by Lisa Kleypas
“That would be a novelty, wouldn’t it?” Sir Ross asked sardonically. “The crime-solving viscount.”
“Nick,” Sophia broke in softly, “you know what Papa and Mama would have wanted.”
He appeared bitter and miserable, and above all, outraged. “I’ve been Nick Gentry too long to change.”
Sophia replied with great care, seeming to understand why he would consider it impossible. “It will be difficult. No one would deny that. But you have Lottie to assist you.”
Nick did not spare Lottie a glance but made a scornful sound.
“Lottie, dear,” Sophia said with a gentle inflexibility that betrayed the strong will beneath her delicate facade. “How many years did you attend Maidstone’s?”
“Six,” Lottie said, casting a wary glance at her husband’s hard profile.
“If Maidstone’s reputation holds true, those six years were filled with an education that included rigorous training in deportment, grace, the art of polite entertaining, the skills of household budgeting and management, the elements of style and good taste, the rituals of morning calls and after-dinner assemblies…the thousands of little points of etiquette that separate the first tier from the other layers of society. I suspect you could easily regulate a household of any size, no matter how large. No doubt you were also taught how to dance, ride, play a musical instrument, speak French and perhaps a smattering of German…am I mistaken?”
“You are correct,” Lottie said shortly, hating the sudden feeling that she was part of the trap that was closing around Gentry. He was being forced to become something he had no desire to be, and she understood his feelings all too well.
Nodding in satisfaction, Sophia turned to her glowering brother. “Lottie is a great asset to you. She will prove invaluable in helping you adjust to your new life—”
“I’m not going to adjust to a damned thing,” he growled and threw a commanding glance to Lottie. “Come, we’re leaving. Now.”
She rose automatically, and Sir Ross stood as well. Troubled, Lottie glanced at her brother-in-law. There was no glint of victory in his eyes. She did not believe that his motives had anything to do with vengeance or ill will. She was certain that Sir Ross—and Sophia—thought it quite necessary that Gentry reclaim his former identity. She longed to discuss the matter with them, but it was clear that Gentry was barely maintaining his self-control. Any other man would have been gratified to recover his title, his lands, and family possessions. However, it was obvious that to Gentry this was a nightmare.
Lottie held her silence during the carriage ride home. Her husband was utterly still, trying to contain his explosive outrage, and most likely struggling to comprehend the suddenness with which his life had changed. Not unlike her own mood upon leaving Stony Cross Park, she thought wryly.
The moment they arrived at the house on Betterton Street, Gentry practically leapt from the carriage, leaving Lottie to accept the footman’s help in descending from the vehicle. By the time she reached the front door, he was nowhere to be seen.
The housekeeper was in the entrance hall, her perplexed expression betraying that she had just seen Gentry storm inside the house.
“Mrs. Trench,” Lottie said calmly, “did you happen to see where Mr. Gentry went?”
“I believe he is in the library, miss. That is…Mrs. Gentry.”
Good Lord, how strange it was to be called that. And it was stranger still to contemplate the very strong possibility that before long she would be called Lady Sydney. Frowning, Lottie glanced from the staircase to the hall leading toward the library. Part of her wanted to retreat to the safety and seclusion of her room. However, the other part was irresistibly drawn to find Gentry.
After Mrs. Trench took her bonnet and gloves, Lottie found herself walking to the library. She knocked at the closed door before entering. The library was paneled in dark cherrywood, and fitted with carpets woven with gold medallions on a brown background. Multipaned windows stretched up to the top of the ceiling, which was at least eighteen feet high.
Gentry’s broad-shouldered form was at one of the windows, his back tensing visibly as he heard her approach. A brandy snifter was clenched in his hand, the delicate bowl of the glass looking as if it might shatter in his long fingers.
Lottie hesitated beside one of the towering cherrywood bookshelves, noticing that the library was strangely bereft of volumes.
“Your library is nearly empty,” she commented.
