“Thank you, Wiggs. Please convey my compliments to the staff.”
The elderly butler bowed, then hobbled away.
It was gratifying how the efficiency of the servants had increased right along with the improvements on the Hall. Like Wiggs, they walked taller, held themselves with pride, and were quicker and more efficient in completing their tasks. As more and more of the house opened, Nick had asked Mr. Pratt to hire more maids and some new footmen. The infusion of new faces delighted the old staff, who suddenly had a whole squadron of underlings to order about.
Nick continued to the library, where he sank into a chair behind the large desk. The memory of the kiss burned brightly. He’d never met anyone quite like Sara Lawrence. Her emotions were never far from the surface; she was a woman who would care deeply when she chose to.
The thought disturbed him more than he wanted to admit.
The door to the library opened. “Ah, there you are.” Henri sailed into the room and threw himself into a chair opposite the desk. “It is a beautiful day!”
“Isn’t it?” Nick agreed. The sun was shining, his servant woes seemed to have resolved themselves, and the woman who was going to be his mistress had sought him out. All in all, it was a damned good day to be master of Hibberton Hall.
Henri sent him a considering glance. “You seem to be feeling much better this morning.”
Nick shrugged. He did not like to talk about his illness, especially not now, when the day gleamed golden and his heart was unexpectedly light. There would be time later, when the illness caught him in its final grip and he was unable to fight the pain without the assistance of the little brown bottles that had lured his mother to her death. But this was not a day for thinking of such things.
The comte sighed happily. “It is unseasonably warm today, isn’t it? But then, you know that—you were abroad early this morning, mon ami. Where did you go?”
“The park.”
“But you detest the park. You said it was too small and too crowded and too—”
“I was wrong.” Nick pulled a stack of papers to him that Mr. Pratt had requested he sign. “I am beginning to like the park very well. In fact, it is becoming one of my favorite places.”
“Oh ho!” Henri said, his gaze bright, his nose almost quivering with interest. “There is a woman, no?”
Nick ignored him.
“There must be. What else could make you light up in such a way?” The comte stood and then came to perch on the edge of the desk. “Are you going to tell all? Or will I have to chatter it out of you?”
Nick leaned back in his chair. “I have no desire to discuss my personal life with a fribble like you.”
“Ah! You are being chivalrous, no?” A frown settled on Henri’s brow. “This could be serious. Are you certain you have not found the future Lady Bridgeton?”
Nick’s humor fled. “Marriage is not for me, Henri. You know that.”
“Then why the secrecy?”
“It prevents people like you from nosing about in my business.”
“Bah! It would be sad if you were so unimportant that no one took notice of your business. Being anonymous is a painful state of affairs, and I would not wish it on my worst enemy.”
“Trust me, Henri. I would enjoy anonymity.”
Henri’s brow creased. “Perhaps you would. I do not understand it, but then, that is the charm of our friendship.” He stood and smoothed his jacket. “I have come to ask a favor of you. Do you remember the little gatekeeper’s cottage we stayed in when we first arrived?”
“Of course. What of it?”
“Well, there is a woman whom I wish to…” The comte paused delicately. “She is very shy, this lady. And I have been wooing her oh, so carefully. Like a little mouse, she comes to nibble. But alas, I cannot get her to take a big bite.”
Nick raised his brows. “That sounds painful.”
“Oh, not this kind of nibbling. The only pain I will feel is that of unbearable pleasure.” Henri sighed deeply, a dreamy expression on his face. “Thus I need a place that is private, a place where I can tempt her to partake of me.”
For one instant, Nick wondered if perhaps the comte was indeed still wooing Sara’s aunt, but he quickly discarded the thought. It had been over a week since he’d seen them even speak to one another in public. “Use the cottage. Ask Wiggs to send some of the servants over there to organize it as you wish. But I warn you, it will take some weeks to make it truly habitable.”
“That is fine. This lady cannot be hurried.” The comte flashed a smile. “She hesitates, yet I know she is tempted. It is only a matter of time.”
