He couldn’t believe his sister thought he might find a bride here among these duplicitous women—not that he was looking for one.
There were exceptions, he thought, thinking of Gabriel’s Madelyn, but she was indeed a rare creature, and Gabriel’s loyalty to her was rarer still.
He looked over at his friend and conjured up a grin that most likely looked like a grimace. He was appreciative of their friendship, of their alliance. The duke didn’t trust many, and Nicholas echoed that feeling.
They had met when they’d both been lads, exploring the high country where they’d lived. Despite the initial difference in their social classes, they had become fast friends, intuitively recognizing similar dispositions and codes of conduct. Over the years, their relationship had grown on a solid foundation of mutual respect.
But there were things Gabriel had done for Nicholas’s family—hell, for him, for that matter—which could never be repaid.
Nicholas firmly believed that if it wasn’t for having a duke in his corner in Parliament, the individuals in the courts who had challenged his recent inheritance would have drawn out the battle until he would have been obliged to sell all the land that he had acquired on his own just to pay the legal costs. As it was, he had been able to keep all the estate properties that enabled his income.
Indeed. He owed much to the duke—none of it repayable, in Nicholas’s estimation. And the man had never asked for anything in return. Until now.
Back in Yorkshire, he’d asked Nicholas to watch over Rosalind while he was away. Nicholas was, in a word, astounded. This man trusted—well, practically no one, in Nicholas’s estimation. And yet he entrusted Nicholas with guarding something so dear as a sister. Someone as precious and exquisite as Rosalind.
Certainly, it was easy enough to keep his thoughts from straying to Rosalind in the country when there was plenty of work to distract him . . . but now that he must watch her every move?
Three months, he reminded himself. Three measly months and that was it. Nicholas would uphold his promise to Gabriel and keep an eye on her for the extent of the season. Of course, he’d see to it that she returned safely to Yorkshire to rusticate, but then he would go on with his life.
But Christ above, did ever a man see such an alluring sight?
She stood about twenty feet from him, dressed in a dark red gown that hugged every gentle curve, elongated every line, and accentuated all her feminine wiles. His eyes dropped down, momentarily, to a diamond-shaped, silver brooch that was pinned in the center of her bodice, directly under the deep cleft between her breasts. Wasn’t the perfect symmetry of her lovely curving bosom distraction enough?
Her obsidian hair was upswept into a simple coiffure, dotted with tiny red flowers that matched her gown. A few inky coils dropped like precious jewels to dangle near her ears and down further to skim the porcelain-like skin of her neck and collarbone. All of that, he had gleaned from a hundred discreet glances flicked in her direction.
Tonight she reminded him of a bloodred rose against a clear night sky. A quiet, regal beauty, who—he flicked a glance over her head—was currently looking at him as if she wanted to a sink a dirk in his chest.
Aye, the lassie was a beauty. And meddlesome, and stubborn, and quite possibly spoiled. And, most assuredly hard to please. She was in her what, seventh season, was it? Surely that meant she was just as fastidious in love as the Devines were reputed to be.
He wouldn’t look at her directly, not while she was looking at him. Not when they stood this close and there wasn’t anything to distract him.
And yet he sensed something had changed. It was as if her mind had grown even sharper. He no longer held any doubts that she might not recognize his attraction for her reflected in his eyes. But he still wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of adding himself to her bevy of admirers. He was her protector, her guardian. She had enough admirers.
Gabriel had warned him of how bad it would be, but Nicholas was still amazed at how these men followed her around like pups everywhere she went.
She seemed completely oblivious—or completely accustomed to it.
Whatever the case, Nicholas had first noticed the extent of her widespread appeal at the bookshop this afternoon while he had waited outside for her to leave. Once she’d come outside, he had watched her and her maid return to their carriage, which had been waiting for them across the park. Five other men had watched her progress as well.
