What a Lady Wants

by Victoria Alexander

  Lady Felicity’s cryptic comment and her refusal to explain lingered in his mind. No, it had taken up permanent residence. He wasn’t sure why or how, but he was certain it boded no good. He’d had no opportunity to quiz her further; she’d been actively sought by various gentlemen following their conversation and he’d lost sight of her. She’d no doubt gone home, probably accompanied by her parents. Nothing at all sinister in that. Nonetheless, he’d had the distinct impression she was avoiding him. Damnation. What was the woman up to? It couldn’t be some sort of extortion. Everyone in the world apparently already knew most of the details about that unpleasantness the other night. And disclosing her own role would only bring disgrace upon her head. Still, there was something…“Pleasant, my ass,” he muttered.

  It wasn’t that Lady Felicity wasn’t, although pleasant was not even remotely an accurate term. In appearance alone she was far more than merely pleasant. Oh, certainly, at first glance she might appear unexceptional, but upon closer observation one discovered her slender figure was nicely curved and rounded in all the appropriate places. Her hair was not at all the nondescript brown he had originally thought but a medley of shades ranging from mahogany to dark chocolate. The features of her face were indeed pleasant enough unless one happened to look into her eyes. Bloody hell, he’d feared he’d drown in those eyes, in an endless pool of deep, rich brown sparked by intelligence and barely concealed amusement. He had never thought of brown as being at all remarkable but then he’d never before gazed into the eyes of Lady Felicity Melville. For a moment, he’d quite lost his senses. He couldn’t recall anything similar ever happening to him before, even with the most beautiful women. It was extremely unsettling.

  Beyond that, the lady had a presence about her of confidence, even determination. If pleasant was too feeble a description, immovable seemed entirely accurate. And yet this air of complete assurance carried with it a hint of something distinctly sensual and utterly feminine. She was, well, ripe. He couldn’t understand why Norcroft was oblivious to it, or rather, to her. It was obvious Beckham was aware of it, or rather, of her.

  Lady Felicity Melville might well be the most dangerous female Nigel had ever met.

  “Sir,” George called from behind him.

  Nigel paused on the stairs. “Yes?”

  “Your father requested that you join him should you come in at a…a…” The servant searched for the right words.

  “Decent hour?” Nigel suggested.

  “Early hour, I believe His Lordship said, sir,” George said with a note of relief. “He is in the library.”

  “Pity I didn’t stay out later then.” Nigel blew a long breath and started toward the library. “Thank you, George.”

  Nigel had expected a summons to the library for further discussion ever since his parents had learned of the incident with Lady Pomfrey. Blast it all. It was exceedingly difficult for a man of thirty years to live under his parents’ watchful eyes, if only temporarily. Thank God, repairs on his own house would be completed within the week. He looked forward to being master of his life again. Why, his parents treated him like an unruly child. A voice in the back of his head noted he often acted like an unruly child. As he always did when his conscience made its unwelcome presence known, he ignored it. Besides, there would come a time when he would have to accept the responsibility of title and family. Until then, why shouldn’t he enjoy himself?

  His father, no doubt, had different ideas.

  Nigel braced himself and pushed open the door to the library. The long, book-lined room with its floor to-ceiling windows was bright and cheery in the light of day and, in spite of its size, surprisingly cozy at night. Even the portraits of ancestors hung in the spaces between the windows and behind the desk were somewhat comforting in spite of the forbidding expressions on the faces of many of the members of the preceding generations. His father sat directly in front of the largest gallery wall, behind the massive desk that had been his father’s and his father’s before him, writing in a large ledger.

  “You’re home early this evening,” his father said without looking up.