Gentry stood at the window, his stare brooding and vacant. He tossed back the remainder of his brandy with a stiff-wristed motion. “Buy some books, then. Fill it from floor to ceiling if you like.”
“Thank you.” Encouraged by the fact that he had not yet told her to leave, Lottie ventured closer. “Mr Gentry…”
“Don’t call me that,” he said in a burst of irritation.
“I’m sorry. Nick.” She drew closer to him. “I wish to correct something that Sir Ross said—you have no responsibility to make me Lady Sydney. As I told you before, I do not care if you are a peer or a commoner.”
He was quiet for a long time, then he let out a tense sigh. Striding to the sideboard, he poured another brandy.
“Is there any way of stopping Sir Ross from carrying out his plans?” Lottie asked. “Perhaps we might seek some legal counsel—”
“It’s too late. I know Sir Ross—he has thought of every possible countermove. And his influence extends everywhere; the judiciary, law enforcement, Parliament, the Crown office…that writ of summons is going to arrive, no matter what the hell I do to avoid it.” He uttered an unfamiliar word that sounded quite foul. “I’d like to break every bone in Cannon’s body, the insufferable ass.”
“What can I do?” she asked quietly.
“You heard my sister, didn’t you? You’re going to play lady of the manor and help me pretend to be a viscount.”
“You managed quite well at Stony Cross Park,” she pointed out. “You gave a convincing appearance of nobility.”
“That was only for a few days,” he said bitterly. “But now it appears I’ll have to play the role for the rest of my life.” He shook his head in furious disbelief. “God! I don’t want this. I’m going to kill someone before long.”
Lottie tilted her head as she regarded him speculatively. No doubt she should fear him when he was in this mood. He did indeed look as though he was ready to commit murder, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust. But curiously she was filled with sympathy, and even more than that, a sense of partnership. They were both floundering, both facing a life they had neither planned nor asked for.
“How did you feel at Stony Cross Park, when you introduced yourself as Lord Sydney?” she asked.
“At first I found it amusing. The irony of masquerading as myself. But after the first day, it became a weight on my shoulders. The mere mention of the name annoys the hell out of me.”
Lottie wondered why he was so antagonized by the name he had been born with. There had to be some reason other than the ones he had given so far.
“Nick, what did Sir Ross mean when he said that you were financially equipped to manage the title?”
His mouth twisted. “He meant that I could afford the cost of maintaining a large estate and the kind of lifestyle required of a peer.”
“How could he know such a thing?”
“He doesn’t know for certain.”
“He is wrong, of course.”
“No,” Nick muttered, “he’s not wrong. Before I came to Bow Street, I made a few investments, and I have some holdings here and there. All in all, I have about two hundred put away.”
Silently Lottie reflected that two hundred pounds in savings was not bad, but it did not offer the kind of security one could have wished for. She only hoped that his investments would not depreciate in value. “Well, that seems quite satisfactory,” she said, not wishing to hurt his feelings. “I think we shall do fairly well if we economize. But I do not think the circumstances allow for a wedding trousseau.
Not at this time. Perhaps in the future—”
“Lottie,” he interrupted, “we don’t need to economize.”
“Two hundred pounds is a fine sum, but it will be difficult to maintain a household with—”
“Lottie.” He glanced at her with an odd expression. “I was referring to thousands. Two hundred thousand pounds.”
“But…but…” Lottie was astonished. It was an immense sum, a fortune by anyone’s standards.
“And about five thousand a year from investments and private commissions,” he added, stunning her further. His face darkened. “Although it seems my days of private commissions are over.”
“Why, you must be as rich as Lord Radnor,” she said dazedly.
He made a choppy gesture with his hand, as if consideration of money was completely irrelevant, compared to his far greater problem. “Probably.”
“You could afford a dozen houses. You could have anything you—”
“I don’t need a dozen houses. I can only sleep under one roof at a time. I can only eat three meals a day. And I don’t give a damn about impressing anyone.”
