Guarding a Notorious Lady (4 page)

“Move along, Rosalind,” Gabriel ordered.

Madelyn gave her an apologetic smile. “It’s for the best.”

“I understand,” Rosalind answered. Despite the undue aggravation, she really wanted the two of them to have a lovely, worry-free trip. “If this brings Gabriel some peace, so be it. I’ll manage it.”

“That’s exactly what I fear,” Gabriel remarked, giving his wife a wink before Rosalind walked out the door.

A sudden thought, outlandish as it might very well be, sprouted in her mind. “Gabriel? I saw Nicholas Kincaid at the bookshop today.”

He nodded, looking mildly surprised.

“Is he . . . ?”

Gabriel’s mouth turned down at the corners.

“Nicholas is here on business.”

“I see,” she muttered and turned away, her curiosity piqued. It had to be true. Gabriel wouldn’t lie to her.

Halfway down the corridor, Rosalind realized the happy couple had not followed her. Her steps slowed and she looked over her shoulder, wondering what had held them back.

Gabriel must have caught sight of that loose coil in his wife’s coiffure. He lifted his hand. For a second, Rosalind thought he would fix it for Madelyn, but she was wrong. Bending forward, he tipped it close to his lips with a single finger and kissed it.

Feeling a trifle embarrassed for having witnessed such a gentle, sweet gesture, Rosalind whipped back around, a touch of a blush heating her cheeks.

A second emotion resided in her heart as well.

Envy.

Part of her knew that she would be just fine on her own. There would be joy to be found in observing the happiness of others. But it wasn’t that simple—she loved someone.

An image of dark-brown hair kissed with gold by the sun and tousled around a supremely handsome face sprang to mind. Back home in Yorkshire, seeing Nicholas, having him visit or having him stay for supper—it had been the best part of her day. But
she
, apparently, hadn’t been the highlight of
his
day. If she had been, then he surely would have made an offer for her by now.

A wave of uneasiness roiled through her. Rosalind already knew what a lifetime of indifference could do to a woman’s spirit, her soul. To love someone who would never return the affection. Her mother had been such a woman. Was she destined to suffer the same fate? To make the same mistake?

The sting of unshed tears surprised her, but she banished them back to the depths of her heart. She needed all her wits about her if she was going to unveil this guardian of hers.

Rosalind looked back to see Gabriel slide his arm around Madelyn’s waist and steer her down the opposite way.

“Wait, please!” Rosalind called out, hoping he’d be so distracted that he just might tell her more than he wanted to. Plus, she reminded herself, she did have another brother to try and glean information from.

“Does Tristan know about this?”

Gabriel shook his head slowly. “No more questions, Rosalind. Just let the man do his job.”

“Am I the only one not to know? You’re not being fair.”

“Now,” he remarked pointedly, “you sound
exactly
like a child. Come now, you and I both know that should I give you one scrap of information on the man, you will use it to discover his identity and then try charming him to leave off.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “I would
never
do anything of the sort.”

Charm him? Imagine!

If he was anything like another friend of her brother’s, her wiles ought to have no effect on this guardian at all.

“Just don’t cause trouble, Rosie,” Gabriel warned.

“Trouble?” She scoffed. “I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

T
rouble had lively blue eyes and sleek sable tresses.

Her lips curved upward faintly at the corners even when she was at her most somber, giving one the misguided impression she knew all of your secrets

. . . or she was about to tell you one of hers. And she had the longest legs he’d ever seen for someone who barely reached his shoulders.

Nicholas made a point to avoid Trouble, but he hadn’t expected the slow burn of desire that had tugged at him when he’d stood so close to her in the bookshop. It had been so sudden, so unforeseeable in its power, that it had left him feeling shaken. And here he had thought that spending less time at the Devines’ would finally free him from her effortless enchantment once and for all. What a fool he was.

He assured himself that she hadn’t noticed—

Rosalind might be perceptive, but she couldn’t read minds.

