A Visit From Sir Nicholas (6 page)

"And what of your happiness?"

"Achieving my ambitions will make me happy." Nick turned on his heel and paced across the room, ignoring a question in the back of his mind.

Was he trying to convince his uncle or himself?

"And who knows what may happen in the future. I may find not only my fortune but a wife in America." He pulled up short and cast his uncle a wicked grin. "Or I may live all my days as you have, with an assortment of women to warm my bed."

"Yes, well…" Frederick cleared his throat. "That is not precisely…" He glared. "I have no particular regrets about how I have lived my life, and that is not the topic at hand. We are not discussing my life but yours."

"Indeed, and you would do well to remember that. I have made my decision, and I believe with all my heart it is best for everyone concerned." Nick lightened his tone. "Come now, Uncle, it's Christmastime. There is singing on every street corner, and goodwill hangs in the air between friends and strangers alike. It's the last such season we shall see in one another's company for Lord knows how long. I should hate to spend our final day in argument."

"It needn't be our final day," Frederick muttered, then rolled his gaze toward the ceiling in surrender.

"However, I shall say no more on the subject." He aimed his cigar at his nephew. "But I vow, boy, to include a plea for your return with every letter I write to you."

"I expect no less."

"As you will not be here for Christmas Day, I assume you will at least attend the Effington Christmas Ball tonight."

"I would not miss it, Uncle," Nick said with a smile that belied the churning in his stomach. He would not, could not miss the opportunity to see her one last time.

He didn't know how she felt and probably never would, but he was certain he couldn't bear to hear from her own lips that she cared nothing for him. Nor could he stand to watch her pledge her heart to another. In many ways, he was something of a coward.

And if indeed she did declare some affection for him? It was of no real significance. She had loved Charles all her life, and even if she thought she cared for Nick, it could not possibly be more than a fleeting attraction probably brought on by the enormity of her impending betrothal. There was not the slightest doubt in Nick's mind that she belonged with Charles and with Charles was where her happiness lay.

Besides, he would not break his best friend's heart, and he would not follow his father's path.

"Very well then. I will concede defeat, as I am left no other choice." Frederick heaved a sigh, rose to his feet, and crossed the room to settle behind a rosewood desk carved in the Egyptian revival style popular at the beginning of the century. "However, there are any number of issues we must settle here and now, letters of credit, the transfer of funds—that sort of thing."

Nick braced his hands on the desk and leaned toward his uncle. "I vow I shall pay you back. Every penny."

"It is every bit your money as much as it is mine. Always has been and always will be." Frederick's cool brown eyes gazed up at his nephew. "Be rest assured, Nicholas, I have no doubt of your success."

Something akin to pride flooded Nick, coupled with affection for this man he did indeed love as a son loves a father. "Thank you, Uncle."

"A word of advice, though, before we leave off other subjects altogether and turn our attention to finances. If I may."

Nick shook his head and straightened. "If I said no, would that stop you?" Frederick grinned. "My boy, it would scarcely slow me down."

"Very well then. What sage words of wisdom born of your vast years of experience have you for me, Uncle?"

"Nothing you don't already know, I suspect. Simply keep in mind that any number of women may warm your bed, but it is the rare woman who can warm your heart."

"Wise words indeed, Uncle, and I shall be wise in turn to remember them." Nick's laughter belied the vague ache in the back of his throat.

There would indeed be women to warm his bed in the future, but his heart? No. He couldn't imagine anyone ever filling this empty void that currently lingered in the vicinity of his heart. And if his heart was empty, his ambition would fill his life.

He had found the love of his life and she could never be his. It was a nasty quirk of fate, but there it was. In many ways, Frederick was right about history repeating itself, but the end result would not be the same.

Nick would make his fortune and add to the wealth and prestige of the Collingsworth name. He would not break another man's heart for the sake of his own.

And he would not, he would never, be the man his father had been.

Holly and ivy, evergreens and all manner of fruits and berries, caught with wide silk and satin ribbons in shades of red and gold and silver, hung in great festoons and massive swags along the grand stairway at Effington House. Every doorway and each window was framed with an overabundance of greenery, as if they were portals not to another room or the out-of-doors but entry to a secret world of magic and joy and all that was Christmas.

