Susan Spencer Paul - [Enchanter 01]

by Touch of Night

  Lady Eunice began to move in an agitated circle, tormenting the handkerchief with new energy. “I can only pray that no one of consequence saw him entering. Lady Evanstone, of course, will surely hear of it from one of her servants. That can’t be helped. And you know what a gossip that woman is.” Lady Eunice fell still and let out a loud, taut, telling breath. “The entire ton will have heard the gossip before nightfall. We’ll hear little else at the Dubrow ball tonight. It will be utterly horrid.”

  “Not at all, Aunt,” Julia said with as much calm as she could muster, which, given the increased pace of her heartbeat, wasn’t a great deal. “His visit should only increase our consequence. We shall be the center of attention, and haven’t you always told me that such is the most desirable position to achieve in society?”

  Her hands, Julia saw as she began to put away her writing things, were actually trembling, and when she drew in a breath it seemed far too brief and insufficient to keep her from losing all sensibility.

  Julia gave herself a firm mental shake and strove to collect her scattered thoughts.

  It was ridiculous to react in such a foolish manner. Niclas Seymour had never paid the least attention to her, had never even been formally introduced to her, and probably had no memory of her at all. The fact that she could still react like a young girl in the throes of her first serious crush, simply at the sound of his name, was painfully embarrassing.

  “But not in this manner, Julia,” Lady Eunice replied unhappily. “Niclas Seymour is reported to be half-mad, an oddity who wanders the worst streets in London at all hours. What could he possibly want to speak to us about? Oh, dear”—she set a hand to her forehead—“is he here to ask for aid? But no,” she added before Julia could say a word, “he would have gone to Lord Graymar first, and the earl would scarce turn one of his closest relatives aside.”

  “I’m sure he would not,” Julia agreed, standing and pushing back the chair at the writing desk. “Lord Gray-mar isn’t the sort of man who’d do such a thing. But apart from that, I fear you’re forgetting that Mister Seymour remains quite wealthy, despite his odd behavior in recent years. He inherited a large portion of the Seymour fortune and has no reputation as a gambler or wastrel.”

  “I believe that’s so,” her aunt agreed thoughtfully. “I’ve always thought it a shame that so promising a gentleman as he once was became so ineligible a match. But perhaps it’s just as well now that he never took a wife. It would be a dreadful thing to be wed to such a creature, regardless how wealthy or wellborn. But then, why on earth has the man come?”

  Julia ran her shaking hands over her hair, praying that she looked well enough to see him and wishing that she had dressed in something more becoming. But how could she possibly have divined that he would come? Would he recognize her? No, she chided silently, it was foolish to hope for such a miracle. She was so changed from what she had once been.

  “I’m sure Mister Seymour must be here to discuss my upcoming journey to Wales,” she said with a calmness that she was far from feeling. Would he think her attractive? Even pretty? “Perhaps—” she said, smoothing down the front of her dress, “perhaps he has a great fondness for his uncle, Baron Tylluan, and desires to attempt discouraging me from disentangling Aunt Alice from the baron’s attentions.”

  She was going to see him in a few moments, she thought with inner panic. She was going to be in the same room with Niclas Seymour—and speak to him face-to-face. God help her. She would probably make a terrible fool of herself.

  “Yes,” Lady Eunice said, nodding. “Yes, that’s it. You’re perfectly right, Julia. I’m sure there’s nothing more to it. Well, if he’s come as Baron Tylluan’s second, we must simply be firm with him,” she stated emphatically. “Your journey with Lord Graymar has been planned down to every detail, and nothing must happen to alter it.”

  Julia patted her aunt’s hands. “Nothing will happen. Aunt Alice will be made safe from Baron Tylluan’s demands, and all will be well. Mister Seymour doesn’t possess the power or influence to change the decisions that have been made. I’m certain he’ll understand once everything has been explained to him.”

  The words seemed reasonable enough when she said them, but Julia wasn’t sure if they were perfectly true once she and Lady Eunice had been announced into the room where Niclas Seymour was pacing back and forth before the fire. He looked, she thought, like a caged animal. And her aunt had been correct in relating the butler’s assessment of the man; he appeared very much to have the same grooming as a common laborer, albeit one dressed in expensive—if rather dated—clothing.

