by Dayna Quince
“I found the wall,” he called out to the others.
“So have we,” Odette answered.
“Is your sister very competitive?” he whispered to Nic.
“Frightfully so,” Nic replied. “She must have an answer for everything, and her temper can be quite…eruptive.”
“Interesting. Do you have a temper?”
Nic shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“But you do carry knives. Is it on you now?”
“Yes.”
He held out his hand.
“What are you going to do?”
“Carve my name into the wall and see if anyone finds it.”
Nic gasped. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He winked. “I think you know the answer to that. Shall I carve yours too?”
She gasped again. She was a gasping, infatuated fool.
“Come on, where is your sense of adventure?”
“Odette absorbed it all in the womb.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” he said with a chuckle. “You wouldn’t have been out on the beach last night otherwise.”
Nic couldn’t stop the pleased smile that came to her lips. It wasn’t a compliment, but she was thrilled all the same.
Stop it, she scolded herself. He’s a rake in every sense of the word and to develop true feelings for a man like him would be disastrous, as disastrous as being a Marsden daughter in search of a husband. She steeled her spine and told the butterflies in her stomach to settle down. Her plan had been to avoid him for the day, and she was already failing miserably. Her resolve seemed to desert her whenever he made an appearance.
“Your knife, please?” he asked, thrusting his lower lip out. Nic fairly trembled as her gaze was caught by his mouth and the promise of those lips. She handed the knife over as easily as if he’d said some magic spell. He winked at her again, and then into the paneling, he carved a T and an N.
“What is your name?” she whispered.
“Theodore Callen Denham. Callen is my father’s name. The honor was bestowed upon my brother, and I got my maternal grandfather’s name. But my friends call me Theo, as does my brother, but he’s not my friend,” he said with his back to her.
Nic blinked at him. His brother wasn’t his friend? What did that mean? How can one’s own sibling not be considered a friend?
“I can hear you thinking. Just ask me already.”
“You don’t get along with your brother?”
“Not at all. We hate each other.”
Her heart ached for him. She couldn’t imagine life without her sisters. They were a source of strength and joy even when they got on her nerves.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s quite all right,” he replied.
Nic didn’t believe him for a moment. The words came too easily as if they were something he told himself frequently and didn’t believe. She bit her tongue. She barely knew him. Nic was not going to pry into his life.
“But why?” she asked.
He finished carving the end of her name and pivoted, leaning his shoulder against the wall as he regarded her.
“Why do you care to know?”
“It’s very sad.”
He shrugged. “I’m not sad about it. Women always want to comfort me and fix what’s broken, but I’m not broken.”
“I’m not one of your women. I’m your friend, Theo,” she declared, her heart skipping.
And nothing more.
Maybe if she told herself that enough times, she’d believe it, or would her words ring as hollow as his?
A line appeared between his brows as he studied her. “We had a falling out after my parents passed. They were both ill, and when he was summoned as the heir to return to the family estate, no doubt because their death was imminent, he didn’t even bother to tell me. He didn’t bring me home with him to say goodbye. It is not something I can ever forgive.”
He turned back to the wall, feeling along the seams of the boards. For what, Nic didn’t know nor did she care. In that moment, she analyzed what he’d said. His brother was summoned to his parents’ deathbed, and he hadn’t brought Theo with him. And now Theo hated his brother. It had to be more than that. How can one occasion destroy the familial bond between two brothers? She wanted to ask so badly, but the set of his shoulders when he gave his full attention to the wall made her think he was distracting her or maybe himself from further questioning. There was a wound he didn’t want disturbed, and she had no right to go poking about. Very well, she wouldn’t ask any more questions about him and his brother. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t observe them more closely.
“We haven’t found anything,” Mr. Seyburn said from the other side.
“Nor have we,” Theo answered.
“What do we have here?” a voice interrupted them.
Nic stepped back guiltily, and there the duke stood, one brow raised in question as he considered them.
“Looking for secret passages?”
Mr. Seyburn approached him with a grin. “Is there something you wish to hide?”
“Of course, the question is why you’re trying to find it with two of my most honored and innocent guests.”
“There’s hardly anything scandalous about hunting for treasure,” Odette said.
“That depends on how you define treasure,” Theo added.
“Careful, Theo,” the duke warned him. “I bid you all return to tea on the terrace. You might insult my wife if she thinks you are not enjoying the prearranged festivities, and I won’t stand for that.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Nicolette said. She wasn’t used to addressing the duke so formally. She’d known him all her life.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Theo mimicked her. “Don’t bother with that tripe, he doesn’t care for it.”
“Behave yourself, Theo,” the duke warned, “or we will have to have a private discussion.”
There was a distinct chill in the air set by his tone. The duke was not a man to be trifled with. He was a former prize fighter who’d survived terrible burns to his back and head, rendering him bald. He’d been gorgeous as a young man, and even with his scars, he was still imposingly handsome.
