A Visit From Sir Nicholas (38 page)

"Certainly."

She glanced at the ginger jar. "There would be a great deal of satisfaction in throwing that now."

"If you're asking my permission, you don't have it."

"I neither want it, nor do I need it." She grabbed the jar, hefted it in her hand, then met his gaze defiantly.

"Is it really valuable?"

"Priceless."

"Good." She nodded, then flung the jar with all her strength.

Somewhere, in a more rational part of his mind not colored with anger, he noted that her throw was straight and true, obviously the result of a great deal of practice, and aimed right for his head. Without thinking he put his hand up and caught it. The smack of porcelain against flesh echoed in the room. Remarkably, given the sting in his hand, the jar held without so much as a crack. His admiration for the long dead artisans who'd lovingly created it notched upward.

"You caught it." She stared in disbelief. "You caught my vase."

"I caught
my
fifteenth-century, blue under-glazed, porcelain, Ming dynasty ginger jar." He set the jar carefully on a nearby table. "And that was exceedingly childish of you."

"And no doubt frivolous as well."

He shrugged in agreement.

She studied him for a moment. "I told you I would not throw myself at you again. I did not think that tonight… That scarcely matters now as well, I suppose."

With that she nodded, turned, and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her. Nick stared at the door unseeing and slowly unclenched his fists. Odd, he hadn't noticed he had clenched them.

He drew a deep, calming breath. This evening certainly hadn't gone as he'd planned. No. He glanced at the clock. It was not yet eight. The evening he had anticipated shouldn't even have begun yet, let alone be over.

What on earth had happened? The woman drove him mad, but it was his fault, of course. He should have

simply kept his mouth shut. But while he was more than willing to shoulder the blame for his own mistakes, he'd be damned if he'd be saddled with her late husband's as well. He made his way around the assorted obstacles in the room to the decanter of brandy and glasses perched precariously on a tray balanced on an African tribal drum, poured a glass, and tossed it back. He wanted her, he always had and suspected he always would. He wanted her heart, her hand, and, God help him, her trust. Was any of that possible now?

Still, it wasn't all bad. She'd admitted he'd broken her heart. He winced. That knowledge wasn't especially good, but it did mean she had cared for him then. She'd admitted loving him then and loving him now. "Half of her soul," she'd called him. Of course, there was indeed a fine line separating love and hate, and it was apparent she was now tottering between the two.

Obviously his talk with Teddy had put all this in his head in the first place. If only… well, there was no point in regrets. All that had passed between Elizabeth and him tonight could never be taken back. This evening was a disaster, and he had no idea how to set things right and no idea if it was even possible. Perhaps they both needed more time before rushing into marriage, although one would have thought a decade was time enough. Was it simply his pride at stake or his own sense of honor? He had no idea what the answer to that was either.

There was one way to close the door once and for all on her life with Charles. One way to write the end to that chapter and give her the answers and the peace she deserved.

He ran his hand through his hair. He could not live the rest of his life without her. That was not in question.

The question now was whether or not he could live the rest of his life with her.

"You look dreadful." Jules eyed her sister over her teacup.

Elizabeth paced the breakfast room. "I feel dreadful."

"I don't believe I have ever seen you look quite this bad."

"I've never felt quite this bad." She halted in midstep and looked at her sister. "How bad?"

"Rather like you've been dragged through the streets of London behind a carriage." Jules's gaze skimmed her sister from head to toe. "The very
worst
parts of London."

"That bad," Elizabeth murmured, glanced down at her dress, and winced. She did look somewhat bedraggled and haphazard. Not at all her usual self. Certainly, she hadn't waited for her maid this morning and had thrown on the first thing she could don unassisted.
This morning
being a relative term, given the fact that she had had absolutely no sleep and darkness had simply slipped to dawn at some unnoticed point. She'd spent much of the night prowling restlessly through the house or staring through her windows at Nicholas's house. Noting the light burning in his library well past dawn. Wondering if he was as distraught as she. At least a half dozen times she'd found herself at the front door fully prepared to go to Nicholas and do whatever was necessary to mend this rift between them. Up to and including throwing herself at him once again.

She was stopped only by the realization that she had absolutely no idea what to say and, worse, what to do.

"I am such a fool." Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself and resumed her pacing. "He's right, you know. About everything."

"Not at all."

