The water must be very cold, but that wouldn’t bother Ian. He’d liked to swim at Kilgorn, where the loch was frigid. He’d try to lure her in to join him, but she’d only go if the day was very warm. Even then she could never last long.
She tilted her face to the sun, a smile curving her lips. Mmm. When she had gone swimming, Ian had been very, very good at warming her once they came out of the water. They’d lie on a blanket in the sun and heather, a slight breeze teasing their hot, entwined limbs, and make love till the chill of dusk finally sent them inside.
How she had loved him. He had been her life until she’d lost their baby. After that—well, her heart had been as cold as the loch, too cold for the sun or Ian to warm.
Was it still?
He was swimming toward the shore. He’d be getting out in just a few minutes. She would see—
What was that? A twig snapping? She looked to her left. A path climbed up through the trees and at its top, about twenty-five yards away, was Lady Grace.
The girl couldn’t see Ian! Grace was unwed and, well, Nell did not want yet another woman seeing her husband—her estranged husband—naked.
Ian was still swimming. She had time to intercept Lady Grace. She darted out from behind the willow and hurried up to meet her.
“Lady Grace, how lovely to see you.”
Lady Grace smiled. “Lady Kilgorn. I was looking for you.”
“You were?” What could the woman want with her? She took her arm and directed her back the way she’d come. “You must call me Nell.”
“Nell, then. I”—Lady Grace cleared her throat—“I was wondering…Well, I wanted to…You see, I thought perhaps…”
Nell frowned. What was this? “Yes? Is there something of a particular nature you wish to speak to me about?”
Grace looked distinctly relieved. “Yes. That is, if you don’t mind…if you don’t find me impertinent.”
“Impertinent? Of course not.” What could this be about? She was sure she’d exchanged no more than a handful of pleasantries with Lady Grace since they’d met yesterday. Why was she seeking her out?
“You see, I am struggling with an issue. I can’t ask my aunt since she has problems of her own, but I need the advice of an older, experienced woman.”
“Ah.” That was all Nell could manage to say. Older and experienced? There could be only three or four years between them. She swallowed, trying to gather her scattered wits. “And this issue would be…?”
“Love.” Lady Grace blurted out the word and then turned bright red.
“Oh.”
Apparently that little four-letter word was the plug that, ejected, opened the floodgates.
“Yes, love. I don’t know what to do. Lord Dawson has been very attentive, and I lo—like him very much, but my father hates him.”
Not a small problem. “Does your father have a good reason for his feelings?” Nell would not have thought Lord Dawson a blackguard, but then what did she know? “Sometimes men are more aware than we of another man’s background and”—how to say this?—“unsavory habits.”
Lady Grace shook her head. “I’m sure Papa knows nothing about Da—Lord Dawson. He’s never met him.”
“What?” Well, perhaps an actual meeting wasn’t necessary. Reputations did precede people. “Why do you think your father hates the man? Perhaps you are mistaken.”
“Oh, no, I am not mistaken. Papa would definitely hate Da—Lord Dawson if he knew about him. He hates all Wiltons on principle for something that happened years ago when Papa was young.”
“Oh.” A family feud à la Romeo and Juliet, perhaps. However entertaining the play might be, it would not act well in real life. “That doesn’t seem particularly enlightened.”
“No, it isn’t, but Papa isn’t particularly enlightened. He’s stubborn and opinionated and, well, somewhat overbearing. But he is my father. My mother died when I was very young, so it’s been just the two of us for such a long time.” Lady Grace’s voice caught slightly. “I love him. I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Grace glanced at Nell and then looked away. “He’s arranged for me to marry a neighbor.” She might have been talking of darning socks, she sounded so unenthusiastic.
“Is the neighbor old and fat?”
Grace laughed. “Oh, no. John is perfectly presentable. Quite unexceptional. He would make someone an excellent husband.”
“But not you.”
“No, um, that is he would make me an excel—a suitable husband. I do like him when he’s not prosing on about his plants.”
