Guarding a Notorious Lady (24 page)

“Y
ou have a caller, my lady.”

Rosalind looked up from the open portmanteau that sat upon her bed.

Her entire wardrobe was strewn across her bedchamber as maids folded and pressed her garments, packing them for the return trip to Yorkshire.

Closing her eyes briefly, Rosalind tried to quel the unstable feeling of being adrift. He was sending her away and she didn’t know if he was coming with her, and, if he was, what their relationship was going to be like once they settled into their old country routines.

She wasn’t going to do the silly thing, stomp her feet and refuse to leave the city—she’d almost been abducted, for goodness’ sake. She wanted to leave until the interest in the wager faded away. Although she supposed it never would—unless she married.

And if all of this was still going on when Gabriel and Madelyn returned, Rosalind was sure he’d insist she marry posthaste—for her own protection.

She wanted to talk to Nicholas. She needed to hear his voice, needed to feel his arms around her. She wanted to look into his eyes and see the warm and loving heart he hid there. She wanted him to let her crawl inside and stay there forever.

After they’d made love by the pond, she could have sworn that he’d been about to reveal
something
of the inner workings of his mind. And then the way he had held her in the carriage back to his sister’s house had further buoyed her hopes. But then he’d been so cool after talking to Tristan that she didn’t know what to think.

“My lady?” a maid insisted gently. “You have a caller.”

Rosalind gave her head a shake and looked up at the maid standing at her open door.

“Miss Meriwether asks to speak with you. Are you receiving callers?”

Rosalind nodded. “Could you send her upstairs?” The maid bobbed a quick curtsy and left.

Rosalind stood, brushing at her pale green skirts.

Moments later, Lucy bolted inside her room, her skirts rustling.

“I have your solution!” she exclaimed, grasping Rosalind’s hands in her own.

“To what?”

“To . . .” She looked pointedly at the pair of maids working on packing Rosalind’s wardrobe. “Where are you going?”

Rosalind quietly dismissed the maids. She waited until they left the room, closing the door behind them before answering Lucy. “Back to Yorkshire.”

“Why?”

“Lord Winterbourne’s orders.”

“And just like that, you go?”

Pressing her lips together, Rosalind nodded. She’d explain the entire story to Lucy one day, but not now.

Lucy’s shoulders fell. “Hmmph. That makes what I was about to say moot.”

“What were you about to say?”

Lucy sighed dramatically. “Only that I found a solution to your guardian problem.”

“What solution?”

“Not what, but
who,
rather. A Miss Polk. Lady Beecham hosted yet another garden tea and she was there. We happened to talk, and in doing so I discover that she is in love with none other than Lord Winterbourne! Don’t you see? I’ve found his distraction! It seems her family lives near his farm in Yorkshire and she’s been pining for him and followed him down to London. She overheard him talking to her uncle a month ago about digging a new well, and Winterbourne said he couldn’t help because he had some ‘vexing business’ to take care of in London.”

“I’m his vexing business,” Rosalind repeated, her voice sounding small.

“Yes!” Lucy declared, excited, and clearly unaware of the turmoil such a statement was causing Rosalind.

“So it was a good idea, correct?”

“What idea?” Rosalind felt sick.

“That you should match Polk with Winterbourne?” Rosalind shook her head slowly, staring off into the corner of the room. “I-I don’t want be a matchmaker anymore.”

Silence filled the air.

“Are you all right?” Lucy touched her shoulder.

Rosalind shook her head. “No. I don’t feel very well.

If you don’t mind—”

Lucy held up a hand. “I understand. I want to see you before you go. Make sure of it?”

Rosalind nodded, tried to smile and failed. Lucy tilted her head sadly and quietly left the room.

All at once Rosalind felt as if the fog in her mind had cleared. She’d thought he was hiding something, possibly his feelings for her, but now it was entirely possible that the reason Nicholas was acting cool toward her was that his heart resided with someone else.

And that meant that as special and wonderful as she had thought last night had been, he had used her.

He’d wanted her and he’d wrestled with his conscience because she was his best friend’s little sister, she was his responsibility, she was his vexing business.

Her heart started to race and her breaths came faster. Dear Lord, she had made a dreadful miscalculation of his regard.

Someone knocked softly on her door.

“Come in,” she called out, her voice cracking on the words.

The door creaked open and Nicholas walked through with slow, measured steps.

Her gaze already on the floor, she gradually raised her eyes from his polished boots, snug black breeches, flat waistcoat, broad chest, cravat, to his beautiful face.

His gray eyes narrowed slightly when their gazes finally met. “I needed to speak with Tristan,” he said, explaining his presence. “I have. Just.” He cleared his throat. “But now I need to speak with you.” Breath whooshed out of him and he started to pace the floor, his hands clasped behind his back.

He was so nervous. She’d never seen him behave in such a manner.

“I-I have a confession to make,” he intoned. “I don’t know if you realize how difficult this is for me to say. I didn’t want it to be like this.”

Her eyes followed his path, back and forth.

“I have kept some things from you.”

Her heart skittered inside her chest. Here it was.

Here was his confession—that he wanted to be with someone else.

“Don’t say it,” she exclaimed, a bit too forcefully.

He stopped in his tracks, his straight brows drawing together.

She advanced toward him, tears welling in her eyes. “Don’t say anything.”

Kiss him now. Kiss him one last time. For when he
says he doesn’t love you, you can’t pretend any
longer.

Reaching up, she framed his jaw in her hands, pulled him close, and kissed him like she had never done before. Her mouth moved over his perfect sculpted lips like
she
was the dominant one. Walking him backwards, she kissed him like she was conquering him.

