“Even.”
“What good is Paris to me? When you found me, I had a ship and a crew, with the Mediterranean waves beneath my feet, billowing sails to take me where I pleased, and a hundred possibilities waiting in my future.” And she’d never known a man’s touch, never known how it might feel to be wanted. Protected. Well, he wasn’t trying to protect her now. “I had the means to make my own living without having to be mistress to anyone. How do you propose to replace that, Mr. Warre?”
“If I could afford it, I would buy you a ship of your own and happily watch you sail away to the West Indies or wherever the hell you bloody please.” The lips that had once kissed her senseless were thin and tight now.
She should want to sail to the West Indies. But she didn’t. She wanted to close the distance between them and feel his arms come around her. But that distance seemed as far as the West Indies themselves.
“Then you won’t mind putting that in writing.” She forced a smile. “For the day when you do have the funds.”
“Ah, yes. A promise for that happy day when I regain my fortune and all is well again. Whyever not?” He slapped a scrap of paper onto the desk and snatched the pen from its stand. He dipped it and scratched words across the paper. Handed it back to her with a crooked, self-shaming smile. “There you are. My promise, in writing, to buy you a sailing ship the moment I’m able.”
She slipped it from his hand, folded it carefully. “In the meantime, I shall have no choice but to stay with you and share in whatever living you can afford.”
He stared at her, and for a moment she thought he might say that he wanted her to stay. She held her breath, watching a muscle work in his jaw, trying to interpret what she saw in his eye, almost hoping—
“On the contrary,” Nicholas said. “By the end of the week, I expect you to have packed your things and arranged passage back to your aunt in Paris.”
* * *
INDIA TOLD HERSELF she didn’t much care what Nicholas expected. She wasn’t going anywhere—not now. For once, let him suffer the consequences of what he’d done.
She tried to ignore the feeling that she was doing most of the suffering.
Eventually Father would return, and Nicholas would likely get his money—even if he no longer had Taggart. He would also no longer owe a debt, so he would keep the entire sum. He would be able to afford to give her a nice living of her own.
By then, she would certainly be finished with all this silly pining after him. All these absurd fantasies about the three of them. By then, she’d likely be as anxious to see the last of him as he was to see the last of her.
And when he did give her a living, she would be prepared to make the most of it. Which was why, now, she was nervously creasing a scrap of paper as her chair stopped in front of a small town house...number fifty-three.
This was useless. If Mr. Wiggins were a magician, he would have worked a spell years ago.
She almost pulled the bell to leave, but then the carriage door swung open. The footman stood waiting. And she was so tired of being stupid that she reached for his hand and climbed the short steps.
An older woman answered the door almost immediately. India cursed the shakiness in her own voice. “Is Mr. Wiggins at home?”
The woman frowned. “Who is calling, please?”
“I have no card. Please tell him it is Lady India, Lord Cantwell’s daughter.”
Immediately the woman curtsied and opened the door wider. “Do come in, my lady. Through here—you may wait in the parlor. I’m afraid Mr. Wiggins is just preparing for an appointment, but I shall let him know you are here, and I’m certain he will see you if only for a few minutes.”
The woman left, and suddenly India felt as if a huge burden had lifted off her. In a moment she would see Mr. Wiggins, and he would help her.
Everything would be different now. She was older, more determined. And there may not be much time—any day, Nicholas might force her to leave—but she could make use of the time she did have. Kind, gentle Mr. Wiggins, with his whiskered jowls and his spectacles and his patience, would know exactly what to do.
“Lady India?”
She’d been studying her fingers, and now her head snapped up at the male voice. The young male voice. “Yes?”
“My housekeeper said you wished to see me.”
Good heavens, no. India stood up. “Do forgive me. I asked to see Mr. Wiggins.” This man was everything dear Mr. Wiggins was not—athletic figure, waistcoat in the latest mode, dancing eyes. “He was my tutor when I was a girl.”
The young man smiled a little. “My father. I’m afraid he passed away winter before last.”
“No.” India’s heart sank. “How dreadful. Please forgive my ignorance.”
“Not at all, Lady India. Might I inquire the reason for your visit?”
Still shocked by the news, she reached for an answer. “Merely to visit an old acquaintance who meant a great deal to me.” She could not tell this man the truth. “He was the most patient tutor I ever had.”
“And you had many?” The young Mr. Wiggins smiled. “Forgive me. That was terribly rude. Your compliment means a great deal. I only hope my own pupils will say the same of me one day.”
“You’re a tutor?” Of course he was. He had followed in his father’s footsteps.
“Yes.” He cocked his head a little. “Do you have children in need of one?”
Yes. She had Emilie. But she couldn’t hire a tutor for Emilie without talking with Nicholas, and now young Mr. Wiggins was frowning inquisitively at her delayed response, and...
“No, I...” I’m the one who can’t read. She tugged nervously at her sleeve. “Actually, I confess that I...I’d hoped to hire your father myself.”
* * *
SHE DIDN’T LEAVE.
Nick gave her a day. Then another. Her trunks arrived from Paris, along with a nasty letter from Lady Pennington blasting him for his treachery, marrying India in the manner that he had.
