“And why am I only now receiving it?”
“I left it here on the table for you, sir,” Feebler sputtered. “It was late, and I did not wish to bother you below…”
Nick did not hear the rest of his words. No time to waste, he took off for the stables behind the Lucky Lady, where he quickly saddled his own horse. A short while later he rapped on Lady Derring’s door. Finch opened the door, his expression as grave as ever.
“Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”
Nick wondered how the man managed to look down his nose at him when he was a full head taller. “You can stand aside and let me pass. And no, I still don’t have a bloody card, but you know who I am and you will let me inside if you have no wish to end up tossed in the street.”
Finch stepped aside and gestured to the drawing room. “The ladies are having tea, my lord. Would you care to announce yourself?”
Nick was too bent on his present course to take offense at the butler’s sarcasm. He strode across the marble-floored foyer, his mind burning with the contents of that letter. The double doors stood open, and he halted in the threshold, his gaze sweeping the room’s inhabitants. His gut tightened when he found no sight of Meredith among them.
Lady Derring looked up in astonishment at his unceremonious arrival. Miss Eleanor looked only relieved, further convincing him that she was the one responsible for sending him the missive. Lady Portia set her teacup down and relaxed back on the chaise as if settling in for a good performance.
“Lord Brookshire, this is an unexpected visit.” Lady Derring managed to inject just the right amount of disapproval in her voice. “A little early in the morning for a social call. We did not expect to see you until next week’s dinner party. I assume you plan to attend, though you failed to reply to the invitation? Very bad form that, my lord.”
“What is this rubbish about dyeing Meredith’s hair?” he demanded, ignoring her question. He had received the invitation and had vacillated on whether or not to attend, despite his agreement with the dowager. Nick had a longstanding agreement with himself never to join the ranks of the pompous elite whose very code of superiority destroyed lives…most notably his mother’s.
Lady Derring blinked and looked to each of her companions suspiciously. “How did you find—”
“That is unimportant,” he snapped, cutting one hand through the air impatiently. “Is it done, then?”
“Not yet,” she began, “but Henriette is working on Meredith as we speak—”
“I’ll have no more of you working on her without my approval. From now on I want to be consulted on any decisions regarding a change to her appearance,” he ordered, glaring at the dowager. “Dyeing her hair? What were you thinking, woman?”
The dowager stiffened in affront. “Have a care how you speak to me, sirrah. You charged me with getting her wed, and that red hair of hers is totally unsuitable.”
“So you would dye her hair like a common doxy.” Nick shook his head, unconcerned if his language offended her. “Take me to her so that I can put a stop to this madness.”
“I’ll show you the way,” Portia piped up, a wide grin on her gamine face.
Without waiting for her reply, he followed her out of the drawing room and up the winding rosewood staircase, his feet pounding out his irritation with each step. He could feel himself scowling. What was Meredith thinking to go along with such a thing anyway? Wouldn’t the daughter of a vicar be more conventional? Portia breezed into one of the upstairs bedrooms without knocking. Nick followed fast on her heels.
“Oh, excuse us, Meredith.” Portia’s cheery voice lacked true apology as she strode dauntlessly into the middle of the room. “I should have knocked. I did not realize you were in dishabille. I’ve brought Lord Brookshire with me, but then you’re practically family. No harm, I’m sure.”
Meredith stood atop a pile of linens, barefoot and clad only in her chemise. Her hair was wet, at least he hoped it was only wet and that was not dye soaking the long strands. Water sluiced down her neck and collarbone in fascinating rivulets. The thin cotton of her chemise clung to her body. She was shapely, curved as a woman ought to be, a fact her hideous black gowns had disguised. He admired the well-rounded cheeks of her derriere reflected in the mirror behind her and felt the blood thicken in his veins.
Portia’s words penetrated his head. Family? Nick looked on Meredith with anything but brotherly love. She stood as still as a frightened doe, her mouth a small o as she gazed up at him.
“My lord?” She clasped her hands in front of her breasts, drawing his attention to that part of her anatomy. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to stop you from dyeing your hair.”
She touched one of the long wet strands absently. “Henriette is just preparing the mixture.”
The grinning maid stirred a mixture reminiscent of something mucked out of the horses’ stall every morning.
“You’re not putting that on your hair.” He nodded at the maid. “You can take that foul mixture from the room at once. We won’t be needing it.”
The maid did not bother even to look at Meredith for confirmation, simply obeyed. “Oui, monsieur.” With a quick curtsy, she departed.
“What are you doing here?” Meredith’s brow puckered in bewilderment. “You wish to stop me from coloring my hair?”
For the first time, he allowed himself to question why he should care whether she dyed her hair—why he had allowed himself to storm upstairs like an outraged husband. He shouldn’t care if she went so far as to shave herself bald.
“If it is your wish to find a husband, I suggest you present yourself as you are…not as something else.” He paused. “But perhaps that is too honest an approach for you.”
She sucked in her breath. Fire lit her green eyes.
Portia, whose presence he had forgotten, made a whistling noise with her teeth, her head turning back and forth between the two of them with keen interest.
