Worth Any Price (23 page)

Nick’s mouth twisted. “If Lottie wishes it.”

“Yes,” she said decisively. Despite the pain in her wrist, she felt ready to confront the devil himself, if need be. She saw the glances the two men exchanged as they silently agreed to discuss the problem of Radnor at a more appropriate time.

Sir Ross left them in private once more, and Lottie
stood resolutely. Nick was at her side immediately, his hands framing her waist as if he feared she would topple over. Lottie smiled at his overprotectiveness. “I am fine now,” she told him. “Truly.”

She waited for the familiar glimmer of wry humor to appear in Nick’s eyes, for him to return to his usual insouciant self, but he remained tense, his gaze searching her face with strange gravity. He looked as though he wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and carry her far away from here.

“You’re staying by my side for the rest of the evening,” he told her.

Lottie tilted her head back to smile at him. “That might be wise, as the brandy seems to have gone to my head.”

Warmth kindled in his eyes, and one of his hands slipped upward to cradle the shape of her breast. “Do you feel dizzy?”

She relaxed into the cupping pressure of his fingers, his touch releasing a glow of sensuality from her susceptible flesh. The pain in her wrist was nearly forgotten, her nerves tingling wildly as his thumb teased her nipple into a thrusting point. “Only when you touch me like that.”

Finishing the tantalizing caress with a gentle rotation of his palm, Nick returned his hand to safer territory. “I want this damned evening to be done with,” he said. “Come…the sooner we go out there, the sooner Cannon can make his bloody speech.”

Extending her bare hand, Lottie steeled herself
not to flinch as he eased the tight-fitting glove over her swollen wrist. By the time he was finished, Lottie was white-faced, and Nick was sweating profusely, as if the pain had been his rather than hers. “Damn Radnor,” he said raspily, going to pour her another brandy. “I’m going to tear his throat out.”

“I know something that would hurt him far more than that.” Carefully Lottie raised a folded handkerchief to blot his damp brow.

“Oh?” His brows arched in sardonic inquiry.

Her fingers closed around the handkerchief, compressing it into a ball. She paused for a long moment before replying, while a wave of hope rose in her throat and nearly threatened to choke her. Taking the brandy from him, she took a bracing swallow. “We could try to be happy together,” she said. “That is something he could never understand…something he’ll never have.”

She could not bring herself to look at him, afraid that she might see mockery or rejection in his eyes. But her heart slammed heavily in her chest as she felt his mouth drift along the top of her head, his lips playing with white rose petals as they fluttered against the pinned-up silk of her braid.

“We could try,” he agreed softly.

After the two glasses of brandy, Lottie’s head was swimming pleasantly, and she was grateful for Nick’s steady guidance as they returned to the ballroom. The hardness and strength of his arm fascinated
her. No matter how heavily she leaned on him, he took her weight easily. He was a strong man…but until tonight, she had not suspected that he was capable of offering her such tender comfort. Somehow she did not think that he had suspected it of himself, either. Their reactions had been unthinking—hers, to turn to him, and his, to engulf her in reassurance.

They walked into the ballroom and approached Sir Ross. Ascending a moveable step to become easily visible to the huge crowd in the ballroom, Sir Ross signaled the musicians to stop playing, and asked for the guests’ collective attention. He possessed the kind of elegant, innately authoritative voice that any politician would have envied. An expectant hush fell over the ballroom, while more guests poured in from the outside circuits, and a virtual army of servants moved rapidly through the assemblage with trays of champagne.

Sir Ross began the speech with a reference to his magisterial career and the satisfaction it had always given him to see that certain wrongs were put right. He followed with a string of approving remarks about the inviolable traditions and obligations of hereditary peerage. The remarks obviously gratified the gathering, which was liberally salted with viscounts, earls, marquesses, and dukes.

“I was under the impression that Sir Ross was not a great supporter of hereditary principle,” Lottie whispered to Nick.

He smiled grimly. “My brother-in-law can be quite a showman when he wishes. And he knows that reminding them of their strict adherence to tradition will help them to swallow the idea of accepting me as a peer.”

Sir Ross went on to describe an unnamed gentleman who had been deprived for far too long of a title that was rightfully his. A man who was in the direct line of descent of a distinguished family, and who in the past few years had devoted himself entirely to public service.

