Guarding a Notorious Lady (9 page)

Rosalind pressed her lips together, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the settee. She wasn’t
that
spectacular a dancer. Only passable at best. Oh, how she wished they would cease.

Nicholas tilted his crossed arms, gently brushing against her upper arm in the process, presumably to gain her attention.

She turned to look at him and nearly sighed with thankfulness for his surly expression. He was looking not at her but at the hopeful suitors.

“Is it really always like this?” he said softly, barely moving his lips.

“Yes. And no,” she replied just as quietly. “When Gabriel is here, they aren’t permitted in the house.”

“I see.”

She wondered if he truly did see. Was he aware of how unsettling and downright ridiculous their behavior could be? And she was to think she would find a husband among these men someday?

“You don’t like it,” he stated, and she could feel his gaze upon her.

She looked up at him. “Can you blame me?”

“Do you have high standards of conduct for prospective husbands?”

“Indeed. I suppose there are some women who would be ecstatic to have such enthusiasm in her suitors. However, I would much prefer sincerity over anything else. True affection.”

“Love?” he asked, the timbre of his voice coaxing an unexpected shiver to spark through her.

She could only nod, hoping she didn’t look as vulnerable as she felt at that moment.

“And you don’t think you’ll ever find it,” he finished for her.

She gave him a small smile but was unable to hold his gaze. The truth was, “love” was sitting next to her, but of course she wouldn’t say that aloud. Not when he continued to confuse her about how he felt about her.

“What I think,” she began, still speaking in low tones, “or rather, what I
know,
is that I will not marry unless my prospective husband surrenders his entire heart to me. If I can’t have it all, I want none of it.”

“Some men might find that prospect frightening.

Loving completely. Relinquishing.”

“But why?”

“Perhaps they believe love makes one vulnerable. It weakens you. Opens you up to pain and fear.” He closed his eyes slowly, briefly. “For some, love is like death.”

She straightened. “But love is life.”

“To you, perhaps.”

“Not to you?”

When he didn’t answer her, she forged onward with her point. “My father charmed my mother at the very first ball she attended, and they were married soon after. She was twenty, romantic, and longed for a love match. She thought she had found that very thing with my father and grew to love him deeply. But my father never reciprocated those feelings. Sometimes there would be a gesture or a kind word, and I believe it was those things that kept her hanging on to the hope that he would one day declare his love. I was thirteen years old and even I knew—”

“He toyed with her feelings?”

She shook her head, the thought that Nicholas seemed genuinely interested in what she was saying warming her heart. It did not escape her notice that she’d never spoken to another man about her parents’ relationship before—besides Gabriel, that is.

“Perhaps he was toying with her,” she said. “He was rarely home, but my mother lived for those times.

As time went on, he came home less and less. News of his mistresses traveled to Wolverest and it devastated my mother. Tristan was too young and too much of a free spirit to notice such things, but Gabriel and I watched her slowly waste away.”

Frowning, Nicholas shook his head. “Her love for your father destroyed her.”

“My father’s love would have brought her back to life.” She sighed. “I don’t want to make the same mistake. I don’t want to be in love with someone that feigns his affection. I’d rather be alone.” He stared at her, his firm, expertly sculpted lips opening slightly as if he was about to say something more but thought better of it. His gaze dropped to her lips and he leaned slightly toward her.

For a moment, she thought he was actually going to kiss her, right here in the morning room, but then she felt his breath at her ear.

“I don’t think you were made to be alone,” he whispered hotly before pulling away.

Her eyes fluttered. She hadn’t expected him to say something like that, and she wasn’t sure she understood his meaning. Was he flirting? Was that some sort of twisted compliment that circled back to his earlier insinuations that she enjoyed the attention from men?

Before she could ask him what he’d meant, her stomach gave a sudden, horrific growl. The spell between them broke and she patted at her skirts, hoping the swishing masked it.

She had been so busy at the door (and at the windows) and in the morning room that she hadn’t eaten a morsel since very early this morning, and it had only been a slice of toast with a drop of honey.

Licking her lips, Rosalind glanced longingly at a plate of chocolate cake.

“Do you want some, lass?” Nicholas drawled from beside her.

She looked over to find him staring at her mouth intently. “Ah, no. No, thank you. I’m fine. Really.”

“I could get you a nice, thick slice. You would like it.” Her gaze flicked to the plate, then back to Nicholas’s face. “Oh, I would. I would.”

“Then let me get it for you.”

“Winterbourne!” Tristan shouted from the doorway.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Rosalind’s breath shuddered. Just what was going on here? All the man was doing was asking if she wanted some cake, but it somehow felt much more intimate in nature.

Frighteningly, she wanted it to continue. She wanted cake. She wanted him to feed her cake. In truth, she didn’t even care if he ate the cake himself just so that he’d keep talking to her in those dark tones while looking at her mouth like he wanted to kiss her.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Nicholas spoke to the room at large.

Rosalind watched him leave, marveling at his size.

She inhaled the hint of his cologne and mourned the warmth he took with him.

Why did he have to be such a confusing, beguiling beast?