  “It does seem wrong somehow, doesn’t it?” Nigel said lightly and strolled across the room to a table where a decanter of brandy and glasses awaited. “I shall take care in the future to see that it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Imagine my surprise,” his father murmured, his attention still on the book before him. Between his political activities, running the family estates, including a centuries-old castle in constant need of repair, and a fair number of business investments, Viscount Cavendish had a great many irons in the fire. A great many successful irons. His would be difficult shoes to fill. Not that Nigel expected, or wished, to fill them for many years to come. While his father was in his sixties, he remained strong and healthy and vibrant.

  Nigel filled two glasses, crossed the room, placed one within his father’s reach, then settled into the comfortable chair positioned in front of the desk. It was the same chair in the same position that he had always sat in when having serious, and just as often, not so serious, discussions with his father since he’d been old enough to do so. Nigel suspected the same chair, or one very much like it, had served a similar purpose when his grandfather had been the one seated behind the desk. Nigel took a slow sip of the brandy and savored the warmth and the mellow sting of the liquor.

  He father closed the book, set it to one side, and reached for his drink. “There is nothing like a glass of fine brandy at the end of a day.”

  “Indeed.” Nigel paused. “You wished to speak to me.”

  The viscount settled back in his chair and studied his son. “I did.”

  Nigel drew a deep breath. “If it’s about that unfortunate incident with Lord and Lady Pomfrey, I can assure you I have no intention—”

  “Alfred Pomfrey is a lecherous idiot and deserves what he gets for marrying a woman half his age. Letitia Pomfrey is a tart. She was a tart as a girl and a tart she remains.”

  Nigel stared at his father, then grinned with as much relief as humor. “I’ve always been rather fond of tarts.”

  “Most men are. However, in the future might I suggest that you confine your preferences to tarts of the baked cherry variety as opposed to those of the married variety.”

  “Cherry and marry?” If his father could joke, this discussion might not be as dire as Nigel had anticipated. “Well said, Father, well said indeed.”

  “Thank you.” His father smiled slightly, his tone deceptively mild. “You do understand, the failings of Lord and Lady Pomfrey in no way excuse your own behavior.”

  Nigel winced to himself. “Of course not, sir.”

  “What are your plans, my boy?”

  “My plans? Well…” Nigel thought for a moment. “I had planned on a ride in the park the first thing in the morning. Then I thought I would visit my tailor. And afterward—”

  “Your plans for your life, Nigel.”

  “My life?” Nigel frowned. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  “What I’m asking is whether or not you intend to continue to squander your intelligence, your time, and your money—my money, really—in the pursuit of mindless pleasures as well as the Lady Pomfreys of the world.”

  Nigel took a long pull of his brandy, as much to avoid the question as to consider an answer, although evasion seemed the best, or at least the easiest, course. “If I recall the stories I’ve heard, sir, you were not substantially less enamored of the pursuit of plea sure when you were my age than I am.”

  “When I was your age I had already served in Her Majesty’s army, lost a father and two older brothers, and come into a title I had not expected. I do not deny that I engaged in any number of less than reputable activities along the way. Nonetheless, when put in the proper perspective, one might say I had well earned what ever frivolous pastimes I might have enjoyed.” The elder Cavendish fixed him with a firm stare. “You, my boy, are a different matter entirely.”

  “What
, would you have me join the army then, Father?” Nigel said in a casual manner. “Go off to this new war we’re engaged in? Fight the Russians?”

  The expression in his father’s eyes hardened but his tone remained mild. “Given a choice, I would not have either of my sons experience war.”

  Viscount Cavendish rarely spoke of his time spent fighting Napoleon’s troops in Spain in his youth. But Nigel had heard stories of his father’s courage and military prowess. Edmund Cavendish’s leadership ability and skill on the battlefield had earned him any number of medals and commendations, as well as the love and respect of his men. Indeed, many had called him hero. His father had brushed off the designation, saying the difference between a hero and a coward often came down to nothing more than a single moment in time.

  “The difference is in the choice one makes in a fraction of a second,” the viscount had once told his sons. “Those we call heroes rarely pause to consider the consequences, while the coward thinks entirely too much. One might say the coward exhibits great intelligence while the hero none at all.”

