Son of a Duke (8 page)

"I want to be a lamplighter."
 
Samuel smiled, huge and proud, tucking his hands into the pockets of his well-worn breeches as if he were a real, grown up man.
 
The last of the unease slid off his shoulders, and Nora imagined it falling to the floor in a dissolving puddle.
   

Nathan sat on an overturned urn.
 
He crossed his legs and leaned his head on his fist, assuming a serious face.
 
Nora smiled honestly now, watching the scene unfold before her.
 

"And why a lamplighter, Samuel?"

"The lamps make the streets safer at night.
 
It would be a huge and noble responsibility to be the one to light those lamps."
 

"Yes, a very important task.
 
Are you sure you're up to it?"

"I'm working very hard on being responsible, sir.
 
My mother helped me plant some flowers in an old cup, so that I could tend them.
 
And if I do not tend them, they will not grow.
 
It's teaching me responsibility."
 

Nora realized she was still smiling as maids began to filter in from adjoining rooms armed with mops and rags.
 
Footmen carried large buckets to remove the debris, and Nora wondered on the time.
 
Her son should be in bed.

"That is exactly right, Samuel.
 
Now, I think you have taken up enough of Mr. Black's time."
 
Nora started to move briskly toward them and placed her hand on her son's shoulder to draw him away.
 

Samuel's face turned red.
 
"I am very sorry, sir.
 
I did not mean to be going on about such things."
 

Nathan stood up and walked over to kneel in front of the boy, ignoring Nora's attempt to pull the lad away. Nora's heart flipped again, and she wondered how much more she could take in one evening.
 
No man had ever knelt down to her son's eye level, but she was not sure if it were because no man had ever bothered or if she had never let anyone get that close to her son.
 

"I think such things need a lot more discussion.
 
Perhaps, you will have time this week to discuss responsibility further with me.
 
And call me Nathan, not sir.
 
My father is sir, and I am definitely not old enough to be called sir.
 
Understood?" Nathan said.
 

Nora felt a pang in her stomach.
 
What was it that Nathan promised her son?
 
Surely, he could not be speaking of seeing her son again.
 
And if he were speaking of promises he did not intend to keep, she would not have him around her son.

Samuel looked up to his mother, back at Nathan, and back up to Nora.
 

Nora spoke, "I do not believe you will have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Black again, Samuel, but it is kind of him to make such an offer."

Nathan stood so abruptly, Nora backed up involuntarily.

"I would have hoped you would allow me to see more of you and your son, Miss Quinton."
 

Nora watched Nathan's eyes in the lamplight, sparkling blue in the dimness.
 
Something gripped her.
 
She did not know what it was or what it meant, but it felt like she was suddenly safe.
 
Like all the worry and anxiety she carried on her shoulders had simply been removed.
 

"We are quite busy during the week, si-Nathan.
 
I am not sure we would have a moment."
 

She was not certain why she was defending herself, pushing back an offer from a gentleman that was nothing less than decent.
 
But there lay a niggle of suspicion still deep within her, and she could not yet let it go and wondered if she ever could.

"Of course," Nathan said, and Nora watched something change in his face.
 

The moment was gone as quickly as it had come, and Nora instantly regretted whatever she had done to make it disappear.

Nora gently turned Samuel's face up to her.
 
"Will you run to the kitchen and grab the medicine box for me, please?"
 

"Is it for the man who was shot?
 
I do not think a medicine box will help, Mama."

Her ever practical son was not yet mature enough to feel the undercurrents moving between the adults in the room.

Nora felt her lips turn up just slightly at the tips.
 

"No, it is not for him.
 
Bring it along to the study, and then you should be off to bed.
 
The music room drapes need to be beaten out tomorrow.
 
You will need your rest."
 

Samuel nodded sharply with a stern, "Yes, ma'am," before taking off like he was on the most important mission in the world.
 
He skidded to a sudden halt at the door to look over his shoulder at Nathan.
 
"It was a pleasure speaking with you as well, Nathan."
 
He disappeared through the ballroom doors.
 

Nora finally turned to look at Nathan, the shroud of seriousness returning with the unexpected suddeness of a cold wind on a spring day.
 

"We should move along to the study.
 
It is getting late, and there is still quite a bit we should discuss."

Nora just nodded at him and turned toward the door, not bothering to pick up her skirts as she made her way through the mess.
 

CHAPTER FOUR

"Is that going to sting?"

"You will never find out if you do not allow me to tend your wound."
 
Nora shoved him into a chair by the fire, feeling he was more trouble than Samuel ever was.

She busied herself with the supplies from the medicine box even though she really need not have.
 
She was suddenly unsure if her nerves were up to touching him, and she would be touching him a great deal to clean his wound.
 
It was only a small slice across his upper arm, but she would still need to rip his shirt to get to it.
 
Or have him remove his shirt.
 
She grabbed the table to keep from falling down.
 
No, he would definitely not be removing his shirt.
 
She refolded the clean cloth she was going to use to bind the cut with for the eighth time and decided she had had enough of her own foolishness.

Nathan sat rather calmly while Nora worked up the courage to actually touch him.
 
It was a remarkable thing to watch her face, watch her eyes glint as one thought passed into another, her lips turned slightly up at the corners again but pressed solidly together in the middle.
 