“Therefore,” Sir Ross concluded, “I am grateful for the rare privilege of announcing Lord Sydney’s long overdue reclamation of his title, and the seat in the Lords that accompanies it. And I have every expectation that he will continue to serve the country and queen in the role that is his by birth.” Raising a glass in the air, he said, “Let us toast Mr. Nick Gentry—the man who shall be known to us from now on as John, Viscount Sydney.”

A ripple of amazement went through the crowd. Although most of them had already known what Sir Ross would announce, it was startling to hear the words spoken aloud.

“To Lord Sydney,” came hundreds of obedient echoes, followed by as many cheers.

“And to Lady Sydney,” Sir Ross prompted, drawing another enthusiastic response to which Lottie curtsied in gracious recognition.

Rising, Lottie touched Nick’s arm. “Perhaps you should offer a toast to Sir Ross,” she suggested.

He gave her a speaking glance but complied, lifting his glass toward his brother-in-law. “To Sir Ross,” he said in a resonant voice, “without whose efforts I would not be here tonight.”

The crowd responded with a round of hurrahs, while Sir Ross grinned suddenly, aware that Nick’s carefully worded toast did not include the barest hint of gratitude.

Toasts to the queen, the country, and the peerage itself ensued, and then the orchestra filled the room with buoyant melody. Sir Ross came to claim Lottie for a waltz, while Nick went to dance with Sophia, who wore an irrepressible smile as she sailed into his arms.

Beholding the pair, one so fair, one so dark, and yet both so similar in their striking attractiveness, Lottie smiled. She turned to Sir Ross and carefully rested her sore hand on his shoulder as they began to waltz. As might have been expected, he was an excellent dancer, self-assured and easy to follow.

Feeling a mixture of liking and gratitude, Lottie studied his severely handsome face. “You’ve done this to save him, haven’t you?” she asked.

“I don’t know that it will,” Sir Ross said quietly.

The words sent a fearful pang through her. Did he mean that he still believed Nick was in some kind of peril? But Nick was no longer a Bow Street runner—he had been removed from the hazards that his profession had entailed. He was safe now…unless Sir Ross was implying that the greatest danger to Nick came from somewhere inside himself.

*   *   *

In the days following the public revelation of Nick’s identity, the house on Betterton was under siege from callers. Mrs. Trench spoke to everyone from Nick’s old underworld cohorts to representatives of the queen. Cards and invitations were brought to the front door until the silver tray on the entrance hall table was laden with a mountain of paper. Periodicals dubbed him “the reluctant viscount,” recounting his heroism as a former Bow Street runner. As reporters followed the lead that Sir Ross had established, Nick was generally depicted as a selfless champion of the public who would have modestly preferred to serve his common man rather than accept his long-dormant title. To Lottie’s amusement, Nick was outraged by his new public image, for no one seemed to regard him as dangerous any longer. Strangers approached him eagerly, no longer intimidated by his air of subtle menace. For a man who was so intensely private, it was nearly intolerable.

“Before long, their interest in you will fade,” Lottie said in consolation after Nick had to push through an admiring throng to reach his own front door.

Harried and scowling, Nick shed his coat and flopped onto the parlor settee, his long legs spread carelessly. “It won’t be soon enough.” He glared at the ceiling. “This place is too damned accessible. We need a house with a private drive and a tall fence.”

“We have received more than a few invitations to visit friends in the country.” Lottie came beside him and sank to the carpeted floor, the skirts of her
printed muslin skirts billowing around her. Their faces were nearly level as Nick reclined on the arm of the low-backed settee. “Even one from Westcliff, asking if we would stay a fortnight or so at Stony Cross Park.”

Nick’s face darkened. “No doubt the earl wants to assure himself that you’re not being maltreated by your husband from hell.”

Lottie couldn’t help laughing. “You must admit that you were not at your most charming then.”

Nick caught at her fingers as she reached over to loosen his necktie. “I wanted you too badly to bother with charm.” The pad of his thumb stroked over the smooth tips of her fingernails.

“You implied that I was interchangeable with any other woman,” she chided.

“In the past I learned that the best way to get something I wanted was to pretend that I didn’t want it.”

Lottie shook her head, perplexed. “That makes no sense at all.”

Smiling, Nick released her hand and toyed with the lace edge of her scooped neckline. “It worked,” he pointed out.

