Guarding a Notorious Lady (8 page)

Indeed, it had been difficult not to stare at him last night, but today was even worse. Today he looked every inch the cultured nobleman with an undercurrent of virility and restrained wickedness. And had she ever seen another man fill his clothes so well?

Her gaze scoured over his form. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. His black coat was expertly fitted, stretching across his shoulders as if it had been stitched while on him. His waistcoat was also black, but it had threadwork of a pearly blue that swirled in a lazy design across the flat expanse of his stomach.

She had the sudden urge to fan her hand against it, test its resistance.

Finally, she looked to his face and found his own gaze was just returning from his own languid perusal.

Of her.

But she couldn’t be quite sure, could she? Perhaps she had a petal or a leaf sitting on her skirt or in her hair. She patted her dark blue skirts down and swiped at her shoulders.

She looked up to find him looking at her quizzically.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Is there a leaf or a flower petal or something?” she asked, twisting left and right.

He stepped forward suddenly and, reaching out, gently pinched at the fabric of her right sleeve, which sent a thousand shivers racing down her arm. A tiny leaf floated to the floor.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He dipped his chin.

They stared at one another for a long minute, the only sounds that of the ticking clock and the bustling street scene behind him.

Sudden sniffling came from the back of the house.

Rosalind turned to see Briggs returning to his post.

“My apologies, my lady,” he intoned, wiping at his nose with a handkerchief before stuffing it in the front pocket of his livery. He closed the door behind Nicholas.

“No need to apologize, Briggs,” she replied with concern. “I understand. It is the flowers, yes? Had I known they caused you trouble, I would have had them placed in another room.”

Briggs waved away her concern. “No, my lady. I suppose it is a bit more from this dreadful head cold.” Rosalind dipped her head. “Perhaps you ought to retire early, then.” When the loyal servant shook his head, she insisted, “Yes, you should. I’ll have Cook make soup, and Jenny will bring it up to you.”

“My lady is too kind,” Briggs intoned.

Her attention returned to Nicholas.

He was looking about the room, seeming to notice only now the plethora of blooms in which they stood.

“For the love of God, woman,” he murmured. “Is this normal?”

She lifted her chin. “I’ll have you know that it is
quite
normal for gentlemen to send flowers to a lady after a ball.”

“Aye, but of this magnitude?”

“There are some things which I cannot control.”

“Like your appeal, is it?”

“That’s not what I meant at all,” she answered testily. “I cannot help it that they were so generous—”

“Flamboyant,” he interrupted, gesturing to the rather poor, but quite large, watercolor of her likeness.

“I did not ask for any of this,” she said defensively.

“Oh, you did,” he murmured darkly. “Just by walking into a room.”

Her brow quirked at that, but she recovered swiftly.

“Some
gentlemen,
” she stressed, “find it is the proper thing to do after an evening in which he shared a dance with the lady. I can only assume by your remarks that you did no such thing for the long list of ladies who accompanied you on the ball room floor yesterday evening.”

“One should never assume.”

“So you did send them flowers?” she blurted, then wished she’d had the forbearance to bite her tongue.

He was quiet for a moment, and then a broad smile crept over his mouth. “I’m curious to know why you find the subject of such interest.”

“I don’t.”

“But you asked,” he said, gazing down at her intensely, the smile turning lopsided.

She blushed hotly. “So, I did,” she conceded.

“There is no reason for you to answer me. I reckon it is none of my business.”

Another long pause, and then he finally replied, “I did not send flowers. I’m sure that marks me a savage in your eyes, but there you have it. Next, I presume, you’ll think I like to swing from trees and eat soup with my fingers.”

She pressed her lips together, smothering a smile.

“Very well,” she managed after a moment. “I was only curious, I imagine, not
jealous.
” Oh, dear God, why had she said that?

A muscle in his cheek twitched. “I didn’t say you were.” He walked around her and headed for the double doors of the morning room.

She followed the insolent man.

The distant murmurings of the gentlemen ensconced in the room reached her ears. Aunt Eugenia’s perpetual disapproving tones were loudest of them all. One of the doors was open a crack.

