Worth Any Price

by Lisa Kleypas

  “In that case,” Lottie replied, her imprisoned hand balling into a numb fist, “you will disassociate yourself from me at once, as I’m certain you will not wish to be contaminated by my presence.”

  “Stupid girl,” Radnor whispered, his black eyes lit with cold fire, “you cannot begin to understand what you’ve lost. Do you know what you would be without me? Nothing. I made you. I lifted you from the bowels of society. I was going to turn you into a creature of grace and perfection. And instead you betrayed me and turned your back on your family.”

  “I did not ask for your patronage.”

  “All the more reason you should have knelt to me in gratitude. You owe me everything, Charlotte. Your very life.”

  Lottie saw that it would be pointless to debate his insane certainty. “Be that as it may,” she said softly, “I belong to Lord Sydney now. You have no claim on me.”

  His mouth twisted in a malevolent sneer. “My claim on you goes far beyond some piddling marriage vows.”

  “Have you deluded yourself into thinking that you could purchase me like some bit of goods in a shop window?” she asked scornfully.

  “I own your very soul,” Radnor whispered, clenching her wrist until she felt the delicate bones flex, and tears of pain came to her eyes. “I purchased it at the expense of my own. I’ve invested more than ten years of my life in you, and I will be repaid.”

  “How? I am another man’s wife. And I feel nothing for you now—not fear, not hatred—only indifference. What can you possibly think you will recoup from me?”

  Just as Lottie thought her arm would break, she heard a quiet snarl from behind her. It was Nick, moving swiftly between them. His arm descended in a blur, and whatever he did, it caused Lord Radnor to let go of her with a grunt of pain. The abrupt release sent Lottie stumbling backward, and Nick caught her hard against his chest. Automatically she turned into the crook of his arm, and she heard the deep rumble of his voice as he spoke to Lord Radnor.

  “Don’t come near her again, or I’ll kill you.” It was a quiet statement of fact.

  “Insolent swine,” Radnor said hoarsely.

  Risking a glance at Radnor from the safety of her husband’s arms, Lottie saw a grayish-purple tide sweep over his pallid face. It was clear that the sight of Nick’s hands on her was more than he could bear. Nick touched the back of her neck and slid his fingers along the top of her spine, taunting the earl deliberately.

  “Very well,” Radnor whispered. “I leave you to your debasement, Charlotte.”

  “Leave,” Nick said. “Now.”

  Radnor walked away, his frame stiff with the righteous fury of a deposed monarch.

  Cradling her throbbing wrist with her free hand, Lottie saw that they had drawn more than a few curious stares from people passing through the gallery. In fact, some guests in the ballroom were becoming keenly aware of the scene. “Nick—” she whispered, but he went into action before she needed to say another word.

  Keeping a supportive arm around her, Nick motioned to a servant who was passing with a tray of empty glasses. “You,” he said tersely. “Come here.”

  The dark-haired footman obeyed with haste. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Tell me where I can find a private room.”

  The footman thought rapidly. “If you proceed along that hallway, my lord, you will come to a music room that I believe is unoccupied at present.”

  “Fine. Bring some brandy there. Quickly.”

  “Yes, my lord!”

  Dazedly Lottie went with Nick as he guided her through the hallway. Chaotic thoughts filled her mind, while the elegant din of the ballroom receded behind them. Her body was charged with peculiar battle-readiness. The long-dreaded confrontation with Lord Radnor had left her ill, elated, furious, and relieved. How was it possible to feel so many things at once?

  The music room was quietly lit, the outlines of a piano, harp, and several assorted music stands casting deep shadows on the wall. Nick closed the door and turned to Lottie, his broad shoulders looming over her. She had never seen his face so hard.

  “I’m all right,” Lottie said, and the unusually high pitch of her own voice actually drew a giggle from her throat. “Really, there’s no need to look so—” She paused with another uncontainable laugh, seeing that Nick clearly thought she had taken leave of her senses. She would never be able to explain the wild sense of freedom that flooded her, after having faced her greatest fear.

