The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (14 page)

“Are you quite well?”

Sophia silently cursed her reaction and made herself stand calmly under his hand.
“Of course. Perhaps you might escort Lady Charlotte onto the dance floor and save
the next one for me?”

“Of course,” Langdon replied, easy acceptance in his voice. “Lady Charlotte, would
you do me the honor of partnering me in a dance?”

“Certainly, Lord Stonecliffe,” the older woman answered, offering Langdon her hand.
“Though I feel I must warn you, I am not as quick as I used to be.”

“I don’t know about that,” Nicholas countered dryly.

Lady Charlotte arched one silver eyebrow in laughing response and allowed Langdon
to steer her toward the crowd gathered on the dance floor. “He will require some looking
after, Sophia,” she added over her shoulder before she and Langdon joined the throng.

“How is it possible that the Furies somehow never seem to age?” Nicholas said, watching
his brother and Lady Charlotte join a set of other couples. “Rather, their power only
grows. Would you not agree?”

Sophia wanted to reply to his humorous observation, but found it impossible to do
so.

Nicholas turned to look at her, his head cocked slightly to the side as he studied
her. “Come now, Sophia. Light repartee is a specialty of yours, is it not?”

“It would seem the act of deception comes quite naturally to me,” she began, startled
by his pert comment. “Rather like putting on a play, really.”

He grinned in understanding. “I suppose you’re right; ‘all the world’s a stage’ and
whatnot,
Miss Spoon
.”

“
Having
lied and deceived?” Sophia continued. “That is a bit more challenging.”

Nicholas narrowed his gaze. “In what way?”

“The guilt, Nicholas,” Sophia explained. “How does one make it go away?”

“Impossible. There is always guilt,” Nicholas warned, his gaze unsympathetic.

“I was afraid of that,” Sophia replied, searching his eyes for a hint of empathy.

Nicholas shook his head. “As well you should be. Exacting revenge on your mother’s
killer will change everything, Sophia—most likely it already has begun.”

“I’m doing this for all of us, don’t you see?” Sophia countered, her hackles rising
in response to his distant behavior. “Once my mother’s killer is captured we’ll be
free, Nicholas.”

“Of what?”

“Everything that has plagued us for the last twenty years,” Sophia explained, an urgency
growing in her throat. “Surely Langdon will understand
that
.”

Nicholas’s piercing gaze captured hers. “Then why do you feel guilty?”

“Because I should,” Sophia replied, the inexplicable premonition of an approaching
storm coloring her tone with apprehension. “Because it is Langdon. Because I am the
last person he would ever suspect of lying to him.”

“You have choices, Sophia,” Nicholas reminded her. “One week in and already you are
in shambles. If you would leave the investigation to me …”

Sophia forced herself to look away from his handsome, compelling face. She inhaled
deeply and exhaled in equal measure. The act seemed to shore up and stabilize her
shaken nerves. “I’ve given you my reasons,
Nicholas. And they’ve not changed. Besides, I’ve already made some progress. Mrs.
Mason was of use, after all. I’m in possession of an address that should help in finding
the Kingsmen.”

Nicholas took a step back, visibly distancing himself. “But
you
have changed. And soon enough, everything else will follow suit. No bloody address
will help then.”

Sophia’s eyes widened with alarm. “What do you mean?”

“Langdon is intent on a wedding, Sophia,” Nicholas answered curtly. “Your wedding,
to be exact.”

“Why now?” she asked, her hands beginning to tremble.

“Why now?” Nicholas repeated her question, confusion reflected in his countenance.
“Because you have been engaged for nearly twenty years—”

“Please, do not exaggerate, Nicholas,” Sophia chided, taking yet another deep breath
and attempting to relax taut muscles.

“All right, then,” he replied, his tone menacing. “What about the fact that he loves
you? And you love him? Is that not enough reason to marry?”

“Please don’t be cruel,” Sophia whispered, forcing a smile in response to Lady Bascombe’s
nod as she strolled by.

“What, precisely, is cruel in reminding you of your approaching marriage?”

Sophia fixed her gaze on a wall sconce to the right of Nicholas’s head and concentrated
on her body, attempting to ease the tense muscles first in her temples, then her neck,
and still lower, until she reached her toes.

She closed her eyes briefly before looking up at Nicholas. “Why are you doing this?”

Sophia caught sight of Langdon and Lady Charlotte from the corner of her eye. The
dance had ended and they were returning, Langdon’s hand atop Lady Charlotte’s
on his bent arm. He smiled at Sophia, his familiar, fond show of affection so stark
in contrast to Nicholas’s enigmatic glance.

“You did not answer my question,” Nicholas said, turning to look at the returning
couple. “Is it cruel to mention your love for my brother?”

“I do not know if it is cruel. It is pointless, though. Of that much I am certain.”

How long Nicholas had been at the faro table was a mystery not even the empty bottle
of brandy next to his cards could reveal.

He looked around the room at his fellow players, noting the numbers had thinned considerably.
“Are we the only ones left with money to wager, then?” Nicholas asked no one in particular.

Three gentlemen seated with him at the table stood, one retrieving a small amount
of bank notes and coins from in front of him. Then all three walked from the room,
leaving only Nicholas, and one other gentleman sipping brandy at a nearby table.

“Come, Braxton,” Nicholas urged the man, nearly falling out of his chair from the
effort. “We could use another player. Or rather, I could.”

Lord Charles Braxton, Baron Maplethorpe, had also been born the second child. Fortunately
in his case, the firstborn had possessed the decency to come into the world a girl.
There had never been any question what he would do with his life.

