***
Fastidiously dressed young women. Serenity. Order. Etiquette. Punctuality. Femininity. Propriety. As Louisa Nisdale watched a young woman glide out of the receiving room, she felt her skin crawl. Mrs. Stockdale’s exclusive girl’s school in Oxford was the epitome of everything that Louisa Nisdale abhorred in society. As a young girl, her parents had never had the means of sending her to such a place, but even if she had been blessed with a fortune, a school such as this would have killed her the very first day.
Hiding her contempt behind a honeyed smile, Louisa listened and tried not to gag at Mrs. Stockdale’s speech about the seemingly endless virtues of the academy. She had wanted to meet with the pedantic old fool the day before, but the schoolmistress’s schedule had not permitted it. Apparently, a dinner engagement with Reverend Somebody or Other simply couldn’t be broken!
Annoying as it was to have to stay over in the dusty old university town, the wait actually had done Louisa a great deal of good, though, as she’d been able to question the innkeeper’s wife where she was forced to take rooms for the night. Apparently, she learned, Mrs. Stockdale was not particularly susceptible to bullying, but neither would a direct approach get Louisa any of the information she wanted from the old battle-axe. Pretence was the name of the game—a game in which Louisa Nisdale just happened to be a master.
“So how old did you say that your daughter is now, Lady Nisdale?”
Louisa smiled with just the right blend of haughtiness and sociability. “The little dear is only five! Too young to be sent to you, of course, but hearing so much of your excellence in teaching from my dear friends, I…”
“Five is not too young!” the gray-haired woman asserted. “Although we do not, as a rule, take children so young, we have had a number of girls sent to us over the years. Of course, they have come with private governesses and the like. Nonetheless, because life presents us with so many hardships, we try to remain open to the needs of our families. You know…cases of mothers passing away at birth, widowed fathers who are in service of the king and cannot see after--”
“Indeed. I assure you my situation does not call for any exceptions. As I was saying, I was simply intrigued by your school, having heard such generous praise from a number of your past students.”
“My girls are my best reference, Lady Nisdale.”
“Well said.” Louisa pushed a crimped curl into place. “Why, just a couple of days ago, I was visiting Melbury Hall and Lady Wentworth…” Perceiving a blank expression from the schoolmistress, Louisa added, “She was Miss Millicent Gregory as a pupil here.”
“Of course! Of course! Naturally, I remember Miss Gregory quite well.”
“Well, Lady Wentworth told me a great deal about her days here at your dear academy. Why, she went on and on about the excellent education that she received here, and about the friends that she’d made. In fact, one young woman’s name specifically was mentioned again and again. What was it? Rebecca…a good friend of Miss Gregory’s…I mean, Lady Wentworth’s. Rebecca…hmmm…” Louisa rested a hand against her brow and glanced up distressingly at the high ceiling. “I am losing my mind. The name was Rebecca…”
“Neville?”
“That is it!” Louisa smiled brightly. “Rebecca Neville! Lady Wentworth spoke a great deal about her dear old friend Miss Neville and how sad it was that after leaving your good school she lost touch with her dear friend.”
A reflective expression clouded the woman’s wrinkled face, and she stared toward the open window of the room.
“But that is life, is it not, Mrs. Stockdale? Our most carefree days are the ones when we are young. Marriage, social responsibilities, children…all designed, it seems, to tear us from those we once held so dear.” Louisa thought herself quite clever to come up with such balderdash. “My dear friend Lady Wentworth—after hearing that I was coming here—was insistent that I should inquire after Miss Neville. She was quite curious to know where her old classmate might be.”
Louisa placed her hands demurely in her lap and waited, but Mrs. Stockdale continued to frown out the window.
