Tremaine's True Love (28 page)

Nita could hardly believe her good fortune, despite Tremaine’s assurance that their vows would soon be spoken. He was Nita’s lover already, her friend, and her fiancé.

That he’d denied himself the pleasure of spending his seed in the conjugal act was an indication of his regard for her, surely.

So why did Nita feel as if Tremaine withheld from his prospective wife not the risk of conception, but rather, a piece of his heart?

She took one last look at herself in the mirror, but Della had tilted it so Nita’s reflection was from the shoulders down. Now that Nita had the privacy to study her image, she was vaguely disturbed by what she saw.

“I look like Mama.” The realization brought no joy. From the neck down Nita looked very much like a gaunt, pale, even spectral version of her departed mother. She turned from the mirror, blew out the candles one by one, and prepared to smile and dance her way through yet another local assembly.

* * *

Two violins in close harmony and a wheezy little spinet were small competition for dozens of pairs of dancing feet. The thump and slide of those feet echoed a thumping in Tremaine’s temples.

Nita, however, was luminous in her blue velvet finery, a smiling, sparkling testament to gracious cheer and graceful movement.

And she was soon to be his.

“The winter assemblies always have a desperate quality to them,” Edward Nash observed from Tremaine’s side. “One certainly wishes the rooms had more open windows.”

Alas, one might be tempted to jump from such a window, though Tremaine could identify no specific reason for his irritability other than present company.

“Mr. Nash, greetings. Your sister-in-law is a lovely addition to the assemblage.”

Lovely, but when greeting Elsie Nash, Tremaine had sensed that the woman also suffered anxiety over more than her attire, which was several years out of fashion.

No blackened eyes, though. Tremaine had been relieved to note that Elsie Nash was free of injuries. Nita would likely have called Mr. Nash out otherwise.

“Have you and Bellefonte come to an agreement regarding the merinos?” Nash took a gulp of punch that Tremaine had set aside after one cautious sip.

“Business at a social function, Mr. Nash?” Tremaine countered softly. “Surely we should focus on which lovely lady we’ll lead out next rather than on a herd of sheep?”

Tremaine had been at pains to ensure the sheep were as good as in Nash’s grasping, gloved hands—if that’s where Bellefonte wanted them—despite Nita’s loathing for Edward Nash. Let him take up bargaining with the earl—or with Lady Susannah.

“Bleating sheep, bleating women,” Nash said. “The topics are related. Susannah will see that I have those sheep, I’m sure.”

Lady
Susannah, for pity’s sake. “You’re that confident of your suit?”

“The Haddonfield sisters are de trop, Mr. St. Michael,” Nash replied. He probably thought himself sophisticated, but his tone marked him as a petty man. “Bellefonte has an heir in his nursery, and aging aunties are an expense the earl doesn’t need. Susannah knows this.”

No doubt because Nash subtly reminded her of it.

The set was ending, not a moment too soon. Nita curtsied to her partner, some old fellow who’d nearly shot off his own foot the previous summer, if George Haddonfield was to be believed.

“Lady Nita is apparently free for the next dance,” Tremaine said. “You’ll excuse me if I avail myself of her hand.”

“Do I take it you’ve offered for Nita Haddonfield?”

Nash had spoken loudly enough that in the absence of the sawing fiddles and pounding feet, his question caused heads to turn. His complexion was flushed, and the glass in his hand trembled slightly.

Foxed, and in public, no less. This was what came of socializing with the neighbors.

“If I have offered for Lady Nita,” Tremaine said, “and if she has done me the honor of accepting, then Bellefonte will surely announce our engagement soon, won’t he? Perhaps the earl’s reticence is intended to allow others time to contribute their own good news to the general gaiety.” Tremaine would have strode away on that observation—Lady Susannah was to be pitied her choice of swain—except Nash put a hand on Tremaine’s arm.

“You’ll not have those sheep, St. Michael. Take to wife whomever you please, but I’ve made my position on the sheep quite clear.”

Tremaine spared a moment’s pity for the sheep, who had no choice in the matter. “Best of luck then, in all your ventures.”

“You’re the one who’ll need the luck.” Nash’s jollity was forced, and every person in the assembly room would have heard him. “If you marry Lady Nita, she’ll soon bring every foul disease and noxious ailment to your doorstep. Or will you curtail her nonsense, as Bellefonte should have done when he inherited the title?”