  Regardless of his own experience, or perhaps because of it, Viscount Cavendish’s voice was among the loudest of those few raised now in protest of war. Futile, of course, as anti-Russian sentiment in Britain was at a fever pitch.

  The older man shook his head. “This, more than many others, is a foolish war.”

  “Because it’s over the superficial issue of the question of who has the right to the keys of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem?”

  “Superficial is entirely accurate. Religion is now, as it has ever been, merely an excuse.” His father swirled the brandy in his glass in a thoughtful manner. “The French wish to regain the influence lost after Napoleon’s defeat. The Russians want to solidify their own position, and if expansion of their power can be accomplished at the same time, so much the better. Turkey can barely cope with its internal affairs let alone international issues, and the British are concerned with all of it and its effect on our own interests.”

  Nigel chuckled. “Odd to realize we are aligned with the French in this.”

  “Indeed it is.” His father snorted. “We have long been natural enemies.” He studied his son. “But you understand all of this, don’t you?”

  “It’s rather like a tangle of string, isn’t it? Once you sort out one end, it’s not especially difficult to untangle the rest.”

  “You have an excellent mind, Nigel. I have long wondered why you prefer to have people think you don’t.”

  Nigel started to deny his father’s charge, then shrugged. “I cannot help what people think of me.”

  “Of course you can.” His father leaned forward. “You give the world the impression that you have nothing in your head save the next wager or the next woman. Why?”

  Nigel raised his glass. “Don’t forget the next bottle of wine. Or in this case brandy.”

  “A serious answer, if you please.”

  “I don’t really like serious answers. They’re so…so…” Nigel grinned. “Serious.”

  His father arched a brow.

  “Very well then.” Nigel thought for a moment. “It’s easier, I suppose, to live down to people’s expectations rather than live up to them.”

  “And you feel people have great expectations of you, then?”

  Nigel met his father’s gaze. “You do.” For a long moment neither said a word, then Nigel blew a resigned breath. “I regret that I have disappointed you.”

  Surprise washed across his father’s face. “You think that, do you?”

  Nigel shrugged. “You just said as much. You pointed out that at my age you had already—”

  “It was a different time, a different world.” The elder Cavendish shook his head. “If you took my words to mean I am disappointed in you, my apologies. That was neither my meaning nor my intention.”

  Nigel chose his words carefully. “Then you are not disappointed?”

  “Not yet.” His father smiled and relaxed back in his chair. “Have you never wondered why I have never seriously chastised you for your behavior, as scandalous as it has been at times?”

  “I wouldn’t use the word never,” Nigel murmured, the memory of any number of chastisements flitting through his mind.

  The viscount laughed. “Perhaps never is the wrong word, but you must admit, the repercussions of your actions on my part have been relatively mild.”

  “Yes, well…”

  “I have never cut off your funding, banished you to the country, or any other number of actions I could have taken to curb your antics.”

  “No, I suppose—”

  “Do you wish to know why?”

  “I still wish to know why you consider the actions you have taken, in regard to my antics, as you put it, as mild,” Nigel said under his breath.

  “It is precisely because of my past that I am so tolerant of yours. Oh, not the amusements and carousing that you have pointed out but the seriousness of it. My past, that is.” His father finished the rest of his brandy and looked pointedly at the glass. Nigel obediently got to his feet and fetched the decanter. He refilled his father’s glass and his own, then took his seat. The older man nodded his thanks and continued. “I never expected to be the next viscount, you know. My oldest brother, Arthur, had been trained since birth for the position. Since I was the third son, my father was happy to purchase my commission. After all, I was expendable.”

  Nigel stared at his father. Talk of his family was rarer, if possible, than discussion of his life in the military. “Father, you needn’t—”

  “Ah, but I never have, Nigel, and perhaps it’s time. Past time, really. There are things you should know.”

