Sybil broke out into an all-out run toward the alley, desperate to shake free of that sobering, terrifying thought. Her discovery, coupled with her frantic pace, had her breath coming hard and fast. She reached the entrance of the alley and skidded on a patch of ice. A gasp burst from her lips and then died as Nolan caught her in his arms. “Whoa.”
“Nolan,” she breathed, praying he took that faint tremble of her voice as a result of her exertions and not the effect of his nearness.
“This was not an ice skating excursion, Miss Cunning.” His lips brushed her temple through the fabric of her hood. “Though, there is something quite appealing about taking you in my arms upon the ice.”
And just like that, her anxiety faded and a deep laugh bubbled in her chest. Was there a gentleman in all of London more self-assured than the one who now held her? Not a single Societal lord had given her anything more than a half-glance and a requisite set. Until Nolan. And as he joined their fingers and silently guided her down the alley, through a backstage door, and inside the theatre, Sybil could almost believe that this was real. That they were not a couple joined by a business arrangement, crafted by her desperation. But rather, that they were young lovers, sneaking about, daring ruin, because, ultimately, they both knew they would only ever be together.
Oh, God, what madness was this?
Pausing at the base of an inside stairwell, he shot a searching look over his shoulder and she schooled her features. Praying it was dark enough that he’d not see her flushed cheeks. Praying that he didn’t see the panic running amok inside her. And worse…the longing he’d inspired after just two days of knowing one another.
“Have you changed your mind?” he challenged. His breath, tinged with brandy, wafted over her lips. That scent so very heady she may as well have sipped from the same spirits.
Finding her voice, she angled her chin up and met his gaze squarely. “Do you take me for a coward?” she asked, stiffening as he brought a hand up.
He caressed the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. The flesh quivered and then parted. “You are a good many things, Sybil Holly Cunning, but you are no coward,” he murmured, his chest rumbling against hers.
Questions whispered around her mind. A desire to know what he saw when he looked at her. She contented herself with that veiled, vague, and simply beautiful almost-compliment he’d put to her. His gaze moved a path over her face and then he lingered it on her lips. Her breath lodged in her lungs. She fluttered her lashes, needing his kiss, craving it.
Then he drew slowly back and she wanted to toss her head back and rail at the loss of that unoffered gift. “Come,” he said softly. He then led her up the stairs. With every step, an orchestra’s lively hum grew with an increasing loudness.
“You are very familiar with Covent Garden,” she observed, casting a quick glance back.
He winked. “I’ve made many ‘visits’ to the theatre.”
Sybil jerked her attention forward as an unwanted sliver of envy reared its head for the chorus girls and opera singers who’d, no doubt, earned his attentions. Not a single one of them would have been plump like her with spectacles and a penchant for prattling on when nervous.
Nolan brought them to a stop on a rafter overlooking the whole of the theatre.
She gasped. Fluttering a hand to her breast, she managed nothing more than two syllables—his name. “Nolan.”
He motioned for her to sit. She did not think of the impracticality of being nearly one hundred feet above a theatre, in the midst of a performance practice, sitting on her knees with this man, a stranger three days ago, now a friend and partner in crime.
She slowly pushed back her hood so she had an unobstructed view of the theatre. With her gaze, she devoured the sight below. Actors pranced about the stage in time to the music, while dancers moved gracefully through the intricate steps of their numbers. Sybil gripped the rail and closed her eyes at the dizzying height between her and that very stage.
“Bombastes Furioso.”
She glanced over at him.
“The show,” he clarified, pulling his gloves free. He stuffed the snow-white articles inside his cloak. “It is a dramatic production that satirizes the other tragedies. Clever work of Rhodes, really.”
Why…why… Nolan’s interest was not with the slender beauties prancing about the stage below, periodically yelled directions at by the stage director. He enjoyed the theatre. Drawing her knees close to her chest, she dropped her chin atop them. “What is it about?” she asked. A frisson of warmth curled around her insides at this intimate connection.