Bellefonte was busily studying his drink four yards away, the countess’s hand tucked around his arm rather like a manacle.

Tremaine spoke loudly enough that nobody would mistake his words. No wife of his would suffer the judgment of her inferiors, much less become an object of gossip for having overindulged her charitable impulses.

“Nash, surely you comprehend that if a new husband is conscientious in the prosecution of his duties, the new wife will have no thought for colicky babies or consumptive uncles? Any lady who becomes my
countess
will have many duties, all of them as pleasurable for her as I can make them, and none of them imperiling her welfare.”

Tremaine shook free of Nash’s clutches and winked at his intended. She no longer needed to tolerate the meddling of such a disgrace, for Tremaine’s words were sincere. A husband was entitled to pamper his wife and to be pampered by her.

Also to protect her. He’d made damned sure Nita understood that very point. Nita smiled slightly, then turned to address her brother George.

Lady Kirsten appeared at Tremaine’s side and aimed a feral smile at him. “Ask me to dance, Mr. St. Michael. Ask me to dance now.”

Apparently, Lady Kirsten wanted a piece of Nash’s hide as well.

Tremaine bowed over her hand. “My lady, may I have the honor?”

She curtsied, the movement having something about it of a duelist’s opening salute. Lady Kirsten danced with an effortless grace few women shared, and yet she wasn’t Nita, whom Tremaine would rather be partnering.

“Don’t look for her,” Lady Kirsten hissed. “Don’t smile that indulgent, besotted smile at her. Don’t frown at me, or I’ll tramp on your idiot foot.”

Her expression bore a cordial regard, her eyes promised murder.

The poor dear was probably jealous. In all modesty, Nita was marrying quite well—Tremaine would resume use of his French title if Nita preferred—and Lady Susannah was at least marrying. Lady Kirsten was doubtless suffering the pangs of impending spinsterhood.

“Have I offended, my lady?”

They turned down the room, the floor being considerably less crowded as a result of the choice of dance. Nita twirled by with her brother George, her smile serene.

“You have offended me, indeed,” Lady Kirsten murmured. “I wish you the joy of your damned sheep.”

A dramatist, then. Every family had one. “Nash is half-seas over, and some banter between the fellows will only cause a little talk. I suggest you aim your criticisms at the good squire, and in Lady Susannah’s hearing. Nash is really not worthy of her.”

Lady Kirsten’s foot came down on Tremaine’s, and though she was wearing slippers, she was no delicate flower.

“Nash is a presuming idiot,” she said. “We’ll find some way to deal with him that doesn’t reflect poorly on Susannah. You, however, are a fool.”

Tremaine executed the figures of the dance with the skill of any man born with both French and Scottish antecedents, while his mind considered Lady Kirsten’s apparent upset. As Nita sashayed around the dance floor, she appeared as gracious and poised as always, chatting with her brother, smiling, and in full possession of her good humor.

Her poise should have reassured Tremaine.

When the music finally came to a close, Tremaine bowed, Lady Kirsten curtsied low, and he led her back to the side of the room. George and Nita joined them as lines formed for another country-dance.

Some merciful soul had cracked open a window, for the room was both warm and fragranced with the exertions of the assemblage.

“Lady Nita, you dance quite well,” Tremaine said. Three siblings exchanged a glance, suggesting Tremaine had accused his beloved of having horns and a tail.

“As do you, Mr. St. Michael,” Nita replied. “George, perhaps you and Kirsten would be good enough to fetch us a glass of punch?”

George hustled off, dragging Kirsten with him.

“Lady Kirsten took exception to my earlier remarks to Nash,” Tremaine said quietly, because wallflowers, dowagers, and gouty old squires were scattered around the room. “I apologize for engaging the fool in repartee, but he was being an idiot.”

“I understand.”

Uncertainty blended with the single sip of cheap punch in Tremaine’s belly. “What do you understand, my lady?”

Her smile was benevolent, her countenance composed. “Edward has visited the punch bowl frequently this evening, and Susannah has ignored him. Some gentlemen deal poorly with having their wishes thwarted.”

