Because of her.
For the first time in fifteen years, she had been about to kiss him. Of her own prerogative. When she’d declared her intention, he’d been so surprised, he couldn’t stop his reaction. How could he? It was something he’d dreamed about for so long, he couldn’t bloody well remember a time he hadn’t wanted it.
But this wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about the desire coursing through his body, or the secret longing he had hid so effectively for years. This was about Eleanor having what she wanted in life; or more to the point, what she didn’t want: a husband.
He closed his eyes, shaking his head back and forth. He’d do whatever it took to protect her from getting hurt. Yes, he wanted to instill self-confidence in her once more, but after that near kiss, he wasn’t leaving anything to chance. He’d be damned if he’d let another man claim her against her will.
If Malcolm thought he could strong arm her into doing his bidding, he had another thing coming. The trick was Nick had to come up with a way to keep her from being married off, without giving Malcolm the chance to blame her.
Drawing in a deep breath, he came to his feet and straightened his shoulders. It was time to go to battle.
***
If Uncle Robert sent one more self-satisfied look in her and Lord Henry’s direction, Eleanor was going to scream, right there in the middle of Miss Landon’s song. And wouldn’t that put a damper on his plans. She allowed a small smile at the thought.
The earl leaned closer from his seat to the right of her and murmured uncomfortably close to her ear, “I’m so pleased to see you enjoying yourself, Miss Abbington. My late wife, bless her, never was one for these sorts of amusements.” He fluttered a hand in the vicinity of his forehead. “Megrims.”
Possibly. Eleanor was more inclined to believe the dearly departed countess was simply more skilled at escaping his company than she. She nodded politely and leaned away as inconspicuously as she could manage.
It wasn’t that he was unkind, but he possessed the conversation skills of a parrot. Not to mention he seemed to think her eyes were located somewhere in the region of her breasts, or the fact that he was exceptionally fond of onions, the evidence of which emanated from him like a fog.
She really didn’t dislike him, but the idea of marriage to him made her physically ill. And blast it all, Nicolas was right. She didn’t have to bow to Uncle Robert’s demands, nor did her sister have to suffer the consequences. There had to be a way to get around them, and she wouldn’t rest until she figured out what that was. Perhaps she should have shared with Nick exactly what she was dealing with. He’d surprised her a lot since returning home; maybe he’d be able to surprise her again by coming up with a solution.
For perhaps the tenth time since the recital began, Eleanor cut her gaze toward the side wall, where he stood alone, watching the performance. She still had no idea what to make of what had happened between them this morning. Or more accurately, what hadn’t happened. All she knew for certain was that every time she thought of him, her cheeks heated and a shower of sparks seemed to cascade through her middle.
As if he sensed her thoughts, Nick shifted his gaze, catching her with God knew what expression on her face. She jerked her attention back to the front of the room, her heart beating like mad. Good heavens, she had to get hold of herself. She was acting like a proper fool there in the drawing room for anyone to see.
And truly, there were much more important things to think about.
Beside her, Aunt Margaret hummed along with the music, her head bobbing in time with the pianoforte tune. Eleanor still didn’t know what to do about her aunt. It was a sort of betrayal, knowing that her own mother’s sister had thought her hopeless these past few years. They were supposed to be each other’s support.
The song came to an end, and Miss Landon curtseyed prettily as the guests clapped. Eleanor stood, hoping to steal a few moments for herself, but Lord Henry blocked her way. “Miss Abbington,” he said, his cheeks oddly ruddy, “Would you care to step out onto the terrace with me? The night air shall do us both good after an evening indoors.”
Drat it all—why couldn’t he see she wasn’t interested in spending time with him? Not that she could overtly offend him, but still, one would think her disinterest would speak for itself. “Oh, how kind. But my aunt and I were just about to take a turn about the room.” She widened her eyes at her aunt, willing her to go along. It had just come out—a holdover from when she could rely on Aunt Margaret’s support.
Blinking in surprise, the older woman hesitated for an instant before turning a bright smile to Lord Henry. “Yes, yes, I thought a bit of exercise would be just the thing after sitting for so long.”
