by Liz Carlyle
Lord Sharpe laughed. “I daresay Xanthia would rather go shoot at something,” he said. “Feel free, my dear, if archery is more to your liking?”
“Perhaps Miss Neville would instead favor me with a walk along the river?” Nash suggested.
Lord Sharpe looked hesitant.
“I should love a good walk,” declared Miss Neville before Sharpe could refuse. “But a real walk, if you please, not a promenade. Louisa, shall we meet at the tent after the game?”
“Yes, of course,” said Lady Louisa, obviously pleased to have her way.
Her father, however, looked less pleased. “Very well, then,” he said. “You will stay near, Xanthia, will you not? In case—well, in case you are needed?”
Nash suspected his true meaning was something altogether less charitable. Miss Neville finally succumbed to a faint blush. Nash watched the group disperse to their various entertainments, and wondered what the devil he’d been thinking to suggest such a quixotic thing as a walk along the river. Good Lord, the woman was temptation personified—and she had no business being seen on his arm, even at such a benign affair as a picnic. But she had agreed, and she was not exactly green from the schoolroom. He might as well enjoy himself.
Nash let his eyes run appreciatively down Miss Neville. She had worn not pastel, thank God, but a dress striped in rich shades of blue and gray. Not a woman in a thousand could have pulled it off, but the gown beautifully emphasized her slenderness and height. “I do not think your cousin approves of me, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps you ought to take in that bowling match after all?”
“Thank you, no,” said Miss Neville, starting down the steps without him. “I mean to have that walk. Are you coming? Or shall I go alone?”
“Taking the air again, my dear?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I believe you once said that if you wished for a breath of fresh air, you would have it, and damn the consequences.”
She looked up at him, her deep blue eyes narrowing against the sun. “I cannot imagine the consequence of taking a turn up and down an open path in the middle of the afternoon will amount to much, my lord,” she returned. “Even if one is hanging off the arm of an unrepentant rake.”
“Ah, that is good news.” Nash smiled down at her.
“I beg your pardon?” she said again.
“It seems I have been elevated from dandy to rake,” he said. “My masculinity is much reassured.”
Her wide mouth twitched with humor. She extended her hand up to him. “Come along, Lord Nash,” she said. “And kindly do not poke fun at my limited vocabulary.”
True to her word, she set off downstream at a brisk pace as soon as they reached the path. Nash’s usual gravitas was somewhat undercut by her long stride. “Miss Neville, I thought you meant to hang off my arm,” he said when the crowd thinned. “You are moving as if all of London is afire, and you wish to watch it burn.”
She slowed at once. “I do beg your pardon,” she said, settling her hand just above his elbow. “But there are so many people here, and that makes the empty path beyond so very tempting.”
“The social whirl holds no attraction for you?” he asked, matching his steps to hers.
“Not especially,” she said. “At home in Barbados…well, society was not so rarefied as this. I feel a little out of place here.”
“You do not look out of place,” he said. “You look every inch a lady born to this life.”
Her gaze moved over his face, quickly assessing him. “You mean that as a compliment, I am sure,” she said. “But…”
“But what?” he encouraged.
“Frankly, I take little satisfaction from it,” she said. “This sort of life has so little purpose.”
“I see,” he said quietly. “You would rather…what? Work for the betterment of the underclasses? Run a charity school? Knit stockings for the poor?”
She laughed lightly. “Lord, no,” she said. “Not I!” But she offered no further explanation.
They walked in silence for a time, her hand lying light and warm on his arm. Nash found it surprisingly pleasant. On the river to their left, a pair of broad-shouldered scullers glided past, their oars glinting in perfect rhythm, the far boat ahead by half a length.
“What, then, would you rather do with your life, Miss Neville?” he finally prodded. “Retire to the country and raise a brood of children, perhaps?”
“No,” she answered. “No, Lord Nash, I am already doing what I please with my life.”
