Grace Burrowes - [Lonely Lords 02]

by Nicholas

  “See that you do,” Bellefonte snapped. “This dying business is tedious, young man. I do not relish becoming an ugly, odoriferous old stick, and I would be done with it sooner rather than later. Your dithering wears on me, sir.”

  Nick suffered that hit, as it hid a genuine plea for haste and for understanding.

  “So how fare you, Father?” Nick asked, all hint of posturing gone.

  Bellefonte smiled thinly. “I do not suffer, particularly, except that indignities bring a pain all their own. I am not bedridden yet, though, so you have some time. I truly do wish only to see you happy.”

  “One would never accuse you of having any other motivation,” Nick drawled, returning the smile.

  “And as to that brother of yours…” Bellefonte shoved the momentary sentimentality aside with another dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m going to formally acknowledge him.”

  Nick went still, not having seen this pronouncement coming.

  “You haven’t told Ethan,” Nick surmised. “Don’t expect me to tell him. This is between the two of you.”

  “Don’t preach to me, Nicholas. I know how to deal with my own children.”

  “By sending them all away,” Nick said. “You wanted to spare them the ordeal of watching your decline.” A final, poignant display of patriarchal kindness.

  “And spare myself the pleasure of being watched as I decline,” the earl added. “I’ve unfinished business with you and your brother.”

  Your brother, Nick noted, meant Ethan, as if those other three young men were something else.

  “So finish it.” Nick fell silent, waiting and wondering what in the world his father had to say to him. In recent years, they’d gotten better at bickering, taunting, and insulting their way through difficult matters, such that what needed discussion was in some-wise discussed. So what did that leave?

  “I owe you and Ethan an apology,” the earl said, spearing Nick with a glare. “I was wrong to separate you all those years ago, and more wrong for how I went about it.”

  “Apology accepted,” Nick heard himself say, though inside, in his chest, his vitals, his brain, a shivery feeling came over him. “Will you be joining us for dinner? I’ve brought one of Moreland’s sons with me from Town.”

  “Bother that.” Bellefonte rummaged in a drawer of the desk. “My hands shake so badly, eating is no longer pretty, if it ever was.”

  “You had exquisite manners,” Nick said softly, knowing his own delicacy at table was gained by following his father’s example. “Is this why you’re turning into a shadow?”

  The old man banged the drawer shut. “Assuredly not. It’s because I’m fretting over the succession, you insolent, thoughtless, self-centered puppy.”

  Only his father had ever called him a puppy and managed to make him feel like one.

  “Of course.” Nick rose, his smile genuine. “Then you won’t mind if I have a word with Nita and the cooks regarding your menus.”

  “Listen, pup.” The earl struggled to rise, and Nick let him. Pure cussedness got the old man to his feet, and love of a good scrap had him leaning over the desk, bracing himself on gnarled knuckles. “You will not go telling Cookie to feed me beef tea through a damned straw. The day I can’t chew my own food is the day I stop eating.”

  Nick’s smile broadened, knowing his father’s display of temper had been for his benefit. He sidled around the desk and bent to kiss his father’s cheek.

  “I love you too, Papa,” he said before sauntering off, knowing the earl was grinning like a lunatic at his retreating back. Over his shoulder, Nick called, “And see that you finish your pudding. I have my spies too, and locating a worthy countess may yet take some time.”

  ***

  “You sent for me?” Leah joined Nick in his study at the back of the Clover Down manor house, trying not to let her anxiety show. She’d left the door open, of course, but when Nick silently padded across the room and closed it, the anxiety she’d carried with her everywhere of late congealed low in her belly.

  Since his arrival the previous night, he’d been distracted and distant, though never rude. As much as she studied him, as carefully as she’d tried to pry details from Mr. Grey or Lord Valentine, Nick’s present mood was a mystery to her.

  “Sit down, Leah,” Nick said, his eyes on her with an unnerving intensity. “We have things to discuss. You have enjoyed your stay here?”

