Grace Burrowes - Nicholas: Lord of Secrets

“Ever?” Leah’s expression was suffused with confusion. “I truly don’t understand.”

“I did not expect you would,” Nick said on a sigh. At the present moment, his own comprehension was dodgy at best. “And I did not want to put you in this position, but it seems the best I can do.”

“But you…” She waved a hand toward the wall, a world of accusation in the gesture.

“I desire you, yes.” Nick’s middle finger traced the edge of her hairline. He hadn’t planned to touch her, though she didn’t stop him. “I’m sorry for that. A gentleman would have kept his prurient interest to himself.”

Now she swatted his hand away. “It didn’t feel prurient.”

Nick sighed and wrapped her hand in both of his. “I am sorry for the way I acted just now. It was badly done of me.”

Terribly, horribly, egregiously badly done. Nick did not let his gaze stray to the decanter, but it was calling to him loudly.

“I am confused, Nicholas. You desire me, but it shames you. You want to protect me, but you do not want me to be your countess in truth.”

Argument was good. Argument would give her some purchase on her self-possession. “Firstly,” Nick said, “I want to keep you safe from Wilton’s schemes. Marriage will do that. Secondly, I want to keep you safe from me. Abstaining will do that.”

She folded her arms, the drawbridge going up on the citadel of her dignity. “What on earth can you mean?”

Nick took her right hand, brought it to his lips, kissed her knuckles, and then tucked her hand back into her lap—all without the least clue why he’d provoke her further.

“I did kill my mother,” he said, rising and turning his back. “No woman should have to bear my children. I’m larger than my father, and you are not larger than my mother.”

“That hardly means we’d have to abstain. We’d have to take precautions.”

Nick was quiet for a long time, wishing to hell and heaven both she’d just accept his proposal and let them get on with the business—and how did a decent woman know of precautions, anyway?

“That’s not it, is it?” Leah guessed, crossing the room to face him with a swish of skirts signaling unstoppable female determination. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

She deserved the truth, but silence on this issue had been a habit for so long Nick couldn’t bring himself to have mercy on her. He held her gaze, willing her to see what he couldn’t tell her, knowing he was being a coward.

“You love another,” Leah decided, her tone ominously calm. “You love a woman you cannot marry, and you’ve promised her your marriage will be in name only. I’m not sure if this is chivalrous of you, Nicholas, or deranged.”

Nick blinked, realizing in an instant Leah’s hypothesis was a version of truth, and—more important—credible to her.

“I’ve promised my father a countess. I’ve promised you safety, and you’ve promised me you will think about this before you answer.” The pseudo-syllogism pleased him, bringing order to a difficult situation.

“Do you want me to hate you?” Leah asked, incredulity seeping into her words. “You offer me safety and the daily insult of knowing your promises to another woman preclude you from giving to me that which you’ve already assured yourself—assured us both—I could desire passionately.”

“It isn’t like that,” Nick said. It was exactly like that. “I cannot risk having children with you, Leah. If what you want is easing of your needs, I can do that without taking my clothes off.”

It would kill him to attempt it, and yet—

“Nicholas”—Leah’s voice was very soft—“I’ve given you my word I will consider your offer, and I will keep my word, but right now, I do not understand you. What you’ve offered, and what you just said, is the first indication I’ve had that you are capable of unkindness. I am disappointed, and will take my leave of you.”

She turned to go. Nick’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“I am sorry,” he said, searching her gaze for some hint of common ground, of understanding. “If there were another way, if you find another way, I’d offer you that instead.”

“That provides a great deal of comfort, Nicholas.” Leah’s voice was still soft, but her eyes narrowed slightly, and she didn’t give Nick time to react before she leaned up and brushed a kiss across his lips.

Her pace was dignified, her spine straight as she took her leave. The door closed quietly behind her, leaving Nick, two fingers against his lips, staring at the closed door in miserable silence.

* * *

“I’m off to the arms of my muse.” Val bowed to his companions and slipped out the door, the ladies having already vacated the dining room to retire above stairs, arm in arm.

Ethan eyed Nick from across the table. “Do we get drunk here or in the study?”

Plain speaking, for which Nick was grateful. “We’ll be closer to the piano in the study,” Nick said. “Am I that obvious?”

“Not particularly.” Ethan shoved to his feet. “But between you and Lady Leah, there was a certain lack of conversation. Did you upset the lady during that tête-à-tête you had earlier today?”

“Royally.” Nick followed Ethan out the door. “And she deserves better.”

“Has it occurred to you to offer her better?” Ethan asked as he pushed open the door of the study and headed to the decanter.

“You don’t know what I did offer her,” Nick said. “Don’t be skimping on the brandy, Brother. I have serious matters to regret.”

Ethan handed him a glass half-full of brandy. “Not you too.”

“Me too.” Nick nodded his thanks. “I’ve spoken with Leah’s brothers, and something must be done, sooner rather than later.” Nick lowered himself to the sofa.

“Speaking of Lady Leah’s brothers”—Ethan slid down on the other end of the couch—“I was out riding this afternoon and came across Darius Lindsey. The last time I saw him, he was in the company of that dreadful Cowell woman. The one who likes to rouge her nipples under her silks.”

“The lovely Blanche. I’m supposed to warn him off of her, so to speak. I didn’t realize he was rusticating, but without Leah to squire around, I don’t suppose there’s any need for him to be in Town.” Nick closed his eyes and toed off his boots, then propped his feet on the low table before the sofa. “I did something stupid today, Ethan.”