She stopped abruptly along the path, her gaze fixed on the scullers, but he sensed she was not really watching them. Nash glanced up and down the path. Though still well in sight of the house, they were the only guests this far downriver.
Finally, she cleared her throat, and resumed walking. “Lord Nash, did my brother tell you that we are quite wealthy?”
“I was made aware of that fact, yes.”
She smiled faintly. “The barony, of course, brings my brother a good income. But we have other interests as well.”
“Yes, you have plantations in Barbados, do you not?”
“But they are let now,” she said. “And my brother is at present without an occupation. We own a business—Neville Shipping Company. Have you heard of it?”
“I do not believe so.”
“No, I cannot think shipping is the sort of thing an English gentleman would much concern himself with,” she mused. “But we Nevilles, you see, have no such compunction. In fact, one might say we are more or less in trade.”
“Many gentlemen invest in such businesses, Miss Neville,” he said. “I own several mines; Lord Ogle, a railroad—or a part of one. You need not speak as if you and Rothewell are running a haberdashery. Where is your charming brother, by the way?”
She smiled faintly. “Sharpe stepped in for him at the last moment,” she answered. “Rothewell was much relieved.”
“Yes, he seems a private, almost secretive sort of man.”
“Indeed, very much so.” Her strong blue gaze turned to him again. “And I have a secret, too, my lord,” she said quietly. “May I depend upon you once again to keep my confidence?”
He laughed, though he wondered vaguely what she was getting at. “Pray tell me all your secrets, my dear,” he answered. “I should love to have you in my power.”
“Nash, do be serious,” she chided.
Nash inclined his head. “Of course you have my word, Miss Neville,” he said more seriously. “Pray what is this secret?”
Slowly, she leaned closer. “Neville Shipping is mine,” she whispered. “Oh, it is family-owned—but my brother leaves the running of it to me. And it is a very profitable concern, if one knows the tricks of the trade.”
“I see,” he said quietly. “And you…know all the tricks, do you?”
A slow, mischievous smile curved her wide mouth. “I am very good, Lord Nash, at everything I do,” she said. “Would it not shock these proper English ladies to know that tomorrow, whilst they are lying languidly in their beds at noon, awaiting their ladies’ maids and their hot chocolate, I will already be at my grimy little office in Wapping, rubbing shoulders with sea dogs and stevedores?”
She sounded entirely serious. “Surely you jest?”
Miss Neville lifted one of her dark, finely arched brows, and spoke with surprising passion. “Not in the least,” she answered. “Indeed, were it left to me, everyone would be gainfully employed.”
“Dear God!” he said. “Perish the thought, Miss Neville.”
“I am quite serious,” she insisted. “This insidious rot of living only to be served by others, this…this utter lack of drive or ambition—well, is it any wonder half the ton suffer from chronic ennui? Their lives have no challenge. No purpose.”
“And your life does?” he asked. “I mean, I do not doubt you, my dear. But what is that purpose?”
Despite the bright sun, her eyes glinted with excitement. “Commerce,” she said. “Enterprise. The thrill and the
challenge of competition—financial competition. These are the things that move the world, Lord Nash, not the foolish intrigues of the ton, no matter how blindly they might think otherwise.”
He chuckled quietly. “They will be crushed, my dear, to hear it.”
Miss Neville lifted her slender shoulders beneath the rich fabric of her gown. “Oh, they will realize soon enough that the reign of upper-class elitists is coming to an end,” she said. “We are entering a new age, Nash. An age of progress and industrialization. And England will change—much as America has done—into a nation of self-made men and women.”
They stood opposite one another now, his eyes intently studying her. “Good Lord,” he finally said. “You are not just another pretty face, are you?”
“No, I am a businesswoman,” she said with icy certainty. “And my allegiance is to the bottom line on Neville’s financial statement, not some silly ideal of blue-blooded Crown and country.”
He took her arm then and drew her near. “Careful, my dear,” he murmured, his eyes drifting over her face. “Those words sound faintly treasonous.”
