“Thank you to all our actors,” Nick said as Emma hurried the baby offstage and out of earshot, “for a fine performance. Thanks also to Mr. Hughes for directing the production, and to . . .” He looked around.
“Well, it appears Mr. Woods has not yet returned, but he deserves thanks for this fine stage and scenery as do Mrs. Brooks”—Nick removed his elaborate headdress and bowed theatrically to the housekeeper—“and Miss Taylor and Miss White”—he bowed to Polly and Fanny as well—“for the costumes. Now if you’ll give us a moment to change, I believe Lord Archibald and Mr. Meadows plan to sing a few duets for us.”
Caro had put her shawl on the chair next to her to save it for Nick. She hadn’t discussed the matter with him beforehand—well, she’d been rather dodging him all day. But they were still carrying on their public charade, weren’t they? Surely Nick would want to sit next to her now.
Her shoulders slumped. Or perhaps not. She had fled his room last night. She’d felt overwhelmed and had needed to be alone. And it had been the right thing to do if he’d really been on the verge of mentioning marriage again.
She still felt overwhelmed—and confused—but her desire to spend time with Nick, especially as she might have only a day or two left, was stronger than either of those feelings.
“Is this seat taken?”
She looked up to see Nick and grinned. She couldn’t stop herself. Her entire face must be glowing.
I’m losing my grip on reality—and perhaps on my sanity.
At the moment, she didn’t care.
“I was saving it for a handsome Magus.”
He grinned back at her. “Well, I hope you mean me. I suspect Mrs. Brooks will take offense if you have designs on her husband.”
She snorted. “Mr. Brooks is quite safe.”
Nick had managed to arrange his expression to look serious, but his eyes laughed. “And while Bert may be unattached, I think you must have better taste than to favor him over me.”
“Oh, yes. Much, much better.” Mr. Collins was handsome enough, she supposed, but her heart didn’t leap nor little shivers waltz up and down her spine when she saw him.
And it wasn’t Nick’s appearance, splendid though it was, that drew her—or at least not only his appearance. It was far more than that. It was his kindness—to Edward and his mother. To her. His gentleness. The odd feeling she had that he understood her in a way no one else did.
And his loneliness. That drew her as well. Perhaps it resonated with her because she was lonely, too.
She loved Nick for who he was, not—
She blinked. Do I love Nick?
She knew nothing about love, and yet . . .
Good God! That must be what this intense, mad, confusing feeling is.
Nick sat down next to her—she was happy that their seats were close enough that his arm brushed against hers—and turned his attention to the stage. Archie and Oliver were beginning.
She allowed herself another moment to admire Nick’s profile, and then she, too, turned to face the performers.
The men had lovely voices that complemented each other extremely well. If she closed her eyes, they almost sounded as if they were indeed part of a choir of angels.
She felt her heart lift with the beauty of the music.
And then she opened her eyes to see Archie, and her heart jolted back to earth.
She studied him. His expression was one of focus and, yes, joy. Unlike Mr. Woods, he clearly relished performing. And he was quite gifted. That would be evident to anyone with ears. She thought he must truly feel the emotions in the music to convey them so well.
But it was also evident that he’d studied and worked to perfect his gift—just as she had studied and worked to perfect her brewing. He had the air of confidence that came with competence.
He seemed so much more mature now, singing, than he had when he’d used his beautiful voice to call her a whore.
It had been extremely satisfying to send him into that snowdrift. And she’d been very lucky. She’d caught him by surprise. He’d been off-balance—literally and figuratively.
To his credit, he hadn’t tried to strike back, even verbally. Yes, seeing Nick standing next to her, glowering at him, must have encouraged him to rein in his temper, but she also thought—hoped—he’d realized himself that holding his tongue was . . . kinder.
A man who could sing like an angel should have at least a glimmer of a soul.
She frowned. She’d been so focused on herself, on her worry that her past would get out, that she hadn’t thought about Archie. It must have been hell for a boy as musical and sensitive as he appeared to be to have grown up with Dervington for a father. Had the man recognized his son’s gift at all?
Perhaps, but she doubted it. The marquess struck her as someone who valued boxing, not ballads.
Well, it would be hell for any child to have Dervington for a father, given the man’s proclivity for swiving the nursemaids. And Nick had said the marchioness was just as happy to have her husband busy with the servants.
Clearly, there’d not been much love in that house. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but looking back, she could see how that lack of love—or even of respect—between the master and mistress had fostered the tension and anxiety that had permeated everything.
What sort of a home was that for a child to grow up in?
In any event, she’d told Archie, calmly and firmly after he’d picked himself out of the snow, that she was not now and had never been a whore. That she’d been only seventeen when his father had—
When the events had occurred.
She’d been tempted to tell him exactly what she thought of the marquess, but she’d stopped herself. Dervington might be the worst sort of snake, but disparaging him to his son helped no one.
Archie had listened and apologized. She thought he was sincerely regretful for what he’d said.
Sometimes just a little change in the ingredients—in the hops or the malt—or a change in temperature or a new cask could make a brew taste different, better or worse. She supposed it was the same with people. Everyone was a unique brew of their past experiences and future hopes. Each day was a chance for new ingredients to be added.
