Seven Wicked Nights

by Courtney Milan

  She shuddered, pushing back against the memories that threatened to surface at the thought of her father.

  “Are you chilled, Miss Abbington? Shall I have a footman fetch you a wrap?”

  Caught in her woolgathering, though thankfully he didn’t seem to recognize it as such. She purposefully relaxed her tense shoulders and smiled. “No thank you, my lord. I think perhaps I could use some refreshment.”

  “Allow me to fetch you something to drink,” he replied, bowing his head before lumbering off in search of a servant.

  Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. Finally—a moment of peace. Of their own volition, her eyes strayed once more toward Nicolas. Miss Whittingham had joined them and was fluttering her eyelashes as though caught in a windstorm. Not that Eleanor blamed the girl for trying to flirt with him—he was the youngest man present. And his regimentals did rather stand out among the sea of somber jackets the other men wore.

  “Eleanor,” Uncle Robert murmured from directly behind her, his hot breath uncomfortably damp against her ear, “I suggest you ignore your little friends and set your focus on the task at hand. Not that I mind choosing a husband for you.”

  She turned, as much to escape his invasion of her space as anything. “I’m aware of what I should be doing,” she said through clenched teeth. At that moment, Shevington returned with a glass in each hand, and she gratefully accepted the one he held out to her.

  She was beginning to understand why Aunt Lavinia liked spirits so well.

  “DID YOU HAVE A GOOD EVENING, my dear?” Aunt Margaret, looking better than she had in days, smiled up at Eleanor from the chaise lounge nearest the windows. The drapes had been pulled wide to allow the morning sun to infuse the small, private sitting room they shared.

  Eleanor mustered a tired smile as she tucked a blanket more securely around her aunt’s legs. “I certainly met a lot of people,” she hedged, settling into the chair closest the chaise. It didn’t seem particularly good form to respond, “I spoke with none but boring, self-important old men most of the evening, all the while chained to Uncle Robert’s side.”

  The one and only highlight of the night had been just before she’d gone to bed. Nick had caught her on the stairs and murmured, “I do so love a good sunrise, don’t you, cousin? I shall enjoy it tomorrow at the start of the hunt, and perhaps the day after that in a more… private locale.”

  Of course he could only mean the ruins. After the evening she had endured last night, the idea of pouring out her frustrations through her foil had tremendous appeal. She only wished they could have met this morning. But, with the hunt planned, such a thing would be impossible. At least the men would be gone for most of the morning and she could escape the need to endure the forced match making.

  “Interesting, but not an answer to my question,” her aunt said, bringing Eleanor back to the conversation at hand. “I have met many people in my day, and not all of them served to enrich an evening.”

  Eleanor’s smile was genuine. “You know me too well. All right, it was a passable evening. I spent most of the time speaking with Uncle Robert’s acquaintances.”

  Her aunt’s thin white eyebrows rose, wrinkling her normally smooth forehead. “Heavens, whatever for? A drier group of men I cannot imagine. Were not Miss Landon and Miss Hollister present? Or even Lady Blackwell?”

  “Oh, they were. And I was fortunate to have a few moments with each of them. But it was my mission to get to know Lords Henry, Netherby, and Shevington better.” A mission enforced relentlessly by Uncle Robert.

  Aunt Margaret pursed her lips. “Lords… oh, I see. They are all bachelors, are they not?”

  Good, she was catching on. “Indeed,” Eleanor responded with an ironic grin. She knew her aunt would understand exactly how distasteful such a proposition would have been for her.

  Unaccountably, a soft smile brightened her aunt’s face. “I’m so very glad to hear it, my dear. Perhaps there is hope for you yet.”

  Stunned, Eleanor blinked, trying not to show her dismay. Perhaps there was hope for me yet? Clearly Aunt Margaret mistook her conspiratorial grin for one of earnestness.

  So the truth comes out.