One of them, a tall, lanky fellow with a shock of red hair, had followed them all the way from the bookshop and had even watched their carriage until it had pulled out of sight. Afterwards, the redheaded man had slipped into a carriage marked with a family crest: a falcon with a dove clutched in its talons. Nicholas hadn’t recognized it (he knew very few family crests by sight), but it had been disturbing enough that it stood out to him.
He didn’t know how Gabriel managed to keep his temper in check or even relax, for that matter.
Placing his hands behind his back, Nicholas took a deep breath and shook his head slightly.
“You look like you’ve swallowed a bad oyster,” Gabriel grumbled from next to him.
“I feel like it, as well.”
Gabriel clapped him on the back. “I know what will help.” He nodded to the musicians at the top of the room. “After the minuet, meet me in the library and I’ll pour you a brandy. Rosalind will be safe enough here.”
“Make it whisky and I’ll have two.”
“Agreed.”
“Good. I’ll look forward to the short respite.”
Gabriel chuckled. “Don’t worry. The season will be over before you can blink.”
Nicholas eyed the crowd warily. “Aye, and then I’m returning to the country, and that’s where I’ll stay.”
The duke nodded. “Madelyn and I will most likely stay away from the city as much as we can once we return. At least, I’m not ready to share her with everyone else yet, and I know she has a project back home.” He nodded in Rosalind’s direction. “I appreciate your coming here.”
“I know,” Nicholas said quietly, daring a quick glance at Rosalind.
“You are the only one I trust. And she shouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Nicholas raised a dubious brow.
“Well, I must concede she was rather . . . concerned about the entire affair, but she relinquished in the end,” Gabriel replied.
From the corner of his eye, Nicholas watched Rosalind approach slowly from the side, her hands behind her back and her head turned in the opposite direction.
Just what was the wee beauty up to? More snooping?
Eavesdropping, he decided. She was eavesdropping.
“Let me warn you again,” Gabriel said sotto voce. “If you can help it, don’t let her know it’s you. I’ll reintroduce you so she will not find your presence suspect.”
Nicholas nodded.
“Ah, Rosalind,” the duke remarked as she drew nearer still. “Come, you remember my friend, Nicholas, recently the Marquess of Winterbourne.”
With a slight nod, she looked up at him with those summer-blue eyes of hers. She held out her hand, watching him closely the whole time.
There was a single beat of hesitation before he took her gloved hand in his and bent over it. She dipped in a shallow curtsy at the same time.
“My lord.”
“My lady.”
There came an awkward silence wherein they both stared at one another. He’d never met with her before as her social equal. Undoubtedly, the gentry mixed with the aristocracy, but now that they were to blend in the same circles, he felt himself losing his footing. He’d always used their difference in social standing as a means to keep her at arm’s length—at least in his own mind.
No matter, he assured himself silently. He rather believed he could resist her charms easily enough—he had done exactly that for years.
“ ‘My lady’? ‘My lord’? Such formalities between old acquaintances?” Gabriel remarked, one side of his mouth
pulled into a grin.
Nicholas hadn’t a notion why it seemed the duke was teasing them, but he shrugged it aside.
The small quartet struck up a chord, signaling that the first dance of the evening would be commencing. Guests not obliged to dance were heading either toward the edges of the ballroom or slipping into the banquet room next door for light refreshment.
He would have to search for . . . who was it again? Ah, Miss Perimuther. Murrayleather? No. Meriwether. Wasn’t that it?
And wasn’t it impolite to hastily retrieve a lady for a dance?
Truthfully, he didn’t care for dancing overly much. But he figured he might as well play the part. Hell, if all he did was stare at Rosalind all night long, she’d discover who her guardian was in no time at all. In fact, he honestly didn’t think he’d get away with it for very long. She’d figure it out, and heaven help him then.
For now, he would be polite, dance a few times with a number of different women, and promptly forget each of his partner’s names. After all, he must play the part of a wife-hunting marquess, if only to keep her from guessing his true purpose.