Nicholas tilted his head to peek through between the doors.

She took a deep breath, then whispered harshly,

“Why are you here?”

He looked down at her, those devastatingly gray eyes twinkling. “Are you up to something? I ask because you seem guilty. Are you meddling?

Eavesdropping? Matchmaking?”

“Indeed, I am not.”

“You could be,” he said quietly. “Your aunt is a single lady, and there are”—he glanced around the door to look inside the deep room once again—“three men present.”

“Those three gentlemen are old enough to be her sons.”

He shrugged one shoulder while he continued to spy on them. “It would not be unheard of in your circles.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Oh, I think you know.”

“I’m afraid I am at a loss. Explain.”

“I’d rather not,” he mumbled.

“
You
are stubborn.”

“And
you
are surprisingly astute.”

“Well, thank . . .” Her gratitude died on her tongue.

“Your insult was poorly veiled as a compliment.”

“As I said, astute.”

She nearly gave a small scream of frustration.

Instead, she asked through a tight smile, “What, pray, are you doing here?” When he failed to answer her directly, she gave his back a poke and couldn’t help but notice her finger met steely resistance. Was every inch of him covered in muscle? “Perhaps you were lost?”

“Very funny. I’m here to see Tristan.” Her brow quirked at that. Although he and Tristan were friendly, they weren’t close.

“I was hoping he could lead me in the direction of a gambling club.”

“I see,” she said tartly. “Well, if you’re looking for a night of prowling for feminine distraction, I’m sorry to inform you that you’ll have to do that on your own.

Tristan has been engaged since last autumn.”

“I do not intend to take the lad with me.” Something inside her crumbled a bit. It displeased her to realize that Nicholas was looking for a night of carousing and sordid female companionship. She hadn’t thought he was like that.

She blinked rapidly, trying to keep disappointment from her expression. “Shal I ring for him, then?” He nodded without moving his assessing gaze from the occupants of the room.

Rosalind turned to a young, freckled maid who was passing down the corridor in the direction of the front door, a large carrot in her hand, presumably for the horse tethered outside—a gift Rosalind could not, in good graces, accept. The horse, that is. Carrots she liked just fine.

“Maria? Will you inform his lordship’s valet that he has a visitor?”

The maid curtsied. “Yes, miss.”

Rosalind turned back to Nicholas. “You can wait for him in the study. It’s down the hall on the . . .” He was gone.

“ . . . right.”

But gone he was not. Heavens, no. That would have been too easy. The stubborn man was now standing in the middle of the morning room as if this was
his
residence.

As she watched, he spoke to her trio of male visitors, who, in turn, regarded him with the flare of competition in their eyes.

She would like to blame his brashness on his newly titled status, but he’d behaved in much the same manner that day in the bookshop. At least he was consistent in that.

She crept inside the room, her dark blue skirts swishing on the Aubusson carpet. The seated men instantly stood, greeting her with wide smiles.

“Please, gentlemen,” Aunt Eugenia implored haughtily. “Do sit. The gell is likely to stand all day. I’m not sure what’s wrong. She’s been rather fidgety, peeking around the drapes to look outside. I can only presume you’ve all spoiled my niece with the attention and she’s grown bored.”

Rosalind nearly groaned aloud.

Slowly, the men complied, looking for a moment as if they’d like nothing better than to jump out the window to freedom themselves.

Rosalind wanted to feel sorry for them, but she didn’t. None of the men who had come to call today possessed an ounce of sincerity between them. But they never have, she reminded herself, even without the dreadful wager.

Part of her wanted to toss them out, just as her eldest brother advised her to do, but she couldn’t. She needed them. Their presence here today served a purpose. She hoped to draw out her guardian.

“Who’s this?” her aunt asked rudely, gesturing to Nicholas with a lift of her chin.

A warm blush crept up Rosalind’s neck as she realized she had been standing behind him. She stepped forward and made the proper introductions.