  Her heart sank low in her chest, weighed with disappointment and betrayal. Could not one of her relatives see that marriage wasn’t something Eleanor wanted? She had thought Aunt Margaret understood that, and that she liked having Eleanor around for her companion. In the back of her mind, she had hoped her aunt would raise an eyebrow and say, “How dreadful!” She had imagined confiding in the older woman and having the satisfaction of her gasping in outrage when she heard of her brother’s manipulation.

  But no—apparently even she wished for Eleanor to drop her objections and marry. Her very soul ached with the knowledge. There truly was no one to champion her.

  Oblivious to Eleanor’s distress, Aunt Margaret pushed aside the blanket and came to her feet. “I must say, I am feeling much improved this morning. I do believe I shall be fit to join you downstairs today.”

  Eleanor nodded dully. “I shall inform the countess at once.”

  It occurred to her as she stood and padded woodenly for the door that only one person had shown her any amount of support in the last few days.

  The very last person she would have thought: Nicolas.

  IF EVER THERE WAS A WORTHLESS WASTE OF TIME and perfectly good lead, it was surely grouse hunting. Nicolas stifled a yawn as he tramped through the underbrush a few yards back from the others. It was all so damned civilized and organized. Everyone walked forward, waited for the flock to be set to air, then shot at the lot of them as if there was any real sport in it. Already the day’s take numbered in the hundreds, and beaters were doing their damnedest to flush out stragglers.

  Finally, a cluster of birds rose toward the low clouds, and gun after gun discharged. Sighing, he raised his weapon to his shoulder, aimed for a perfectly innocent looking cloud to the left of the flock, and fired.

  There. Duty fulfilled. Three hundred birds bagged, twelve gentlemen entertained, and one tedious morning at an end.

  “If that’s the best the army has to offer, old boy, it’s a wonder old Boney ever tasted defeat.” Handing over his gun to the servant beside him, Lord Henry laughed and walked over to where Nick stood.

  Offering a good natured grin, Nick nodded. “Too right. I suppose it’s fortunate that humans are a much larger, less flighty target.” He wasn’t about to inform the man that he was as good a shot as any man present.

  From half the field away, Malcolm’s head turned in their direction, his interest in their conversation clear. He quickly shoved his gun to his attendant and scurried over to join them. Scared Nick would say something politically ruinous, was he?

  “What an excellent bag, Henry. You must have singlehandedly brought down four dozen birds today.”

  The man’s chest puffed up as though such praise was the highest of possible compliments. “Well, your lands offered quite the bounty. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to join you again in the future.” He paused and gestured toward Nick. “Perhaps you can give your boy Norton here a lesson or two by then so he can keep up with us.”

  The two older men shared a laugh, though Malcolm’s was harsh and devoid of humor. He was surely stewing at Nick being referred to as his boy. “Sadly, some simply aren’t born with a talent for sports—and they’re called women. What, exactly, is your excuse, Norton?” This brought on fresh laughter, setting Nick’s teeth on edge.

  Forcing a pleasant smile, he said, “Must have been my pauper father. He spent his days toiling in the courts and had little time for the finer gentlemanly pursuits. By the time Malcolm took me in, I fear it was too late.”

  It wasn’t quite true—his father was a respected barrister who enjoyed the occasional hunting trip. That, however, wouldn’t have needled Malcolm nearly as much. In his eyes, Nick’s father might as well have been a clerk. Reminding his guests of his stepson’s humble origins meant bringing attention to a black smudge o
n his noble family lineage. Already Nick was reaping the rewards of the comment as his stepfather’s eyes narrowed in ill-concealed fury.

  Nick grinned. Malcolm could consider it repayment for the way he’d treated Eleanor last night. It little mattered that the man wouldn’t realize it. Nick had scored a point against him, and that was good enough for now.

  “Damned pity,” Henry said, shaking his head as they started back toward the house. “I wonder, is your son a good shot?”

  “The best. The boy’s a natural.”

  Lord Henry chuckled, clasping his hands behind his back. “Just like his father. Speaking of your excellent family relations, I do hope I’ll have the opportunity to enjoy more time with Miss Abbington. She is quite a lovely young woman.”

