Guarding a Notorious Lady (21 page)

And then the air around them changed. The skies darkened to an ominous shade of purple, and fat, cold drops rained down sporadically, landing on Aphrodite’s stony cheeks and rolling downward, making her lighthearted expression transform with tears from the heavens.

H
e dreamed of her.

That is, in the handful of minutes he actually managed to stay asleep.

It was impossible to dismiss her presence. Her soft, feminine sighs nearly made him groan in response, her all uring feminine scent kept his mind alert as well as another part of his anatomy, and the way her warm curves melded so perfectly to his side made his hands tremble from the restraint of not pulling her atop him and begging her to let him worship every inch of her with his hands and mouth.

He reached up and grabbed his forehead. Christ, the images weren’t helping matters.

He should have insisted Tristan accompany her all the way to the manor. Or at least Nicholas should have insisted on sleeping on the chair. To hell with the chair—he should have slept in the stable with Buttercup.

Having awoken with the most uncomfortable erection he’d ever had in his life, he spared her not a single glance before sliding out of the warm, tempting bed. Quickly donning his clothes and cloak, he left to find the nearest, secluded body of water. After swimming for twenty minutes, he deemed that the cold depths had sufficiently chased the lust from his body. Only then did he trust himself to return to the inn to fetch her.

Stomping up the steps of the inn, he shook a lock of his sodden hair from his eyes. It was well past five in the morning and the lass should be awake and ready for departure. He’d ordered a plate of breakfast to be sent to her room nearly an hour ago with instructions for her to eat, dress, and pack as quickly as possible, for they would be leaving before six. They needed the clinging darkness to ensure no one recognized her with him.

What Nicholas needed was to get to Francesca’s, and fast. Before he threw caution to the wind and took Rosalind in every sense of the word.

He sighed once he reached the top of the steps.

Her trunk was supposed to have been waiting outside the door, as he had instructed a maid to inform her, but its absence meant either she wasn’t ready or she was being stubborn again. His vote was for the latter.

He rapped a light knock upon the worn oak door, waited several seconds, and then tried again. After no response came at his second round of knocking, he shifted his stance and spoke as close as he could to the crack of the door. “Rosalind. Are you ready?”

“Just a minute more!” she called from inside the room.

Rumbling came from the other side of the door, and he assumed she was dragging her trunk toward it.

“Just leave it,” he ordered. “I’ll get it.” Silence.

He sighed and pressed his forehead to the door, leaning his full weight into it. “Did you hear me?” The door sprung open and he tumbled forward, his body connecting with Rosalind’s will owy form.

Together they flew backward, their momentum giving them no choice but to land wherever they would.

They landed on the bed, Nicholas on top and between her thighs.

Her very breath knocked out of her for a moment, Rosalind looked up into eyes of silvery gray. “Have you no patience,” she squeaked out, all too aware of their provocative position.

“With you?” he practically panted. “No.” He went to roll away from her, but Rosalind grabbed his simply tied cravat.

Tucking in his chin to look at her hold, he raised a brow, then met her gaze. “The door, Rosalind, is open.”

“Of course,” she muttered. The weight of him atop her was intoxicating. She didn’t want him to move.

He withdrew himself from her and took the three steps to the door. There, he hesitated, and Rosalind was quite sure he was fighting some sort of inner battle.

She sat up, leaning back on her elbows, and watched him.

Grabbing the scuffed handle, he opened the door wider and sighed, resigned.

The sound tore at her heart.

Was she such a witch, then? This man was only trying to protect her. To do his job and move on.

Clearly they were attracted to each other; clearly they both recognized this. She looked down at her feet, embarrassed now for making him feel bad for agreeing to watch her, for purposefully aggravating him by shopping for hours. Why had she been so determined to make this as difficult for him as she could? What had he ever done to her to deserve this?

The answer was suddenly obvious. He’d made her fall in love with him, effortlessly, completely, and irrevocably—yet she inspired only lust in him. But then she was being such a brat, so difficult, how could he have fall en for her? Shame flooded heat to her cheeks. What had happened to her good sense, her levelheadedness?

Indeed, it was her pride. It smarted once she’d discovered that Nicholas would most likely never interact with her unless forced to by his sense of obligation to her brother.

In a sea of admirers and would-be suitors, the only man she wanted to cling to didn’t want anything to do with her. She was a
responsibility,
nothing more. And she had been making this man’s life miserable.

Well, it would stop now. She would . . . behave.

“A
re you a princess?”