  “I’m sorry,” she said giddily, even as tears of relief dampened her eyes. “It’s just…. I’ve been so afraid of Lord Radnor for my entire life…but as I saw him just now, I realized that his power over me is gone. He can do nothing to me. I don’t feel any obligation to him wh-whatsoever…and I don’t even feel guilty about it. The burden of it is gone, as well as the fear, and it feels so strange…”

  As she trembled and laughed and blotted her eyes with her gloved fingers, Nick took her into his arms and tried to soothe her. “Easy…Easy…,” he whispered, while his hands moved gently over her shoulders and back. “Take a deep breath. Hush, everything’s all right.” The warm brand of his mouth pressed against her forehead, her wet lashes, her cheeks. “You’re safe, Lottie. You’re mine, my wife, and I’ll take care of you. You’re safe.”

  As Lottie tried to explain that she wasn’t afraid, he murmured for her to be quiet, to rest against him. She began to breathe deeply, as if she had just run for miles without stopping, and lay her head on the center of his chest. Nick tore off his gloves and placed his warm hands on her chilled skin, his strong fingers kneading the rigid muscles of her neck and upper shoulders.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “The brandy,” Nick said quietly and guided Lottie to an armchair.

  Lottie sank into the chair, listening to the footman’s appreciative exclamation as Nick gave him a coin in return for his trouble. Returning with a tray bearing a bottle and a snifter, Nick set it on a nearby table.

  “I don’t need that,” Lottie said with a wan smile.

  Ignoring her, Nick poured a finger of brandy into the snifter and held the bowl of the glass between his palms. After warming the spirits with his hands, he gave it to her. “Drink.”

  Obediently Lottie took the snifter. To her surprise, her hands trembled so badly that she could barely hold it. Nick’s face darkened as he saw her difficulty. He sank to his knees before her, his muscular thighs spread on either side of her legs. Covering her fingers with his own, Nick steadied her hands and helped guide the rim of the snifter to her lips. She took a sip, grimacing as the brandy scalded her throat.

  “More,” Nick murmured, forcing her to take another swallow, and another, until her eyes watered from the velvet fire.

  “I think it’s a bit off,” she said scratchily.

  Nick’s eyes flickered with sudden amusement. “It’s not off. It’s a Fin Bois ‘98.”

  “It must have been a bad year.”

  He grinned at that, his thumbs caressing the backs of her hands. “Someone should tell the wine merchants, then, as it usually goes for fifty pounds a bottle.”

  “Fifty pounds?” Lottie echoed, aghast. Closing her eyes, she finished the brandy in a few determined gulps and coughed as she gave him the empty glass.

  “Good girl,” Nick murmured, sliding a hand around the back of her neck and squeezing gently. She could not help reflecting that although Nick’s hand was much larger and infinitely more powerful than Radnor’s, he had never caused her a single moment of pain. Nick’s touch had given her only pleasure.

  She winced as she rested her sore wrist on the arm of the chair. Subtle as the movement was, Nick detected it immediately. He swore beneath his breath as he took her arm and began to peel away the long glove.

  “It’s nothing,” Lottie said. “Really, I would prefer to leave the glove on…Lord Radnor did take hold of my arm, but it wasn’t all that—” She broke off with a gasp of discomfort as Nick eased the glove from her hand.

  Nick froze as he
saw the black finger marks that had been left by Lord Radnor’s vicious grip. The murderous fury that suffused his face caused Lottie to start in alarm. “I bruise quite easily,” she said. “You mustn’t look like that. The marks will be gone in a day or two, and then—”

  “I’m going to kill him.” Nick bared his teeth in feral rage. “When I get through with him, all that will be left is a stain on the ground, damn him to everlasting hell—”

  “Please.” Lottie laid a soft hand on his stiff cheek. “Lord Radnor intended to ruin this evening for both of us, and I refuse to let him succeed. I want you to bind my wrist with a handkerchief, and help me to put my glove back on. We must hurry back before we’re missed. Sir Ross will be making his speech, and we—”

  “I don’t give a damn about that.”