“Lady Wentworth is so eager to arrange for a reunion,” she prompted. “If you could shed some light on where Miss Neville has come to reside since leaving your fine care. Or anything…”
“I am very sorry, Lady Nisdale.” The woman’s sharp eyes turned on Louisa’s face. “But I realize I should not have divulged even the name of Miss Neville. You see, I am most sensitive to my former pupils’ privacy. But having said as much, perhaps we could direct our interview away from Lady Wentworth’s curiosity, and instead discuss any questions you might have about the arrangements for your own daughter. This is the reason for your visit, Lady Nisdale…is it not?”
***
When the two men rode out of the darkness, reining in their steeds before the walls of Solgrave, shouts and servants with torches and grooms running from every direction marked their arrival.
“Do you believe horrible moods are hereditary?” Sir Nicholas Spencer climbed down from his horse and tossed the reins to the waiting stableman. He glanced at his friend’s brooding expression and followed him toward the door. “I can see you choose not to answer. Very well! Do you believe ghastly moods are contagious?”
The long strides of the baronet matched the earl’s. “By ’sblood, Stanmore, you must answer this one. After spending so many hours in your insufferable company today, I must know if my highly enviable charm is seriously threatened.”
“As usual, Nicholas, your timing is appalling.”
Nicholas glanced ahead at the open door. Two stewards and the housekeeper were standing on marble steps, ready to receive their master. “You might have told me this was a bad time for a social visit.”
“I did tell you this was a bad time for a visit, several times!”
“Well, I suppose you did, now that you mention it! But as your most devoted friend, Stanmore, I know it to be my responsibility to ignore even your threats…and I do recall a threat or two! Nonetheless, it is my sworn duty to badger you until such time as you have left behind your deplorably unfashionable gloom.”
“Spare me your charity!”
Nicholas ignored the retort, instead exchanging pleasantries with the housekeeper as the earl spoke with his stewards. The London ton was absolutely abuzz with talk of the swarm of visitors in Hertfordshire. Lady Nisdale, Squire Wentworth, Lady Wentworth, Lord Stanmore, his newly recovered son…even Lord North was said to be heading into the country. But then, of course, there was the mysterious Mrs. Ford, about whom everyone talked so much. And yet, no one in society had actually met her. The whole thing seemed a delightful mess—one that Nicholas would have normally have kept at arm’s length. And he would have…if he had not met Stanmore yesterday and realized that something had seriously changed in him since the last time they’d spoken.
So Nicholas Spencer had insisted on riding down to the country with his friend. His sense of duty required it. Well, duty and curiosity.
“Master James and Mrs. Ford have already dined, m’lord.” Mrs. Trent offered in answer to Stanmore’s question about the two. “The lad is already asleep in his room, but the last I checked, Mrs. Ford was reading in the library.”
Daniel spoke just as Philip was ready to whisper something in the earl’s ear. “Would you care for some dinner, m’lord? I can have Harry…”
“No need. Sir Nicholas and I stopped at that new inn on the other side of St. Albans.”
“A dreadful place,” Nicholas put in. “I believe one of Harry’s brothers is the cook there.”
The older steward leaned again toward the earl. “I believe Mrs. Ford has been waiting up for your return, m’lord.”
Nicholas heard the hushed words and raised an eyebrow at the look of open anticipation that Stanmore sent in the direction of the library.
“Daniel, if you would be kind enough to escort Sir Nicholas to his room…”
“Not quite yet.” Nicholas gave his cloak and h
at to the steward and started toward the library. “Coming, Stanmore? It was a long ride, and I am in desperate need of a glass of your best port before I retire for the night.”
“The devil you do! Then I shall have a bottle sent to your room.” Stanmore glowered as he caught up to him.
“Not a chance!” Nicholas glanced back and found the housekeeper and the two stewards had not moved. He lowered his voice. “You cannot hide her forever, my friend. Face it, man. A simple introduction and I’ll be on my way.”
“Busy as a mother hen, you are, Nicholas. Well, tomorrow will be soon enough for introductions!”
Nicholas paused by the door of the library with a hand on the latch. He was genuinely surprised at the expression he saw. So unlike the forever controlled friend who he had always known.