  Nick stiffened, his jaw clenching at the mention of Eleanor. Already she had spent too much of her time with the man. She hadn’t looked particularly pleased by it, but she had made no efforts to disengage. He couldn’t help the grimace that idea wrought—the man was old enough to be her father!

  But as vehemently opposed to the idea as Nick was, Malcolm appeared absolutely delighted. Clasping the earl on the back, he nodded. “Nothing would please me—or her—more.”

  Chapter Five

  “WHAT IF I WERE TO SEEK EMPLOYMENT?”

  Metal pinged against metal as Eleanor parried Nick’s rather sneaky advance-lunge. He was quite nimble for the early hour. Perhaps he too had woken with the burn of anticipation for their match.

  He lifted an eyebrow as he retreated, raising his foil once more. “Are there very many opportunities for mediocre female fencers?”

  Invigorated by their play, she grinned for the first time that morning, shaking her head. “My, don’t we think we’re clever. All that overt female attention these past two days must have fooled you into believing you were actually witty, and not just the only man present under the age of thirty.”

  “And here I thought you liked all those old codgers. You’re certainly spending enough time with them.” The grin was in place, but his tone was more biting than usual.

  “Yes, because I have so much choice in the matter.” She saw an opening and took it, executing a perfect raddoppio before thrusting her point into his ribs. It went a long way toward venting her frustration.

  Nick grimaced and fell back, rubbing a hand over the wound. “Good hit,” he conceded, offering a quick salute of his blade.

  “Thank you. And I was thinking of becoming a companion,” she said, returning to the point of the conversation. It was wishful thinking; it wasn’t as though she could simply leave and take her sister with her.

  “Do you think someone would actually pay you to keep them company? I should think they would pay for the opposite.” The last word came out on a whoosh of air as he attacked. Their blades carried on the conversation for the moment until he slipped past her defenses and tagged her hip.

  Falling back to catch her breath, she finally answered him. “If that worked, you’d be a wealthy man by now.”

  “Touche,” he said, chuckling lightly. “I suppose Aunt Margaret might be inclined to pay you, if you should insist.”

  Fresh disappointment settled on her shoulders and she lowered her foil. “I don’t think so. At the moment, she’s just as enamored as Uncle Robert at the prospect of marrying me off.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he scoffed, his words clipped. “They know as well as I do that you’ll not be falling into the parson’s trap. Plus there’s the issue of finding a man to put up with you,” he added, giving her a light, teasing tap beneath her chin with the blunted tip of his blade.

  She tensed, hating even speaking of the hopelessness of the situation. “You’re wrong. They can’t wait to foist me off on the highest bidder.”

  The teasing light faded from his eyes. “Is that what this tension in the house has been all about? They want for you to marry, despite your wishes?”

  She gave a curt nod.

  Giving an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he said, “Then tell them to go to the devil and move on. Stop acting like a docile pony and stand up for yourself.”

  She stiffened. Just who did he think he was? “It’s not that easy. And I don’t appreciate the analogy.”

  “Then stop being so damned analogous. Find that elusive thing called a backbone and fight them on this. I know Malcolm. He’ll be angry, but it’s not as though he’ll toss you out on the street, for God’s sake. This family doesn’t work that way.”

  She should be so lucky. She’d take that any day over her uncle’s true threats. For a moment she considered telling him everything, pouring out the full extent of the turmoil brewing within, but what good would that do? He’d only dismiss her worries, just as he was dismissing them now. “You don’t know anything about what he’d do.”

  “Don’t I?” he said, quirking a brow in challenge. “If anyone would be tossed out on the street, don’t you think it would be me?”

  Where had that come from? “What are you talking about?”

  He jabbed his blade’s point into the earth, resting his hand loosely on the hilt. “A mongrel like me? With no lineage or noble blood to speak of? He’d sooner be cleaved to the plague.”