Elizabeth glanced at her sister. "You don't think he's right? About Charles and me and
everything
."

"Oh no, I definitely think he's right. In point of fact I think his assessment was rather brilliant. I wish I had seen it myself. I simply think he's as great a fool as you."

Elizabeth raised a brow. "Do you?"

"Well," Jules smiled. "Perhaps not as great."

"Thank you." Elizabeth glared. "It's so good to know I have the unwavering loyalty of my sister."

"Loyalty is not the issue. However, honesty is. I think you are both fools. Total and complete idiots. Lunatics of the highest order." Jules set her cup down in a firm manner. "He should have snatched you up and dragged you to the altar the moment you agreed to marry him."

"Is that your solution for everything?"

"Yes, and it's a damnably good one too," Jules said sharply. "Right now we should be celebrating your betrothal and perhaps even planning a Christmas wedding. I have no idea what the procedure is these days, but Father or Lord Thornecroft or Nicholas himself could have certainly talked to some official somewhere, or even bribed someone if necessary. I'm certain arrangements could have been made to have you wed on Christmas Day itself."

Elizabeth stared. "Why, Jules, I never suspected, but you are a romantic. A rather diabolical romantic, but a romantic nonetheless. And overly optimistic as well."

"We romantics are all optimistic," Jules said in a lofty manner. "Besides, it's the season of hope and goodwill and that sort of thing. When we were girls I used to say anything was possible at Christmas." She met her sister's gaze. "I still believe it."

"Christmas is inevitable. It will dawn in two days regardless of what else may happen in the world." Elizabeth shook her head. "I fear a future with Nicholas is not."

"Oh, do stop it, Lizzie. I've had quite enough." Jules folded her arms on the table and leaned forward.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself."

Jules raised a brow.

"Very well then." Elizabeth sighed and collapsed into a chair. "I'm feeing a bit sorry for myself. I haven't felt this helpless in, well, ever. Since Charles's death I have become accustomed to solving whatever problems have arisen. Indeed, I can't conceive of a problem I cannot solve. Except this. I simply don't know what to do."

"What do you want to do?"

"I want to break every piece of his Chinese pottery," she said, forcing a pleasant note to her voice.

"Preferably over his head."

"That sounds like a plan," Jules murmured.

Elizabeth snorted. "Satisfying perhaps, but futile." She traced the rim of her teacup absently with her forefinger and considered the situation. "I can't understand how one can want someone so badly yet at the same time have an overwhelming compulsion to strangle him."

Jules smirked. "I believe that's called love."

"It certainly does not have a lot to recommend it." Elizabeth stopped and cast a wry glance at her sister.

"And it's remarkably different than anything I felt for Charles."

"Wrong kind of love," Jules said, eying a plate of tarts on the table.

"Which brings us back to the very beginning. I," Elizabeth paused dramatically, "am a fool."

"We've established that. Now, what do you intend to do about it?"

"Excellent question." Elizabeth stared at the painted floral design on her cup as if it held the answer. "I have considered going to him, apologizing—"

"Oh, I wouldn't apologize if I were you."

"Why not?"

Jules raised a brow. "Were you wrong?"

"No. But I wasn't very pleasant."

"Nor was he, from what you've said. Besides, he should be accustomed to your unpleasantness. You weren't very nice when he returned to London."

"Dear Lord, I'm a shrew." Elizabeth rested her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands.

"How could he possibly want me at all?"

"One does question his sanity. Regardless, he does love you in spite of the flaws in your character. I think it's rather wonderful of him. Now." Jules thought for a moment. "You have admitted you were as much to blame as he for what happened in the past?"

"More or less," she mumbled.

"And you've told Nicholas that you love him?"

"I believe I mentioned it in passing."

"You should probably do more than simply mention it in passing, but that is a minor problem and easily fixed. And you've accepted his observations as to your unresolved state in regards to Charles?"

"As upsetting as they are—"

"As insightful as they are."

"Yes, yes, I suppose I have." Elizabeth lifted her head. "There is nothing that can be done about that."

"Probably not. But there is a great deal that can be done about Nicholas." Jules studied her sister thoughtfully. "However, if I were you, I should wait until the ball to do anything at all. It will give you both a bit of time to reflect. Besides, your relationship ended at the Christmas ball, and it's only fitting that it should begin there once again."