Now that Nicholas was here, that made four eligible males in her town house. What sort of guardian could resist such a situation? But she was beginning to believe that the man, whoever he was, was either really good at keeping his distance or incredibly lax in his duties. Perhaps he hovered outside for some reason.

She flicked a glance over to the window overlooking the street. The action was not missed by Nicholas.

“Are you looking for someone in particular?” he asked from beside her.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head.

He gave her a skeptical nod and one of his disarming grins.

Heat infused her entire body. Clearing her throat delicately, Rosalind moved over to the settee against the wall, thinking Nicholas would take the empty chair near the others. She offered it in passing with an open palm and a polite “come and sit.”

However, once she sat down, she realized he had followed her. Flipping the tails of his jacket out of the way, he sank down next to her, his long legs stretched out before them.

It was a big enough seat . . . for two women, but with a man of Nicholas’s size, there was no helping their touching each other. From thigh to knee.

A path of fire seemed to smolder at that seam of contact.

“You there, young man,” Aunt Eugenia replied, gesturing to Nicholas. “You were at the ball last night, were you not? I saw you talking to my nephew.”

“Aye, madam.”

“Weren’t you wearing a skirt?” Eugenia asked, giving him a once-over, the number of her chins increasing as she dipped her head.

Rosalind sighed softly.

“It’s called a kilt, madam. But I thank you kindly for noticing.” And then he winked.

“Such arrogance,” Aunt Eugenia croaked, her wrinkled forehead furrowing further with her indignant frown. “I cannot believe Rosalind let you in the house.

Such talk from one of her admirers!”

He cleared his throat. “I am not one of her admirers.

I’m here to visit with Tristan.”

Eyes widened, Aunt Eugenia’s wide nostrils flared at the insult she apparently thought was aimed at Rosalind.

“If you’ve come to see to my nephew, what are you doing in here?”

Rosalind looked at Nicholas, curious to what his answer would be to her disapproving aunt.

His gray gaze flicked to her, and then back to her aunt. “Well, you must realize I could not resist ensconcing myself in the company of such fine women.”

What a flirt—and an excellent approach at befuddling her aunt, Rosalind mused, noting that Aunt Eugenia was now blushing like a green girl.

“Shal I ring for a fresh pot of tea, my lord?” Rosalind interjected quietly before her aunt regained her sense.

When he didn’t immediately answer, she turned to meet his gaze. What a mistake. He was too close.

And the silver glints in his eyes seared a path straight to her belly, which made her squirm slightly.

“No, thank you,” he answered just as quietly, his gaze dipping to her lips before returning to meld with her own gaze.

He had never looked at her like this before. He looked . . . hungry. Quite like she was a tasty morsel of . . . something, and he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth in her.

For five seconds she forgot to breathe.

“Your eyes,” Lord Bates suddenly proclaimed from across the room.

Blinking out of Nicholas’s surely accidental enchantment, Rosalind wasn’t sure who Bates was talking to, or about, for that matter, until she managed to turn her head in his direction.

“Pardon?” she asked.

Lord Bates gave her a completely besotted—and completely feigned, she was sure—glance. “I noticed them while we danced last night. They’re the bluest I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled, feeling quite awkward.

“But I must say I’ve seen many women with blue eyes just like mine.”

“I wanted to remark upon them at the time, but it slipped my mind,” he continued, flushing.

Lord, this was terribly strange.

“I second the notion.” Lord Wells straightened in his chair. “I daresay, they’re not frosty like your elder brother’s, but all uring. Quite like a bright summer sky.” Nicholas shifted next to her, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No, that’s not it,” Lord Morton replied. “They’re more like sapphires, I say.”

“Sapphires?” Lord Bates scoffed. “Her eyes are too brilliant to be described as such a deep blue.

Now, what they are is sparkly. Like a winter morning sky—”

“Gentlemen, please!” Aunt Eugenia proclaimed.

“Listen to yourselves. Arguing about the gel’s eye color! Preposterous. Next, you’ll all come to blows on the street over the exact hue. Let it rest. Upon my word.”

The gentlemen quieted their ridiculous debate only to begin marveling over what they deemed was Rosalind’s talent for dancing.