  But some kind of effort had clearly been made, probably by his valet, to make Niclas Seymour resemble the proper gentleman he had once been. His black hair had been ruthlessly brushed and tied back at the nape of his neck, but it had been left so long without a proper trim that the thick tail fell well below his shoulders. His handsome face was clean-shaven, but the skin on his cheeks and chin was so pale that he must have only recently become unbearded. The visage that had once been the picture of physical health was now thin and drawn, and his blue eyes were rimmed with red. The clothing he wore, almost entirely black and terribly outdated, only made matters worse, for the dour color emphasized the paleness of his skin. He was so different from the Corinthian Julia remembered that if she’d seen him on the street, her eyes might not have known him.

  But her heart would. And did.

  There was a sharp pain in her chest, and Julia knew a shocking, and rather frightening, urge to weep. She had thought her feelings for him long dead, but the simple fact of him, here before her, even in such a state, gave proof of that lie.

  She knew firsthand just how elegant Niclas Seymour could be. It had been eight years since her first of seven failed seasons, and though he’d never noticed Julia, she had most assuredly noticed him. In those days, the earl of Graymar’s cousin had been one of the most sought-after bachelors in London.

  Handsome and dashing, with shining black hair and deep blue eyes, Niclas Seymour had been the stuff of a young girl’s dreams. His manners had been all that were perfect, and nothing could be faulted in his dress or conversation. He was so self-assured and admired that he’d been the focus of every gathering, and women flocked to him.

  Julia, like all those hopeless others, had been secretly in love with him, though she’d been far too shy and awkward to do anything about it. She’d still been very young at the age of seventeen, and it had been a terrible mistake for her parents to force her into a Season. Julia had understood their reasoning, of course; with four daughters to launch, getting the first and oldest married off as soon as possible was a necessity.

  But Julia had been far from ready for either society or men. Her body and mind had yet been immature, and she’d been cursed with spots. None of the eligible bachelors in London had taken a second—or even first—glance at her, and Julia had been wretched through every ball, dance, assembly, and dinner that she’d dutifully attended. Wretched, save for her one furtive pleasure: watching handsome Niclas Seymour as he smiled and danced, dreaming that it was she whom he was laughing and dancing with.

  She had known him at a glance those many years ago, even if he was walking down a street, some distance away, with his back turned to her. The very sight of him had made her heart beat with embarrassing quickness.

  But he was so changed, almost a different man. She could see nothing of his old, easy charm or self-assurance; indeed, when he stopped pacing and looked at them he appeared not to know how to proceed, although he surely had made hundreds of social calls in his life. The proper protocol should come as readily to him as it did to all of those who’d been raised in families like theirs.

  “Mister Seymour,” Lady Eunice said calmly when he made no attempt to either bow or acknowledge their arrival. “I don’t believe you’ve ever been formally introduced to my niece Miss Linley, though I’m sure she will be familiar to you. You share many acquaintances in society. Julia, this is Mister Nicla
s Seymour, cousin to Earl Graymar, whom you know well.”

  It was perfectly clear by his expression that she wasn’t familiar to him at all. With her heart in her mouth, Julia curtsied and murmured, “Mister Seymour.”

  He said nothing, but stared at her in an openly confounded manner for a long, silent moment before at last making her a very awkward bow. Straightening, he took up staring again, first at Julia, then at Lady Eunice, then at Julia. Still he said nothing.

  Julia and her aunt exchanged looks, then moved together a bit farther into the room.

  “You are very kind to visit,” her ladyship said politely, if not with actual pleasure. “Won’t you please make yourself comfortable while I ring for tea?”

  “I’ll stand,” he said stiffly, adding, as an afterthought, “Thank you. You ladies please . . . sit and be comfortable.” He waved a hand to indicate the nearby chairs.

  Julia and her aunt exchanged looks again. Their guest appeared to be confused about whose house he was in, and whose duty it was to invite anyone to sit.

  Lady Eunice was renowned as a hostess in London, but she was also famous as a stickler for propriety. Julia divined what her aunt was going to say and, before her ladyship could utter a syllable that she would surely later regret, took her by the arm and guided Lady Eunice toward a favorite chair. “Yes, do sit and be comfortable, Aunt. I’ll ring for tea. Excuse me a moment.”