  “I do.” Regaining her composure, Lottie stroked his cheek with soft fingertips. “I want to go out there and waltz with you. And then stand by your side while Sir Ross tells everyone who you really are.” Her lashes lowered as she glanced at his mouth. “And then I want you to take me home and carry me to bed.”

  As Lottie had intended, Nick was momentarily distracted. His savage gaze began to soften. “And then what?”

  Before she could answer, the door vibrated with a demanding thump. “Sydney,” came a muffled voice from the other side.

  “Yes,” Nick said, rising to his feet.

  Sir Ross’s tall form filled the doorway. His face was expressionless as he looked at the two of them. “I was just told of Lord Radnor’s presence.” He went directly to Lottie, crouching before her much as Nick had. Seeing her bruised arm, Sir Ross gestured toward it carefully. “May I?” His voice was more gentle than she had ever heard it.

  “Yes,” Lottie murmured, allowing him to take her hand in his. Sir Ross examined the darkened wrist with a gathering frown. His face was very close, and his gray eyes were so kind and concerned that Lottie wondered how she could have ever thought him aloof. She recalled his reputed compassion for women and children—a focal point of his magisterial career, Sophia had told her.

  Sir Ross’s mouth flexed in a faint, reassuring smile as he released her hand. “This won’t happen again—I can promise you that.”

  “Wonderful party,” Nick said sarcastically. “Perhaps you can tell us who the hell included Lord Radnor on the guest list?”

  “Nick,” Lottie interceded, “it’s all right, I am certain that Sir Ross did not—”

  “It is not all right,” Sir Ross countered quietly. “I hold myself responsible for this, and I humbly beg your forgiveness, Charlotte. Lord Radnor was most certainly not included on the guest list that I approved, but I will find out how he managed to obtain an invitation.” His brow creased as he continued. “Lord Radnor’s behavior tonight was irrational as well as reprehensible…it bespeaks an obsession with Charlotte that will likely not end with this incident.”

  “Oh, it’s going to end,” Nick said darkly. “I have several methods in mind that will cure Radnor’s obsession. To start with, if he hasn’t left the premises by the time I go back out there—”

  “He’s gone,” Sir Ross interrupted. “Two of the runners are here—I bid them to remove him in as discreet a manner as possible. Calm yourself, Sydney—it will do no good for you to rampage like a maddened bull.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me how calm you would be if someone had left those bruises on Sophia.”

  Sir Ross nodded with a short sigh. “Point taken.” His dark brows drew together as he continued. “Obviously it is your right to deal with Radnor as you will, Sydney, and I would not presume to stop you, or to interfere. But you should be aware that I intend to approach him myself and make it clear that Charlotte is under my protection as well as yours. The fact that Radnor would dare accost a member of my family is an untenable outrage.”

  Lottie was touched by his concern. She had never imagined that she would have two such powerful men to defend her from Lord Radnor—not only her husband but her brother-in-law as well. “Thank you, Sir Ross.”

  “No one would blame you if you wished to go home now,” he told her. “As for the speech I had planned to give this evening, other arrangements can be made—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Lottie said steadily. “And if you do not give your speech tonight, Sir Ross, I vow I will do it in your stead.”

  He smiled suddenly. “All right, then. I would hate to gainsay your wishes.” He sent Nick a questioning look. “Will you return to the ballroom soon?”

  Nick’s mouth twisted. “If Lottie wishes it.”

  “Yes,” she said decisively. Despite the pain in her wrist, she felt ready to confront the devil himself, if need be. She saw the glances the two men exchanged as they silently agreed to discuss the problem of Radnor at a more appropriate time.

  Sir Ross left them in private once more, and Lottie stood resolutely. Nick was at her side immediately, his hands framing her waist as if he feared she would topple over. Lottie smiled at his overprotectiveness. “I am fine now,” she told him. “Truly.”

  She waited for the familiar glimmer of wry humor to appear in Nick’s eyes, for him to return to his usual insouciant self, but he remained tense, his gaze searching her face with strange gravity. He looked as though he wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and carry her far away from here.

  “You’re staying by my side for the rest of the evening,” he told her.