As soon as Nicholas was out of the room, Tristan gave her a pointed look, then threw one that held considerable more heat at the grouping of men.

“Gentlemen,” he said, affecting Gabriel’s dark baritone precisely. “My sister has had a very busy afternoon.”

Surprisingly, they all stood and made their hushed excuses.

Twenty minutes later, Aunt Eugenia rose and declared she was to return to her rooms. “I’ve eaten too much cake and talked to too many idiots for one afternoon,” she said.

Which left Rosalind alone with her thoughts—and the last slice of luscious chocolate cake.

The house was incredibly quiet. Nicholas had probably left, as well.

She strained to hear his voice down the hall, but she perceived nothing but the ticking clock and the occasional sniffle from Briggs.

Silent, like a cat, she stole across the room.

Sucking in her lips, she plucked the moist wedge from the plate, and then, opening her mouth wide, she shoved the entire thing in her mouth all at once.

It was heaven. It was divine. It was . . .

“Impressive.”

Cheeks full to bursting, she turned her head to find Nicholas leaning inside the doorway, a grin slanting across his handsome face.

She froze, but only for a moment. Her cheeks probably looked as plump as a cherub’s. She ought to be mortified, but she wasn’t.

Undeterred, she finished chewing, dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin, and then, of course, took an exaggerated bow. She came up smiling broadly, knowing that chocolate most likely stained her teeth, making it look like she was missing a few.

Nicholas pushed off the doorframe, clapping politely. He knew that it would be an infinitely wiser choice to turn around and make his exit, but his feet were apparently paying no attention at all to his thoughts. Before he could stop himself, he stood before her, the small table with an empty cake plate squatting between them.

His eyes followed the path of her pink tongue as it peeked out to lick her lower lip. Sweet Christ.

“Has Tristan given you a sufficient supply of the best gaming hells, then?” she asked, a bite to her words.

“Adequate, I suppose.” He hated having to lie to her, but he couldn’t very well tell her he’d had to tell Tristan that he would be watching the house this evening.

“Nicholas?”

He inwardly cringed. He knew that tone. He had a younger sister, after all. That pitch in her voice meant she was about to ask him a question she suspected he wouldn’t want to answer.

“At the ball the other night,” she said, skirting around the table to step closer to him.

He took a backwards step.

“I noticed you danced, oh, seven sets—to the delight of the debutantes in attendance.” She took another step, the hem of her dress brushing the toes of his boots.

He gulped.

“Why did you not waltz?”

For a moment his mind froze. He hadn’t expected her to ask him that question. “Well, I-I . . .” Damn, but she had him blubbering like a schoolboy. He cleared his throat. “I cannot waltz.”

Her chin dropped.

There. He’d said it. It wasn’t true, but he was quite proud of himself for being so very clever. Three wee words and now he was neatly exonerated from ever having to dance with her at any of the numerous balls she would undoubtedly be attending. The dread that hovered in his dreams, whispering warnings that he wouldn’t be able to control himself, hide his attraction if he was forced to hold her in his embrace, evaporated in an instant.

“You cannot waltz?”

He grinned wide and sanguine. “No.”

Her azure gaze narrowed on him as a slow smile curled her lips.

A sense of foreboding as heavy as an anvil dropped in his stomach.

Before he could react—and truly, he didn’t know what he would have done if he’d had time—Rosalind did a little hop where she stood and grabbed his hand.

“Then I shal teach you,” she chirped, pulling him with her.

“T
each me? Now? Here? Where are you taking me?”

“To the wilds of South America,” she intoned dryly, rolling her eyes. “To the middle of the room, Nicholas.” Letting go of his hand, she scooted a chair to the side. “Sheesh, you act as if you fear I’ll ravish you.”
Quite the reverse, I fear I’ll ravish you.

“All right,” she declared, holding up her arms as if an imaginary man stood before her. “This shouldn’t take too long, seeing as how well you danced the other night. And you did watch the others dance, I presume.” She smiled at him. “Come on. I promise not to stomp on your toes. Seven seasons and not a single victim to date.”

Like an imbecile he just stood there, frozen at the prospect of holding her in his arms. Sitting next to her on the sofa had been one thing—there had been other people in the room, after all. But they were most definitely alone now. Alone and unchaperoned.

Clearly, she had no idea at all about how attracted he was to her, which was a good thing, but he suspected the threads of his restraint were popping free, cord by cord, each time he had to touch her.

It’s only lust, he kept telling himself.

His every step measured, Nicholas came before her, resigned to her little dance lesson.

“Now,” she said, her tone befitting one of his old mathematics tutors. “You do know the waltz time? The music for the minuet last night was in waltz time . . .

one . . . two . . . three.”

He responded with a grunt.

“Good.” She smiled. “Now hold me.”

“What?” he asked a bit loudly.

She sighed, though he detected a shakiness to her breath. “Encircle my waist with your right arm. Keep your posture firm.”

Hardening his resolve to behave, he closed his eyes and slid his arm around her. He felt her shiver.