He scooted closer, until they sat elbow to elbow, and then he mimicked her pose, drawing his legs up. “The King of Utopia wishes to divorce his wife and marry another. Distaffina, however, is already engaged to a general. The lady is offered coin if she forsakes her pledge and, instead, marries him.”
“What does she do?” she whispered.
Nolan cast her a quick glance. “She chooses the coin.”
He said it with such a matter-of-factness. As though there had been no other course or choice for the lead heroine of that show. Sybil frowned. “Well, that is a dreadful story. Distaffina forsook her honor, love, and worth. And all for a coin.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she froze. And then her mind raced under the implication of the favor she herself had put to Nolan Pratt. When she’d concocted her plan, she’d thought nothing of going to one of the most notorious rakes in Society and hiring his services. But he was so very much more. He was a gentleman who enjoyed the theatre and had family and—
I’ve never hated myself more than I do in this moment. Self-loathing turned her stomach into a torrent of pain.
If Nolan sensed her silent shame, he gave no indication. Instead, he remained transfixed by the performance. He hummed a discordant tune that shattered the image of perfection that he wore so easily in his olive-hued skin. It was such an endearing, real depiction of who Nolan Pratt truly was that she caught her chin in hand and smiled.
“Do you enjoy the theatre?” he asked in his smooth, deep baritone.
Sybil fiddled with her skirts. “I’ve always disavowed fictional work,” she confessed, feeling snobbish for even admitting as much.
“On what grounds?”
“Because it is fiction.”
When he shot her a sideways look, she lifted her hands, attempting to explain. “Fiction is nothing more than dreams and wishes made up by the creator and hoped for by the reader or viewer.”
“…No. No. No…” The musical director lamented from down below. The greying man clapped his hands once. “From the beginning,” he commanded. The orchestra resumed its earlier playing.
Sybil returned her attention to Nolan. “I always thought there was greater wonder in taking details that are empirical facts and seeing how they can shape one’s actual life. More than a dream or a wish or a hope, but a reality.” Never realizing, until she’d plucked that copy of Sense and Sensibility from the shelf and reading that quote, how very dreary and empty such a way of thinking, in fact, was.
“Sometimes the dreams are easier, though, aren’t they?” he asked, faintly wistful, recalling her attention once more.
Again, the sliver of details he’d revealed about himself yesterday whispered forward. How very telling and important they were. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I’ve always lived in my books.”
He met her gaze. “And I’ve always lived in the now, for my own pleasures. What are yours?”
That question gave her pause. It was an intimate one he posed, that moved beyond the businesslike dealing they’d struck. She wetted her lips. “I’ve always enjoyed uncovering obscure facts and details. Things no one knows.” She braced for his scorn. When none was forthcoming, she focused on something he’d previously said. “You enjoy the theatre?”
“I do.” He flashed her a dazzling smile that did funny things to her heart. “Don’t go telling anyone and ruining my rakish reputation, love.” But then, he abandone
d that playfulness. “What of riding?”
“I’m rot at it.”
“But do you enjoy it?”
“I’m afraid not.” She’d never been one of those ladies to hold her seat and race wildly through the countryside like her sister, Aria.
“Swimming?”
Memories trickled in. Those long summer days when she’d slipped off, shed her clothes, and jumped in the ice cool lake. “My mother never allowed it.”
“I wager that did not stop you,” he pointed out with an uncanny understanding of who she was.
How did he know those things about her after just a handful of days? Unnerved, terrified, and equally warmed by it, she leaned into him. “No,” she confessed.
Nolan widened his grin. The slight dimple in his left cheek set loose another round of those butterflies inside her belly. “And I’d also wager you did so without a stitch of clothing.”
She felt the blush from her cheeks to her toes. “How did you…?” He favored her with another one of those feral smiles that had contributed to the image Society saw. “Oh, you were teasing.”
“Probing,” he corrected. “What of skating?” He gently lifted her heel and her breath caught as he held his hand against it.
“Wh-what?” But then he suddenly released her foot.