He’d been so certain India would leap at the annulment. When she hadn’t...
For a moment he’d thought it was because of him.
But of course, it had been exactly as he’d thought. Worse than he’d thought. Certainly, India wanted exactly what she’d always wanted: a ship. The freedom of the high seas. A life of waterfront taverns and men’s clothes and swilling grog atop the waves.
And she thought she would wring that life from him.
She had to know he would never be able to make good on that promise. That it hadn’t been serious—how could it? Men who scraped by in cottages could not afford to buy ships.
The thought of losing Taggart ripped through him like a dull knife hacking at his insides. He’d already begun making inquiries, trying to find a buyer for Taggart. He would have to sell the house along with everything in it. All he would take were his clothes, a few personal items, and some of the lesser quality furnishings for a home he and Emilie would share. A cottage, most likely. Modest, small, inexpensive to maintain.
He and Emilie. Alone. Not he, Emilie and India.
He would not be the man who had to house an earl’s daughter in a smoky, mouse-infested cottage because he hadn’t been man enough to hold on to his fortune. Bad enough that if all had gone as planned, he would have housed her with her own father’s money.
No. Better to be the man whose wife lived her own life because she hadn’t wanted the marriage in the first place. Somehow he would find the means to send her on her way.
But thank God India hadn’t accepted that bank draft he’d offered in the heat of anger. He didn’t know how he would have covered it—more debt would have been the only way. He hardly had anything left of the money Cantwell had fronted him for his journey to find India. This morning, he’d used part of it to outfit Emilie.
He passed the drawing room now, after returning from an early afternoon meeting that proved productive, and stopped short. Spun on his heel. Went to the doorway.
“What are you doing
?”
India pushed a needle through a piece of fabric and drew the thread through, glancing up with a smile that went straight to his gut. “Emilie is sleeping—you’d think she never slept a wink in all her life, with how easily she drifts off for a nap—and I discovered a fascinating pattern for a pillow cushion in that drawer over there.” She nodded toward a chest at the side of the room. “And would you believe it, the fabric and thread, as well. I only hope I am doing it justice.” She held out her work for him to see, as if he had any interest whatsoever in a bloody pillow cushion. But— Good God. He’d never seen such poor stitching in his life. She wasn’t doing it justice at all.
“I meant,” he said tightly, “what are you still doing here? I told you to be gone by the end of the week.”
Her brow furrowed the smallest bit, as though she had no idea what he meant, and he suppressed an urge to yank her off the sofa and march her to her rooms, where he had no doubt he would find no trunks packed—but where he would find a bed, on which he would be mightily tempted to lay her back, strip away her clothes and remind her exactly what had happened between them in Paris.
She hadn’t been thinking of any ship or living then. And now he wanted her again so badly it physically hurt.
“You could not really have expected me to leave by today,” she said evenly. “Plans must be made.”
“And I expected you to be making them.”
“And I shall. I most certainly shall. Just as soon as you provide my living.”
He leaned close. “Hear me well, India.... There will be no living. You need to leave tomorrow. There can be no further delays.” Because having her here was killing him.
Watching the way she indulged Emilie, seeing India’s bright smile once again—so different now from the frightening numbness in the days after the wedding—as she chattered away to draw Emilie out...
Lying awake at night, on fire with the knowledge that India lay just across the hall, alone in her bed, and all he had to do was go there and the flames would ignite between them again, and for better or worse she’d be unlikely to turn him away...
And that she was truly his, and there wasn’t a bloody thing anyone could do to put that asunder.
“Oh, but there is a living, Nicholas,” she said now, poking the needle through the fabric, then checking beneath it. “With you.”
He couldn’t stand it. All this was doing was prolonging the agony. He jerked the fabric from her hands, and now—finally—had her full attention. “Do you have any idea of the gravity of my situation?” he demanded harshly. “What kind of life Emilie and I shall have after Taggart is gone? Heaven knows the kind of cottage I shall be able to afford—and that’s if I can find someone to buy Taggart. If not—” He couldn’t stand to think of what would happen then. “Either way, there will be no soirées, no balls...there likely won’t be any damned meat on the table. God knows there won’t even be any ladies’ maids.” He gestured at her angrily. “You would have to coif your own bloody hair.”
She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Stop, Mr. Warre. You’re terrifying me.”
“You find this amusing?”
“Not at all. I’ve endured worse, as you well know. Sharing your embarrassed circumstances while we await my father’s return is a small price to pay.”
He wished suddenly, painfully, that all of this resistance was because of him and not because of the living she believed he owed her. “The longer you stay,” he said now, “the harder it’s going to be for Emilie when you leave.”
The truth of that hit its mark. He saw it in her eyes—a flash of concern, a dampening of her spirits. And now he almost wished he’d let her continue this ridiculous drama until twenty years had gone by and the living she demanded from him became the life they shared together, whatever and wherever that might be.
But that was only a fool’s fantasy. India wanted her freedom, and the shackles of genteel poverty would only crush her spirit.