Her chin came up, and her eyes sparkled. “My God, Nash. Are you a high-stickler after all?”
Nash shook his head. “No, but nor am I a rash fool.”
Miss Neville seemed to relax a little. “You are quite right to be careful,” she answered. “But sometimes I despair of not having moved this business to America. England’s taxation policies have become onerous, and the political restrictions placed on our business are…ah, but enough of this. I shall bore you unforgivably.”
“I rather doubt you could ever do that, Miss Neville,” he said. “You might shock me, perhaps, with your laissez-faire notions. And you understand, do you not, that it is considered most unseemly for a woman of your class to espouse such ideas, let alone engage in business?”
She cast a curious, sidelong glance in his direction. “But do you find it unseemly, Lord Nash?” she asked. “Or are you intrigued by it? Are you put off by a woman who rejects the traditional role of wife in favor of personal and economic freedom?”
Nash was taken aback by the clarity her words. Was that what she was? And was he put off? It was a valid, if strange question. “I am not sure,” he answered honestly. “I did not realize your views went so far as to cast aside that more traditional role.”
“Come, Nash, you must never lie to a lady,” she said sardonically. “Of course you realized it. Otherwise, you would not be walking arm in arm with me. You are hardly in the market for a wife.”
“Indeed not. But what has that to do with anything?”
“You invited an unattached, ostensibly eligible female to stroll with you in front of half the ton,” she answered. “Surely you comprehend the implication of your act?” She paused to turn around on the path. “Look, we are now out of sight of the others. But you do not care, because you already know, Nash, that your ‘most prized asset’—your beloved bachelorhood—is safe with me.”
Nash stared down the length of the river behind them and realized that she was right. He was not concerned. Moreover, Miss Neville was perhaps the one woman here with whom he could be himself. And, distracted by the heat of their debate, he had forgotten to keep his guard up. They had long ago left the grounds of Henslow House. He reluctantly acknowledged that it was time to turn around.
“There was a little bench beneath the trees some distance back,” he said. “Why do we not return to it?”
“A return to the bounds of propriety?” she teased.
“I am trying to show concern for your virtue, Miss Neville, much as it surprises me,” he said dryly. “I suppose that the ruin of your good name is a guilt I should rather not live with.”
“How very patronizing of you, Nash,” she complained. “I believe you did not listen to a word I said.”
“I listened,” he returned. “But you are very young, my dear. And there is always Lady Louisa to consider.”
Miss Neville’s expressive face fell just a little. “I will own, Nash, that you are right about my young cousin,” she confessed. “I wish to do nothing which might wrongly influence her, or hinder her chance at a good marriage. But I am almost thirty. I am not very young.”
“My goodness, all of that, are you?” he said, smiling down at her. “You are a well-preserved specimen for such a great age. Have you all your teeth still?”
“You are teasing me, sir,” she chided. “You think I will still end up at the altar when all is said and done. But consider this, Nash: Why should I subjugate myself to a man when I am perfectly capable of managing on my own?”
“You have your brother,” he challenged. “Legally, it is he who is responsible for you.”
“Come now, Nash,” she said with a muted smile. “For all his harsh ways and blunt tongue, it would never occur to Kieran that it was his duty to govern me. You must understand how we grew up. And that in Barbados, women often own businesses. They travel unaccompanied, and even quietly take lovers if they wish.”
“Do they indeed?” he murmured. What was Miss Neville suggesting?
Nash’s mind turned back to his meeting in Lord Rothewell’s study. The views Rothewell had expressed then were very much in keeping with Miss Neville’s now. But he had suggested something else, too. “Actually, my dear, it was your brother who implied that you might soon marry.”
She jerked at once to a halt. “Did he? Good Lord. I thought he’d given up that notion.”
“Apparently not,” said Nash. “Is there a gentleman pining for your hand?”
Miss Neville shifted her gaze back to the river. “There once was, perhaps,” she answered. “But we have agreed we do not suit. My brother is naive if he thinks that will ever change.”