“There is something so very exhilarating in movement. Riding, swimming, boxing. It raises your heart’s beat and sends blood through you.”
Did he realize he let her into those pleasures that brought him joy? More than half-fearful he’d shut her out, she said tentatively, “I was a bookish girl.” They fell silent for a bit, taking in the rehearsal below. Her gaze, of its own volition, continued to creep over to him. “In Chinese philosophy,” she began softly. He looked her way. “They talk of life as a yin and yang. How you take what is seemingly opposite but when they are together, they are complementary to one another. Mayhap that is us, Noel.”
And as he took her hand in his, giving it a slight squeeze, this moment didn’t feel at all like a business arrangement, but something so much more.
Chapter 9
I daresay Bond Street is overrated, love. Far less thrilling than Gipsy Hill.
Nolan Pratt, Baron Webb, notorious rake, scoundrel and anything else unfavorable, came to a staggering, slightly terrifying, and greatly befuddling realization—he enjoyed a lady’s company.
Nay—whistling a song from Bombastes Furioso, Nolan strolled down the corridors—he enjoyed a certain lady’s company. Even through his tune, he smiled. A Miss Sybil Cunning, to be precise. A lady whose name, upon much consideration, wasn’t at all horrid as she’d suggested four days earlier and very much as enchanting as the lady herself. And also a lady whom he desired, but felt more than mere lust for. Which, in and of itself, was terrifying enough. He—
His sister stood at the end of the hallway, arms folded at her chest. Even with the ten paces between them, he easily spied the suspicion in her eyes. “Egads, are you singing, Nolan?” she asked.
He stopped beside her and ruffled her crimson curls. “Nooo,” he sang in his deep baritone.
Josephine’s lips twitched. “Do stop doing whatever that is, then,” she suggested with a wave in his direction. The teasing glimmer in her like-blue eyes softened her rebuke. “What is the reason for all this unusual cheer?”
Sybil’s wide, brown, bespectacled eyes flashed in his mind. What would Society say if they discovered he, a rake rumored to rival all others in London, was humming a tune he’d listened to with an unchaperoned lady in the rafters of a Covent Garden theatre?
“Nolan?” his sister prodded, a quiet question there.
His neck heated. She was too clever by half. He made a silent note to take greater care with his singing. After all, one never knew when and where a troublesome sister lurked. Nor would it do for anyone to make more of his unusual cheer. Self included. He gave her head another affectionate pat and then started down the stairs. “Hardly unusual cheer.”
Josephine hurried to keep up. “Yes. Actually it is. You usually wear that false smile.”
Nolan paused mid-stride. “This one?” he asked, demonstrating his roguish half-grin.
“The same.” She nodded.
Again, he started forward with Josephine lengthening her smaller strides to keep up. “Where are you off to?” Suspicion darkened her too-old-for-her-sixteen-years tone.
His mind raced. No one had put questions to him for so long, he’d gotten rather bad with the whole prevaricating thing.
“Your clubs, Webb?” Josephine predicted, suspicion giving way to disapproval.
Relief assailed him. “My clubs,” he said instantly. Far safer having the whole of Society, his sister included, take him for the rake he was. To confess that a nine and twenty-year-old miss, uninterested in being seduced by him, consumed his thoughts and would shatter the carefully crafted façade he’d built.
They reached the top of the winding marble stairway that emptied into the foyer. His stomach sank. “Pratt.” Nolan cursed. He’d bloody forgotten his business meeting with his brother.
“It’s in bad form to curse your sibling’s arrival and call him by his surname,” Josephine pointed out, giving him a swift kick to the heels.
He grunted. “You refer to me by my title.”
“When I’m displeased with you. The least you can do is manage one of those fake smiles for Henry.”
In the process of shedding his cloak and hat, Henry looked up with a frown for Nolan.
“Mr. Pratt to see you, my lord.” The ancient butler, Stephenson, called up as he turned the articles over to a waiting footman.