Eleanor sighed. Thank goodness.
“There you are, dear sister,” Uncle Robert cut in, sidling up behind them. “I wonder if I might steal you away for a moment. I have . . . something that I wish to discuss.” Though he smiled cordially, his eyes were sharp enough to cut glass. “Lord Henry, you wouldn’t mind keeping my niece company, would you?”
“Delighted, old man. I was just saying a bit of air on the terrace sounded like just the thing.” He lifted a brow at Eleanor. “Shall we?”
Blast, blast, blast. To refuse would be the height of rudeness. Now was not the time to make a scene. Dipping her head in reluctant agreement, she said, “Indeed.”
As she and Lord Henry started for the doors, her eyes met with Nick’s. He stood beside Miss Landon as she chattered away, her cheeks rosy and her face alight with delight. Eleanor felt the heat of his gaze all the way to her toes, but then he abruptly turned away, severing the connection as he gave his whole attention to his companion.
Hurt flooded her heart even as she smiled her thanks to Lord Henry for opening the door for her. Despite herself, she’d been begging Nick to help, to somehow intervene. She had no right to be upset, but it still stung that he had turned his back on her—literally.
Warm, sweetly fragranced air greeted her as she stepped outside. She allowed Lord Henry to guide her to the ornamental balustrade overlooking the rose garden, which, thanks to a series of torches along the outer wall, was well enough lit so as to not seem overly intimate.
“Miss Abbington,” he said, surprising her by boldly taking her gloved hand in his. “It’s no secret I came to this party with an eye toward beginning the search for my next wife. With only my three daughters, I am still very much in need of an heir. At my age, the thought of marrying a young debutant seems a somewhat distasteful. You, on the other hand, have the maturity and lineage to be quite an appropriate match.”
Even through her growing alarm, Eleanor still managed to be insulted. Yes, at four-and-twenty she was the perfect match for a man with four and a half decades under his belt. Gently but firmly she tried to extract her hand from his grasp, to no avail.
Chuckling indulgently, he said, “No need to worry, my dear. I have already spoken with your uncle, and obtained his permission to ask you to be my wife. Such an intimacy is to be expected.” He lowered his head slightly, and she exhaled in an effort to ward off the smell of his breath. “Besides, Malcolm told me how favorably inclined you were to accept my suit. I’m honored that you think well enough of me to approach your uncle about such a thing.”
Alarm catapulted into panic as her blood turned to ice. She was supposed to have more time—she wasn’t properly prepared yet.
“Lord Henry, I . . . ” Her mind went blank as she desperately cast about for a proper response—one that would not result in a betrothal announcement.
He squeezed her hand and grinned. “I can see you are quite beside yourself. To be expected, I think. Perhaps we shall bypass words for a moment.”
Bypass words? What did— Oh heaven help her, he was leaning in for a kiss. Eleanor tensed, her mind flailing about for a way to escape.
“There you are.”
The sharp, jovial words made them startle apart, and Eleanor stumbled backward a few steps, desperate
for space. Nick stood at the door, outlined by the blazing candles of the drawing room behind him. He stepped toward them, his muscled shoulders ramrod straight and his hands clasped behind his back. His features were arranged in polite greeting, but his eyes blazed in the torchlight. “Lord Henry, my stepfather asked that I retrieve you. He had a most pressing matter which he feels must be discussed at once.”
Eleanor sucked in great gusts of air, trying to regain her composure. Nick had never looked more handsome, more like a savior than he did in that moment, especially with his smart crimson army dress jacket.
“Now? Can you tell him I’ll be in momentarily?” Henry sounded as befuddled as she felt.
Nick lifted his chin in a gesture designed to showcase his authority. “I’m afraid he was most insistent, my lord. I’ll wait here with my cousin while you see to him. She’ll be here when you return.”
For the first time, Eleanor could imagine him dressing down one of his men. He emanated power and superiority with little more than a stern expression and commanding voice. Henry glanced back at Eleanor for a moment, clearly unsure of what to do. She found a smile, heaven knew where from, and nodded encouragingly. “Do hurry back.”