“I doubt I’ll ever be leaving,” she retorted with noticeably less vigor, “since you’ll never be able to afford to send me away.” She set her godawful needlework aside and stood up, moving past him to leave. “How will you like that, Lord Taggart? Only imagine being stuck with me as your wife for the rest of your life.”
* * *
INDIA SHUT THE door to her room and, this time, bolted the latch herself.
He was right. And it hurt so much she could hardly see through the swim of tears filling her eyes. She leaned against the door, staring up at the ceiling, blinking furiously.
Of course she had to leave. She could tell herself whatever she liked, but staying with him would be impossible if he truly didn’t want her here.
And she was such a ninny, because he’d made it perfectly clear from the beginning that he needed the money. Only imagine what he would say now if she told him the truth: Surely you didn’t think—for God’s sake, India, you’ve known all along my reasons for this marriage.
A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, and she brushed it away furiously. She couldn’t even blame him for what they’d done at Madame Gravelle’s. Hadn’t she been telling him for weeks that she wanted to be rid of her virtue? Hadn’t she tried to seduce him herself?
And heaven help her, she wanted to feel that way with him again.
But he didn’t. He wanted her to leave. And he was right about that—she needed to return to Auntie Phil’s, for Emilie’s sake. Insisting on staying, continuing this game about wanting a living from him...it wouldn’t even salvage her pride. All it would do was hurt—a little more, each time she heard him say how much he wanted her to go—until she ended up entirely crushed.
Thinking of leaving Nicholas, leaving Emilie, she felt crushed already.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE AFTERNOON’S MEETING, it turned out, had been even more productive than Nick expected. The man was interested in Taggart. Nick spent the evening with him, discussing possible terms and arrangements, and returned late—spent, exhausted and with an ache in his chest that made it difficult to breathe. Tomorrow, he would need to leave for Taggart to take care of things before the sale. He would take Emilie with him. But he’d made arrangements for India to stay with Honoria.
James’s town house was silent as he climbed the grand staircase, on his way up to tell India the news. That his brother was not in town was more of a blessing than Nick could have hoped for. It made their stay feel slightly less like charity, and it saved him from James offering to help the situation.
James didn’t understand why Nick so stubbornly refused assistance. But James had no idea they were only half brothers, not full. That only James Warre could trace his heritage to Croston.
Nick paused on the familiar landing and remembered those weeks he’d spent so much time in this house, when all of Britain thought James had perished after the Royal Navy ship he’d been captaining had wrecked off the coast of Spain. Nick had been next in line to accede to the Croston title.
Those were the worst weeks of his life.
And with James rightfully the Earl of Croston once more, Nick would never accept Croston assets. Not ever, and it didn’t matter if James thought he was clubbing himself in the ankle out of pride.
Upstairs, he started toward the rooms where he was staying, but thought better of it at the last minute. He should look in on Emilie. But as he approached her rooms, he noticed the door standing open and candlelight flickering from within. He paused outside and heard India’s voice speaking softly.
“Oh, yes,” she was saying. “He is very courageous.”
“Really? Tell me.”
“We sailed together on a ship once,” India said.
She must be telling Emilie about James. Devil take it—he didn’t want Emilie to know about James. Not yet, not until she was old enough to understand. Too late now, thanks to India and her blasted loose tongue.
“A ship like the one we sailed on from France?” Emilie asked.
“Oh, much grander than that
. It had three masts and great, white, billowing sails that stood out like clean linens against the blue sky. She cut through the sparkling sea like a warm knife through butter.”
India had a way of making the sea sound so much more magnificent than it actually was. But then, India loved the sea. It was where she wanted to be, and if he’d never attempted this fool’s errand she would be there still.
But she wasn’t, and the clarity of hindsight couldn’t change that now.
“Dit-moi,” Emilie pressed. “What did he do?”
Good God. Listing James’s seafaring accomplishments could take all night.
“He did something very brave, after I’d done something very foolish and I was in grave danger. He stood up to an angry mob of sailors who were very upset with me.”
Nick’s heart stopped. She wasn’t talking about James.
“Did he fight for you?”
“He would have, if it had come to that. But your brother is a very intelligent man. He knew exactly the right things to say. He defended me ferociously.”
“And he saved you?”
“He did.”
“Just like he saved me.”
“Yes, exactly like that. Now. No more stories. It’s time for you to go to sleep.”
Nick backed away from the door, his pulse thudding so hard now he could feel it in his throat. She’d been talking about him. Telling Emilie he was all those things. That he had been her savior.
He turned toward his rooms. Didn’t quite make it before he heard Emilie’s door click shut behind him and a soft, “Oh. Nicholas.”
Hearing her say his name did something to him on the inside. He was such a damned fool.
He turned, mere feet shy of his own door. She held a candle that flickered over a billowing white nightgown. Her hair fell over one shoulder in a gleaming, golden braid.
“I was just...saying good-night to Emilie,” she told him, taking a few steps forward—her door was across from his—and he could see the question in her eyes. The fear that he might have been listening. “I kept her up much too late playing pick-up-sticks.”
A Wedding by Dawn Page 24
