? I don't rent to single women on their own. If you're looking to work, you can call for men around back, close to the privy.”
For a minute, Lydia had no idea what kind of work he was talking about, and then she flushed with humiliation at his implication.
“Sir, I am in mourning!”
“And I'm an old hand at this, and I don't care how you dress as you do your work. I'd wager it even brings in a certain amount of custom.”
“I am not what you obviously think I am, sir! I am a woman of good moral character, and I need a room.”
The innkeeper moved forward, his hand shooting out to clamp on her elbow.
“I will have peace in my establishment, and if I need to throw you out to do it—”
“What in the hell are you doing to my sister?”
The voice cut through the man's tirade like a knife, sharp and cold. It made the innkeeper drop her el
bow, and Lydia rubbed the spot he had grabbed her with trembling fingers.
Nicholas strode up to them, his face a mask of anger. He ignored the innkeeper's muttered words of apology and touched Lydia's shoulder gently.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“No, not at all,” Lydia mumbled, and then she yelped a little as he pulled her to stand closer to him. There was something protective about his stance, and for some reason, it did not feel false, even if what he was saying was.
“My sister has just had a difficult ride to Berkhamsted, and I sent her in before me, so she could rest. I had not suspected she would be accosted like some common tart by the local bully.”
The innkeeper cringed.
“I beg your pardon, my lord—”
“It's your grace when you are speaking to a duke.”
“Yes, your grace, I am so sorry, but she came in all demanding, and she never said—”
“She shouldn't have to. I'm half-minded to summon the constable. My poor mourning sister is not some woman you can treat so harshly.”
By the end of Nicholas’ tongue-lashing, the innkeeper was apologizing abjectly and showing them to the last available room in the inn. To Lydia's relief, it was clean and cheerful with a large supply of candles to see them through the encroaching night. Her relief turned to apprehension as Nicholas sent the innkeeper out with instructions to bring back some decent food and to avoid disturbing them on the pain of his extreme displeasure.
When the door shut behind the innkeeper, Nicholas turned to Lydia with a slight grin before going to sit on the only chair in the room.
“Well, that went rather well, didn't it?”
“I had it sorted.”
Nicholas snorted rudely.
“Yes, very well. He was going to shout you into the street for a whore if I hadn't stepped in.”
“It isn't fair; he didn't even let me explain.”
“No, it's not fair, and I'm sorry he treated you so poorly. With any luck, the beef stew I smelled cooking on the way in will make up for some of it.”
Lydia paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. She realized she hadn't eaten since morning, and that wasn't helping anything.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“It's no problem at all, and the least I can do for a daring lady who's so good with perfume bottles and knots.”
Another pause.
“Are you sleeping somewhere else?”
He gave her a wry look, settling back in his chair and watching her as if they were in his own study and she was an interesting biological specimen.
“I am not.”
“Nicholas, you can't stay here!”
“First, I like the way you say my name, and I can hardly hear you say it if I'm elsewhere. Second, there are no other empty rooms in this damned place. Third, given what the innkeeper is like, what do you think your chances of getting through the night without a problem are?”
Lydia shuddered but shook her head.
“We're not married, we're not engaged or related, and I have only known you for a few hours!”
“That's not a problem for me. As far as Berkhamsted is concerned, I am your brother. There's nothing more appropriate than siblings sharing space together.”
She wanted to stamp her foot, but that hardly made things better.
Nicholas looked at her face and sighed.
“Do you think I am truly as awful as all that?”
“What?”
“Do you think that I'm going to assault you, ruin you, turn you out of bed at night without your clothes?”
“What the… No!”
“Well, that's a start, I suppose. What about grabbing you, stripping your clothes from you, and looking at how lovely you are nude?”
“Oh, good Lord, no!”
Lydia didn't understand why she was blushing so badly or why there was a deep warmth inside her that seemed to stir at his words.
“Or perhaps you think I'll pin you down on the bed and explore that lovely body of yours with my hands and my mouth?”
Oh, God, he was rising from his chair, stalking toward her with dark eyes that seemed too hungry to belong to a man.
“No—”
“Or maybe what you're afraid of is something even simpler.”
“Nicholas—”
He stood so close to her that she could feel his warmth against her front. With the bed pressed against her calves, there was nowhere to run. Lydia realized with some alarm that she did not want to run.