Standing at the threshold of Nicholas’s sister’s house, Rosalind blinked down at the tiny, cinnamon-haired sprite who had just opened the door. She wore a bonnet three times too big for her head and stared up at Rosalind with round gray eyes.

An even younger little girl, a curly-haired blond, stood next to her, her smile overshadowed only by the chubby finger stuffed up her nose.

“Ah, . . . no. I am not a princess,” Rosalind answered. Looking up, she spied someone she presumed to be the butler. The gray-haired man stood slightly behind the door, blinking as if this conversation was quite ordinary and boring, too.

The little girl in the big hat sized her up. “You look like a princess,” she said in the tiniest-sounding voice Rosalind had ever heard.

“Well, thank—”

“ ’cept for that dot on your forehead.” Rosalind’s hand flew to her hairline, her fingers dusting across a tiny blemish she hadn’t known she’d sprouted. “Oh, dear,” she mumbled.

“It’s all right. You are still quite pretty.”

“Are
you
both princesses?” Rosalind asked.

Gray eyes sparkled, as if the imp thought the idea rather marvelous, and she nodded, giving her skirts a swish. The blond just kept picking her nose.

“Are you going to marry Uncle Nicholas?” Lud, the girl was direct. “Well . . . I . . .” Scrunching up her lips, the girl shook her head slowly. “I didn’t think so. He said you gave him a great ache in his head.”

Rosalind laughed. “He did, did he?”

“And then, there’s Miss Polk.”

Rosalind’s mind, which had been keeping up with the child’s abrupt way of speaking, suddenly came to a stumbling halt. “Miss Polk?”

“Aye,” she said, sounding a bit like her uncle. “You don’t know about her?”

Rosalind shook her head slowly. At the moment she wanted nothing more than to launch a list of questions about this Miss Polk.

“Who exactly is M—”

“Gracie! Isabel e!” a young woman gently admonished as she strode into the room. “Show her ladyship inside, please.”

At some distance behind the woman Rosalind presumed was his sister, Nicholas sauntered into the room, watching her intently. Had he heard what his niece had said?

“I’m so sorry, my lady. I had no idea they had opened the door.” She glanced briefly at the butler.

“Jameson here indulges them terribly, I’m afraid.” The butler nodded, his downturned lips hinting of a suppressed smile.

Nicholas stepped forward, handsome as ever, his jacket nowhere in sight and his cravat loosened slightly. “Please come in.” He guided her inside with a hand at her lower back. “Your brother was held up as well yesterday. He only just arrived before we did.

He’ll be in shortly. I believe he’s appraising the stables.”

She nodded.

“allow me to introduce my sister?”

“Of course,” Rosalind readily responded.

“Francesca, this is Lady Rosalind Devine. Lady Rosalind, my sister, Mrs. Francesca Colton.”

“Colton? That name is very familiar to me.”

“Is it, my lady? Perhaps you remember his name from Wolverest? I believe His Grace’s solicitor, Mr.

Ashton, worked with my husband on occasion. We moved to Kent shortly after we married but spent much time in Yorkshire on business matters.” Rosalind smiled. “I do believe you’re right. And please, call me Rosalind. I shal not have it any other way.”

Nodding, Nicholas’s sister smiled a little nervously.

Rosalind felt a tugging on her skirt and looked down to find the pretty girl in the floppy bonnet smiling up at her. “I’m Gracie. I’m five.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Gracie.”

“Likewise.”

Rosalind giggled. Her laughing eyes met Nicholas’s serious ones, and instant heat pooled throughout her body.

“And that’s Isabel e,” Gracie pointed out. “She’s only three.”

“I four.”

“Ah,” Rosalind said, “is your party today?” She nodded.

“Good. I brought you a present, Miss Isabel e, and your sister, too. I didn’t want anyone to feel left out.”

“I like her, Uncle Nicholas,” Gracie said, looking up at him.

“As do I, wee one. As do I.”

T
hree hours later, after much present opening, game playing, and conversing with numerous guests and their families, Rosalind found herself quite out of breath and in need of a respite.

She hadn’t been able to get within five inches of Nicholas before her attention had been requested Nicholas before her attention had been requested elsewhere. And she’d happily complied.

Her own family, though dearly loved, was small, and she was the only female other than her aunt. Of course, now they had Madelyn, but Rosalind would have to wait until their return before she could relish in the rare delight of “sisterly” companionship once again.