  “Very much.” She took a seat on the couch rather than one of the huge reading chairs. She’d sat in one for much of the previous morning, reading and enjoying its subtle hint of Nick’s scent—and feeling utterly dwarfed by its dimensions.

  “Ethan has behaved?”

  “Your brother was slow to warm up,” Leah said, watching Nick as he paced the room, “but he has proven to be charming company.”

  “Good.” Nick stalked over and seated himself beside her, taking her hand in his. His hands were warm and callused across the palms and pads of his fingers. Not exactly a gentleman’s hands, but capable of tenderness.

  “I want you to hear me out,” he said, glancing at her then at their hands. “I have a proposition for you—a proposal, really—but it won’t be what you want or what you deserve.”

  She wanted to pace as he’d been pacing. “I’m listening.”

  “I know.” Nick ran his free hand through his hair. “Christ’s blessed, hairy…” He dropped her hand and rose again, tramping the length of the room like a stall-bound horse.

  Leah rose and stood in front of him where he’d paused at the window. “Whatever it is, just say it. I know you have many responsibilities, and I am just a passing obligation you’ve taken on out of the goodness of your heart. I will always be grateful to you.”

  “Grateful. God’s holy… drawers.”

  Leah raised herself up on her toes and brushed her lips over his. “Grateful,” she repeated with soft insistence.

  “Oh, hell and the devil,” Nick muttered, his arms going around her, pulling her snugly into his body. Leah felt something in him ease, or possibly give up as his chin came to rest on her crown. “Lovey—Leah, Lady Leah—we need to have a somewhat awkward discussion.”

  What she needed was to remain right where she was, wrapped in his embrace, breathing in the scent of him, reveling in his warmth and the way their bodies fit so wonderfully together. Nick’s physical power was only part of what made him attractive, she thought, as his hand stroked down her back. He also exuded a sense of masculine competence that revived Leah’s flagging spirits like all of her brothers’ long-suffering devotion had not.

  And yet, they were to discuss something awkward. Leah burrowed closer. “I’m listening.”

  She felt his lips brush against her temple. “I’ll have you know, my lady, I had no intention of worrying about you. You were safe, I knew that, and yet—”

  Another soft brush of lips and nose, this time against her brow.

  And yet, he’d appeared at Clover Down a day earlier than planned. Leah began to hope that in Nicholas Haddonfield’s lexicon, a proposal of marriage was an awkward topic.

  “I missed you too, Nicholas.” She kissed him for emphasis, right on the mouth. He’d consumed a quantity of ginger cake at breakfast, and Leah could taste the spice and sweetness on him. “And that wasn’t in my plans either.”

  He growled and wrapped her closer. “We should not—”

  Leah arched into him, finding evidence of his arousal rising against her belly. Rather than listen to his infernal, misguided, male should-nots, she resumed kissing him.

  She had been the object of a passionate young man’s fancy and had concluded with some puzzlement that while marital intimacies had the potential to be pleasant, the poets (being male) were given to exaggerations and flights regarding the whole business.

  Nick Haddonfield in a kissing mood was not pleasant. Whereas Leah’s earlier experiences had been accompanied by hesitance, shyness, and a quality of reverence, Nick’s approach to intimate matters approximated th
e arrival of a gale-force wind, knocking Leah’s sensibilities end over end. His tongue swept over her lips, bringing heat and spice, and igniting a conflagration of wanting beneath the pit of Leah’s stomach.

  She got a hand wrapped in his hair and drew her slippered foot up the back of his riding boot, as if she’d climb straight up him. “Nicholas, I want—” You. She could not quite say that, not yet.

  “I want you too, lovey, but we mustn’t—”

  We mustn’t was worse than we shouldn’t, and Leah might have spared some concern over whatever was troubling Nick, except she had missed him, missed not only the pleasant gentleman and handsome escort, but the lusty, sexually astute, desirable man who made Leah feel, for the first time in her life, that being a woman was a lovely, wonderful thing.

  A gift.

  “Hold me,” Nick coaxed, startling a squeak out of her as he hoisted her raised leg even higher, up around his hip. “Hold tight.”