He had removed his coat and folded it across the back of the chair into which she had pushed him.
 
He had contemplated removing his shirt as well, so she could better access his arm.
 
Remembering quite clearly her reaction to previous encounters with him, he left his shirt in place and would just let her rip the sleeve as needed.

 
His arm was starting to throb.
 
It was throbbing enough to distract him from the fascinating expressions of a dithering Eleanora Quinton.
 
He bent his head at an unnatural angle to get a better look at his shoulder, but all he saw was the spattering of blood on the white of his shirt.
 
He looked back at the dithering Miss Quinton.
 

She was coming toward him, rather resolutely for a change, which made him sit up straighter.
 
A white bandaging cloth and a bottle of a threatening elixir were her weapons of choice.
 
He was thoroughly anxious to see how she would use them.

"I must rip your shirt, Nathan."
 
She put the items down on the table beside him, moving the lantern that sat there back a bit.
 

There was enough light now for him to clearly see the layer of white on her face, saw where it faded into the high collar of her gown.

"Why do you wear that?"

She looked down at herself.
 
"Because it would be improper for me to go without clothing.
 
Surely even a rogue such as yourself would know that, Mr. Black."
 
She pursed her lips at him.
 

He sat back slightly, inexplicably displeased that she had decided he was a rogue.
 

"It just so happens I am not a rogue-"

She laughed.
 

And he forgot what he had been saying.
 
The sound of her laugh was musical and unexpected.
 
Why it was unexpected, he was not sure, for surely she had occasion to laugh.
 
But there was something about her serious posture that had precluded the thought from his mind.
 
Her mouth was open, her teeth white and straight, her eyes sparkling in the lantern light.
 

And then she stopped.

And he remembered.

"I am not a rogue, Miss Quinton," he spit out her name as sharply as she had used his, "I simply enjoy the company of a fine woman."
 

Her eyes remained still on his face, not sparkling, glinting or flashing.
 
Not even blinking.
 
Her lips were firmly together, corners turned up; her hands rested against her white apron.
 

"I see."
 
She bent down to grab his shirt.

He sat back.
 
"You see?"
 

"Yes."
 
She made to grab his shirt again, making him sit almost on the arm of the chair to get away from her.

"You see what?"

"Lots.
 
Now are you going to let me rip off your shirt or not?"
 
He knew the moment she realized how the words she had said sounded.
 
Her eyes went blank, both at the same time and sharp as a lightning strike.
 
And he really did have the gall to smile just then, slowly...dangerously.

And he leaned towards her.
 

Her hands gripped the sleeve of his shirt and pulled with more force than he had been expecting.
 
It even tugged him forward a bit, making him grab the arm of the chair.
 
The white lawn of the shirt ripped easily under her hands falling fall away from the slice in his arm.
 
She grabbed his hand then.
 
The contact sent a shock clear to his stomach and back.
 
She adjusted his arm against the chair, turning his bicep into the light.
 

Her slender, reddened hand wrapped around him.
 
Well, obviously it did not wrap entirely around his bicep, but she had enough of a grip on it to cause more throbbing.
 
He tilted forward to relieve some of the pressure.
 
Her hands were callused and rough.
 
When she had first removed her gloves, he had stared at her hands, never before having seen a woman's hands so badly mutilated from scrubbing and working, working to stay alive.
 
It had made him think, and he realized suddenly that he had forgotten she was a housekeeper.
 

"Some of the blood has already dried on.
 
I will have to wash it before I dress it."
 

"Wash it?"
 
He asked.

She let go of his arm and walked away from him, across the room and out the door.
 

Nathan blinked at the open door.
 
The clock above the fire ticked into the silence while he just sat staring at the spot where she had been standing.
 
The woman was completely unpredictable.
 
Nothing in her profile had indicated the slightest hint of a life of unconventional nature, and it had suggested impropriety be completely out of the question.
 
But the infallible Miss Quinton had a son.
 
And a son had meant that somewhere along the way, she had slipped up.
 
But that thought did not fit right in his mind.
 
He doubted Nora ever did anything of a reckless nature.
 
The only other option would be if she had been...

He could not form the word in his mind.
 

He heard the tapping of her shoes on the floor in the hall several moments before she swished through the door, shutting it softly behind her.
 
She carried a small basin, a blue rag hanging over the side of it.
 
Walking briskly over to him, she set the basin on the table by the bandages and elixir before grabbing his arm again.

Her grasp was so tight a small
Ow
slipped from his lips.
 
She raised an eyebrow at him.
 
He stared at her face.
 
No woman had ever raised an eyebrow at him.
 
He was thinking up a scathing retort when she smacked the wet blue rag against his damaged skin, and instead of a retort, a curse popped from his lips.

She raised both eyebrows and frowned.

"I beg your pardon," he mumbled, gripping the armrest of the chair.
 

She nodded and bent to wash the dried blood from his arm.
 
He looked at the fire, allowing his mind to drift away from the unpleasant thoughts he had been thinking on just moments before.

"What are you thinking?"

Her words made him jump, and he looked up at her.
 
She had stopped bathing his arm, held the cloth in her hand, and looked at him thoughtfully.