Nick had to smile at Henri’s certainty. “Good luck.”
“Perhaps I will ride there now and see what needs to be done. Until luncheon, mon ami.” Whistling a jaunty tune, Henri strode from the room.
Nick watched him go, aware of a faint sense of envy. He’d never met a person so capable of living in the present. Henri was never bothered with the future, never worried what might happen tomorrow. There was a charm in such uncertainty—in not knowing one’s fate. But Nick knew his fate too well, and while it had ceased to terrify him, he could not shake the weight of it.
Nick pushed himself away from the desk and strode from the room. He was dwelling far too much on his illness, and he knew from experience that such behavior only worsened it. What he needed was a distraction.
Perhaps he would join the comte in examining the cottage. He had several days before he would see Sara again, and he couldn’t spend all of the time wondering what her reaction would be to the man he’d chosen as her future husband.
Normally he preferred to dally with married women, as they did not demand more from the relationship than he was prepared to give. But now he didn’t want to waste any of his limited time on the ridiculous intrigue of such an affair. For though Sara believed marrying would leave her free to wander, Nick knew differently. A man would be a fool to give an ounce of freedom to a wife as lovely as Sara, especially one who issued challenges with her every breath.
But Nick was no fool. He’d have her to mistress before the end of the week. And he’d be damned if he’d let another man touch her—until he was finished with her.
Smiling to himself, he called for his horse and went to change.
Sara almost dropped her glass of punch. “Him?”
Nick hid a grin. She was just as outraged as he’d wished her to be, her eyes wide with shock, her chin firming mutinously. “I think Lord Keltenton is perfect.”
Her mouth dropped open. Lord Keltenton was known as a lecherous, depraved, ill-mannered rogue with an unfortunate habit of belching in public. But as Nick had pointed out, the man was more than willing to slip away for a few illicit moments—at least, he had been before age and senility had caught up with him.
Now Keltenton was reduced to stealing pinches from unsuspecting ladies who ventured too near the punch table, where he lay in wait.
“He will suit your purpose well,” Nick said.
“He’s ancient! He wouldn’t last a week.”
“That’s a possible benefit, I suppose.”
“Why? As soon as he died, my brothers would be right back where they are now, trying to get me married!”
Nick looked thoughtfully at Keltenton, whose hunched back was silhouetted against the sweeping red-velvet hangings that decorated the theatre walls. “At least you’ll have won a reprieve. They cannot marry you off until at least a year of mourning has passed.”
She rewarded him with a flat, incredulous stare.
Nick tsked. “What happened to your sense of adventure? Your joie de vivre?”
“Just the thought of embracing…that”—she gestured toward Lord Keltenton—“has cured every inclination I had for adventure.”
“He isn’t that bad,” Nick said, moving to stand by Sara. To his amusement, the dissolute old man leaned unsteadily against the refreshment table, his beady eyes assessing every pretty face in sight. Once in a while
he would leer openly, his hands clenching in a clawlike manner, as if he was imagining himself groping the tender flesh that passed nearby.
“He reminds me of my maternal grandfather,” Nick said.
“Oh? The hunched back?”
“No, his coat. My grandfather was buried in one exactly like that. Very fashionable, he was. Of course, that was twenty years ago.”
She turned to glare up at him. “And you want me to marry that.”
“Why not?”
Sara stood staring at him with a wide, uncertain gaze. “You must be joking.”
“Not at all; he’s the only man who will do. I have investigated every potential spouse in Bath, and there was a flaw with every one, but him.” Some were too ambitious, some too jealous, and one was too handsome by far.
“What makes him so”—she shuddered—“perfect?”
That was simple: Lord Keltenton was the only rakehell in Bath incapable of the physical act of love. Nick had paid a pretty penny to the man’s valet to verify the rumors. Still, the lovely Sara didn’t need to know such trifling facts. “He’s wealthy, so he won’t care if you’ve a fortune or not.”