  He actually seemed to mean it. Cocky, arrogant, self-satisfied Nick, speaking of himself as though he were a blight on his family? This was uncharted territory for them, this gravity. She honestly didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not. “Come now,” she said, falling back on their usual banter. “A Frenchman, perhaps, but certainly not the plague.”

  “Do you have any idea how much money that man has spent in the sole pursuit of keeping me as far from his home as he can manage?” He snorted, shaking his head. “Harrow, Cambridge, even the bloody army. It’s a wonder he didn’t try to bribe an infantryman to ‘accidentally’ discharge his weapon in my direction.”

  Eleanor shifted, unsure of what to say. He seemed genuinely distressed, but knowing him, he was probably just setting her up for some scathingly witty rejoinder. “My, my—who knew you were fit for Drury Lane?”

  Extracting his blade, he pointed the buttoned tip of his foil toward her chest. “Right. You’re waxing on about being tossed out the window like the contents of a chamber pot, and I’m the one being dramatic?”

  Her brows came together defensively. Of the two of them, she was by far the most sensible. “I’m not being dramatic. And I’m not talking about being tossed out. I’m facing facts.”

  Letting the weapon fall to his side, he gave her a patently disbelieving look. “And what convoluted ‘fact’ is that? That Malcolm will actually march you down to the church alter, forcing you to marry or else?”

  The very thought made her stomach churn. It was exactly the scenario she feared would happen. “Yes,” she ground out.

  “Eleanor, this is ridiculous. You don’t have to marry.” He spoke with such conviction, she almost believed him.

  Sometimes, very rarely, a side of him came out that almost made her feel as though he was on her side. Protective of her, even.

  “I don’t have a choice, Nicolas. Either I choose a husband, or Uncle Robert will do it for me.”

  NICK SAW RED—AND IT WASN’T JUST THE BREAKING DAWN, which turned the sky a violent crimson. Gripping his foil so tightly his hand ached, he stepped toward her. “He said that?”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Right after I turned down Lord Kensington’s offer of marriage only days ago.”

  Bloody hell—Malcolm had gone too far this time. He’d be damned if he let his stepfather get away with this. There was a certain amount of selfishness in his reasons, but more than anything, Nick didn’t want Eleanor to be forced into the one thing she feared most. Anger burned in his gut, heating his blood.

  “The man’s a damn fool.”

  “That may be the case, but he also is the head of this family.” She lifted those big brown eyes up to him, the effect of which was amazingly similar to a kick in the gut. “At least with you he was content
to throw money at the problem. His only solution with me is to guarantee ruining my life, no matter which way I choose.”

  A light breeze tugged at the loosened hair around her face, pulling the raven strands across her too-pale skin. He had the maddest desire to comb the silky strands back with his fingers and kiss her for real. Not the playful kisses he always demanded from her as payment, but a true kiss that would steal her breath and completely override the worry that turned down the edges of her cupid-bow lips.

  And he knew exactly how worried she must be. After the way her bastard father had treated her mother, marriage was about as attractive to her as running naked through Mayfair.

  “I would never let him ruin your life, Ellie.” The words were too charged, too honest. She glanced up sharply and he forced a smile. “Where else could I find another dreadful fencing partner to make me look so good?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Very funny. You could hardly influence his choice of tea, let alone what he wants to do with me.”

  Damn it all—he wished she would have a little faith in him. Yes, he was younger than her, and yes, theirs had been an unconventional relationship, but didn’t she realize he would walk through fire for her?

  No, of course she didn’t, because he would never let her know such a thing. To her, he would always be the inferior, annoying little boy his mother had foisted on the family. A sparing partner, both verbally and otherwise, who provided small entertainment and great annoyance, by her own description.

  No, she would see no rescue from him. So he had to do the next best thing: show her that she could save herself. Which from the look of it would be quite the undertaking. She stood there, already defeated, her brow wrinkled with worry as if she had no hope left in her life. That made him even angrier than Malcolm’s asinine pronouncement.