But here, well, one would have thought that she would have been the perfect picture of aristocratic snobbery at the informality of the entire affair. But the truth was, Rosalind hadn’t had this much fun since . . .

well, since never.

And every so often she would look up from whatever she was doing, be it playing with the children, assisting someone atop a pony, or soothing a wee one with a scrape, and she’d find Nicholas watching her with an exacting gaze that took her breath away.

And he was marvelous, too. A giant to the children, but with the most tender of hearts. He even agreed to partake in a “tea party” hosted by his nieces. Rosalind nearly toppled over with laughter when they talked him into eating one of their “biscuits” but failed to tell him it was made of dried mud. He spit it out, making a great show of it, and the children laughed uproariously.

She never would have guessed how much fun she would have here.

Tristan seemed to be having a nice time, as well.

He was currently playing a rather lively game of cricket with a group of children across the way.

Rounding a fat oak tree, Rosalind found Nicholas sitting beneath it, his back against the trunk. His two nieces sat before him, watching his hands intently as he worked something in his hands.

Flowers. Tiny daisies, to be precise. He was chaining them together.

Quietly, Rosalind sank down next to him on the blanket, careful to arrange her pale green skirts.

“Just in time for the crowning,” he intoned.

“Am I?” she responded lightly, with an easy smile.

Holding up the crown of daises, he placed them upon his nieces’ heads in turn. They giggled and sprang up, eager to show their friends what their uncle had made for them.

“Nicholas,” Rosalind said softly. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Those beguiling gray eyes met hers, the corners creasing slightly from the glare of the sun behind her.

“It’s your turn.”

Her brow knitted. “My turn?”

He nodded and raised his hands, another circle of daises laced over his fingertips. Leaning toward her, he placed them atop her head.

“Perfect,” he muttered, his tone light, but his eyes held a dark promise that made her shiver.

Despite this, a bubble of laughter tumbled past her lips. “Oh, I don’t know. Are you sure you didn’t give me one with a bee nestled on one of the blooms?” He chuckled softly and Rosalind was quite sure something inside of her melted.

And then, because she couldn’t help but ask, for the need to know was burning her insides, she asked,

“Who is Miss Polk?”

He shrugged. “A neighbor near my Yorkshire residence.”

“What does she look like?” She swallowed, uncomfortable that her jealousy was apparent.

Squinting with his face turned to the sky, he murmured, “Rather tall, blond, I think.”
The woman he looked at in the pleasure gardens
perhaps?

Her stomach knotted. “Is she rather soft-spoken?” He shrugged. “I suppose. Compared to you, she’s a mute.”

“Your perfect girl, then?” She tried to laugh, to keep the conversation light, but her execution left a lot to be desired.

“Not perfect,” he murmured, his eyes connecting to hers.

She gave a tiny shrug herself, trying to affect an air of nonchalance. “Why have you made no offer for her?

If she’s nearly perfect, that is?”

He shrugged.

“I saw her at Vauxhall,” she guessed. “You saw her, too.”

“Aye. I was surprised to see her. You sound jealous, lass.”

“And what if I was, Nicholas?” she asked, suddenly having had just about enough of his evasion for a lifetime. “What if I was jealous? Would that be permissible?”

“Lady?”

Rosalind turned to see Gracie standing behind her.

“We’re going for a walk in the woods, would you come?”

Rosalind exhaled all her anger. “Yes, yes, of course.”

Nicholas stood and reached down to help Rosalind stand.

She didn’t accept his assistance, however, and sprinted off behind his enthusiastic niece.

Nicholas knew the path Gracie and a few of her friends liked to frequent. It was a party of four. Gracie, three of her slightly older friends, and Rosalind.

A twinge of worry marred his brow. His nieces seemed to have grown very attached to Rosalind in a very short time. He couldn’t blame them. Rosalind was simply lovable. So, why couldn’t he admit it to her?

A sudden weariness came over him, no doubt from a lack of sleep, and quite possibly years of suppressing his feelings for one particular woman.

Nicholas gave his head a shake to clear it, noticing Gracie running across the field, her skirts hitched up nearly to her waist.

She probably needed to use the privy. But she kept charging straight toward him. As she got closer to him, he realized that tears were streaking down her cheeks and panic was evident in her huge eyes.

“The lady! Uncle Nicholas, the lady!”

Kneeling down, he caught her at the shoulders.

“What is it? Where is she, Gracie? She was with you, was she not?”

Gracie’s breaths came in big gulps. “The lady . . .

she’s in the water.”