“Hmm. Are you certain you can’t discuss this with Lady Oxbury? She did bring you to London for the Season. She must have had in mind finding you a more appropriate husband.”
Lady Grace shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no. Definitely not. As I said, Aunt Kate has troubles of her own, not that she has shared them with me. But something is amiss between her and Lord Dawson’s uncle, Mr. Wilton.”
“I see.” They were almost back to the house and Nell still had no clue why Lady Grace was telling her any of this. “Well, you must know that I am not one to give advice of a marital nature.”
“But that is exactly why I wanted to speak to you, Lady Kilgorn. I mean, I don’t wish to pry, but, well, married love…it doesn’t last, does it? It’s not important for contentment?” Lady Grace frowned. “I don’t have the experience of my parents to advise me since my mother died when I was so young, but from what I know of Aunt Kate’s marriage, she rubbed along tolerably well with Lord Oxbury even though she didn’t love him. And looking around the ton—there just aren’t that many love matches.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to London.” The house was very close now. Could she break into a run and end this uncomfortable conversation?
“But—I know it is none of my concern, I am fully aware of that, but…was yours a love match, Lady Kilgorn?”
“Yes.” There had been no question of that. She’d been completely, insanely in love with Ian as perhaps only a seventeen-year-old girl could be. He’d been almost a god to her—certainly a hero. She’d been blind to all his faults…as he’d been blind to hers. She’d never doubted he’d loved her. And if life had been different…
But life was as it was.
“And so love isn’t enough.” Lady Grace gave her a sad little smile. “I thought so.”
“Perhaps.” They were at the door now. Nell put her hand out to stop Grace. “But it is a lot. I still love my husband.” It was true. The love was tangled with hurt and disappointment, but it was still there.
“And yet you have no real marriage.” Grace touched Nell’s hand lightly. “I don’t mean to criticize. I thank you most sincerely for your candor. Only, I don’t believe I could live your life. I would be too lonely.”
Ah. Loneliness. Now that was something Nell could speak about with authority.
Ian cut his venison into precise pieces. The lake’s ice-cold water had helped clarify his thinking. He had made his decision. He would get through this damn house party and then he would see about starting divorce proceedings.
He stared down at his dinner plate. He had no appetite. He slanted a look to his right. Nell appeared to be similarly afflicted. She was ignoring her meal entirely.
He glanced around the table. In fact, very little food was being consumed. Well, Motton and his aunt were doing a credible job on their dinners and the Addison twins were heaping their plates with second helpings—not to mention Mr. Boland’s single-minded attention to his victuals—but Wilton and Lady Oxbury, Dawson and Lady Grace were exercising their forks much as he and Nell were—using them to push their food from one side of their dish to the other.
He took a sip of wine. He was not going to touch a drop of whisky tonight. He was going up to that bloody room stone sober. He brought a forkful of venison to his mouth—and then returned it to his plate. He felt like he had a rock in his stomach.
He didn’t want to
divorce Nell, but what could he do? He needed an heir. They had no real marriage—and now no hope of one. He’d trampled his chances good and well last night.
He sneered at his green beans. He hadn’t thought he was so stupid.
“Is something amiss with your vegetables, Lord Kilgorn? I hope you didn’t find a twig or other indigestible bit. The kitchen maids occasionally get to gossiping and don’t pay as strict attention to their task as they should.” Miss Smyth leaned forward, pointing her fork at his plate as if she intended to pick through his beans herself to ascertain that all was well.
He held his knife ready to beat back—or at least nudge away—her utensil if necessary. “No, no, there is nothing amiss. The beans are fine. Perfect.” It certainly wasn’t the kitchen’s fault everything tasted like ashes tonight.
“Are you sure? You’ve hardly touched your dinner.”
Good God, Miss Smyth sounded like his nursery maid. “I assure you, madam, the dinner is fine. I merely lack an appetite to do it justice.”