He reminded himself that he had not come here to insult Meredith, only to stop her from making a horrible mistake, but now that she stood in front of him he could not refrain from antagonizing her.
“Portia.” Meredith spoke evenly. “Would you leave us, please?”
“Alone?” Portia looked pointedly at Meredith’s lack of attire.
“Yes,” Meredith continued in that cool, even tone, her blistering stare never leaving his. “And close the door behind you, please.”
Portia turned to leave, a definite pout to her lips. The soft click of the door ignited Meredith.
“How dare you come into this house, into my chamber, and order me about! How dare you insult me in front of Portia.”
She was an amazing sight, trembling with rage, only a scant chemise covering her. Her wet hair hung over her shoulders, and he caught tantalizing glimpses of her breasts through the transparent fabric. Her temper must have made her forget her state of undress, a point he did not know whether to give thanks for or not.
“If you acted in a sensible manner, then I wouldn’t have to rush over here in order to stop another one of your foolish schemes.”
Bright color flooded her face and neck—all the way to the tops of her creamy breasts. Nick could not help wondering how far her blushing extended. Such speculation sent a bolt of desire through him. God, he wanted to strip away that flimsy chemise and find out.
“What I do in order to catch a husband is of no concern to you. I was only following the advice of the woman you appointed my sponsor.” She stepped closer to jab a finger into his chest, bringing with her a familiar waft of mint and honey. “If you don’t like me dyeing my hair, perhaps you should take it up with Lady Derring.”
“And you can’t exercise a little common sense?” He grabbed her wrist to cease the annoying, incessant jabbing of her finger. “Harlots and doxies dye their hair, and they are not the kind of women any gentleman I know would marry.”
“Perhaps I have no wish to marry any gentleman with which you would ac
quaint yourself. I would not want to run the risk of him being anything like you.”
He laughed coldly, his hand a vise around her wrist, tightening as he said, “Yes, you would not want a gentleman with a modicum of good judgment. He might be too difficult to dupe.”
His hold on her wrist had her dancing on her tiptoes. “A gentleman at all would be quite a welcome change from you,” she hissed.
“In our short association, I have been more the gentleman than you have been the lady.”
Her free hand moved quickly, a flashing arc on the air. He had no time to stop the stinging slap she delivered to his cheek that jerked his face to the side.
Turning his head slowly, he looked down at her in wonder. Her eyes rounded and she appeared as shocked as he by her outburst of violence.
His fingers flexed at his side and he realized with horror that his hand itched to strike back. Of all his crimes, he had never committed violence against a woman. She must have read something of his need to retaliate in his eyes for she panicked and began to struggle like a wild thing in his arms, panting and wheezing in a way that made his blood grow hotter. And not with anger.
As he hauled her damp, wiggling body against him, Nick acknowledged that it was either strike her or kiss her. He much preferred kissing her. His mouth covered hers, drinking the pitiable sounds rising from deep in her throat. The instant their mouths collided, he realized he chose the greater evil. He should have struck her.
The kiss was a furious meshing of lips. Nick did not know at what moment it became a mutual exploration, but his punishing kiss altered, became a desperate fusion of lips and tongues that tasted, savored, discovered. He marveled at the hunger that filled him. And beyond that there was feeling, emotion—two things long dead to him. Or so he had believed.
He wanted to crawl inside her. His hands slid to her back, her waist, her buttocks. He lifted her against him, kneading the firm cheeks as he pressed her softness into him as tightly as their bodies would allow, rubbing his erection against her heat. A perfect fit. But it would never be enough. Not until he was inside her.
And that could never happen. He needed to get rid of this woman, to rid himself of these feelings and banish her from his life. Not take her to bed.
The kiss ended as abruptly as it began. He shoved her from him and stood with legs braced apart, hands clenched upon her waist as though he had to hold her there and force distance between them. Battling the frustration he felt for giving into the lust for a woman he found objectionable on countless levels, he slowly dropped his hands.
He had spent too many years vilifying his half brother to long for the bloody man’s wife. It didn’t matter that the marriage had not been consummated. It didn’t matter if she had loved Edmund or not. She had been his wife.
And of course there was the not too small matter of her deception.
She stood still as marble, a perfect image of scandalized virtue, one hand pressed to her lips as if they were afire. Those big, childlike eyes. Her wide, pale face. Everything down to the smattering of freckles on her nose added to her appearance of innocence and made her deceptions all the more galling. He felt like ten kinds of fool, knowing she had played him false. And he had gone ahead and kissed her anyway. He must be losing his edge. Or his mind.
“Pardon my lack of control.” He waved a hand at her person. “Perhaps you should dress.”
She glanced down at herself, gasped as if just realizing her near nudity, and scurried to don a robe. She hastily belted the sash about her waist, calling attention to the lush flare of hips from a rather small waist. Nick closed his eyes as though in pain. This woman was made the way a woman ought to be. Somehow she had escaped the notice of other men, but he suspected that would not remain the case here in Town. Lady Derring would zero in on her assets, and that body would no doubt be shown to advantage. A deep ache filled his chest, almost as intense as the ache in his trousers. He wondered if he could stand to witness it.
“Are you ill?” Her hand, feather soft, touched his forearm.
