“I’ve just returned from...some business,” he told her.
“Yes. Of course.” She was looking at him with eyes that held none of her usual taunting combativeness. None of the careful calculation that had marked their games in Paris.
She looked so vulnerable without it. So real.
“I’ve found someone interested in Taggart,” he said. “I met with him tonight to discuss the arrangements.” Saying the words out loud was harder than he’d anticipated, and his throat suddenly felt tight.
“Oh,” she said, looking almost...sad. “That didn’t take long.”
Perhaps she’d been holding out hope that there would still be some other solution—one that would produce more money.
“I need to go to Taggart tomorrow.” Emilie and I, while you stay with Honoria. “For a few days. To make preparations.”
“Of course.”
Was this more of the numb compliance he’d seen on the journey from Paris? Where was her belligerence? The jabs about demanding a living? Perhaps she was embarrassed that he’d so obviously overheard her wild exaggerations.
Honoria’s coach will be here for you at noon, he needed to tell her. She will help you make arrangements for Paris.
India picked at a fingernail. Her nightgown nearly swallowed her figure, but hints of curves taunted him. He didn’t want to send her to Paris—he wanted to take her to his bed, remove that nightgown and lose himself inside her.
“I’ll expect you and Emilie to be ready by seven.” The words came out, surprising him, and—from the way she looked up suddenly—surprising her, as well.
“But I thought—”
“I’ve nowhere for you to stay while I’m gone—” liar “—and we’ve outstayed our welcome here.” Totally untrue. Good God. What was he doing? He needed her away from him.
But he just wasn’t ready to let her go.
* * *
I’VE DECIDED TO return to Paris. That’s what she’d meant to say. But then she’d realized he’d overheard her talking to Emilie, and suddenly there she was in her nightgown and there he was staring at her, and her mouth had gone dry. And the last thing she’d wanted in the entire world was to return to Paris, and so she’d let him speak first, and now...
Now their carriage was arriving at Taggart. And one look was enough to know that coming here was a terrible mistake. The carriage emerged from the woods into a clearing, and her heart squeezed. Taggart was everything a dilapidated old country house should be—rough, brown stones with tendrils of ivy creeping all the way past the uppermost floors. Great chimneys that spoke of warm fires on cool days. Rows of windows that would brighten the rooms inside.
A long drive led directly to the front in a big loop, inside of which a flower garden bloomed. Someone had been caring for the place. In the distance, beyond the house, she could see the edge of a pond—not the formal, geometric kind, but a natural one surrounded partly by a wood and edged with grassy slopes where wildflowers grew.
Sunlight cast a warm glow over the meadows, the house, the flowers, the soft grass at the pond’s edge. And India wanted to stay here more than she could ever remember wanting anything in her life—even her adventurous life aboard the Possession.
She hardly dared to breathe. They couldn’t stay here—not even if she told Nicholas she didn’t want Paris, didn’t want a ship, didn’t want a silly living that he could not afford to give her.
She dared a glance at him, but his gaze was fixed out the window at the road behind them.
The carriage stopped in front of the house, where a great wooden door looked as if it hadn’t opened in half a century.
India kept Emilie’s hand tightly in hers as they walked into the entry. Nicholas had already explained to Emilie that this was a house he would be selling and that they wouldn’t be staying here. But Emilie’s brown eyes went just as wide here as they had at his brother’s house in London.
It was clear the house had been closed up. There were sheets draped over furniture. Nicholas grimly directed the footmen upstairs with their trunks, as if he would have preferred to stay elsewhere.
“The rooms won’t be ready,” he said now, as if he’d only just thought of it.
“We can find the linens,” India said. “Emilie will help me.”
“No,” he said sharply. “Miss Ursula will find them.”
He stood staring—at what, she couldn’t be sure. His eyes drifted over everything: the beautifully carved banister, burnished with age. The modest but stately plaster work on the ceiling.