A huge kissing bough hung beneath the chandelier in the foyer that led to the ballroom. While it was not the most discreet spot to share a kiss, Mother insisted it be placed prominently so that friends and acquaintances could embrace publicly in the spirit of the season. There were, of course, bunches of mistletoe hung here and there throughout the house for more private moments or affection, even it rather heartily disapproved, pointing out that he had two daughters and, worse, a son, and mistletoe was not especially conducive to proper behavior. Mother disagreed, and Mother, being Mother, as well as furthermore voicing complete confidence in the character of her offspring, always had her way in such things. And Father, even after long years of marriage, still being thoroughly besotted with his wife, grudgingly allowed her whatever she wished.

Even the ancient family portraits of long dead and perpetually scowling Effington ancestors lining the walls of the open gallery overlooking the first floor were bedecked with fir branches and ivy and ribbons. If one was particularly fanciful, one might imagine their countenances a bit less forbidding, the suggestion of a smile on their lips, even the hint of a twinkle in their eyes in celebration of the season. Lizzie smiled at the thought and started down the broad double stairway that swept in a gracious curve to the ground floor. It had always struck her as exceedingly odd that those long-ago Effingtons had chosen to be preserved for eternity in such serious expressions. Not at all accurate, given everything she had heard through her life about those who had preceded her; stories of swashbuckling privateers, proud, stubborn women, spies and patriots, lords and ladies and those substantially less than noble, and all sorts of other fascinating characters.

The great doors to the ballroom were flung open wide, and even the landing at the foot of the stairs was crowded with guests. Laughter and calls of "Merry Christmas" rang out over the sounds of the orchestra from the ballroom. The Effington Christmas Ball was, as always, a huge crush and unqualified success. Lizzie had slipped away to her room to fetch the book she wished to present to Nicholas, even if doing so had been rather more difficult than she had imagined. Thus far she had danced every dance with one gentleman or another and two with Charles, who was as charming and thoughtful as ever, although he gave the distinct impression of being a bit nervous. In her experience, Charles had never been anything but thoroughly lighthearted and completely confident. She feared that his odd manner tonight was indeed an indication of his intention to ask for her hand, and, at the moment, she had no idea how she would respond.

Lizzie hid the book in the folds of her gown and headed toward the library. She navigated her way through the crowd milling in and out of the ballroom and acknowledged various greetings politely but without overt encouragement. She had no desire to waste time with anything akin to a conversation at the moment. She was altogether too anxious to engage in mindless pleasantries. Still, she could not help but overhear any number of comments in passing, most about the two small fir trees on linen-covered tables that flanked the entry to the ballroom. They were bedecked with sweets and flowers, garlands of ribbons and tiny candles, unlit as a precaution against setting careless guests aflame.

"The Queen has had trees like these in celebration of Christmas since, oh, 1841, I believe," one lady said to her companion. "It's the Prince's German background, no doubt."

"I quite like it," the second lady said firmly. "It's exceedingly festive. I shall have to have a tree in my own home next year."

"As will I." Her friend studied the closest tree. "The duchess says, regardless of what the Queen chooses, she may well have a larger tree with decorations in the future. One that does not sit on a table but rather stands on the floor and reaches toward the ceiling."

"A full-size tree? In the house?" The other woman snorted. "Absurd idea." Lizzie bit back a grin. If her mother, Marianne, the Duchess of Roxborough, wished to have a full-size tree, or an entire forest, in her house at Christmas or any other time of the year for that matter, she most certainly would do just that, regardless of what anyone else might think.

Lizzie reached the library, and all thoughts of Christmas and fir trees vanished. She drew a deep breath, pushed open the door, and stepped into the room.

The huge library was shadowed, the endless shelves of books little more than a hint of scent in the air, the gas lights dimmed. For a moment she was afraid that he hadn't come. That he wouldn't come. Or perhaps this emotion that pooled in her midsection was relief that she had arrived before him. Or relief that he might not come at all. It would certainly make her life easier. She could push these disquieting feelings she had for him aside, lock them in a place in her mind reserved for other discarded and fanciful notions, and go on with her life exactly as she, and everyone else, had planned. Marry Charles, the man who had always loved her. The man she had always loved. Until Nicholas.

"Good evening, Elizabeth." Nicholas emerged from the shadows on the opposite side of the room near the desk.