Lottie was surprised by the realization that he was not motivated to acquire wealth. His fortune had come as a consequence of his need to outwit everyone from the underworld to Bow Street. And now that the profession of law enforcement had been taken from him, he would be in urgent need of something to do. He was a tremendously active man, not at all suited for the cultivated indolence of aristocratic life. How in heaven’s name was he going to adjust to living as a peer?
His thoughts must have mirrored hers, for he gave a groan of hopeless anger and raked his hand roughly through his hair. A stray lock fell on his forehead, and Lottie was startled by her sudden urge to play with the thick chocolate-colored strands, smooth them back, slide her fingers into the warm silk.
“Lottie,” he said gruffly, “I’m going out for a while. I probably won’t be back until morning. You have a reprieve for tonight.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.” He stepped back from her with a restlessness that contained an edge of panic, as if a heavy net had dropped over him.
Lottie knew that she should not care if he went out and drank, or struck up a fight with someone, or did any of the numerous foolish things that men in search of amusement did. She should not want to soothe his barely contained fury. But she did.
Without allowing herself time to consider her actions, Lottie approached him, touching the fine broadcloth of his coat with her palm. Her hand smoothed over the fabric and eased inside. His waistcoat was the same inky black as his coat, but the material was silkier, slipping a little over the hard delineation of his chest muscles. She thought of how hot his skin must be, to impart such warmth to the thick garment.
Nick was suddenly motionless, his breath changing to a slower, deeper rhythm. Lottie did not look at his face but concentrated instead on the knot of his gray necktie as her fingers explored the snowy, fragrant folds of his shirt.
“I don’t want a reprieve,” she said eventually and tugged at the knot until it slid loose.
As the necktie unraveled, it seemed that his self-control became similarly undone. He breathed more heavily, and his hands clenched at his sides. Inexpertly she unfastened the stiff collar of his shirt and spread it wide to reveal the amber sheen of his throat. She glanced up at his face and saw with a quake of sudden nervousness that his fury was transforming rapidly into pure sexual need. Color crept across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, a burnished glow that made his eyes look like blue fire.
His head lowered very slowly, as if he were giving her every opportunity to flee. She stayed where she was, her eyes closing as she felt the barely perceptible touch of his mouth on the side of her neck. His lips brushed the sensitive skin, parted, and the silken tip of his tongue stroked her in a delicate, hot circle. With a shaky sigh, Lottie leaned forward into his body as her legs wobbled beneath her. He did not touch her with his hands, only continued to explore her neck with exquisite leisure. She held onto him, her arms locking around his lean waist.
His hands came to her shoulders, gripping softly. He seemed undecided as to whether he wanted to pull her closer or push her away. His voice was hoarse as he asked, “What are you doing, Lottie?”
Her heart was hammering so wildly that she could barely summon the breath to speak. “I suppose I am encouraging you to finish what you started in Lord Westcliff’s library.”
“Be certain,” he said roughly. “I haven’t had a woman in six months. If you suddenly decide to stop, I’m not going to take it well.”
“I won’t tell you to stop.”
He stared at her, his gaze fever-bright, his face hard. “Why now, when you didn’t want to last night?”
That was beyond her ability to explain. After the events of this afternoon, he suddenly seemed vulnerable to her. She was beginning to see the ways in which he needed her, needs that went beyond sexual desire. And the challenge of taming him, matching his powerful will with her own, was too tempting to resist.
“We’re married now,” she said, seizing on the first excuse she could think of. “And I would prefer to…to have done with this, so that I won’t have to dread it.”
She saw the predatory flicker in his eyes. He wanted her. He did not waste time asking questions, only extended his hand. “Come upstairs, then.”
Carefully Lottie placed her hand in his. “Nick, there is just one thing…”
“What?”
“It’s not dark yet.”
“And?”