“Good for Lady Susannah.” Tremaine assayed a smile in the direction of his fiancée, but her gaze had returned to the dance floor. His uncertainty acquired a hint of irritation as it occurred to him that Nita had the knack of appearing more composed as she became more distraught.

That recollection cheered him not at all.

* * *

How
could
you?

Nita tapped her toe more or less at random, smiled at whoever glanced her way, and filled her mind with the memory of Annie’s dirty nappies, the scent of boiled cabbage, Fordyce’s sermons,
anything
to keep from crying.

Tremaine St. Michael expected his wife to sit at home and darn his stockings while children suffered and mothers worried helplessly. The betrayal of his public declaration, the sheer presumption of it, hurt like a dislocated joint.

Worse was the sense of having missed the most important symptoms as she’d examined the patient. Nita had noted Tremaine’s pragmatism, his honor, his generosity, and, yes, his gloriously healthy manly physique.

She’d been fascinated with his kisses and his passion.

She had utterly ignored what defined him, though: a protective instinct that stretched to distant herds of sheep, his horse, families of hungry children, and cousins in the far-off Highlands.

Such a man was not prepared to tolerate the risks Nita took as a healer.

“Punch,” George said, bearing two cups and a brilliant smile. Kirsten had taken herself off, thank goodness, though pity the fellow with whom she next danced.

“Lady Nita.” Tremaine passed Nita a glass, though the last thing Nita wanted was to add tepid, sickly sweet punch to the upset roiling in her belly.

“My thanks.” She touched the cup to her lips without imbibing, and Tremaine appeared to do the same.

Just as he’d appeared to be everything her heart desired.

“Elsie Nash was asking for you, Nita,” George said softly. “She’s frantic about something, unless I miss my guess.”

Tremaine winged his arm.

Nita pretended not to see it. “I won’t be long.” She passed George her cup and hurried away, grateful for an excuse to leave Tremaine’s side. He did not comprehend the hurt he’d done her, and that only made the situation worse.

“Lady Nita, good evening.” Elsie’s smile was brittle, though she was prettily attired in a gown of emerald green. “Are you enjoying the gathering?”

No, Nita was not, and she’d probably never enjoy an assembly again. “Elsie, what’s wrong?”

“Edward would not let me send for you, but Digby is quite ill. Horton will bleed him, and even Penny didn’t favor bleeding a child. I thought if you could stop by—” Elsie paused to smile at the vicar, who tottered past with his missus, dancing being a sure cure for gout, of course.

“You want me to leave the assembly?” Nita was in no mood to deal with an ailing child, but she was happy to leave the gathering, even to once again sneak up the back stairs at Stonebridge. Anything to get free of this place.

“You can return before anybody knows you’ve left.” Elsie waggled her fingers at Della, who looked far too sophisticated as she turned through the figures of the dance. “Edward insists the boy make the trek to the vicarage daily, despite the weather, despite Digby’s cough growing worse. I fear for my son, or I wouldn’t ask.”

Behind Elsie’s fine manners lurked a mother at the breaking point, the same breaking point Addy Chalmers had danced along for years.

Damn Edward Nash, damn all the hale, healthy men who thought their needs trumped anybody else’s.

“Avoid the punch,” Nita said, “and if somebody asks, I sought a moment of fresh air to clear my head. Tell Kirsten to dance with Edward, and then let Della and Leah have a go at him.”

“Thank you, my lady. If there’s ever anything I can do to repay you, you have only to ask.”

Nita returned to George’s side, and that meant once again facing Tremaine. He was painfully attractive in his evening attire, and he danced beautifully. His smile was indulgent and sweet.

Nita longed to be Mrs. Tremaine St. Michael, but did Tremaine honestly believe choosing wallpaper for his formal parlor was more important than a small boy’s life?

“George, I need a moment of your time,” Nita said. “Mr. St. Michael, you’ll excuse us?”

The special, just-for-you smile faltered. “Are you well, my lady?”

“I enjoy excellent health, thank you.” Despite tired feet, an aching heart, a throbbing head, and a crushing bewilderment, Nita yet enjoyed excellent health.

Offer
to
come
with
me. Please, offer to come with me, and I’ll hold out hope that we can reconcile our differences.
Except that since becoming engaged to her, Tremaine’s public behavior had been punctiliously proper.