“By the devil! She has you in tatters.”
“Nonsense!”
“By ’sblood, now I have seen it all. The implacable Lord Stanmore discomposed by a woman.”
“Nicholas!”
Ignoring the threatening drawl, he pushed the door open. The room was as spacious and comfortable as he remembered it. Though he was not a particularly bookish man, Nicholas loved the feel of a well-appointed library. The heavy curtains had been closed to keep out the dampness, and the light of dozens of candles infused the room with a soft glow. Nicholas’s gaze swept over the place, and as Stanmore pushed by him, a woman’s slender frame rose from a divan like morning mist off a tranquil lake.
“M’lord!” Her delighted greeting was directed at Stanmore. Nicholas could see that her magical blue eyes perceived nothing but the man standing beside him.
Nonetheless, Nicholas Spencer drank in her beauty. Soft waves of hair the color of fire and gold draped over slender shoulders, framing a face that glowed with warmth. Full lips, high cheeks, exquisitely shaped breasts that hinted at perfection hidden beneath the low neckline of her dress.
He looked back up into her face. There was something about her. Something familiar. Something in the sensuality, in the hint of passion that hung caressingly about the eyes, on every curve of her cheek.
That was it! he thought. He had seen her before…well, someone very much like her. In the portrait of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen…in the villa of the great actor David Garrick at Hampton.
Nicholas Spencer stared into the face that had illuminated the London stage for decades…up to a few years ago. She was the very image of the actress who had once been the toast of kings—the magnificent and beautiful Jenny Greene.
CHAPTER 25
It was some time before Stanmore’s dark gaze released her and she became aware of the other man in the library. Still though, Rebecca’s jittery insides would not allow her a full breath as she watched the earl walk into the room a little. Something warmed deep within her. His glowing eyes had conveyed more than his happiness to see her. Far more.
“Mrs. Ford, please allow me to present to you the most villainous of friends, Sir Nicholas Spencer.”
Rebecca dropped a small curtsy as the man raised her hand to his lips.
She politely withdrew her hand a moment later, but the newcomer continued to study her in the most unsettling manner. His look was not a lascivious one; it was more the look of someone trying to make a decision about something. Nonetheless, he was already beginning to make Rebecca uncomfortable.
Sir Nicholas was approximately the same height as the earl, but one would never be confused for the other. His broken nose and long, wavy, blonde hair tied back with a black ribbon gave the blue-eyed giant a rakish look that was a far cry from his friend’s appearance. He was handsome enough, she supposed, but a hint of the untamed seemed to be lurking just beneath his refined manners.
“Nicholas only stopped in for an introduction,” Stanmore said, drawing her attention. “He assures me that he is quite tired from the long ride and is on his way…”
“Your incredible loveliness…” his friend interrupted with a small bow. “Your flawless beauty overwhelms me, Mrs. Ford. You are truly refreshing for the eyes of the road weary traveler. But what is truly astounding is that this blackguard has been hiding such a treasure away here, depriving his few friends—of which he has a rapidly diminishing number—the pleasure of such company these past weeks.”
Rebecca felt the heat rush into her face, and she clutched the book she had been reading tightly in one hand. She glanced quickly at Stanmore, who was glaring at Sir Nicholas. She fixed her eyes on the pattern of the rug.
Oh God, she thought. What had she been thinking? Clearly, she had been in the wrong to dress as she had tonight. She certainly had never expected this response from anyone. But far worse, it had been wicked of her to want to flaunt herself at Stanmore after deciding that she was going away. What right did she have to plan and hope for something when going away made it so wrong? Well, this was clearly her punishment—getting noticed by the wrong man!
“And blushing modesty, as well. An enchantress. There is no end to this lady’s charms.”
“Enough, Nicholas!” Stanmore warned. “Your roguish tongue has moved you from simply being a nuisance to that of the rake that you truly are.”
Rebecca had not needed a protector for many years and needed no one now to speak in her defense.