“Are you afraid I will kiss you?”
“No.”
“Good. I wouldn't want you to be afraid.”
Before she could get out another word, Nicholas tilted her face up with a finger to her chin, and his mouth descended over hers. Heat washed through her, and before she could think twice, her hands were fisted in his jacket. His mouth was warm and soft against hers, and there was nothing menacing about this kiss at all. There was only that deep heat and that wonderful sweetness, making her press herself against him as she opened her mouth slightly.
When she felt the first brush of his tongue between her lips, she nearly pulled away from shock, but his hand moved to the back of her neck, cradling her and keeping her close. His tongue pressed slowly into her mouth, and to her own shock, Lydia felt her lips shift until she was suckling on it lightly.
My God, this is what falling is like.
Just as she had that hazy thought, there was a knock on the door, and she froze, ice replacing the heat that had filled her before.
Nicholas took a step back from her, never taking his eyes from hers as he straightened his clothes. He was a tall man, narrow through the hips with broad shoulders that stretched the superfine of his jacket. With black hair and black eyes, he looked more than a little devilish as he gave her a lazy smile. He licked his lips, and with a pang, Lydia realized he could probably still taste her on them.
“A moment, please,” he called, and he went to the door, speaking softly with the innkeeper on the other side.
Oh, I think I'm in trouble.
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CHAPTER THREE
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Nicholas watched Lydia closely as she ate her food. Her movements were neat and precise, but there was something too restrained about them, as if she had frightened herself with that display of hunger.
If he were honest with himself, he hadn't intended it to go so far. She was a beautiful girl but noble, and no matter how you sliced it, that meant trouble.
There was something else tugging at him as well though, and for some reason, Nicholas found himself reluctant to turn it over. He didn't shun aristocratic women just because of the trouble. He supposed, not to put too fine a point on it, there was something about women of his own class that he found distasteful, as if they were orchids that would only bloom in certain rarefied conditions.
Lydia, he could tell, was made of sterner stuff. Otherwise, he had a feeling that she wouldn't have been in that mail coach in the first place.
Finally, Nicholas broke the silence.
“Are you going to tell me where you are going and what you were doing on that coach?”
“Are you going to ask?”
Ah, there were still some claws on the cat, and he grinned a little. He would far rather have her spitting mad than subdued.
“Very well. Why is a gently-reared young woman in mourning weeds making her way to London by Royal mail coach?”
“Are you so very certain I'm gently-reared?”
“Good clothes, refined manner, convinced that you will be getting your way… Yes, I think I am making a fairly good guess.”
She blushed a little at that, and Nicholas was struck all over again by how much he liked her. Liking women, that was a bit new, too, now that he considered it.
“Well, I suppose you have
caught me out. Yes.”
“And will you tell me who I have the honor of entertaining?”
She threw her shoulders back and met his eyes. God, but her gaze cut like faceted emeralds when she was showing her temper.
“I am Lady Lydia Waverly, daughter of the Marquess of Carmody.”
“A very great pleasure and an honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Lydia,” said Nicholas, as respectful as he would be at a ball.
She looked at him suspiciously, but he saw her let out a breath when she realized that he was not teasing her.
“Likewise, your grace.”
“So, now I know your name. And obviously, you are not a widow if you are Lady Lydia. The black, is it just a disguise?”
“No, the black is for a real grief, though I believe that I am past due for changing it out for half-mourning.” Lydia looked slightly startled for a moment. “I hadn't realized.”
Nicholas did not think that she would appreciate it if he reached across the table to take her hand, but it did not stop him from wanting to do so.
“Grief has a way of clouding the mind. It sounds like your grief was fairly great.”
Unexpectedly, she shot him a rueful look.
“You are fishing for my story, Nicholas. Will you not ask for it outright?”
“I would like to know it, yes. I do not want to cause you any distress, however.”
“I find that after the last few months, I am not distressed. I am resolved. I am going to London to find the true circumstances of my brother's death. I intend to bring his murderer to justice.”
If Nicholas had been expecting her frankly unbelievable declaration, he would have guessed that she would say it with a young woman's boastfulness. Instead, Lydia's voice was as steady as good steel and as hard. When he looked into her pale face, he knew she meant every word. He realized she was watching him as carefully as he had watched her.
“You do not sneer at me or disbelieve me.”
Christin's Splendid Spinster's Society Page 22