  His strength was such that he could easily take her weight with his arms, and he hiked her up, so through the layers of their clothing, her sex was pressed against the surprising length of his arousal.

  “Nicholas.” Leah gasped as her body reacted to the pleasure—and frustration—of his proximity.

  “Hang on to me.” Nick took a few steps and settled her back against the wainscoted wall, leaving him free to hold her in place with one arm while his other hand brushed down over her breast, shaping its fullness with the exact, perfectly right degree of pressure to her nipple.

  This was what the poets had been blathering about; this was passion, madness, pleasure, and desire all rolled into one experience, and Leah wanted as much of this experience with Nick as she could get. She used the wall at her back for leverage and arched forward, such that a particular, hot, female part of her body pushed directly against the rigid length of his arousal. The pleasure of that boldness, even through their clothing, was startling—and inspiring. She did it again, then again, and then felt his mouth covering hers, his tongue sweeping forward, and bliss rising up to eclipse worry, misgivings, common sense—everything.

  ***

  “Sweetheart, slow down,” Nick rasped. “We shouldn’t…”

  Leah arched against him, her thrust having enough determination to be almost angry, and Nick’s ability to speak was swamped by the pleasure of her writhing in his arms. All he could think was that she felt right. Not too small—many women were too small—but not too large, not that bovine peasant his father had urged on him. She felt womanly and good and pleasurable.

  He should stop, Nick knew that, just as he knew the royal succession from generations before the doomed Harold Godwinson on down to the Regent. Stopping was sensible, but Leah’s breast had found its way into Nick’s hand, and the sensation of that soft weight arching against his palms…

  “Ah, God.” Nick closed his eyes and lifted his mouth from hers long enough to bury his lips at her neck, inhale the fragrance of her, and gently, gently, palm the weight of that lovely breast again.

  “Nicholas…” Leah’s voice saying his name with need, and desire… He applied the least hint of pressure to her nipple again, but covered her mouth with his own and pressed his cock tightly against her.

  He could come like this. He could make her come like this. The notions illuminated his awareness between one breath and the next, a delightful, intoxicating couplet of pleasure that had him going still, debating logistics—he’d pleasured more than one woman against a stout wall—and trying to recall if he’d locked the library door.

  “Ah, Nicholas…” Leah sighed, and her body imperceptibly softened, yielding to him, enveloping him in feminine acceptance while Nick contemplated greater naughtiness. She signaled, with that bodily sigh, that she trusted him, trusted his ability to pleasure her and to protect her as well.

  And that—that surrender—got through to his flagging common sense like his own clamoring conscience hadn’t. Like a bucket of cold, filthy water. She would let him take her like a doxy against the wall while she was a guest under his roof—under his protection, for God’s sake.

  “Hush.” Nick eased his body away from her slightly, enough to let her foot find the floor again. Self-disgust made him want to wrench away, but something stronger kept him close to her. “Just hush.” He brushed his hand over her hair and hung there, braced over her by his arm against the wall. He shifted, hiked her against his chest, and carried her to the couch.

  “I did not mean for that to happen,” Nick said, setting her down gently then pacing off a few feet to regard her. Hysterics were not out of the question; a scathing scold was easily possible. The outcome that made him truly uneasy was the prospect of her tears.

  “Neither did I,” Leah replied, her voice even. “I am not sorry it did, while you clearly have regrets.”

  Nick didn’t contradict her, and he watched while arousal and anticipation faded, leaving her features impassive. He deserved a verbal birching, and she was going to deny him that penance.

  “I’m sorry.” She gained her feet with exaggerated dignity. “I should not have importuned you.”

  God spare me from martyred women whose lips are still damp from my kisses. Nick’s hand circled her wrist. “It is I who owe you an apology. Will you sit?”

  She resisted by not looking at him—Eurydice in the underworld came to mind—but she didn’t tug her wrist free as he pulled her down beside him on the couch.

  “I am sorry for what just passed between us,” Nick said. “Very truly sorry, because it makes what I have to say much more difficult.”