He shook it off and stepped back as if her touch burned. And for all intents and purposes it did. Her touch burned a fire through his blood right to his gut.
“I wish we could erase what just happened, but since I can’t we will put it behind us and pretend it never occurred.”
“Oh.” Unmistakable hurt flickered in the dark green of her eyes before quickly vanishing, replaced once again with her cool reserve.
“Don’t mistake this for anything but lust. That’s how lust works. Even people who hate each other can experience lust.” He spoke harshly, determined to convince himself as much as her.
“Well, that is a relief,” she replied, the coolness of her gaze carrying to her voice. “I did wonder how I could return the kiss of someone I so detest. Thank you so much for the lesson. I have not had much experience in this sort of thing and would not want to come across as too callow for my future husband. To kiss someone I admire will be a delight and something to look forward to.” She raised her chin a notch. “But don’t forget that you were the one who instigated the kiss, not I. In the future, please keep your distance. It won’t do for me to dally with the likes of you while I hunt for a proper husband.”
He nodded somewhat approvingly. The kitten did have claws.
“You have my word. I won’t make the same mistake twice.” He turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. “I have heard the last on this hair dyeing nonsense?”
“My hair is mine to do with as I see fit,” she snapped.
He deliberately ignored her indignant words. “Just as long as you understand that you will leave it be.”
“I didn’t want to dye it in the first place,” she snapped, an adorable vision of pique with her arms crossed over her chest, her breasts pushed enticingly forward. “But if it was my choice, you couldn’t stop me.” She jabbed a finger in the air.
“So long as you do as I say,” he called over his shoulder, imagining her face reddening in further aggravation. “Until you’re wed, you will obey me.”
He was out of the room before she had an opportunity to retort. Something crashed against the wall behind him, and he heard a muffled exclamation as he strode away, satisfied at having delivered the last word.
Chapter 16
“I look like a blueberry.”
“You look lovely. The color complements your dark hair,” Meredith assured Portia, who, dressed in a gown awash in ruffles and flounces every conceivable shade of blue, did look a bit like a blueberry. Lady Derring, however, insisted it created a soft, sea foam effect.
“I wish I was a widow, then Grandmother would dress me more like you.” Portia eyed the clean lines of Meredith’s peach gown enviously. “She has set notions of how a debutante is supposed to dress, and nothing I say can sway her.” Portia twisted a handful of ruffles at her slender waist in a gesture of distaste.
“Speaking of your grandmother.” Meredith inclined her head to the dowager bearing down on them with the ferocity of an invading army.
“Is there no God?” Portia sighed. “She’s got Teddy with her again. I do believe she has already selected him for your future husband.”
“Isn’t he a bit young?” Meredith asked, taking in Lord Havernautt’s soft, boyish features and eager countenance. Lady Derring, after whispering in nondiscreet tones that the viscount was quite well set, had been throwing them together all evening. He handled Lady Derring’s meddling and patent maneuverings with such good grace that Meredith admired his temperance. Still, he did seem callow and his conversation a bit limited. His frequent references to Mother were a touch alarming. Hopefully, he wasn’t a man tied to his mother’s skirts.
“He’s twenty-six. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Then there should be no concern on that account. He’s a good age for you.” Portia’s eyes widened. “Unless you’re angling for a husband with one foot in the grave?” She tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Now there’s an ide
a with merit. Then you would soon be free again. Although best make sure his pockets are deep or you’ll be right back on the auction block.” Portia nodded her head in sudden decision. “You’re quite right, Meredith,” she announced, as if Meredith had voiced agreement. “I think I shall look to some of our elderly gentlemen. That way I should only have to suffer the shackles of marriage for a short duration.”
Meredith slapped Portia’s arm lightly with her fan. “I would rethink that plan. He’ll probably live to a hundred and you’ll waste your youth nursing him.”
Portia wrinkled her nose, the action jiggling her spectacles. “With my luck, you’re right.”
Conversation ceased as Lady Derring arrived, the young man in tow. “Meredith, Lord Havernautt is a marvel at the keys. You must join him in a duet.”
Meredith cringed, certain that caterwauling in front of so many respected members of the ton would do nothing to further her matrimonial goals. “I am really not an accomplished vocalist. Even my father, upon hearing my voice, forbade me joining the church choir for fear it would deter attendance.”
Lord Havernautt laughed heartily at her anecdote.
Lady Derring didn’t so much as crack a smile. “Nonsense.” She beat her cane on the floor authoritatively. “I was just telling Lord Havernautt what an accomplished young lady you are. Besides, some musical diversion before dinner is just the thing to prepare the palette.”
More likely her voice would sour stomachs to food permanently. Meredith took one look at the dowager’s implacable expression and knew arguing was pointless. With doom settling heavily on her chest, she accepted Lord Havernautt’s arm and shot one last helpless glance over her shoulder at Portia.
With as much grace as she could marshal, Meredith accompanied Lord Havernautt to the pianoforte, feeling curious eyes already trained on her. Lady Derring banged her cane. “Attention! Lord Havernautt and Lady Brookshire have chosen to honor us with a duet.”