Nic expected a quick reply from Theo but instead he bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The duke rolled his eyes and strode away, and the quartet of treasure hunters dutifully followed him back to the terrace.
“Do you think he will tell Violet?” Nic asked. “I don’t want her to be upset we left.”
“She won’t be,” Theo said. “We were together for a common interest, one that might result in a match.” He cocked his head toward Odette and Mr. Seyburn. They both fidgeted uncomfortably. Nic wanted to swat him for teasing her sister right in front of Mr. Seyburn. Instead, she settled for something more subtle. She pinched the back of his arm.
He yelped and jumped away from her. “Did you just pinch me?”
“Only in defense of my sister.”
“I suppose loyalty between siblings is to be admired,” he muttered.
She held out her hand. “You still have my knife, remember?”
He placed it in her palm gently. “Loyalty with a penchant for violence. I rather like it.”
“Then perhaps you should marry her,” Mr. Seyburn said. He led Odette away, leaving Nic and Theo in strangled silence. Once they were out of earshot, Nic said, “Don’t worry, I remember what you said last night about not marrying and leaving England. I shan’t set my cap for you.”
He tugged at his cravat. “I’d hate to disappoint you, but it’s become a habit of mine. Just ask my brother.”
“I’ve no need. You’ve been quite frank with your faults.”
He cocked his head and sighed. “Is that a virtue?”
“I suppose it falls under honesty,” she said. “Come now, I’m hungry.”
“Let me do my gentlemanly duty and fix you a plate of sandwiches.”
He filled two plates and found them a seat near th
e balcony that overlooked the other terraces, and once again, Nic was filled with questions about him and his brother. All of which she had no right to ask.
So what could they talk about? She had meant to stay away from him, and yet here she was alone with him—no, not alone. They were surrounded by her sisters and the other guests of Selbourne Castle, but with him, everything else faded away, and all her senses homed on him. He had no intention of courting any of them, so that meant they were friends of a sort. So what would she ask a friend? A friend with green eyes with rich flecks of gold that drove her wits away. She ripped her gaze from him and tended to her food. When she glanced up, he was staring at her.
“What?” she asked, her cheeks heating. “Do I have something on my face?” She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.
“No,” he replied. “I just like looking at you. You’re very beautiful, you know.”
“And that justifies you staring at me so —” Thoroughly, she wanted to say but she swallowed the word. His stare felt intimately thorough, as if he could see through her and admire all her thoughts and ideas, which was rather frightening considering they all revolved around him. A blush climbed her neck.
“You don’t want me to look at you?”
“It is rather rude.”
“Why? We have museums so that we may admire things we find interesting and beautiful.”
“Those things aren’t people—correction, some of those things are people, but they’re dead.”
He chuckled. “You mean the mummies in the British Museum.”
“Yes.”
“I saw them. They look like dried raisins. Nothing particularly fascinating except we know we all get old and we all die.”
“But they were important people, I think. How do we really know?” she asked.
“They died long-ago, so museums can make up whatever they want to make a profit as long as they seem impressive. But they could be no more than farmers or peasants with unlucky fates.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“And who knows how old they really are?” he went on.
“It must take a very long time to look as they do.”
“So they say, but maybe it only takes a couple years. Maybe they aren’t ancient people at all but died within the last ten years or even two years. Who’s to say?”
“Scientists,” Nic said.
“Oh, yes, those fellows with cumbersome intelligence.”
“You don’t like intelligence?”
“I love intelligence. I just don’t like that sort of intelligence. Maybe it’s jealousy, but I can’t imagine living my life so in love with a subject that won’t love me back.”
She froze, stunned by his words or rather his flippant use of the word love.
“Do you think a person can love a subject, passion, or job as much as they can love a person?” Nic asked, thinking of her sisters. Luna prided herself on her growing knowledge of medicine, and Josie fancied herself a scientist.
He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything—no that’s wrong to say. I loved my parents.”
“How long ago did they die?” she asked, aware this was not something they should be discussing for such a new and frivolous acquaintance, and yet here they were discussing something deep and meaningful, and she realized nothing about knowing him was frivolous. Last night he kissed her, so why shouldn’t they discuss his parents, and furthermore, why shouldn’t she ask about his brother? The rules between them had blurred beyond recognition.
She pinned him with her gaze, wordlessly informing him that she would not be swayed from her question.
“Six years ago,” he said.
“That couldn’t be the only thing. That one event ruined your whole relationship with your brother?”
He glanced toward the water. “It wasn’t just that. It was a lot of things, but that was the moment I knew, especially without my mother and father to keep us together, that we weren’t a family anymore.”
The tone of his voice was so desolate and broken that her throat swelled with emotion, and she wanted to reach out and touch him. He sounded so alone, and she couldn’t imagine how much that would hurt. She would never be alone. She wasn’t even brought into this world alone. Nic would always have Odette and all her sisters who helped care for her: Willa, Luna, Josie, Jeannie, Bernie and Anne. She didn’t have just one mother; she had eight between them all. She couldn’t remember a single moment when there hadn’t been someone to help her, to comfort her, to hold her when she needed to feel loved.