  An odd weight settled in the pit of Nigel’s stomach, but he kept his tone light. “Secrets, Father? Family skeletons and all that?”

  The older man chuckled. “Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid.” He paused a moment as if reflecting on the past, then continued. “I thought the army a glorious career for a man in my position and went off gladly to fight the French. Let me tell you, my boy, the concept of war is far more glorious than the reality of it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “At any rate, my father still had his heir and a spare to boot, even if Lionel, my other brother, hadn’t a serious bone in his body. His was an existence even more frivolous than yours.”

  Nigel smiled weakly.

  “He was great fun, Lionel, that is. While Arthur was intent upon duty and responsibility, Lionel thought of little more than his next game of chance or his next amorous conquest. You could not have found two men whose natures were more in opposition than Lionel and Arthur, and yet they were fond of one another. We were all fond of one another. There is a bond between brothers…” His father smiled in a sad, wistful sort of way that Nigel could not recall ever having seen before. “I worshipped Lionel, but then everyone did, even Arthur in spite of his disapproval of Lionel’s behavior and his own serious nature. You remind me of Lionel a great deal.”

  Nigel’s gaze shifted to the small portrait of Lionel that hung to the right of his father. “Because I look like him?”

  “The resemblance is remarkable, but no, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Then I fear that is not a compliment.”

  “Oh, but it is. He was not wicked in nature, simply fun-loving. Lionel was amusing and clever and somehow made you think the world was not as dire a place with him in it. Unfortunately he was foolhardy and reckless as well. He met his fate in a duel at the hands of a jealous husband.”

  Nigel resisted the urge to squirm in his seat.

  “I was in Spain when he died. By the time I received word of Lionel’s death, a sudden illness had taken my father’s life as well. Still, Arthur did not urge me to come home. What was the point? He was now the viscount, and with his usual air of efficiency appeared to handle the title and its accompanying responsibilities with the capability expected of him. He certainly had no need of my assistance. Unfortunately, there was
more of appearance than substance to my brother’s abilities. As I was later to learn, my father’s affairs were in something of a mess when he died. Arthur did the best he could, I think, but he was not up to the task. And when he died, it fell to me.” He glanced at his son. “He died after he was thrown by a horse. Were you aware of that?”

  “Vaguely.” Nigel’s knowledge of his father’s family was little more than dim recollections of chance comments.

  “Arthur was an excellent horse man. No one sat a horse as he did.” The viscount paused. “It was a curious way for him to meet his fate.”

  Nigel stared at his father. “Do you suspect it was other than an accident?”

  The older man shook his head. “Not really, but as I said, given Arthur’s skill, it was odd.” His father drew a deep breath. “Needless to say, I returned home at once. I was shocked to discover the sorry state of the family’s finances. Arthur had made no progress in that respect. Indeed, there was a fair amount of evidence to indicate he had no idea what to do. So it fell to me. I worked, borrowed, sold some property and used the proceeds to invest in estate improvements, and I did what men in my position have always done. I found a wife with excellent connections and an impressive dowry.”

  “I was always under the impression yours and Mother’s was a love match,” Nigel said slowly.

  “It was ultimately.” His father chuckled. “But I did not begin my pursuit of her because she was pretty and clever, although that certainly made it much easier, but because she had what I needed: position and fortune. Even so, I knew she was the only woman in the world for me the moment I looked into her eyes.”

  “Her eyes?” Nigel drew his brows together. “What about her eyes?”

  “They were, indeed they remain, a blue so deep a man could surely drown in them and go to his death a happy man. Haven’t you ever noticed your mother’s eyes?”

  “Apparently not,” Nigel murmured, and took a bracing swallow of his brandy. Oh, he knew his mother’s eyes were blue but they’d never struck him as being especially remarkable. She was his mother, after all, and perhaps one wouldn’t notice such a thing about one’s mother.