“You aren’t sickening, are you?”
He should say yes, but the woman actually looked concerned. “No, I am merely tired.” He smiled. “I’m sure I’ll sleep better and my appetite will return when you’ve been able to find me another bedchamber.”
Damn. Miss Smyth’s eyes lit up. Was that a sly gleam of mischief he discerned? Surely she wasn’t going to make some salacious comment about lack of sleep and sharing a bed with Nell? It looked very much as if she was going to. She opened her mouth and horror gripped his soul.
“Miss Smyth, can I trouble you to pass the sweetbreads?”
Thank God for Miss Addison—whichever one it was. He would have sworn he’d never thank the Almighty for gracing the world with either of the annoying chits, but this one’s request could not have come at a better moment. Miss Smyth paused, shrugged, and grasped the requested dish.
“Of course, Miss Addison. I’m so happy someone has a lusty appetite.”
Nell started choking.
“Are you all right?” Should he pound her on the back? He lifted his hand, but she raised hers to deter him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered when she stopped gasping. “I’m afraid a mouthful of wine went down the wrong way. I’m fine now.” She returned her attention to artfully arranging her French beans.
Damn. Her face was politely expressionless. She’d shut him out again.
If only he could turn back the clock. When she’d been young, she’d been so full of joy, of life, she couldn’t hold it in. He’d been drawn to her—all the lads had. But he’d been the laird…
He speared another morsel of venison. No, it hadn’t been his position that had given him her favor. Well, his position might have made the other lads back off when they’d seen he wanted her, but Nell herself had not cared, would not have cared had he been the lowest stable boy. She had loved him for himself.
He forced himself to chew the damn meat. It could have been shoe leather for all he knew.
When Nell had loved him, he’d felt stronger, smarter, quicker. Happier.
“Lord Kilgorn, would you care for some potatoes?”
“No, thank you, Miss Smyth.”
Why in God’s name had she lost the baby? She’d been young and healthy. She shouldn’t have had any problems. There’d been no warning. Just the cramping and then the blood.
He reached for his wineglass and took a large swallow. That was a day he never wanted to relive. She’d cried and cried as if her heart had broken. He’d felt so damn helpless.
He shoved another tasteless bit of food in his mouth and chewed mechanically.
He’d been able to think of only one solution—to give her another child—and she’d rejected that. More than rejected. She’d screamed at him, sobbed…He’d felt like a complete monster.
And then last night…
He speared a bean and shoved it into his mouth.
She’d seemed interested at first—surely he’d not been so drunk as to be mistaken in that. More than interested. She’d taken his cock in her hand…. Zeus, that had felt good. Her tentative fingers, then the silky soft brush of her cheek, the delicate sweep of her tongue—
“Lord Kilgorn, would you like some sweetbreads?”
“Wha—?” Miss Smyth was blinking at him and holding a plate of…“No, no thank you, Miss Smyth. Really, I don’t need anything else. I am quite satisfied.”
The woman’s damn eyebrow flew up and she looked pointedly at Nell. If there was a God in heaven, Nell would still be studying her plate. His faith was not strong enough to look.
“Oh, I doubt you’re satisfied, my lord.”
A certain part of his anatomy, thankfully hidden by the tabletop, agreed with her most vehemently.
CHAPTER 7
She was hiding. All right, she admitted it. She was a coward.
Nell pulled the covers up higher and tried to find a comfortable position. The maids must have filled the mattress with rocks during the day.
She flopped onto her back and stared up at the canopy. She had to get to sleep—she did not want to be awake when Ian came up. With luck he’d be as late as last night—and not as drunk.
How many more days were left to this infernal house party? She could hardly wait to go home.
A sharp lump dug into the small of her back. She turned onto her side and tugged on the covers again.
Oh, why lie? She didn’t want to go back to Pentforth Hall, and she surely did not want to go back to Mr. Pennington’s amorous advances.