The cellist played a series of notes to signal the dance.
Nicholas bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I have promised this dance to a Miss Hairyfeather.”
“Meriwether,” Rosalind corrected flatly. And then those rosebud lips twitched with a smile, her eyes daring him to laugh at himself, he suspected.
And with those warm blue eyes twinkling up at him, Nicholas felt something inside him crack a little, and he almost smiled, too.
But instead, he gave her a stiff nod, then turned to melt into the crowd.
Chapter 4
“Oh! Find him! FIND HIM!”
One hour later, Rosalind found herself on her knees, peering under her aunt Eugenia’s bed while scores of guests yet danced, conversed, and made merry below stairs.
“I shall not sleep a wink unless he comes home,” Eugenia exclaimed, pacing the length of her guest bedchamber, a soaked handkerchief pressed under her nose.
“I cannot see how you can sleep with a house full of guests,” Rosalind mused before straightening. She dusted the wrinkles from her scarlet gown, then crossed the room to examine the wardrobe again.
Eugenia shook her head, clearly unnerved. “I always retire early.” She paused to sniffle. “And Oliver always nests upon my covers. He’s a great comfort to me, and now . . . and now . . .” Eugenia collapsed in a chair, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth.
Having turned to her aunt, Rosalind now averted her gaze. She’d never seen her aunt so upset. Apparently, this Oliver was very dear—he’d have to be to move a rather cantankerous, impassive old woman to tears by his absence.
“Perhaps he’s in the garden,” Rosalind suggested.
“No, not with all those people about,” Eugenia muttered with an agitated flick of her handkerchief. “He’s a bit skittish.”
“Then, that’s it. He’s probably hiding somewhere in the house. Somewhere quiet and warm.” Rosalind moved to stand before her aunt. “He’ll come out when everyone’s gone home, I’m sure of it.”
“But what am I to do until then?”
Rosalind blinked, speechless for a second. Her aunt seemed a little lost, and it pulled a bit at her heart. “Margaret will help you ready yourself for bed while I delegate some of the staff to help locate Oliver. I’ll continue to look for him as well.”
“You ought to be enjoying yourself at the ball. Your brother will become agitated at your absence.”
“I daresay he will not,” Rosalind replied with a grin. “He’s happily doting upon his wife and most likely thankful that he need not scowl at any of my dance partners.”
Eugenia nodded solemnly, wiping her nose. Her next words stopped Rosalind at the door. “You’d do well to stand clear of that Scot.”
“I’m sorry?”
Her aunt’s red-rimmed eyes centered knowingly on Rosalind. “You know who I’m talking about. He might be a marquess and he might be acquainted with your brother, but I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
Rosalind swallowed, suddenly feeling a bit warm and stunned by this information. “He—he looks at me?”
“Indeed, he looks,” Eugenia informed with a raised brow, “while trying very hard to appear not to be looking.”
“That made absolutely no sense.”
Eugenia’s posture became rigid. “It’s deceitful and misleading. It makes me wonder what depths he would sink to if there was to be no repercussions for his actions.”
“Let me assure you,” Rosalind murmured, “that man holds no interest in me.”
“All right,” Eugenia nearly barked, holding up a hand. “I confess I know little in the ways of men, but he’s powerfully handsome. And those sorts of men are good for nothing but mischief, mark my words.”
Rosalind gave a small laugh. “Do not worry. He’s quite occupied this evening. In fact, I believe he has already engaged a partner for every dance.” Indeed, except for the waltz.
Eugenia’s gaze was unusually shrewd. “Do I detect a note of disappointment?”
Rosalind merely shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
“Good.”
At her aunt’s satisfied nod, Rosalind quit the room with promises of retrieving the errant Oliver.
Halfway down the hall she encountered a maid, to whom she imparted the news of the missing cat and the need to have every available hand searching for him. As most of the Devine staff were busy in the kitchen and ballroom, Rosalind knew that the number of hands available to search was small. No matter, she would aid in the search, as well.