With their faces close together and his vivid blue eyes staring into hers, Lottie felt a blush climbing her face. “You were very wicked that night.”

His fingertip eased into the shallow valley between her breasts. “Not nearly as wicked as I wanted to be…”

The sound of the front door being soundly
rapped echoed through the entrance hall and drifted into the parlor. Withdrawing his hand, Nick listened as Mrs. Trench went to answer the door, telling the visitor that neither Lord Sydney nor his wife was receiving callers.

The reminder of their beleaguered privacy caused Nick to scowl. “That does it. I want to get out of London.”

“Whom shall we visit? Lord Westcliff would be perfectly—”

“No.”

“All right, then,” Lottie continued, unruffled. “The Cannons are in residence at Silverhill—”

“God, no. I’m not spending a fortnight under the same roof as my brother-in-law.”

“We could go to Worcestershire,” Lottie suggested. “Sophia says that the restoration of the Sydney estate is nearly complete. She has made no secret of the fact that she wants you to view the results of her efforts.”

He shook his head instantly. “I have no desire to see that accursed place.”

“Your sister has gone to great effort—you wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings, would you?”

“No one asked her to do all that. Sophia took it upon herself, and I’ll be damned if I have to shower her with gratitude for it.”

“I’ve heard that Worcestershire is quite beautiful.” Lottie let a wistful note enter her voice. “The air would be so much nicer there—London in summer is dreadful. And someday I would like to see the
place where you were born. If you do not wish to go now, I understand, but—”

“There are no servants,” he pointed out triumphantly.

“We could travel with a skeleton staff. Wouldn’t it be pleasant to stay in the country at our own home, rather than visit someone else? Just for a fortnight?”

Nick was silent, his eyes narrowing. Lottie sensed the conflict in him, the desire to please her warring with his fierce reluctance to return to the place he had left all those years ago. To confront those memories and recall the pain of being orphaned so suddenly would not be pleasant for him.

Lottie lowered her gaze before he could see the compassion that he would surely misread. “I will tell Sophia that we will accept her invitation some other time. She will understand—”

“I’ll go,” he said brusquely.

Lottie looked at him in surprise. He was visibly tense, clad in invisible armor. “It isn’t necessary,” she said. “We’ll go somewhere else, if you prefer.”

He shook his head, his mouth twisting sardonically. “First you want to stay in Worcestershire, then you don’t. Damn, but women are perverse.”

“I’m not being perverse,” she protested. “It’s just that I don’t want you to go and then be vexed with me for the entire stay.”

“I’m not vexed. Men don’t get ‘vexed.’”

“Annoyed? Exasperated? Irked?” She offered him a tender smile, wishing that she could protect him from
nightmares and memories and the demons inside himself.

Nick began to reply, but as he stared at her, he seemed to forget what word he would have chosen. Reaching for her, he suddenly checked the movement. As Lottie watched him, he stood from the settee and left the parlor with startling swiftness.

The journey to Worcestershire would normally last a full day, long enough that most travelers of reasonable means would elect to travel for part of one day, stay overnight at a tavern, and arrive later in the morning. However, Nick insisted that they make the trip virtually without stopping, except to change horses and obtain a few refreshments.

Although Lottie tried to take the arrangement in stride, she found it difficult to maintain a cheerful facade. The carriage ride was arduous, the roads were of uneven quality, and the constant rattling and swaying of the vehicle made her slightly nauseous. As Nick saw her discomfort, his expression became grim and resolute, and the atmosphere disintegrated into silence.

A skeleton staff had been sent the day before their arrival, to stock the kitchen and ready the rooms. As had been previously agreed, the Cannons would visit the estate the following morning. Conveniently, Sir Ross’s country seat at Silverhill was only an hour away.

The last faint glow of the setting sun was retreating from the sky by the time the carriage reached Worcestershire.
From what Lottie could see, the county was fertile and prosperous. Rich green meadows and tidily groomed farms covered the level earth, occasionally giving way to verdant hills covered with fat white sheep. The webbing of canals that spread from the rivers graced the area with easy routes for trade and commerce. Any average visitor to Worcestershire would surely react to the scenery with pleasure. However, Nick became increasingly morose, emanating sullen reluctance from every pore with each turn of the wheels that brought them closer to the Sydney lands.