She held her breath as he hesitated, willing him to leave. A moment later he relented. “Very well. I’ll be only a moment.” He offered a dip of his head before hurrying inside.
Oh thank God. She released her breath, sagging against the balustrade. That had been a very near thing. She turned her attention to her unlikely hero and offered him a wan smile. “I shall never be able to repay you for your timing. Or Uncle Robert’s timing, I suppose.”
He stepped closer to her, tilting his head but never taking his eyes from her. “Oh? And why is that?”
“Because he just asked me to marry him,” she exclaimed, putting a hand to her heart. “I, I didn’t know what to say, and then he was leaning toward me and I was so flustered that I didn’t know what to do and then . . . ” She trailed off, shaking her head.
He took another step. “And then . . .?”
She sucked in a cleansing breath and peered up at him. “You were there.”
His eyes were piercing in the near darkness. “Because you needed me.”
“Yes. But I thought . . .” She pictured him, turning away from her pleas as she’d silently begged for his help.
“What did you think?”
Her heart pounded and she couldn’t even say why. “That you turned your back on me. That you put me from your mind.” But she’d been wrong. He was here now, there when she needed him most.
“Never,” he said, the single word rife with conviction. “But I did have to make my excuses.” He stepped nearer still, bringing them at once entirely too close together and not nearly close enough. He lifted her hand from the stone railing and guided her around so she stood between him and the house.
The torchlight danced in his eyes and bathed his skin in a warm, golden glow. He looked . . . determined. Decided. But not altogether sure of himself. Instead of releasing her hand, he raised it to his lips and placed a soft, gentle kiss to her knuckles. Awareness raced down her back in a flurry of gooseflesh—he had never done such a thing before. His kisses were to mock, not to soothe. To tease and provoke, never to show care or affection.
The old Nick, the one who had left two years ago and gone to the army, was fading fast from her memory. In his place was this man. Capable of tenderness and seriousness. Of being her champion.
When he lifted his head, his gaze flicked to just over her shoulder before meeting hers. “Do you trust me?”
There was an edge to his voice that wasn’t there moments earlier. “Should I?” She didn’t know what he was asking, but she knew instinctually that it was important.
“Probably not.”
A ghost of a smile slipped over her lips. “Then you should not ask it of me.”
“Then can you at least forgive me?” he asked, lacing his fingers with hers with an urgency that made her pulse quicken.
Forgive him? Confusion at his words warred with an unexpected rush of desire at his touch, robbing her of her wits. “What—”
But he didn’t give her a chance to complete her sentence. With a sharp tug, he pulled her flat against his chest and before she could do little more than gasp, his lips crashed down upon hers. A thousand butterflies set flight in her stomach—her first kiss! She moaned with the pure pleasure of it. His lips were deliciously warm, and fit against hers as if they’d been molded for each other. The smell of his skin was like a drug, sending ribbons of pleasure through her whole body.
It was perfection. Even better, if that was possible.
Her Nicolas, her opponent for so many years had somehow turned into the man who made her heart sing and her toes curl with one utterly searing kiss.
He guided her hands to the hard plane of his upper chest, pressing them in place before dropping his own hold to her waist. He pulled back slightly and whispered against her lips, “I’m sorry.”
Sorry? Bewilderment stilled her body, and a heartbeat later he launched himself backwards, as if pushed by an unseen force. She blinked, her eyes wide as she struggled to make sense out of what was happening.
“Good God,” a male voice roared from behind her, “What is the meaning of this?”
Chapter Seven
If looks could kill, Nick would have been a smoldering pile of ashes on the flagstone. Malcolm nearly glowed with red hot anger, his face contorted with the force of his fury. Beside him Lord Henry stood frozen, his shock congealing into horror. Already faces were appearing in the window as people rushed to see what the disturbance was about.
Nick picked himself up off the ground and brushed off his soiled clothes. “Malcolm, Henry.”