With the girl dashing down the corridor to inform others, Rosalind chose to use the servant’s staircase, thinking it was dark and the perfect place for a timid kitty to hide.
She descended the steps and meandered down the sparsely lit corridor, her gaze skimming the floor as she went, but Oliver had the misfortune of being a dark gray cat, she reminded herself; he would match the shadows perfectly.
After a couple of turns, the sound of voices raised in merriment grew as each step brought her closer to the ballroom. Turning the second to last corner, she spied Gabriel’s retreating form. He must have come from the library, she mused.
She spied the open door ahead and the twitch of what looked like a tail just before it slipped inside the room.
“Ah-ha,” she whispered. “Oliver, kitty, come here.”
Creeping to the door, Rosalind made little noises with her tongue, pressing it on the roof of her mouth, in an attempt to call the cat to her.
She crossed the threshold, her gaze darting back and forth across the dark room for some sign of him. “Oliver,” she whispered. “Come on out, Oliver, and I’ll take you upstairs.”
A small branch of candles had been lit and set upon on a sideboard equipped with a row of decanters. The soft glow of light did little to lighten the deep room.
Determined to find the cat, she ignored a twinge of foreboding, blaming it on the dark silence of the spacious room.
And then a sound that could only be described as a soft growl emanated from a circle of chairs and sofas across the room. She ambled toward the center, mindful of the legs of the furniture.
“Ack!” All right, perhaps not so mindful. She bent to rub her sore ankle, which had had the misfortune of whacking the corner of an unseen footstool.
Oliver sat under a small oval table, tail flicking, eyes glowing yellow and huge in the dark.
“There you are,” she whispered, bending to reach under the table.
The cat let forth a sudden, vicious hiss, swinging needle-sharp paws at Rosalind’s outstretched hands.
Startled, she lurched back in reaction. “Why, you and Aunt Eugenia are a perfect match.”
And then Oliver shot out from the table, springing toward her.
Rosalind shrieked and jumped back again. The backs of her thighs hit the arm of a wingback chair and she tumbled backward, landing, to h
er surprise, not on the plump seat cushion but instead upon the hard lap of the unseen occupant of the chair. “Oompf!”
Stern gray eyes met her startled gaze.
“Nicholas,” she breathed.
“Oliver is the cat, correct?” Nicholas asked, his deep voice vibrating through her. “Or are you looking for one of your suitors?”
She chose to ignore his taunt. For whatever reason, her gaze was drawn to his neck. “Your cravat is crooked,” she blurted.
“Thank you,” he murmured grumpily. “I shall endeavor to straighten it as soon as possible.”
“Good.”
“Fine.”
They stared at one another through several beats of silence, some sort of tangible tension building between them. And truly, she couldn’t remove herself if she wanted to. The chair was deep and she was nearly folded in half.
She swallowed hard, suddenly acutely aware of every inch of her that happened to be touching him—her backside in between thighs that might very well have been made of granite, her breasts pressed against the heat of his chest, her fingers nestled into the fabric of his frock coat.
She had imagined such a scenario at least a hundred times before, but nothing had prepared her for just how good it felt to be so close to him.
Nicholas swallowed heavily, and Rosalind watched his Adam’s apple bounce between the corded muscles of his throat.
“You should get up now,” he said quietly, his gaze never leaving her face.
“Really?” She heard the disappointment and gave her head a small shake. “I-I meant, yes. Yes, of course I should.” The room felt overly warm. If she didn’t know better, she’d think there was a roaring fire in the grate.
Letting forth a rather unladylike grunt, she tried to scoot off the way she’d come, but her knees were hooked high on the arm of the chair and the silk of her dress was too smooth. All she managed to do was wiggle back and forth.
Nicholas did little, if anything, to help her.
Her position forced her to face him or lie back. She tried rearing back, but something tugged at her bodice.
Guarding a Notorious Lady Page 5