She turned over onto her stomach. If Ian truly thought she was engaging in such activities with the man, why had he allowed the disgusting toad to retain his position?
The answer was painfully obvious—he didn’t care. He was completely indifferent to the possibility that his estranged wife was trysting with his estate manager.
And she wasn’t crying. She was angry, that was all.
She wiped her face on her pillow. She had to go to sleep before Ian arrived.
Perhaps he’d decided to keep Lord Dawson company. The baron had looked completely forlorn after Lady Grace left the drawing room. Was the girl right to marry her neighbor? She obviously loved Lord Dawson—and he loved her.
Yes, indeed. Without a doubt, Lady Grace was being very wise. Love didn’t guarantee happiness. She had loved Ian beyond all reason, and here she was, in this hellish limbo, married, yet not. Love was far more trouble than it was worth.
She turned to her back once more. Surely she could find a position comfortable enough to let her drop off to sleep?
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, but sleep still eluded her.
Perhaps the problem wasn’t so much a lumpy mattress as a, well, lumpy conscience. Was it really love causing her misery—or was it fear? Was she afraid to let Ian back into her heart and risk the pain of conceiving and losing another child?
Yes. Yes, she was afraid. And it was too late now. If only she had reined in her temper last night, when lust had drowned out the terror—
Was that the doorknob turning? Dear God. She lifted her head to stare at the door. He couldn’t be coming up this early, could he? It wasn’t possible—
Yes, it was. The door creaked open. She shut her eyes, dropping her head onto the pillow. If she couldn’t sleep, she’d pretend to. She heard some rustling…
“I know you’re awake, Nell.” The voice had come from very close by.
Her eyes flew open. “Ack!” The man was standing right next to the bed, his chest naked for all the world to see. Or at least for her to see. The candlelight turned his skin golden and gilded the fine hair curling over his chest, over his belly, down to—
At least he still had his breeches on.
“I was asleep.”
His damn eyebrow arched up. She’d never been able to lie to him successfully.
“What are you doing here?”
He smiled slightly. “Isn’t it obvious? Getting ready for bed.”
“Bed?” Her voi
ce squeaked. She tried to take a calming breath. “You don’t really mean to…you aren’t going to…” Another breath. “You don’t plan to share this b-bed with me, do you?”
She should try for a little courage, but her heart was pounding too quickly for her to think.
“Actually, I do.” He glanced away. “As I discovered last night, the floor is quite uncomfortable.”
“Well—” Nell glanced at the other pillow. It was much, much too close. The bed was just too small.
“Unless you’d like to take a turn on the floor? I warn you, though, Motton desperately needs to replace the carpet. It is rather thin.”
Nell looked down at the rug. “N-no…”
“I didn’t think so.” Ian shrugged. His muscles shifted in a very distracting fashion. She wanted to touch him exactly as she had last night.
Dear heavens. Well, it was his own fault, parading about without a stitch of cloth covering his chest. There were reasons men—polite men—kept their shirts on. Well, men like Ian. Pennington was a different case entirely. The thought of his scrawny chest stripped of shirt, waistcoat, and coat stirred the senses in a completely different—a completely unpleasant—manner.
What if she rolled over in the middle of the night and landed up against Ian? What if her face touched his warm chest; what if her bare hand found his smooth, strong back? What if—
What if she just threw herself at him right now?
How brazen could she be? She wanted to cradle the lovely organ she’d touched last night. She wanted to feel it deep inside her. She shivered.
“Are you cold, Nell?”
“N-no.”
“Hmm. Actually, you look rather flushed. You aren’t sickening, are you?”
Would he sleep on the floor if she said she was? “Yes, yes, I suppose I might be.”
Dear God, he put his hand on her forehead and then on her cheeks. His fingers were large and slightly rough. “You don’t feel hot.”
She certainly did. It was a wonder his hand didn’t burst into flame. “Uh.” She should say something…what? “Um.” She pulled her head back, breaking their contact.
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