  As she walked across the room to the bellpull, she could feel Niclas Seymour’s gaze fixed upon her, and wondered whether he stared because he found her attractive or horrible. Or, perhaps, and far more likely, he was trying to recall when, and whether, they had ever met.

  He continued to stare even after she had ordered the tea and returned to sit opposite her aunt. Still he seemed disinclined to say anything, but only gazed at Julia in a perplexed and disturbing manner.

  Lady Eunice cleared her throat loudly, drawing his attention.

  “We’ve had the pleasure of Lord Graymar’s company several times in the past month. He has agreed to help us with a certain family difficulty. I believe you must be aware what it is I speak of.”

  “I am,” he replied, casting another troubled glance at Julia. “Miss Linley’s proposed journey to Wales is precisely what I came to speak to you about. I—” He broke off and briefly set a hand to his head, shutting his eyes as if he had an ache. “I understand your feelings, Lady Eunice, but I assure you that your apprehensions are misplaced. I’m not here to talk you out of the journey or the attempt to rein in my uncle—God alone knows he needs it from time to time. I’ve come to suggest myself as a replacement.” He appeared to cringe slightly. “What I mean to say is,” he said, dropping his hand and looking directly at her ladyship, “I should like to take Lord Graymar’s place in escorting your niece to Wales.”

  Niclas knew that he would never, in his life, forget the expressions on the faces of the ladies before him. The elder one both looked and felt shocked and horrified, but the younger—her eyes widened with surprise and various other emotions, yet he could feel nothing.

  The uncomfortable realization rushed over him again as he helplessly stared at her. He couldn’t feel her. Nothing. Not even a small measure. None of her thoughts or feelings were revealed to him at all, and that was impossible. Impossible.

  With exceptions.

  Niclas felt the emotions of those he was near unless they were in some way related by magic. All who were descended of those families who had so long ago been banished from their original world were immune to such minor gifts as he possessed. And that meant that Julia Linley either possessed magic, or . . . or there had to be some other cause that he wasn’t aware of. And Malachi would have warned him if she was one of them.

  Wouldn’t he?

  It would help if Niclas could recall having met Julia Linley before. Considering their families and the society they moved in, it was more than likely that their paths had crossed numerous times. Yet he couldn’t believe that he would ever forget meeting a woman as beautiful as she was. That would be just as impossible as the fact that he couldn’t feel her emotions.

  Julia Linley was far too striking for a man to forget, regardless of how many years might pass. Her hair was a soft mixture of gold and brown, and had been arranged in such a manner that long, delicate tendrils curled attractively about her elegant face, framing cool blue eyes that were presently gazing up at him as if striving to discover exactly what sort of creature he was. She was delicate, and very feminine, and disturbingly alluring.

  No. Niclas would not have forgotten such a woman.

  If his mind hadn’t been on edge before he began his visit at Linley House, it certainly was now. And Lady Eunice’s piercing emotions weren’t helping any. He’d already stepped far wrong by commenting aloud on what he had sensed of her feelings. She thought him bordering on madness, and hid her fear very well with the politeness that had been bred in her. He had no doubt that Miss Linley felt the same. Not that Niclas blamed them; he was inching closer each day to that very destination.

  Why couldn’t he feel Julia Linley’s emotions? If she and he were somehow related, even if very distantly, would performing a good deed for her still remove the blood curse? No special powers could be used in making recompense—on either side. If she possessed magic, even a small measure . . . Niclas tamped down the unease rising within and forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Later, he would have the luxury of pondering the matter, and of seeking Malachi’s opinion.

  He had to make a good impression. This was his last chance, and Niclas wasn’t going to lose it. Ignoring their shocked expressions, he shut his eyes and strove to recall what it meant to be a gentleman of the ton. It had once been so easy for him. More than easy. He’d been admired, cosseted, sought after, praised. And he’d been so insufferably vain about his own perfection that he’d taken all of it in stride.

  If only he could call back his old self for a few minutes. Just long enough to convince Lady Eunice and her distractingly lovely niece to grant his request. It had been so easy, once, to be Niclas Seymour. So incredibly easy . . .