Emilie let go of India’s hand and walked timidly toward an open pair of doors that led into a bright salon. “Pretty,” she said to India—one of the words India had taught her.
Nicholas looked at India. “Please take Emilie outside.” His distress was palpable. His voice sounded too thick. His face was strained. “There’s a gazebo by the pond—perhaps she would like to see it.”
A gazebo. India’s heart squeezed a little. Of course there would be one.
“Certainly.” Entertaining Emilie was something she could do.
“You’ll likely run into Miss Ursula—if you do, ask her to come to the house.”
“Certainly.” And she wished there was something she could do, some comfort to offer, but she didn’t have the first idea what to say, and he hadn’t even wanted her here in the first place.
She took Emilie’s hand and turned to go, but at the last minute turned back and reached out to touch his arm.
His eyes shot to hers.
She drew her hand back quickly and took Emilie outside.
* * *
NICK WATCHED INDIA and Emilie walk hand in hand out the door, and it took all his effort to drag a breath into his lungs. His throat was so tight it hurt. His skin burned where she’d touched him, even through layers of clothes.
And he never, ever should have brought India here. He should have left them both in London with Honoria. Made up some story about Emilie—something Honoria would believe.
And now he would never erase the image of the two of them standing here witnessing his shame.
He’d needed them to leave—if only to take a turn outside—because he’d wanted to reach for India so much he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep from actually doing it. What he wouldn’t give for even a small taste of her devil-may-care spirit. The we’ll-make-do stubbornness that had her hiding in a hayloft covered with straw or making plans to sneak aboard a vessel in Marseille.
But even India would find little to hope for in this situation. It had never been more clear that he had absolutely nothing to offer her. All he’d ever really had to offer anyhow was her own father’s money.
As soon as this was over, he would make sure she returned to Lady Pennington in Paris. And he would keep his distance in the meantime. Because if he held her now, he wasn’t sure he could let her go.
* * *
THEY FOUND THEIR way toward the pond. India tried to be cheerful for Emilie’s sake, but every word was an effort. Her heart was breaking for Nicholas, imagining him wandering alone through Taggart. As they walked, she kept her eyes open for any sign of Miss Ursula, but the only person she saw was an old man down at the far end of the flower garden fussing with the plants.
“My brother is sad to leave his house,” Emilie said quietly as they walked down the sloping meadow toward the pond.
“Yes, he is.” And he did not want her adding to his shame. It would have been one thing if he’d received the money from Father as expected. He could have kept Taggart, and then she would have been the only shame he would have had to hide.
But to add having her for a wife on top of losing Taggart—not to mention the terrible shame she knew he felt because of his parentage—it was too much.
She was too much.
And he didn’t even know everything.
A short path through a wooded grove led to the pond—she could see the water sparkling through the trees, rippled by a light wind and dappled with sunshine. They eme
rged at its edge, and—
Oh. “Look,” she said to Emilie. “The gazebo.”
It sat on its own little knoll jutting into the water, so that when they stepped into it the pond surrounded them on three sides. The house was not visible at all from here, but it would be from the other side of the pond, where a grassy meadow stretched to another wooded grove.
They walked toward it, and India thought of the little gazebo nestled by the stream at Auntie Phil’s country house.... This one, quiet and peaceful, had its very own pond.
They went inside, straight to the back railing to look at the water.
“Des canards,” Emilie said, pointing.
“Yes. Ducks,” India gave her the English word. She wondered if maybe they could have tea sent to the gazebo, but it didn’t seem there was anyone at the house to bring it, and Nicholas would certainly object. Below them, a rowboat sat on the shore with a pair of oars nearby. Perhaps—
No.
They weren’t here to enjoy themselves.
They were here so Nicholas could finish his business and say goodbye. And already she was realizing—too keenly, and much too late—how awful that must be.
“Ducks,” Emilie repeated carefully, trying to mimic the sound exactly. And then, “J’adore les...ducks.”
India couldn’t help laughing. “I...love...ducks,” she translated slowly.