“Explain yourself,” his stepfather demanded, stalking over to where Eleanor leaned against the railing, both hands covering her mouth.
Nick couldn’t meet her eyes. Not yet. Shrugging, he said, “I thought to steal a kiss. The lady thought otherwise.” His tone was lazy, insolent even, despite the emotion burning in his veins.
The kiss was meant to be a means to an end: ruin Eleanor’s marriage prospect, without her taking any blame. To let Malcolm’s wrath fall on his head, not hers. But that was before their lips touched. Before the whole world had so completely ceased to exist, and the woman he had loved for years had actually leaned into the kiss. Before he’d tasted her, or felt her thundering heartbeat.
“I ought to—”
“Lord Malcolm,” Aunt Margaret interrupted, pushing through the crowd to where they stood. “Perhaps this is a discussion to be held in private.”
She put her arm around Eleanor and tried to guide her away, but Ellie resisted. “No, I should go with them. This isn’t what it looks like.”
Nick started to speak, to say something that would keep her from ruining his efforts, but Aunt Margaret beat him to it. “Not now, dear,” the older woman said through gritted teeth. “You’ll have time for that later.” She forcefully pushed Eleanor to the house, glancing back only once before disappearing inside. He’d never seen Eleanor’s skin so pale, and for a moment guilt assailed him.
No, he refused to feel guilty. He knew when he came out here that he would be hurting the rest of his family, as well as Eleanor. But he could think of no other plan to free her from Malcolm’s dictates. There would be hell to pay—his stepfather would make sure of it—but Nick would not regret this night.
“In my study,” Malcolm ground out, then turned on his heel and marched inside.
Obedient as a lapdog, Nick followed behind him, allowing a small self-satisfied grin to curl his lips as he walked through the gathered guests. He had a part to play: ruinous rake, not to be trusted with delicate English maidens.
They passed his mother as they strode through the drawing room. Her eyes were red, her gaze unfocused as she smiled in confusion at the pair of them. She raised her glass, saying after them, “My two favorite men, together at last,”
before draining the contents in one drink.
Drunk again—what a bloody surprise. She never had been there to stand up for him when he was growing up, when the disdain for her own husband had nearly crushed him. Why should anything change now?
Once in the study, the door hadn’t even clicked closed before Malcolm turned on him, eyes burning with fiery resentment. “You filthy bastard—you did this on purpose.”
“Purposely kissed her? Yes, no denying that.”
Malcolm slammed a palm against the surface of his desk. “Ruined her chances with Henry! You could have kissed her a thousand times in a thousand different places—you purposely set out to destroy what I worked so hard to bring together.”
“’What God hath brought together, let no man set asunder?’ Sorry, but your plans had little consequence on my actions, old man.”
“This is all some sort of bloody game to you, isn’t it? See what you can do to drag the Earl of Malcolm down to your level?”
Of course he would think that. As if Nick had ever wanted anything for or from the man, other than a little respect. Perhaps a kind word or two. Instead, all he’d had was ill-concealed disgust. “Oh, looks like you caught me.”
“You pathetic excuse for a man. Congratulations, you’ve made me a laughingstock. Any hope of Eleanor making a good match has been destroyed.”
Good. “Come now—I wouldn’t say that. Now that I have claimed the fair maiden’s kiss, I suppose I could marry her.” His chest tightened as if wrapped with steel bands. He’d love nothing more than to do exactly that, just as he knew Eleanor would like nothing less. By making such a statement, there was no better way to insure that Malcolm would never let it happen.
Nostrils flaring like a taunted bull, Malcolm shook his head in disgust. “Over my dead body. You’ve always been jealous of the natural children of this family. You never could handle the fact they are superior to you in every way possible.”
Nick bit down on his tongue, hard. William, Libby, and Eleanor were the best things that had ever happened to him. Despite the fact William was years younger and given all the privilege his status as heir required, he had never been anything but a brother to Nick. As for Eleanor . . . This was all for her. He had to hold his tongue, no matter how much he ached to fight back.
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