Look at how a few unexpected events had changed her. If there’d been no snowstorm, if Archie and Oliver hadn’t taken the stagecoach reins and sent them into a ditch, she’d not be here. She’d not have met Nick again, not have kissed him or done what they’d done last night.
And would do tonight?
She felt a thrum of excitement.
She should thank Archie for that.
Archie and Oliver had started their performance with beautiful but complicated songs of soaring notes and intertwined harmony, but now they’d moved on to simpler, more familiar tunes so the audience could join in.
Caro couldn’t carry a tune to save her life, so she just smiled and enjoyed everyone else’s singing. Nick, as it turned out, had a very nice baritone. Not trained like Archie’s and Oliver’s, but still very pleasant.
She relaxed, breathing in the familiar scents of evergreens and candles, the scents of home, of when she’d been young and life had seemed so safe and uncomplicated. She’d been lucky to have had a happy childhood. Nick hadn’t been so blessed, at least not after he came to England. And poor Edward certainly hadn’t, though things would improve for him if Felix turned out to be a good husband and father.
Nick will make an excellent father . . . and husband.
Her heart gave a little leap—and she frowned. He’d make an excellent husband for someone else.
Nick was a viscount—a handsome, wealthy viscount. Once he decided for certain that it was time to give up orgies and start his nursery, he’d have his pick of the well-bred, well-connected girls on the London Marriage Mart. He’d not, in normal circumstances, consider marrying an old, slightly soiled spinster, no matter how much he enjoyed frolicking with her.
If he did offer her marriage, she must hold firm, do
him a kindness, and say no.
Not that what they’d done could have been impressive “frolicking” to him. A man who engaged in orgies must find what had happened between them last night quite tame. Enjoyable, perhaps, but only in the way that even small beer could be enjoyable when one was very thirsty. It wasn’t something anyone would choose when there was better brew available.
Not that it mattered to her, of course. She had no intention of marrying anyone. She was needed at the Home. Her role was important—crucial, really—to their economic well-being. And now she might have convinced Polly and Fanny to join her. They would be assets to her brewing program, but they would need training. She definitely had her work cut out for her once she left Oakland.
The thought wasn’t as exciting—or motivating—as it should have been. Instead, it was slightly depressing.
Dear God, I don’t want to leave.
No. She couldn’t think like that. That way lay madness. She had to take herself in hand and—
She felt a hand on her arm and looked over to see Nick smiling at her, a question in his eyes—and on his lips, though for some reason she thought it wasn’t the same question.
“Ready to go down to the servants’ hall to light the Yule log and candle?”
Tonight might be her last chance for any . . . frolicking. She did not want to miss it.
She would indulge in a day—or night—or two of madness before the snow melted and she went back to being the Home’s responsible, level-headed brewer.
“Yes,” she said, answering both questions—the one he’d asked and the one she thought she saw in his eyes. “I’m ready.”
Chapter Eighteen
Nick, Caro at his side, paused on the threshold of the servants’ hall, taken aback by the crowd in the room. Yes, he’d followed everyone—guests and servants—from the Long Gallery, so he shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. And slightly overwhelmed.
Perhaps it just seemed so crowded because the room was smaller, the ceiling lower. They were actually missing a few people. Felix and Emma Dixon and the baby had gone back to their room, though Edward was here. Thomas had taken charge of him so the boy could see the festivities.
And Mr. Woods had yet to reappear.
Oh, Lord. Now everyone had stopped talking and was staring at him.
At them.
He glanced down at Caro. She seemed a bit taken aback, too, but she smiled up at him in an encouraging way.
He forced himself to smile as well. Act confident. These were his guests, his servants.
It was his servants he focused on, the people who worked for him, who depended on him, many of whose names he had yet to learn.
Well, that would change. He’d begun, finally, to take up his responsibilities.
He crossed the black-and-white stone-flagged floor, his steps echoing in the quiet, toward the hearth where Pearson was waiting for him with Mr. and Mrs. Brooks nearby. Nick was very glad he had Caro with him. Her presence was steadying. She was from the happier times of his life, when he’d been away from Oakland, spending school holidays—save Christmas, of course—at her parents’ house....
No, he needn’t look that far back, either in time or distance. Less than twelve hours earlier, in a room just two floors above them—in his uncle’s room . . .
No, in my room. I’m the viscount now.
In his room upstairs, he’d been far, far happier than he could ever remember being before. Because of Caro.
I’ll ask her to marry me tonight, and this time I won’t hesitate or leave her in any doubt that I want her as my wife.
Happiness filled him, spilling over in what he guessed must be a foolish grin. Once they were married . . .
If we are married.
He looked down at Caro. She was smiling at Pearson and the Brookses now.
She might say no. She would be sacrificing a lot if she said yes. She would have to give up her place at the Home, her work, her friends.
Yes, but there would be new work for her here, as viscountess. He would even see if they could get the old brewhouse operational, if she wanted. And she would have him . . .