Emilie repeated it back. And then, a bit haltingly, “I love...my brother.” She looked at India, waiting for confirmation that she’d said it right.
But suddenly India couldn’t speak.
“Nicholas,” Emilie said, pronouncing it the French way. Nee-koh-la. “I love...Nicholas.”
“Oui, je sais,” India said, pulling her into a hug. I know. “And he loves you, too.”
“And you,” Emilie said, looking up at her.
India looked away quickly. No, no he did not. She squeezed Emilie’s shoulders and pointed at the ducks. “Look, I think they’re having an argument.”
Emilie smiled at the ducks’ antics, and India breathed a little easier.
Love.
She chatted with Emilie about the ducks and what they might be saying to each other, and about the scenery and the grounds and everything they’d seen on their journey, even as Emilie’s innocent words took hold inside her.
Nicholas didn’t love her. He couldn’t, not after he’d seen her dressed in her tricorne and breeches in Malta, watched her climb the yards aboard William’s ship, found her hiding in a hayloft covered in straw just to escape him.
But she...heaven help her, because she...
She loved him.
* * *
“YE’RE OUT OF yer bloody mind. Do I look like I know the first thing about bein’ a lady’s maid?”
India stopped short halfway through Taggart’s front door a while later, startled by the gravelly female voice booming through the entrance.
“I’m not asking you to be anyone’s maid,” came Nicholas’s remarkably calm voice. “Only to make up the rooms.”
“And then ye’re going to bring out Mrs. Potts to cook,” the woman accused. “I can cook.” And then, “Who’s that?”
It was much brighter outside than in, but India saw the two of them standing at the foot of the stairs, and now she realized they were looking at her and Emilie.
“This is...Lady India,” Nicholas said. Lady India, not Lady Taggart. “And Emilie.” He made the introduction. “Miss Ursula, Taggart’s caretaker.”
This was Miss Ursula? She took Emilie’s hand and walked forward, seeing now that the person standing with Nicholas was almost certainly the same gardener she’d seen earlier—and was definitely not a man. Curly gray hair puffed out from beneath a woven cap. A dirty old jacket was buttoned over a dark waistcoat and a pair of smudged brown breeches with dark stockings. On her feet she wore a bulky pair of scuffed brown shoes.
And perhaps Nicholas did not want to be married to her, and perhaps she wouldn’t be allowed to stay—not at Taggart and not in Nicholas’s life—but she was his wife.
And she loved him. And looking at him knowing that, hurt much more than she’d guessed it would.
“Lady Taggart,” India corrected. She ignored Nicholas’s quick frown and offered her hand the way she might have done aboard the ship. Let Miss Ursula think what she would. “I’m very happy to meet you.”
Bright blue eyes peered skeptically at India from a ruddy face softened with peach fuzz. “Ye didn’t say anything about getting married,” Miss Ursula accused, scowling now at Nicholas.
“That’s because I feared a jealous rage,” he said drily.
“Stuff!” She brushed her hands vigorously on her jacket. “Couldn’t you have stayed away longer? Now you’re tracking mud through the hall, and it’s me that’s going to have to sweep it.”
India glanced down, but there wasn’t a speck of mud to be seen.
“Very well, I’ll make up the beds.” Miss Ursula pointed at him. “But don’t expect me to be doin’ hair and the like—roses I’ll coif, but not a lady’s hair.” With that, she harrumphed up the stairs.
India looked at Nicholas. And right there, at the base of the stairs, she made a decision.
She would not let him send her away.
He could scowl all he liked, but she wasn’t going.
“Should I be worried about a jealous rage?” she asked now, feeling a little giddy over her decision.
He looked up the stairs in the direction Miss Ursula had gone. “Miss Ursula has been in my employ for twelve years. I haven’t yet told her about the sale...I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything.”
The giddiness faded a little. Poor Miss Ursula would be at the mercy of the new owner for her employ. And Nicholas would be without any help at the cottage.