Hands at her elbows, he stopped walking when the backs of his thighs met with her bed. Her tongue delved into his hot, slightly chocolate tasting mouth, mating with his.

And then his momentary shock dissolved and the roles reversed. He pulled her roughly to him, spun around, and sat her on the high bed. Just as he started leaning further into her, forcing her to recline, she pushed at him. For several moments he didn’t budge. And then, as if coming out of a daze, he eased himself away from her.

As soon as she was free, Rosalind ran out of the room.

R
osalind rounded the corner that would lead her to the rear entrance and nearly crashed into Tristan.

“Whooh! Slow down there.” One hand holding a copy of the
Times,
the other holding a sloshing cup of tea, he took a look down the front of himself. “Missed.” He raised a brow. “Got a spot on my boot though.” She averted her gaze and made to move around him. She didn’t want him to look into her eyes and see that she was upset.

She needn’t worry. He was too concerned about his boot.

As she walked past him, he mumbled, “Despite the state of my boot, there is a bit of good news. Did you know, Nicholas just informed me that he has a pair of Welsh cobs? excellent horses. I’ve always wanted one. I must say I’m going to like having Nicholas as my brother-in-law.”

She froze. “What did you say?” She turned, bit by bit, to face him.

“My new broth— Didn’t he?” His eyes grew large and guilty looking. “He said he was going to . . .”

“Oh no. Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no.” She dashed past Tristan, heading for the stairs. She prayed Nicholas hadn’t left.

What a little fool she was! Here he had come to propose, confess his feelings, and she’d stopped him. It was obvious speaking about his feelings was difficult for him—and then she’d stopped him?

Please let him still be here.

Dashing down the hall, she skirted past a tall figure, grabbed the newel post to launch herself up the stairs

. . . and froze.

Looking over her shoulder, she glanced to where Nicholas stood next to the stairs.

“Good afternoon,” she said, drawing out the words.

A tremulous smile played on her lips.

Nicholas grinned like a fool.

Without taking her eyes off him, she lifted her chin toward the stairs. “Come with me?”

“As you wish.” He grabbed her hand and together they trudged up the stairs and into her room.

“Quietly,” she warned, pointing to her aunt’s closed door.

He nodded.

Inside her room, she gently shut the door behind them, grabbed his arm, and steered him over to the stool before her writing desk.

Taking a deep breath, she patted down her skirts and then clasped her hands in front of her demurely.

“Now, you were saying?”

He laughed, suddenly feeling such contentedness that it should have frightened him. But it only made him happy.

He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her forehead.

And then, quietly, he said, “I have a confession to make.”

“Indeed? Go, on.”

“A few, in fact.”

“You have my rapt attention.”

“Some might make you angry.”

This caused her to raise one delicate brow. “Truly?

Out with it, then.”

“I can waltz.”

“I suspected.” She sighed. “But I shal forgive you based on your performance on the sofa afterwards.”

“Should you like a repeat performance, that could easily be arranged.”

“We’ll see. You have more confessions to make, after all.”

“Ah. Well, my next confession is that I accepted no whisky. Gabriel didn’t offer me any compensation, and I wouldn’t have accepted it even if he did.”

“Why?” she whispered, looking unsure.

“I told myself that I was doing a favor for a friend, that you’re an obligation. Hell, I even told Tristan that earlier today. But I’m tired of fighting it.” He squeezed her and looked directly into her eyes.

“Because I love you, Rosalind. I think I’ve loved you for a very long time. Years. I think, because of my fears, I kept fighting the feeling. I kept telling myself that I was only attracted to you, that it would fade, that you would marry someone else someday.”

She opened her mouth to speak and he quieted her as he brushed the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip.

“I tried to spend the least amount of time in your presence as possible. Because every moment I am near you, the pull to be with you grows stronger, my resolve to resist you weakens.”

“Nicholas. I love you. And I have loved you for a very long time, as well. But unlike you, I didn’t fear it. But I did fear your indifference.”

He chuckled low. “If you only knew. I’m sorry for misleading you. For being such a coward. Would spending the rest of my life showing you just how entranced by you I am suffice?”

She nodded, smiling.

“Marry me, Rosalind. Be my wife.”

“Of course I will.”

He kissed her tenderly, openly, holding nothing back.

When they finally pulled apart, she gave him a skeptical look.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just that . . . twice you told me that you like quiet, tall blonds . . . and Miss Polk is tall and blond. And she followed you all the way here . . .” He shook his head, inwardly kicking himself for teasing her. “Rosalind. Listen. If I wanted to marry Miss Polk, I would have done so long ago. If I wanted to have any relations with Miss Polk, I would have done so long ago. My nieces are aware of her interest in me because the woman is about as subtle as a cannonbal blast.”

Rosalind laughed. “All right.”

“However,” he said, curling his arms around her to hold her tighter to him, “I should confess that I am completely obsessed with short, raven-haired, blue-eyed lassies named Rosalind.”

“Indeed?”

His mouth descended to her. “Oh, am I ever.”
Acknowledgments

A special thank you to Esi Sogah

About the Author

At eight years old, OLIVIA PARKER wrote her first romance with a fat red marker. It made one’s eyes hurt to read it, but it did have a tortured hero. Since then, she’s dedicated her efforts to improving her craft (now using pencils) and divides her time among her love of writing, reading, and relaxing with her family.

She currently resides in northern Ohio with her husband, three children, a border coll ie, and a cockatiel, who eats a worrisome amount of popcorn.

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By Olivia Parker

Guarding a Notorious Lady

To Wed a Wicked Earl

At the Bride Hunt Ball

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Tracy Ann Parker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.