But he didn’t have those things. Her heart ached for him. Irrationally, she wanted to be that person. To love this wounded man, to give him what he was so starved of.
She sucked in a breath. What was she thinking? She needed a husband, not to lose her heart to a wounded rogue like him. He was leaving—he told her himself that he should never have been invited here, and yet she already felt like she was losing her heart to him, little by little, like sand in an hourglass.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s quite all right. It was a long time ago. I’m over it now.”
Lies. How often did he lie to himself, to her, to his brother?
“Did you tell him how it made you feel?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, and his attention returned to her. “Course not. I’m a man. We punch each other, shoot at each other, stab each other, but we do not speak about our feelings.”
“Like women?” she asked and raised a brow. “No wonder nothing gets done properly between men.”
His lips twisted into a wry smile. “You just might be right. Women could probably fix the world. Feed all the children and never have another war.”
“All the world leaders would talk about it over tea and biscuits or a nice dinner with a good wine,” she said. “I concur with your assessment. Women could fix the world if we were allowed to.”
“Which is probably why they won’t let you. Men in power don’t want it fixed. They like the status quo. The disruption helps line their bank accounts with money.”
“Is that true?”
“I think so,” Theo said. “There’s profit in war, pain, and destruction. There is even profit in poverty.” He cocked his head. “We have the strangest conversations. First there was”—he stopped and glanced around—”last night and then now.”
“We have honest conversations. Since you’re not husband material, there’s no point trying to fool you into thinking I’m some lovely person you want to spend the rest of your life with,” she said teasingly.
“I’d much prefer an honest, knife-wielding woman to some simpering debutante who can’t answer even the simplest of questions without blushing. What kind of man do you imagine marrying?” he asked.
“Certainly none of the men here. I think it was rather foolhardy to invite all nine of us to a party, but if I had to choose someone, it would be a man who makes me laugh and…” Tingle like you do. She could never admit that to him. “I don’t know. Someone I can talk with, perhaps someone who likes to garden like I do.”
“You like to garden?”
Nicolette nodded truthfully. “I could spend all day gardening. It’s so very satisfying bringing in a good crop.”
“Do you think you could marry a farmer?” Theo asked.
“I know I could marry any man if I loved him,” she said, and her heart began to pound. Something in his features shifted, but she could not read the emotion. She didn’t know him well enough to guess what he might be thinking. Was he made uncomfortable by her admission?
She had a suspicion that he saw right through her careful words and straight to her heart. Directly to the growing infatuation inside her.
If she wasn’t careful, she might ruin this little friendship, and then what would she do for the next two weeks? She wasn’t permitted to go home. They had all agreed to be the guests of honor for the duchess, and they were supposed to be considering these gentlemen as potential husb
ands. But when Nic regarded the other gentlemen, she felt nothing close to what she felt when she looked at Theo—Mr. Denham. She should not be comfortable using his name, even in her mind.
Theodore.
He didn’t look like a Theodore but definitely a Theo.
Theo was short and playful, a bit mischievous or perhaps she just thought those things because that was how he was. Not literally short by any means. Nic would guess him to be taller than average, though not as tall as Weirick and Lord Andrews.
The closer she got to him, the more vulnerable she became to his infectious charm. Nic took a deep breath and tried to gather her restraint as if she could wrap it around her like a cloak and therefore be shielded from his penetrating gaze.
“What kind of woman would you marry?” she asked. Her question was not born out of curiosity but to deflect his focus away from her, so she could breathe and bury the seeds of her infatuation deep. Like onion bulbs, though they might sprout next spring and then she’d have to deal with them then. He wouldn’t be here then, he’d said. He was leaving.
He glanced upward at the sky, and she wondered if he was saying a prayer.
Heaven help me from this disaster of a girl.
“I’d never given it much thought,” he answered. “I don’t have to marry, and I’m not sure I’d serve a wife to any degree of satisfaction. No, let me correct that. I could satisfy my wife, but that doesn’t mean she’d be happy with me. Not in the long-term.”
She knew what he meant by his use of the word satisfy. That single word broke through her shield and settled inside her with the vibration of a call. He could certainly satisfy things in her, things she knew she hadn’t even felt before, but he knew them. He was very likely an expert in them. When her wits again returned, she turned her face toward the sea, letting the cool sea air bathe her cheeks.
“Forgive me, that wasn’t appropriate at all,” he said to her profile.
“I know it wasn’t. I don’t expect anything less from you.” From the corner of her eye, she saw him smile.
“You should keep your expectations low and be pleasantly surprised when I behave myself.”
Her gaze cut to him. “I don’t like how you talk about yourself. I’ve never heard anyone be so disparaging toward themselves.”