When they’d parted, her arms laden with a book her pride wouldn’t allow her to put back, he hadn’t been able to keep the grin from spreading across his face.

Good Christ. What a pitiful guardian he was turning out to be. After spending the last seven years successfully keeping the woman at arm’s length, he’d almost buckled after being within two feet of her in a public place.

And she’d done very little to provoke him. She’d simply been herself, looking up at him with those big eyes as if he was responsible for hanging the moon.

He rolled his shoulders. It was only a twinge of attraction, he told himself. Nothing more. It wasn’t as if he’d never felt it before when he’d been around her.

Aye, but all those times in the past you could just
walk away, leave if you had to.

Indeed, but he didn’t have that option anymore. At least not for the next three months. The thought made him deuced uncomfortable.

Slipping two fingers into the top of his cravat, he tugged twice, willing all desirous thoughts of his charge to the back of his mind.

“Stop fidgeting,” his sister chided from the foot of the stairs.

Standing in the foyer of his newly rented town house, Nicholas stretched on his leather gloves and grumbled, “Can’t help it. The blasted thing is choking me.”

Clasping her hands before her, Francesca made a wide arc around him. “You look quite dashing, Nicholas.” She cleared her throat meaningfully. “Even despite the absence of proper breeches.” Nicholas shook his head slowly, a derisive smile lifting a corner of his mouth. “Ashamed of your ancestry, are we?”

“Of course not. But I daresay you’re trying very hard not to fit in with your surroundings.” He leveled a stare at his sister. “It is only because I owe Gabriel a favor that I must refrain from my dearest wish. And that, wee sister, is to return to Yorkshire and keep pretending Lady Rosalind Devine doesn’t exist.”

“Nicholas,” Frannie admonished, “we owe so much to His Grace. You should not speak of his sister as if she is some vexing creature.”

He dipped his head with a reluctant nod. “Aye, I should not speak of her at all.”

Frannie’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot help but be curious as to why you feel you must pretend she doesn’t exist. Does she threaten you in some way?” When he didn’t answer, she crossed her slender arms over her middle and nodded knowingly. “Very curious, indeed. Especially for someone who has shown nothing but passing interest in his admirers.

Does this one have some hold over you?”

“No,” he said, his tone cold. “The only thing she holds is the means for me to satisfy my need to repay her brother’s generosity.”

“And that is the only need worth satisfying? With you, there is always work, responsibility. What of love?”

“What of it?”

“Criminy, Nicholas. You act as if you don’t know what it is.”

It wasn’t like that at all. He revered it for the powerful force that it was—and vowed to avoid such a miserable emotion until the day he perished from the earth.

An image of his father, grief tearing him apart, day after day, sprang unbidden to his mind. If he concentrated hard enough, Nicholas could still hear his father’s whispered prayers in the dead of night, begging for the Lord to take him from this earth so that he could be with his wife once again. His father’s nightly pleading would eventually break into deep, soul-wrenching sobs. Eleven years old at the time, Nicholas would stuff his pillow around his head, his own tears spilling—not just for the loss of his mother but for the horrible, unending pain his father endured.

Five years later, Malcolm Kincaid’s prayers were finally answered. Nicholas could not deny the odd sense of relief he experienced. His father’s everlasting suffering had come to an end.

“Why will you not take some happiness for yourself?” Francesca asked, breaking his stream of thought.

Nicholas’s laugh was quiet and held no humor. “You imply love and happiness are companions.”

“And you do not?”

Nicholas gave his head a slight shake. “Are you happy right now?” he asked, regretting his words as soon as he said them. Francesca had lost her husband two years ago. “Christ, Frannie, forgive me. I should not have said it.”

She closed her eyes briefly, then said, “It’s all right, Nicholas.”

He was quiet for several moments, then muttered quietly, “I appreciate your thinking of me, but I’m perfectly satisfied with my life.”