“Now, hold my right hand with your left,” she said softly. “Keep your arm bent at the elbow.” On purpose, he held it too high.

“Lower. Almost to the height of my waist.” And then, because Nicholas was a little bit wicked, he let the hand that splayed across the base of her spine lower inch by glorious inch until his thumb rested at her waist, his fingers at the top of her backside.

She did not correct him.

He opened his eyes, knowing full well he could not keep the heat from his gaze any longer.

She stared up at him and swallowed. “You are responsible for guiding me across the dance floor.” He nodded slowly and began to move, hesitantly at first, but soon in perfect time.

Rosalind was impressed. It took skil to traverse the room—and

furniture—without

whacking

into

something.

“How am I doing?” he asked, his gray eyes alight with unmistakable heat.

“Wonderful,” she choked out, suddenly breathless.

Truly, she’d never had a more capable partner. She supposed it helped that she loved this man and might very well be a touch biased, but he was marvelous, masterful.

He was either a quick learner or she was a brilliant teacher.

Or he had been lying about not knowing how to waltz in the first place. She could not dismiss that possibility.

Rounding the sofa they had sat in earlier, he came to an abrupt stop. She had not expected it. Her skirts swished between them and she started to slip sideways.

Nicholas grabbed her fully around the back and twisted their positions, presumably so that he would feel the brunt of the fall and not her. As he tripped backwards, Rosalind was helpless but to go along with him from the momentum. He landed in a sitting position on the sofa with Rosalind sprawled on top of him, straddling one of his thighs.

Breathless, she gazed into his hooded eyes. “Are you all right?” she asked.

Panting himself, he shook his head.

His gaze lowered to her neck. His head tilted. His hot mouth fastened tenderly to her throat.

Rosalind shuddered with a moan. It was as if she had been starving for this moment. Her head lolled to the side and she straightened, undeniably giving him the signal that she wanted more.

His tongue lapped at her skin. His teeth grazed her.

His sculpted lips soothed the bite and suckled her. It was as if she was this delicious treat that he hungered for and now savored every taste. And she wanted Nicholas to devour every inch of her.

Soon, his lips feathered across the swells of her bosom and she shivered. When his tongue stabbed into her cleavage, she inhaled sharply and writhed upon his hard thigh, every nerve alive and superbly sensitive.

As he nipped and nuzzled the tops of her breasts, one of his hands sat heavy on her back, keeping her close, while the other was sliding up her arm, his fingers curling into the cap sleeve of her dress.

He trailed his intoxicating kisses upward. Their open, panting mouths met, hesitated, and then joined.

He kissed her ferociously, gently, his tongue sweeping inside again and again. Waves of sensation buffeted her.

She should have been shocked. She shouldn’t have known how to respond, but it all seemed so natural to her, like she was born to love this man, to be made love to by this man.

The hand at her back lowered to her bottom and squeezed, rolling her hard onto his thigh. She moaned as unspeakable pleasure throbbed at the apex of her thighs. He buried his head against her chest, and she could feel him trembling.

And then his hands slowed. And then he stopped.

His hands fell away and he closed his eyes with a sigh.

Gradually, her senses returned. She blinked open her eyes and looked about the room. The door to the hall was open. Tristan and her aunt were home—not to mention the fact that Briggs was in the hall and the maid could have come to take the empty cake plate away.

She looked over her shoulder, slightly relieved that it sat there untouched.

Grabbing her skirts, which had rucked up to her thighs, she slid off of Nicholas and stood on shaky legs.

What was she thinking? That was just it. She wasn’t thinking. By luck alone no one had walked in on them.

If someone had, she’d be considered compromised and would soon find herself married to a man that quite possibly only wanted her but didn’t love her.

“Nicholas, I—”

He held up a hand and stood. “You needn’t say a word.”

“But—”

“No. My actions were reprehensible.” He wouldn’t look at her.

She took a step toward him and he jerked away.

“I apologize. It should not have happened. I don’t know what came over me.” Holding out his hands in front of him, he looked at them. They were shaking slightly—almost as much as her legs.

She reached out a hand to still them.

He evaded her touch with a backward step. “I-I’m going now. We shal pretend this never happened.” He turned, striding to the door.

Rosalind could have sworn she heard him curse himself.

Would she ever see him again? Given his past history of making himself scarce of late at Wolverest, it was a possibility. “Nicholas, wait.” She didn’t expect him to listen, but he surprised her by halting at the doorway, although he didn’t turn around to look at her.

“Tomorrow afternoon is the Fairfax musicale. Did you, by chance, get an invitation?”

He was silent for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. “Are
you
going?” he asked, his deep baritone clipped and cold sounding.

“I attend every year.”

“Then I shal be there as well.” And with that, he stepped out into the hall and let himself out.

Despite his apology and promise that nothing like that would ever happen again, Rosalind smiled to herself. Perhaps the gentleman in him was embarrassed by his attraction. In truth, she was a little shaken by the strength of the passion that had ignited between them, as well. However, one thing was perfectly clear in her mind: Nicholas seemed to be spending a lot more time in her presence, and that could mean only one thing—he liked her.