“Yes, but—”
“And he’s lived a totally debauched life, so he won’t be averse to giving you the freedom you desire once you are wed. All you’ll have to do is prop him against the refreshment table at a few social events each month, and he will be completely happy.”
Sara toyed with one of her sapphire bracelets. She’d never imagined that Nick would pick the most disgusting, depraved example of shriveled humanity available in Bath. It was true Lord Keltenton seemed to meet her requirements, but still…She glanced at him and barely contained another shudder. Yet perhaps Nick was right. After all, her selections hadn’t worked at all.
She turned her gaze to her hands, which gleamed beneath a profusion of rings. She had on every piece of the Lawrence sapphires—the necklace, earrings, brooch, bracelets, and even the tiara, and three rings glittered on her fingers. Gifts from Julius, one for each year of their marriage.
When she’d discovered the true details of his death, she’d considered throwing them out. But the more she looked at them, the more important they seemed. After all, she’d earned them. And now they served as her armor for the upcoming battle.
She’d been mad to ask Nick for assistance. “I don’t know if I can go through with this.”
For some reason that seemed to please Nick, for his smile warmed until it was a caress. Sara flushed, then said stiffly, “This is not a matter for levity. Anthony has grown remarkably suspicious, and my brother Marcus is due tomorrow.” Had Aunt Delphi not developed a headache and asked Anthony to escort her home, Sara wasn’t sure she’d have managed even this small amount of time to speak with Nick.
“Sara, you had best hurry if you want to make your proposition before Anthony returns.”
Sara cast a grimace at Keltenton. It was something of a shock to look from Nick’s golden handsomeness to the older man’s hunched figure. Deep sags marred the man’s eyes, and loose skin hung about his neck—which, along with his bald pate, made him look remarkably like a turkey. He looked more like two hundred rather than a mere sixty-two.
Nick sighed. “Perhaps you are right. I shall have to find another candidate for you.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “It may take a few days, but I’m sure—”
“A few days! I don’t have a few—” Sara took a deep breath, though her chest ached with the effort. “I suppose it will be Lord Keltenton, or no one.” She bit her lip. “You…do you think I should ask him here? Or should I lure him into an antechamber?”
Her ice-blue gown a perfect foil for her eyes, her black hair pinned up with a few intriguing tendrils curling over her ears, Nick thought she should lure him into an antechamber. “There are a number of private rooms, many of them heavily curtained to afford privacy.”
She straightened her shoulders. “Very well. I will try to convince him to accompany me to one of those.”
“He’s a rake, Sara. You won’t have to do anything but look at him and smile. Then, allow him to lead you away.”
Her hand clutched at his sleeve. “Where will you be?”
“Close by if you need anything. Just call.”
“Thank you.” She released his sleeve, a frown appearing. “If this works, you will want your payment.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “One kiss, when and where I demand it.”
“Very well. I will do it.” Bravely pasting a smile on her face, she marched toward Lord Keltenton.
Keltenton flipped open the curtain that covered the alcove and gave Sara a leering stare. “After you, my dear.”
Sara glanced down the deserted hallway, wondering where Nick was. Gathering her courage, she managed an uncertain smile and slipped behind the curtain.
The alcove was remarkably spacious, larger than most sitting rooms. Used as a private reception room, it was luxuriously decorated in lush red. A small settee rested in the center of the room, piled high with cushions.
Sara smoothed her hands over the skirt of her gown, letting the pale blue satin slide beneath her fingertips. The gown was heavy, the bottom banded with yellow-satin roses. A wide flow of lace formed the collar and decorated the matching gloves. Expertly cut, the neckline was designed to draw attention, while the flow of the skirt emphasized the curve of her hips.
Lord Keltenton pulled the curtain closed, then walked toward her, his gaze devouring her from head to foot. To Sara’s chagrin, she discovered that he smelled of musty linen and licorice.
She turned away. “My, this is certainly a lovely chamber.”