“But you must be lonesome. Was there no one in all of Yorkshire that piqued your interest? Scotland?” He didn’t answer, so she continued unabated. “If not, I daresay, you might find her in London.”

“Don’t depend upon it.” He plopped his hat atop his head and the butler opened the door. The Winterbourne carriage waited at the end of the walk.

“Good evening, dear Frannie. It’s getting late. And I’m on duty.” With that he turned and strode out the door, a waft of cool, night air racing up his thighs.

“R
osalind! Let me not suppose that you’re daring to open those doors. Come away, gel. Come away.”

“Yes, Aunt Eugenia,” Rosalind said dutifully, pasting a serene smile upon her lips. “Is your kitty safely ensconced inside your bedchamber?”

“I’m not worried about Oliver,” her aunt replied, giving Rosalind a scathing look. “He’s shy around people and would never run freely with so many strangers wandering about. What are you thinking?” Oh, Lud. It was going to be a long season. “Can I get something for you?” Like a carriage ride back home.

“Upon my honor,” Eugenia proclaimed in a hushed voice. “Who has a dance with the doors wide open so early in the spring?”

Those who do not wish to pass out from the stifling heat, perhaps.

Her aunt patted at her stiff collar, as if to make certain not a whisper of air could slip through the high neckline. “We could all catch a chill. It’s rather cozy in here, and I should like it to remain that way.”

“Then we shal all melt right along with the candle wax,” Rosalind murmured.

Aunt Eugenia’s head jerked up. “What was that, child?”

“I said, I think I just saw Miss Marianne Fairfax.”

“Ah. She’s the harpist, is she not?”

“The cell ist, this evening.”

“That’s what I said. Cell ist.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Chubby girl, what a shame,” her aunt said with a cluck of her tongue. “She’d be quite pretty if it weren’t for that.”

Rosalind’s eyes opened wide. What a ridiculous thing to say. “Miss Fairfax is lovely.” The. End.

Her aunt simply shrugged. “You have your opinion. I have mine. She’s not spoken for, is she? I daresay she is not. And probably never will be unless she does something about that figure.”

Rosalind let out a breath of frustration to quel the urge to shout at her aunt for being so call ous.

However, she must remind herself that she wasn’t here to defend nice young women against bitter spinsters, nor was she here to play cupid. She wanted to discover the identity of her guardian.

Expose him, and then dispose of him.

Her pride depended upon it.

An oppressive heat seemed to suddenly surround her, and she found herself glancing longingly out the French doors. Being so newly returned to the city, Rosalind ought to feel jubilant. The shopping, the parties, reacquainting oneself with friends, they were all things she had come to anticipate while residing in Yorkshire.

Tonight, however, she felt an unusual pang for home. For routines and spending time outdoors. To be able to see the clear, blue sky without the blanket of yellow fog that seemed to hang over the city. To be able to watch Nicholas covertly from behind a book she’d pretend to read while he feigned losing a game of chess to Tristan.

Ah, yes, Nicholas was her own private temptation—

though in her daydreams he thought she was irresistible. He’d toss her younger brother out the door, cross the room, sink down next to her on the sofa, and then pull her onto his lap—all of which he would do bare-chested, of course.

swallowing, Rosalind opened her fan with a snap and began fanning herself. She really needed to stop looking for romantic reading materials in Tristan’s private library.

She gave her head a tiny shake. What was the matter with her? She loved the city. She loved the shopping, the museums, the theater, the bustling about, and the endless parties. Yet the truth was that no matter how many friends and gentleman admirers surrounded her, no matter how many places she visited, she was always alone . . . and always daydreaming about
him
.

And he was here now.

Well, not
here
at this ball, but in London. She still hadn’t figured out why, but she felt confident that she would eventually.

A group of young men, all of whom she had already danced with at least once this evening, sauntered by.

After a quick check over their shoulders (no doubt looking for her eldest brother), they all smiled and gave her a friendly nod.