She reached for Emilie’s hand. “Come, Emilie—let us go upstairs and find our rooms.” And help Miss Ursula with the linens, but she kept that part to herself.
Upstairs, India found Miss Ursula grumbling to herself with an armload of bedsheets. “I could put out me back this way—egad, don’t ye take those!” But it was already too late, and India plucked half the stack from Miss Ursula’s arms, ignoring her.
“Emilie and I will make up the bed in here.” She swept into the nearest room. Immediately she spotted Nicholas’s trunk on the floor. Her gaze flew to the bed.
His bed. The one he’d always slept in here at Taggart.
The one where, if they were truly husband and wife, he might—
“Ye’ll not be making up ’is lordship’s bed,” came Miss Ursula’s gravelly voice as she stalked into the room, waving her hands at India. “Shoo! Go on with ye.”
India plopped the linens onto a chair and didn’t leave. “I’ve made beds before—” well, her own bed aboard the ship, and only rarely “—I know what to do.” Sort of.
“Don’t make no difference if ye know what to do. Ladies don’t make beds.” Miss Ursula pushed past India and yanked the covers away from the mattress.
India debated whether to press the issue or—
“Well?” Miss Ursula fisted her hands on her hips. “Do ye plan on standing there holding it all day or are ye going to help put it on?”
—or help.
India unfolded the sheet, and together the three of them smoothed it across the mattress, while Miss Ursula muttered about ladies making beds and working as if they were common folk.
“I did a lot more than this when I lived aboard a ship,” India told her. “Although it’s a sight easier in breeches.”
“The devil ye wore britches.”
“Only ask Lord Taggart.”
Miss Ursula snorted in disbelief.
But India only made up her mind even more firmly that she would not be made to leave. Nicholas would not be able to afford to keep servants. He did not need a wife on a pedestal. He would need a helpmeet. She had too much experience in the world to be put off by making up beds and washing linens and cooking, even though she’d never
cooked a day in her life—
“Miss Ursula,” she said as they moved to the next room to make up Emilie’s bed. “Would you teach me to cook?”
“Cook! Egad no, I won’t teach ye to cook. Ladies don’t cook.”
But she wasn’t going to be a lady. She was going to be a wife. Just an ordinary wife. Nicholas’s wife.
How could he be ashamed of her then? It would be exactly as he’d once said—there would be no soirées, no balls, no dinner parties. No public life in which her history would bring him shame.
And if she could be enough help at the cottage, perhaps he would overlook her inability to read.
He would have to overlook it, because she wasn’t going to give him a choice. He could use the nastiest tone, give her the coldest looks, but she was going with him and Emilie to the cottage. If she could pull lines and rig sails and swab decks, she could feed chickens and make boiled potatoes and scrub floors.
He needed her. He did. Only let her prove it, and he would see it, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I TOLD YOU I did not want you to help Miss Ursula make up the beds,” Nicholas told her later when she found him in the library, going through paperwork at his desk.
“I wasn’t going to stand by and watch her do it alone, when Emilie and I are perfectly capable—”
“I don’t want Emilie making up beds,” he said sharply.
“So what do you expect us to do? Sit and drink tea while Miss Ursula does everything alone? Except we can’t even do that, as all the furniture is covered—or do we have your permission to remove those linens so that we may sit?”
He raised his eyes—only his eyes—and his hand stilled. She narrowed her gaze, refusing to look away. “There must be something I can do to help.”
She watched him and felt the weight of what needed to be done here. I wish you didn’t have to endure this, she wanted to say. I wish my father had been here so that you could keep this place.
And even after everything he’d done, everything she’d endured herself because of him...she meant it.
“All right, then,” he finally said. “If you want to help...” He reached for several sheets of paper, glanced through them and held them out to her. “Take this list. Make sure everything is accounted for. If you find anything that isn’t already listed, write it at the bottom.”
A Wedding by Dawn Page 25