  Lottie tilted her head back to smile at him. “That might be wise, as the brandy seems to have gone to my head.”

  Warmth kindled in his eyes, and one of his hands slipped upward to cradle the shape of her breast. “Do you feel dizzy?”

  She relaxed into the cupping pressure of his fingers, his touch releasing a glow of sensuality from her susceptible flesh. The pain in her wrist was nearly forgotten, her nerves tingling wildly as his thumb teased her nipple into a thrusting point. “Only when you touch me like that.”

  Finishing the tantalizing caress with a gentle rotation of his palm, Nick returned his hand to safer territory. “I want this damned evening to be done with,” he said. “Come…the sooner we go out there, the sooner Cannon can make his bloody speech.”

  Extending her bare hand, Lottie steeled herself not to flinch as he eased the tight-fitting glove over her swollen wrist. By the time he was finished, Lottie was white-faced, and Nick was sweating profusely, as if the pain had been his rather than hers. “Damn Radnor,” he said raspily, going to pour her another brandy. “I’m going to tear his throat out.”

  “I know something that would hurt him far more than that.” Carefully Lottie raised a folded handkerchief to blot his damp brow.

  “Oh?” His brows arched in sardonic inquiry.

  Her fingers closed around the handkerchief, compressing it into a ball. She paused for a long moment before replying, while a wave of hope rose in her throat and nearly threatened to choke her. Taking the brandy from him, she took a bracing swallow. “We could try to be happy together,” she said. “That is something he could never understand…something he’ll never have.”

  She could not bring herself to look at him, afraid that she might see mockery or rejection in his eyes. But her heart slammed heavily in her chest as she felt his mouth drift along the top of her head, his lips playing with white rose petals as they fluttered against the pinned-up silk of her braid.

  “We could try,” he agreed softly.

  After the two glasses of brandy, Lottie’s head was swimming pleasantly, and she was grateful for Nick’s steady guidance as they returned to the ballroom. The hardness and strength of his arm fascinated her. No matter how heavily she leaned on him, he took her weight easily. He was a strong man…but until tonight, she had not suspected that he was capable of offering her such tender comfort. Somehow she did not think that he had suspected it of himself, either. Their reactions had been unthinking—hers, to turn to him, and his, to engulf her in reassurance.

  They walked into the ballroom and approached Sir Ros
s. Ascending a moveable step to become easily visible to the huge crowd in the ballroom, Sir Ross signaled the musicians to stop playing, and asked for the guests’ collective attention. He possessed the kind of elegant, innately authoritative voice that any politician would have envied. An expectant hush fell over the ballroom, while more guests poured in from the outside circuits, and a virtual army of servants moved rapidly through the assemblage with trays of champagne.

  Sir Ross began the speech with a reference to his magisterial career and the satisfaction it had always given him to see that certain wrongs were put right. He followed with a string of approving remarks about the inviolable traditions and obligations of hereditary peerage. The remarks obviously gratified the gathering, which was liberally salted with viscounts, earls, marquesses, and dukes.

  “I was under the impression that Sir Ross was not a great supporter of hereditary principle,” Lottie whispered to Nick.

  He smiled grimly. “My brother-in-law can be quite a showman when he wishes. And he knows that reminding them of their strict adherence to tradition will help them to swallow the idea of accepting me as a peer.”

  Sir Ross went on to describe an unnamed gentleman who had been deprived for far too long of a title that was rightfully his. A man who was in the direct line of descent of a distinguished family, and who in the past few years had devoted himself entirely to public service.

  “Therefore,” Sir Ross concluded, “I am grateful for the rare privilege of announcing Lord Sydney’s long overdue reclamation of his title, and the seat in the Lords that accompanies it. And I have every expectation that he will continue to serve the country and queen in the role that is his by birth.” Raising a glass in the air, he said, “Let us toast Mr. Nick Gentry—the man who shall be known to us from now on as John, Viscount Sydney.”

  A ripple of amazement went through the crowd. Although most of them had already known what Sir Ross would announce, it was startling to hear the words spoken aloud.

  “To Lord Sydney,” came hundreds of obedient echoes, followed by as many cheers.