  His lapse in self-restraint also left him feeling stupid, disgusted with himself, and bewildered, particularly when he’d never once in all his years of disporting with women lost his head like that.

  “Stop dithering, Nicholas. I am not given to strong hysterics.”

  Dithering. He was becoming skilled at dithering. Perhaps he was the one at risk for strong hysterics.

  “Promise me something first.” Nick laced his fingers through hers, hoping she’d slap him before she tossed his offer back in his face. “Promise me you won’t reject what I say out of hand, but take a few days to think about it first. Talk it over with Della, with your brothers, even with Ethan or Val, or my horse, but don’t just toss it aside as a foolish notion.”

  She studied their joined hands, making Nick aware of calluses on his palms and fingers a gentleman wouldn’t have. “I’m listening, Nicholas.”

  He loved hearing her say his name, even in that starchy, wary, put-upon tone. “Your promise first.”

  “I promise.”

  “I believe your father, or Wilton,” Nick corrected himself, “truly wishes you harm, Leah. When I discussed your situation with your brother Trenton, Lord Amherst, he characterized Wilton’s dealings with you as not sane.”

  She gave him the barest nod of agreement, and her fingers closed more tightly around his.

  “I can offer you safety as my wife, but that’s all I can offer you. You will have safety, a place in Society if you want it. My family will accept you, and my title and wealth will be yours to share.”

  She swiveled her head to regard him, confusion and hurt lurking in her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  “You won’t have me,” Nick said, hating himself, hating the way the hurt gained ground at those words.

  “What does that mean?”

  “We will have a white marriage, Leah,” Nick said gently. “I do not want children, not with you. The only way to absolutely ensure I have no legitimate issue is to abstain from relations with you.”

  “Relations?” She made the word sound putrid.

  “Coitus,” Nick clarified. “I will be your husband, not your lover.”

  “Ever?” Leah’s expression was suffused with confusion. “I truly don’t understand.”

  “I did not expect you would,” Nick said on a sigh. At the present moment, his own comprehension was dodgy at best. “And I did not want to put you in this position, but it seems
the best I can do.”

  “But you…” She waved a hand toward the wall, a world of accusation in the gesture.

  “I desire you, yes.” Nick’s middle finger traced the edge of her hairline. He hadn’t planned to touch her, though she didn’t stop him. “I’m sorry for that. A gentleman would have kept his prurient interest to himself.”

  Now she swatted his hand away. “It didn’t feel prurient.”

  Nick sighed and wrapped her hand in both of his. “I am sorry for the way I acted just now. It was badly done of me.”

  Terribly, horribly, egregiously badly done. Nick did not let his gaze stray to the decanter, but it was calling to him loudly.

  “I am confused, Nicholas. You desire me, but it shames you. You want to protect me, but you do not want me to be your countess in truth.”

  Argument was good. Argument would give her some purchase on her self-possession. “Firstly,” Nick said, “I want to keep you safe from Wilton’s schemes. Marriage will do that. Secondly, I want to keep you safe from me. Abstaining will do that.”

  She folded her arms, the drawbridge going up on the citadel of her dignity. “What on earth can you mean?”

  Nick took her right hand, brought it to his lips, kissed her knuckles, and then tucked her hand back into her lap—all without the least clue why he’d provoke her further.

  “I did kill my mother,” he said, rising and turning his back. “No woman should have to bear my children. I’m larger than my father, and you are not larger than my mother.”

  “That hardly means we’d have to abstain. We’d have to take precautions.”

  Nick was quiet for a long time, wishing to hell and heaven both she’d just accept his proposal and let them get on with the business—and how did a decent woman know of precautions, anyway?

  “That’s not it, is it?” Leah guessed, crossing the room to face him with a swish of skirts signaling unstoppable female determination. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  She deserved the truth, but silence on this issue had been a habit for so long Nick couldn’t bring himself to have mercy on her. He held her gaze, willing her to see what he couldn’t tell her, knowing he was being a coward.