Nicholas had not been so fortunate.

He was vaguely aware of the thread of sheer meanness running through his thoughts—often
a sign that he’d had too much to drink.

Or, looked at in a different light, a sign that he’d not had enough.

“My good man,” Nicholas called to a footman. “Fetch another bottle for me.”

“Of course, sir,” the young man replied, bowing before leaving the room.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Bourne?”

Nicholas was not sure who had addressed him, then realized there was only himself,
Braxton, and two footmen present. He stood up and attempted to walk toward Braxton.

The table he’d been seated behind had the audacity to not spontaneously move of its
own accord, catching Nicholas’s left hip and sending him crashing to the floor.

“I believe you just answered my question.” Braxton bent over Nicholas, his features
somewhat fuzzy, while his intentions were crystal clear. “Let me help you, Bourne.”
He held out his hand and waited.

Nicholas batted the man’s hand away. “I do not need your help, Braxton,” he spat out,
rolling onto his stomach.

“That is arguable. Still, suit yourself,” Braxton replied.

Nicholas snapped. There was no other way to describe his reaction to Braxton’s words.
As if the man possessed any right to judge him! It was unthinkable. Absolutely ridiculous.
And deserving of retribution.

Nicholas shoved himself up off the floor, grabbing the table to steady himself. “Turn
around, Braxton, or you might not live to regret it.”

Braxton slowly turned and faced Nicholas, his expression dubious. “You can’t be serious,
Bourne. I’ll not fight a man in his cups.”

“Why, because your honor won’t allow it?” Nicholas countered. “I’ve always thought
it too convenient when cowardice masqueraded as honor.”

“Does he not have any friends with him?” Braxton asked the footman, who only shook
his head in response. “I’ve no quarrel with you, Bourne. Let me find your brother.
Perhaps he can talk some sense into you.”

Nicholas watched Braxton turn toward the door and begin to walk away. A sickening
sense of urgency coursed through him. “Afraid, are you? Then run away. You’d only
lose—but then, you clearly already knew that.”

The tinkling of crystal caught Nicholas’s attention. He looked over his shoulder and
watched as the footman discreetly picked up a tray full of empty glasses and backed
away.

“I don’t know that such precautions will be necessary, my good man,” Nicholas said
loudly, resettling his gaze on Braxton. “It appears young Lord Maplethorpe will not
be defending his honor today.”

Braxton stopped in the doorway and spun about. “I warned you, Bourne.”

Nicholas braced himself as the man stalked toward him.

“And you do know, after what you’ve said here in front of these witnesses, I could
kill you and no one would question my actions,” Braxton added, folding one hand over
the other and cracking his knuckles.

Nicholas smiled with evil intent and put his fists up in preparation for the fight.
“Oh, I know it only too well, Braxton. Only too well.”

The man shook his head in disgust and Nicholas nearly felt sorry for him. Then Braxton
landed a stinging blow to his right cheek and Nicholas forgot all about such a ridiculous
notion.

And instead focused every last ounce of shame and remorse, bitterness and regret on
his opponent.

He staggered at first, widening his stance in order to
recapture his balance. Braxton’s fist connected a second time, grazing Nicholas’s
ribs on the right side.

“There now, Braxton. You do have a bit of life in you.” Nicholas ducked to avoid a
punch to the eye.

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint you, Bourne,” Braxton replied, grunting when Nicholas
hit him square in the stomach.

He doubled over and Nicholas took the opportunity to catch his breath. “Impossible,
Braxton. The moment you turned back I knew I would not be disappointed.”

“You’re insane,” Braxton muttered, standing upright once again.

Nicholas raised his fists. “Now you’re beginning to understand.”

“I am tired and would like to go home to my bed. Let’s finish this, shall we?”

Nicholas nodded in agreement. “A capital idea, Braxton. Absolutely cap—”

Braxton launched himself at Nicholas, clearly intending on following through with
the plan. The two crashed against a table, sending a deck of playing cards flying.
Braxton grabbed Nicholas’s lapels and toppled him over onto the floor, landing squarely
on top of him.

Nicholas writhed in an attempt to free himself, swinging wildly with his fists. Braxton
avoided his hits by ducking and leaning back, the shifting of his weight forcing the
air from Nicholas’s lungs.

And then he set to pounding the life out of Nicholas. There was a certain rhythm to
it, Nicholas realized, admiring the man’s steady, determined efforts. Surely Braxton
had boxed before. His technique was polished. His punches clean and to the point.

Perhaps Braxton would kill him, after all.

A small part of Nicholas’s brain realized what he was admitting; he had, in fact,
goaded Braxton into fighting him, with his goal being death.

It sounded a touch too dramatic for Nicholas, but he would not rule it out.

The pain had gone from excruciating to a somewhat duller throb and burn, leaving Nicholas
to wonder if the man had managed to sever every last nerve ending in his face.

“All right, my lords. Time to end this.”

Nicholas opened his eyes as best he could and attempted to look over Braxton’s shoulder,
the shape of a face hovering there. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Braxton here is the
only one with a useless title.”

Suddenly Braxton’s fists stopped and the man lurched forward, collapsing in a heap
atop Nicholas.

Over his shoulder, Nicholas had a clear view of a footman, wincing as he shook his
right hand. Must be the fist he hit Braxton with, Nicholas thought with oddly detached
calm.

“I warned him,” the footman announced, resignation in his tone. “More than likely
be dismissed regardless.”

“I suppose so,” Nicholas answered, then blacked out.

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