“Is it appropriate to do this in the afternoon?”
The question pulled an unsteady laugh from him. “I don’t know. And I damn well don’t care.” Keeping her hand in his, he guided her from the library to the entrance hall, and up the grand staircase.
Chapter Nine
Lottie went upstairs with him, her hand caught fast in his, her legs feeling like rubber when they finally reached his bedroom. The curtains were parted, admitting soft gray light through the windows. She would have much preferred darkness. The thought of being naked in the unforgiving daylight caused her to shake all over.
“Easy,” Nick murmured, standing behind her. His hands closed gently around her upper arms. His voice was lower, thicker than usual. “I’ll be careful. I can make it pleasant for you, if…”
“If?”
“If you’ll trust me.”
They were both still and silent. Lottie moistened her lips, reflecting that she hadn’t trusted anyone in years. And to put her faith in Nick Gentry…the most unscrupulous man she had ever met…it was not folly, it was insanity. “Yes,” she said, surprising herself. “Yes, I will trust you.”
He made a soft sound, as if the words had caught him off guard.
Gradually his hand slid across the upper part of her chest, exerting a gentle pressure that caused her to lean back against him. She felt his mouth on the back of her neck, his lips playing through the tender wisps at her nape. He tasted the downy skin, then pressed the edge of his teeth in a sensitive spot that made her squirm against him in pleasure. Working his way to the side of her neck, he nibbled his way to the tip of her earlobe, while his hands moved over the front of her gown. The bodice parted, the sides listing to reveal the framework of the light corset beneath. His fingertips drifted to her throat, caressed the vulnerable curve, then traveled to the wing of her collarbone.
“You’re beautiful, Lottie,” he whispered. “The way you feel and taste…your skin, your hair…” He took the pins from her hair, sent them skittering to the carpet, and sank his fingers into the pale silken locks that fell over her shoulder. Bringing her hair to his face, he rubbed it against his cheek and chin. Heat played in her body, rising, intensifying, and she leaned back against the solid form behind her.
He eased her gown to her waist, helping her to extract her arms from the sleeves, his fingertips running lightly from her elbows to her underarms. Turning her to fa
ce him, Nick deftly unhooked the corset, releasing her from the wrapping of stays and laces. Her breasts, which had been propped artificially high in the boned supports, were left unconfined, the tips hardening against the thin crushed muslin of her chemise. His hand lifted, and he touched her through the sheer fabric. Sliding his fingers beneath the fullness of her breast, he drew his thumb over the shape of her nipple. His touch was very light, lingering at the tip until it burned.
Gasping, Lottie grasped his shoulders for balance. He slid a solid arm behind her back as he continued to toy gently with her body, taking the peak in his fingers, stroking softly. An ache of pleasure formed deep in her stomach as he cupped her breast in his hand, containing the roundness in his palm. Suddenly she wanted him to touch her other breast. She wanted his mouth on her, everywhere, and to slide her own lips across the heat of his skin, and to feel his unclothed body against hers. Frustrated and eager, she tugged at his coat, until his choppy laugh ruffled through her hair.
“Slowly,” he whispered. “There’s no need to hurry.” He removed his coat…waistcoat…stockings and shoes…trousers…shirt…and finally the linens that had obscured the startling sight of his erection.
Suddenly Lottie didn’t know where to look. He should have appeared vulnerable in his nakedness, but he seemed more powerful now than when he’d had his clothes on. His body was hewn with brutal grace, large and muscular and superbly fit. His bronze tan ended at his waistline, fading into the paler skin of his hips. A wealth of thick dark hair covered his chest, and there was another heavy patch of it at his groin, around the dark, upthrust length of his erection.
Nick’s fingertip traced the side of her scarlet cheek. “Do you know what is going to happen?”
Lottie nodded jerkily. “Yes, I think so.”
He stroked the underside of her chin, his fingertip leaving a trail of fire. “Who told you about it? Your mother?”