She smiled back, not coyly, nor invitingly. Just a smile. A hostess smile. A “please call on me tomorrow so that it may draw out my guardian” sort of smile.

If her plan was to work on the morrow, she had to sow the seeds now, and plenty of them, too.

Rosalind knew tonight would be a crush. It seemed nearly all of society was attending. To be sure, most had come to see the new Duchess of Wolverest, who was standing at the top of the room with Gabriel greeting some newly arriving guests. However, by the sheer volume of debutantes in attendance, Rosalind rather thought that many had come to get a peek at the new Marquess of Winterbourne.

And he wasn’t even here yet. Rosalind wondered if he was late by design. Perhaps he wanted to make a grand entrance. Noblemen were notoriously arrogant.

“Lady Burberry!” Aunt Eugenia suddenly exclaimed, waving her closed fan slightly. “Pleasure to see you!

Come sit!”

Rosalind smiled politely at the older woman as she ambled past to plop down in a chair against the wall next to her aunt. Ah, the spinster corner. Every ball room had one.

With her aunt occupied with genial conversation, Rosalind took a backward step, and then another, and then another, until she was far enough away that she could slip away.

Sliding her gaze over to her aunt, she was relieved to see the woman hadn’t noticed. She seemed to be craning her neck in order to look toward the front of the room.

Rosalind supposed she ought to be standing near her brother, but she could inspect the faces in the crowd much better from the back of the room. If her guardian was here tonight, he’d be watching her, wouldn’t he?

A smear of red hair caught her attention. Lord Stokes, the very man Rosalind imagined would someday make a declaration to her friend Lucy, was slowly walking the perimeter of the room. He seemed to be watching everyone carefully. Perhaps he was looking for someone in particular, but then again . . .

perhaps
he
was her guardian.

Her lips lifted in a small, secret smile. Nothing was going to distract her from her mission. If she were to slip away from the ball room, perhaps he would have no choice but to follow her, and then she’d know for certain.

She turned to do just that when the butler’s flat voice resounded throughout the room. “Presenting the Marquess of Winterbourne.”

Hissing whispers, giggling debutantes, the jovial mumblings of men—all of it lowered as heads turned to the front of the room.

Being short, Rosalind couldn’t see a thing. For a fleeting moment, she toyed with the idea of standing on a chair but decided her aunt might have an apoplexy if she did.

All thoughts of her guardian flew out the doors at her back in the face of discovering why this new marquess held the guests in such a state of open curiosity.

As she threaded through the guests, whispers surrounded her.

“He’s a Scot, eh?”

“He’s a handsome one.”

“God’s truth, that isn’t a padded jacket. That’s him!”

“Did you see those legs? Now there’s a man who needn’t employ false calves.”

“Stand straight, Mary, or else his lordship might not ask you to dance.”

“Formidable-looking fell ow. Kincaid’s the family name.”

Rosalind’s head snapped to the right. Did someone just utter “Kincaid,” or was she simply going mad? Her heartbeat tripped and her breathing quickened.

She rushed ahead, desperate to see what held everyone so spell bound. But the crowd seemed to close in around her as others shuffled closer to the top of the room. She looked to the right and left, but there was no escape.

Her shoulders heaved with a sigh and she relinquished the fight.

Perhaps if she feigned a swoon, a space would be cleared. She gave her head a slight shake. No, that would never do. At least not right now. Everyone was so distracted that they’d probably step over her.

Squeezing past the back of a portly gentleman, Rosalind thought she heard someone say her name.

“Pssst. Rosalind.”

She turned to see Lucy Meriwether slide up to her.

“We’re thinking about calling him ‘Lord Sin,’ ” Lucy whispered in delight. She did a little excited hop. “

‘Lord Winter’ doesn’t sound half as exciting, though his stare is rather frosty.”

“Who are you speaking of?”

“Why, Lord Winterbourne, of course.”