He frowned. That was another issue. They had not settled the question of marital relations last night. He thought she’d enjoyed what they’d done—he certainly had—but it had not been complete sexual congress. If he were going to take up the duties of viscount, he would have to consider the succession and—
Succession be damned. The real problem was he wanted Caro. What they’d done last night was not enough for him. He wanted—needed—to dive deep into her and feel her come apart around him as he spilled his seed, hoping it would take root and give them a child. A family.
He wanted all of her—and to give her all of him. He wanted her to welcome him in enthusiastically. Lustily. He wanted her passion. He needed it. He couldn’t live as a monk, especially not if Caro were in the viscountess’s room.
If she couldn’t open her body to him, he might....
No, he’d not turn back to whores. He’d be breaking his marriage vows, sinning before God and Caro. And he couldn’t risk bringing a fatherless child into the world.
Not to mention Caro would likely murder him in his bed if he even considered that course of action. He was quite, quite certain she’d not approve of his taking lovers. She was not a jaded Society woman like the Marchioness of Dervington.
And he was not going to venture down whatever odd path Uncle Leon had with those peculiar statues.
There was no point in thinking about it now. He would propose to her tonight, lay out his arguments. She was a businesswoman. She must be used to looking at all the pros and cons before accepting—or rejecting—an offer.
They reached the group by the hearth.
“My lord,” Pearson said, grinning widely, “I am so glad you’ll be the one lighting the Yule log and Yule candle this year. We were afraid you might share your uncle’s distaste for the traditional ways.”
Nick looked around. His guests must have moved to the back of the room. All he saw were his servants, smiling as if they, too, were happy to have him officiate at this ceremony.
How many other duties have I neglected?
Probably several score. He’d been rather single-minded about ignoring the estate.
No more, no matter what Caro decided. As long as he was alive, he was the viscount. These people depended on him. He was honor bound to look out for their welfare.
Though he did hope Caro agreed to marry him. Beyond the fact that he wanted her in his bed so desperately that he literally ached with it, he could use her help. She had far more experience at managing people and financial affairs than he did.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Mr. Pearson,” Nick said. “Things were different in Italy and, as you say, Uncle Leon didn’t observe any Christmas traditions. I’ll have to throw myself on your mercy and ask you to guide me.”
Pearson nodded. “Of course, milord. I am happy—delighted—to do so.”
If it were possible to smile any wider, Pearson managed it. All the servants were grinning.
Except Mrs. Brooks. She emitted a rather forceful grunt.
Her husband stiffened. “Now, remember, Mrs. Brooks,” the man said hurriedly. “We discussed this. You said you weren’t going to—”
Mrs. Brooks waved a hand, brushing aside her husband’s words. “I know what I said, Billy—”
Nick saw the eyes of the two footmen standing behind the housekeeper widen. They likely hadn’t known Mr. Brooks had a first name, let alone what it was.
Nick hadn’t known it, either, but that was neither here nor there.
“But I can’t keep quiet a moment longer.” Mrs. Brooks turned her gaze on Nick. “Milord, I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but your uncle was a cold-hearted villain.”
“Cecilia, love—”
The footmen’s eyes opened even wider at hearing Mrs. Brooks’s Christian name.
“Think. . . .”
“I am thinking, Billy. I’ve thought about this for years.” Mrs. Brooks turned back to Nick. “I know the master suffered when his lady lost all their babies, but how he could have treated you as he did and you just a little boy—” She pressed her lips together.
“Ah. Yes. Well, it was a difficult time, to be sure,” Nick said. It seemed a weak response to such passion, but he didn’t know what else to say. He looked at Caro to see if she had any suggestions.
Oh, hell. She was looking approvingly at Mrs. Brooks and nodding.
He’d thought he wanted sympathy, but now that it was being served up in such a heaping, public helping, he discovered he had no taste for it.
“Oh, yes. I know it was a difficult time.” Mrs. Brooks’s tone indicated she found that a poor excuse. “We could all see how the old lord suffered, but he was your uncle and you were an orphan. You were all he had of your father, his only brother. And he was all you had.” Mrs. Brooks shook her head as if words failed her.
Unfortunately, they hadn’t. Before Nick could say something to turn the tide, she continued.
“I just want to say, milord, that I’m so very, very sorry I didn’t do something to make you happier—though I was only a chambermaid back then. But still, I wish I’d done something.”
“You did do something, Mrs. Brooks,” Nick managed to squeeze in. “You brought me sweets when you came back from visiting your family. I much appreciated it.”
“Oh, yes. A few sweets.” She made a scoffing sound. “That was not enough. Milord, I tell you, it has bothered me for years that you had such a hard, sad time of it. We knew that was why you went so wild once you got to Town.”
Dread grabbed him by the throat. She’s not going to list all my sins, is she?
No, thank God. She stopped there.
And smiled at Caro.
Oh, hell. He was afraid he knew what was coming. His mouth went dry—too dry to manage a single syllable, not that anything was going to stop Mrs. Brooks.
“I am so very glad you have finally found some happiness. And I do hope—no, it’s my Christmas wish—that you have a long, happy marriage blessed with many healthy children.”
The Merry Viscount Page 25