“I cannot speak to your charge of Sir Nicholas’s character, m’lord, but your guest is not being a nuisance.” She met up the earl’s gaze before turning to his grinning friend. “If I am blushing, sir, it is just that I am not accustomed to flowery compliments. And as a result I am not readily armed with any retort worthy of this good gentleman’s highly imaginative praise—even if they are no doubt the result of his admitted weariness. The problem lies not with Sir Nicholas, but with me and my inexperience.”
Nicholas placed a hand over his heart. “I swear to you, madam, that there is nothing imagined in my praise of you. Every word I uttered came from the deep well of my esteem.”
“You must be tired, my good sir, to lower your guard to the point that even an amateur like me can inflict a wound.”
“A wound, Mrs. Ford?”
“Well, to conjure such accolades from the deep well of your esteem…” She shook her head. “Well, it seems to me, sir that only a shallow and empty well could produce such noisy praise for a total stranger.”
The rogue laughed. “You have wounded me, Mrs. Ford.”
Stanmore moved beside her and placed an arm protectively around her waist. “Better her than me, Nicholas. And you have already overstayed your welcome.”
Sir Nicholas bowed again and addressed Rebecca. “Only because I can be assured of renewing our acquaintance in the morning, I will allow black-hearted tyrant to dispose of me tonight. But what about tomorrow, Mrs. Ford? May I beg the pleasure of your company…perhaps for a ride or a casual walk in his lordship’s deer park?” He held up a hand as she started to speak. “But before you decline my invitation, I give you my word of honor that I shall leave behind my roguish tongue and speak only the absolute truth.”
“Excellent,” Stanmore growled. “Shall I nail it to the stable door where you can find it?”
Rebecca realized that she actually liked Sir Nicholas. He was certainly a womanizer, but he was also a charmer who did not offend.
“I shall have to answer your invitation in the morning, sir, after I have had an opportunity to assess your references with our host.”
It was a slight move, but she felt the pressure of his large and comforting hand at her waist. She didn’t dare look up at Stanmore for fear she might see him smirking at his friend.
Sir Nicholas was glowering with mock fierceness at the earl. “Just watch your tongue, my friend, for there is no end to the damage I can cause.”
“Be on your way, Empty Well.”
With a wink, Sir Nicholas bowed to Rebecca before turning to leave. At the door though, he paused—suddenly serious.
“She would be older than you by twenty years…perhaps thirty.”
“Who is that
, Nicholas?”
“The actress. Jenny Greene. Do you know her, Mrs. Ford?”
A knot formed instantly in her stomach, and Rebecca felt her entire body tense at the question.
“Only the name, sir.”
***
Stanmore felt Rebecca shiver as Nicholas went out, and he looked down at her face. A sudden paleness had flushed all color from her cheeks. Seeing the change in her, he pulled her into his arms.
“You are cold.” She came willingly, her arms wrapping around him, her head tucked beneath his chin.
Her trusting movement knotted his throat. She wasn’t seeking passion, only comfort. She just wanted to be held. Everything about her bespoke her innocence, and this only caused his heart to open a little wider, drawing her deeper into long-protected regions. It was so strange. They had not spoken any words of commitment. They had yet to fulfill the longing of their bodies. But she was already a part of him…more than he’d ever before thought possible.
“Did I stay away too long?”
Her head moved up and down on his chest, and he smiled.
“Might I be bold enough to assume that you were waiting up for me here tonight?”
She pulled back slightly and looked into his face. “You do not have to assume, m’lord. I willingly admit it. But dressed as shamelessly as I am, I believe everyone who has seen me this evening must have guessed at my intentions.”
Stanmore was charmed by the intensity that brought color again to her cheeks. He glanced down at the neckline of the dress and with difficulty tore his gaze away from the graceful curves of her ivory breasts. His hand caressed the delicate line of her back.
“You are dressed in the height of fashion. I believe anyone would feel blessed just to follow you here and feast on your beauty.”
The Promise Page 27