“If we’re to imitate the Papists, the proper introduction is ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’” Ethan replied easily. “Are you sure I’m the one you want to talk it over with? Windham is the nonjudgmental sort.”

Nick smiled slightly. “Val can be a bloody Puritan, and I’ll no doubt hear from him directly, in any case.”

Ethan got up with the air of a man resigned to a long-suffering fate, and brought the decanter over to the table. When he sat, he chose the center of the couch, not touching Nick, but not as far as he could get from Nick, either.

“Tell Father Ethan what wickedness you’ve been up to, though if it involves whips and blindfolds, I’m not going to listen until we’re halfway through this brandy.”

“That would bother you?”

“No,” Ethan said. “Well… maybe. I did brand your ass, you’ll recall. Wouldn’t want to think your early experiences gave you a taste for the unusual.”

“Perish the thought.” Ethan was stalling, perhaps as nervous about hearing Nick’s confidences as Nick was about imparting them. “I offered Leah a white marriage.”

There followed a considering sip of libation.

“So you do have a taste for flagellation. Interesting. There are places that cater to such whims, you know.”

“Ethan, I’m serious.”

Ethan shifted down the couch to Nick’s side, bringing the decanter with him. “This has to do with Leonie, doesn’t it?”

“You remember her name.”

“Of course I do.” Ethan frowned while he propped his feet up. “How is she?”

“Sweet,” Nick said, his smile wistful. “Dear, more lovable than any female has a right to be.”

“It isn’t a matter of either a wife or Leonie, Nick,” Ethan said, his voice containing a hint of sympathy.

“For me, it has to be.”

“I have wandered this wicked world for the past fourteen years, Nicholas, searching in vain for a force equal to your stubborn will. Alas, you see before you a disappointed man.”

From Ethan, this was commiseration.

“We’ve wasted years, Ethan,” Nick said quietly. “I’m sorry for that.”

“Spare me.” Ethan sipped his drink with exquisite indifference. “Lest I confess to the same regret.”

They fell silent, each content with that much progress.

“You ought to just tell Leah about Leonie,” Ethan said. “Leah’s a tolerant woman and would understand. Other men have mistresses, by-blows, entire second families.”

“I more or less did tell Leah.” Nick knew he hadn’t fooled Ethan. To a brother’s ears, “more or less” left acres of room for prevarication. Entire shires and counties, in fact.

“What did Leah say?”

“I hurt her feelings, offering her only appearances when she knows my caring for another prevents me from offering more.” Nick frowned at his empty glass. He passed the glass to Ethan, who obligingly refilled it. “Leah didn’t reject the idea of marriage to me outright, but she still might. Don’t suppose you’d be interested?”

“Are you procuring for Leah now too?” Ethan asked pleasantly.

“That was mean, Ethan. Any husband will do for her. It doesn’t have to be me.”

“No woman should have to find herself wed to me, Nick. I have no title to pass along, and my wealth is all a product of that dreaded scourge referred to by your kind as trade. Leah is an earl’s daughter, and she could do better than me.”

Nick shook his head, which made the room swim a bit, though not unpleasantly. “No, she can’t. Her father will not dower her, she is plagued by old scandal, and she is too much woman for the average prancing ninny in search of a sweet young thing. Leah has been through too much to sit docilely stitching samplers while her husband gambles the night away.”

Ethan bumped Nick’s shoulder gently. “Correct me if I’m wrong. Isn’t that exactly what you’ve asked her to do, except—let’s not forget the details—you’ll be heating the sheets with your lightskirts—one hears you have a taste for plural encounters, though to the delight of all concerned—while she’s stitching the night away?”

“I hate you, Ethan.” Nick slouched down, sprawling against his brother in his misery. “I really do.”

“Drink your brandy,” Ethan said softly. “I’ve missed you, too.”

Inbreeding being undesirable beyond a certain point in any species, Nick had agreed to exchange bulls with his neighbor, David Worthington, Viscount Fairly. While Fairly’s bull was a mature gentleman content to propagate the species wherever the duty arose, Nick’s bull was a strapping young fellow of four, and while not mean, Lothario was obstinately attached to the herd Nick had first put him to as a two-year-old.

Lothario was also, fortunately, attached to the man who had hand-fed him as a calf, and thus it became necessary for Nick to personally escort Lothario two country miles to Lord Fairly’s estate.

Ethan cheerfully declined his brother’s invitation to share the errand.

“Something amiss?” Ethan asked as Nick slammed into the front hall looking once again harried.

“Oh, please.” Nick bounded up the steps. “Aggravate all you dare, Ethan, for there’s nothing I’d like better than to pound on somebody for a bit.”

“Didn’t enjoy your constitutional with Lochinvar?” Ethan drawled, grinning.

“It’s Lothario,” Nick shot back. “And no, for your information, waltzing with a lovesick bull who’s trumpeting his woes to the neighborhood is not how I’d like to spend a spring morning.”

Ethan could not resist emphasizing the divine justice of that. “The lovesick debutantes being so much better company?”

“At least they smell better, and when they step on my feet, they do not imperil my delicate bones.”

“But you and Lothario seemed so comfortable with each other,” Ethan went on blithely, because whether Nick admitted it to himself or not, he needed somebody other than any old fellow to imbibe with of an evening. He needed—after all these years, still—a brother. “You and the bovine struck me as kindred spirits, hail fellows, well met.”

“Bugger off, Ethan.” Nick glowered as they reached his room. “I got a damned note from Mrs. Waverly at Blossom Court.”

“And she would be?” Ethan closed the door behind them. A huge copper tub sat steaming by the hearth, and Nick began to wrench at his neckcloth.