“Not as lovely as you,” Lord Keltenton replied, his voice cracking with age. He watched her with an unholy gleam in his eyes that made her back up warily.
“I’m surprised you know about this room.”
“I come to the theatre quite often.” He picked up a cushion from the settee and plumped it suggestively. “I like soft things. Soft, young things.”
Oh, dear. Sara tightened her grip on her reticule.
Lord Keltenton advanced toward her, and she caught a glimpse of his patently false teeth where his wrinkled lips stretched in a leering smile. The thought of facing such a man over the breakfast table made her stomach heave.
For some reason Nick’s steely hard gaze slipped into her mind, and Sara knew she could not continue with her plan. She turned toward the doorway, but Lord Keltenton, apparently energized by his unexpected luck, had imposed himself between her and the door, his hands outspread as if he meant to grapple her to the ground.
“I’ll have you to bed, my pretty.” He leered. “Such a tasty morsel.”
Sara stared at him in amazement. With an un-graceful leap, she skittered around the couch, snatching up a pillow on her way.
Delight dawned in the aging roué’s eyes. “Oh, so you want to play games, do you? I like games.”
Sara held the pillow before her like a shield. “Don’t come any closer!”
He cackled and rubbed his hands together. “That’s right! You be the terrified virgin, and I’ll be the ravager!” He took another step closer, then stopped. His eyes widened and he looked down at his breeches in amazement.
Sara followed his gaze. There, faintly evident against the loose cut of his breeches, was the outline of a tiny erection.
“By Gad, that’s famous!” he exclaimed. His eyes gleamed with new determination. “Hold on, my sweet! Old Harold has a little present for you.”
Sara lobbed the pillow with all her might and it hit him square in the chest. Without waiting to see the outcome, she gathered her skirt in one hand and leapt over the back of the couch, landing neatly on her feet. “Nick!” she called, glancing toward the door expectantly.
But Nick didn’t appear. Instead, Lord Keltenton rounded the edge of the settee. Somehow he’d managed to undo the buttons on his breeches and they now sagged about his narrow hips, his drawers plainly visible, a tiny telltale bump a
t his crotch.
Dear God, help me now. Sara darted past the settee and around a small table, grabbing a heavy metal statuette as she went.
Lord Keltenton scuttled after her, dancing sideways like a crab. “Hee, hee! Such a lively one!”
Sara turned and cocked the statue in a throwing stance. “Don’t make me use this, Lord Keltenton. I don’t wish to hurt you.”
He grinned yellowly. “Perhaps I like being hurt. Especially by young ladies with pretty bosoms like yours.” He brightened. “I say, would you like to beat me with a riding crop?”
The idea actually had some appeal. “Lord Keltenton, you seem to have made a mistake, as have I. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I just can’t.”
Her desperation must have reached him, for he stopped in his tracks, his face softening. “Having doubts, are you? Well, never let it be said that old Harold took an unwilling girl to bed.”
Sara sagged with relief. “Thank you so much. I thought—”
He lunged for her, cackling wildly. “Tricked you, my pretty!”
Cursing madly, Sara dropped the statue and ran for the door. Lord Keltenton stumbled over the statue and fell heavily, his hands grabbing the bottom of her skirt.
His full weight yanked her to a halt and she stood, straining forward with all her might.
No sound came from behind her. Not a single sigh or pant. The suspense was agonizing. “Lord Keltenton?”
Nothing. Sara turned. He lay on the floor, his pants about his thighs, his fingers gripping the bottom of her skirt. His eyes were wide-open, his tongue hanging from his mouth.
Damn it, must every man she tried to seduce drop into an unconscious stupor? She pulled on her skirt, but nothing happened. Lord Keltenton’s fingers remained clenched on her hem as if he were hanging on to her for dear life.
Sara frowned. “Lord Keltenton, release my skirt!”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t move. In fact, he didn’t even blink.
Sara bent closer. The old man’s eyes stared in an eerie, unseeing fashion. “Lord Keltenton?” she said louder, her voice shrill in the silence.