  “I understand,” he began, considering each word carefully, “why the idea of such an exchange may be alarming to you, but if you’ll only give me a few moments to explain, I believe I may succeed in recommending myself to you both.”

  Lady Eunice’s feelings fairly shouted themselves at him, saying, clearly, “not in this lifetime or the next.” Her features, however, were fixed into a frigidly polite expression.

  Julia Linley, on the other hand, appeared to be genuinely curious. He wished he could sense whether her feelings were the same.

  Clearing his throat, Niclas forged on.

  “The trouble, as I understand it, is that my uncle, Baron Tylluan, has been threatening to force his widowed neighbor into marriage. The woman in question is, I believe, closely related to you, Lady Eunice. Is that not so?”

  “My sister.” Lady Eunice’s voice was tight with repressed anger. “Alice. She was married to Sir Hueil Morgan until he died five years ago. Morgan’s estate neighbors your uncle’s.”

  Niclas knew that he had to proceed delicately. “My uncle is a scoundrel. There can be no denying the truth of that. Nothing can possibly excuse his determination to wed your sister by force. However, I have also heard that Lady Alice hasn’t been entirely . . . aversetohis attentions.”

  Julia Linley uttered a feminine laugh that sent a shiver of delight tingling along Niclas’s spine.

  “You are delicate, sir,” she said, smiling up at him. “The truth is that she has been his mistress since six months after Sir Hueil died. She has never, however, wished to be made his wife, and upon this point she has been most clear.”

  “I see,” said Niclas, distracted by the peculiarly strong fury emanating from Lady Eunice. Other emotions were at play, as well, and equally powerful. Envy, regret, and pain.

  “Yes,” Lady Eunice said, staring fixedly at the fire, though he knew she was seeing something els
e in her mind’s eye. “My sister has been so foolish as to become involved with Ffinian Seymour. It’s not so difficult a thing to understand, disgusting as all who know of it must find the relationship. They’re both widowed, after all, and neighbors. Such things happen,” she added with bitter disapproval. “But my sister has always been careless of society’s wiser dictates. If she’d had more sense, she never would have married that dreadful Hueil Morgan and ended up living in his godforsaken manor in such an uncivilized land with”—she lifted her head to spear him with a frigid gaze—“your wild relatives for neighbors.”

  “Aunt!” Julia reprimanded, her cheeks reddening further. “Mister Seymour has come to offer us his help, not to be insulted. Pray forgive us, sir,” she said with a sincerity that Niclas found most charming. “It’s merely the strain of the situation. We have been terribly worried about Lady Alice, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  “Indeed, I do,” he replied. “I am fully aware of my uncle’s reputation for scandal and mayhem. He and his two sons, my cousins, have long been a prickly thorn in our family tree.”

  “Well,” she conceded delicately, “we have heard rumors . . .”

  “They are not rumors,” Lady Eunice stated firmly, “and I’m sure that Mister Seymour would not pretend otherwise.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Niclas agreed, wondering if she was referring to the time when Ffinian’s wild twins burned down a gaming hell, or the incident that started a tumultuous riot on the docks that lasted for nearly a full day before finally being quelled.

  “Clearly, then,” he said, “you understand what we’re up against. My uncle is far from likely to heed any requests set before him. He’ll certainly care nothing for what anyone outside the family thinks, and will give scant attention to what any of the Seymours has to say—including the earl.”

  “There’s no need to explain such things to me, sir,” Lady Eunice stated tightly. “I’ve known Ffinian Seymour longer than either you or the earl, indeed, well before either of you were born. I met him forty years past on the day my foolish sister wed that rakish Welsh lord of hers and took up residence in his estate, neighboring Castle Tylluan. I’ve had little pleasure in dealing with that man during my few visits to those wretched mountains. I know full well what he’ll do and say to those who try to counter him, but that”—she poked a long, elegant finger at him—“is the least of our worries. If that horrid man should make my sister wed him by force, the outcry among the ton will ruin both our family names. Now,” she went on, sitting back, “you just think a moment about what that will mean to your two young cousins who are about to have their first Season.”