“I see that, Stephenson,” Nolan muttered, earning another kick from Josephine. Glaring at her, he bent and rubbed the wounded flesh. “Pra—Henry,” he swiftly amended when he reached the marble foyer. A footman came forward with Nolan’s cloak. He consulted his timepiece. Another wave of frustration simmered inside. She’d be waiting and he’d be…here. No doubt she’d believe him one of those indolent rakes who didn’t give a jot about time. Which, in a way, he often was. Not where she was concerned, however. “Shall we?” he asked impatiently. Not bothering to wait for his younger sibling, he hurried through the halls.
Henry quickly collected his folio from a diligent servant and fell into step. They entered Nolan’s office. His brother, and de facto man-of-affairs, spoke no sooner than the door closed behind them. “I’ve spoken to a buyer for your mount.”
This, again. His gut clenched. It was the height of selfishness that Nolan should wish to and seek to keep Chance, when he’d cost his family so much. But blast it. He loved that damned horse. Henry set himself up in his usual position across from his desk.
Nolan, however, chose to remain standing. “I’ve the funds to cover his expenses for the year,” he said tightly, while his brother proceeded to withdraw official-looking documents from his folio.
“It isn’t about his expenses, Nolan,” Henry said impatiently with a newly found spirit in his usually affable person. “If it isn’t your mount, it is the upkeep of your properties and this townhouse and Josephine’s upcoming Season.” He glanced up from his task and, over the wire rims of his spectacles, arched an eyebrow. “Should I continue?”
Had his blasted brother always been this annoying? “I’m to receive a thousand pounds,” he said.
This earned another look. A longer one. “Cards.” That single syllable captured all the derision in his brother’s person for that dissolute pleasure Nolan had enjoyed through the years.
“You know me,” he said, flashing a sardonic grin. Not bothering to explain. For he’d not reveal Sybil’s request to Henry or anyone. And more, there now felt something wholly wrong in accepting those funds from her.
Sybil, who even now would be waiting at Gipsy Hill. Alone. Wondering where he was. His stomach muscles contracted and he cursed himself for both forgetting the damned meeting with his brother and for failing her. Mayhap he’d not be late. If they concluded business quic
kly, then he might still meet her there. Nolan again checked his timepiece. Mayhap—
“Are you listening to me?” Henry snapped, bringing him to focus on the task at hand.
The chain slipped from his fingers and he quickly tucked away the gold fob. “Sell the horse. Cover Josephine’s Season. Dire straits. Nothing’s changed. Is that an accurate accounting?”
Henry set his folio down with a loud thwack. “Everything is a joke with you.” In an uncharacteristic show, his brother levered himself up and spun to face him. “I appreciate that you have always lived for your own amusements, Nolan, but some of us,” he gave Nolan a pointed look, “take our responsibilities as brothers and Pratts very seriously.” Yes, Henry had always been a somber, obedient fellow. Whereas Nolan had been the mischievous, athletic one who’d earned their parents’ exasperation and adulation in equal measure. Henry blushed, that color hinting at a man embarrassed with his explosion. When he spoke, he did so in more even, modulated tones. “Nolan,” he tried again. “The finances are a mess. They were not destroyed overnight.”
Yes, it had been a seven-year-long process slowly carried out under his unsuspecting nose. Disgust and bitterness filled his mouth.
“Now,” Henry went on calmly, reclaiming his seat. “Let us sit and go through the numbers, once more.”
And now, as Nolan reluctantly joined his brother, he hated himself for his feeble mind that had him missing a meeting with Sybil.
He’d not come.
The realization that Nolan would not join her in Gipsy Hill had come somewhere between the first minute he’d proven late and the one hour and fifteen minutes later that she found herself wandering the bustling thoroughfare.
As she climbed the steps of her family’s townhouse and swept inside, a keen, bitter disappointment weighted her shoulders. Mustering a smile for Hannah’s benefit, she removed her cloak and handed it over. “Has anything arrived for me?” she asked, unable to keep the hope from creeping in.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 108