“Nonetheless, the man still wishes to marry you.”
She flicked an uncertain gaze in his direction. “How would you know?”
“I think, Miss Neville, that once a man had fallen in love with you, he would be hard-pressed to fall out of it again,” said Nash in a lightly teasing voice. “I believe I shall keep my distance from you, my dear. I suffer my frustrations with little enough grace as it is.”
“Heavens!” she said. “Have you a great many?”
“Frustrations?” He looked down at her, and took in her intelligent face and the expanse of ivory skin which revealed just a hint of what he already knew was a lush, enticing bosom. Hell yes, he was frustrated. But what the devil was he to do about it now? If he were going to seduce Miss Neville, he could at least do her the courtesy of seducing her in private. Against his will, Nash felt his mouth quirk with humor. “Yes, I have one or two frustrations, Miss Neville. And your hip brushing against mine from time to time is not helping them any.”
Xanthia did not miss the innuendo. Her steps faltered just an instant, and at once, Nash’s warm, steady hand slipped beneath her elbow. She flicked a quick glance up at him. The heat in his gaze was unmistakable, and once again she was struck with the strangest notion that she was staring into the eyes of a kindred spirit. Another soul who was drifting, perhaps, and living a life which was somehow incomplete.
But what romantic drivel that was! She was wasting her chance. This was the perfect opportunity to learn more about Nash. To assess his character and attempt to find out if he was the man de Vendenheim believed him. To give him just a little rope and see if he was inclined to hang himself. She looked up to see the stone bench just beyond. It faced the water and was flanked by willows. It was private, yes—but not quite hidden, either. It was, in fact, quite perfect. The terraced lawns were just coming into view around the bend, and above, she could already hear the laughter from Lady Henslow’s makeshift archery range.
She said nothing until they were comfortably situated on the bench. “There!” she said, carefully neatening the folds of her skirt. “This is quite nicely secluded, is it not? We may be seen, perhaps, from the lawns—but only our backs.”
“Your words suggest we’ve something to hide,” he teased.
“Have we?” Xanthia dropped her eyes to the faint bulge in his trousers and, tossing caution aside, leaned into Lord Nash and very deliberately set her hand on his knee.
His eyes lit with an inscrutable emotion. “Miss Neville, I beg you to be careful.”
She let her lashes fall nearly shut. “We cannot be seen from this angle,” she whispered. “Besides, it was you, Nash, who first spoke of your frustrations, was it not?”
He sat as stoically as was humanly possible under the circumstance, his eyes fixed intently on her slender, tempting fingers. To his extreme torment, she eased them higher. “Christ Jesus,” he gritted. “I am trying to be a gentleman, Miss Neville. But someone is going to see you.”
“Oh dear, you might be right,” she murmured. But instead of moving her hand, she merely scooted a little nearer. “There, I think they cannot see now.”
He looked at her a little grimly. “That was not quite what I meant.”
“Nonetheless, it solves the problem,” she said. The ridge of his erection was straining against the fine wool of his trousers.
Shamelessly tempted, Xanthia wondered how it would feel to stroke the hot, hard length of Lord Nash’s obviously stiffening manhood. Somehow, she stilled her hand and squeezed her eyes shut. Fleetingly, she forgot her purpose—forgot completely what de Vendenheim had asked of her—and thought only of what it would be like to lie pinned beneath Lord Nash’s weight. To have that warm, spicy scent of his settle over her like a sensuous cloud. To take the heat and strength of him deep inside, and—
“My dear Miss Neville,” he murmured. “I think now is not the time and place.”
Her eyes flew open, and she realized her hand was inching toward a most dangerous position. “When?” The word came out low and husky. “When, Nash, would be the time and place?”
“In another lifetime, I fear,” he responded. “It would be unwise of you to tempt me in this one.”
Xanthia smiled lightly. “But there is something undeniable between us, Nash,” she murmured. “A simmering heat which keeps flaring to life when we are near. Tell me you do not feel it.”
