She shook her head. “I am neither a damsel, nor was I in distress. Didn’t you hear me say I had it handled?”
“But I can handle it so much more quickly. I always can.” He spoke as if it were a hard fact, which it was, she supposed. He was renowned for his ability to handle things quickly, which mostly meant with his fists.
“I don’t want to be rescued.” She spoke in a soft voice, but she hoped he heard the truth of her words.
He didn’t say anything. She could hear him breathing, see the rise and fall of his broad chest under that crisp white shirt. But he didn’t speak. Instead, he reached out and took her hand in his.
He bent his head over her glove, undoing it quickly and then clasping her fingers. His hand was so warm. And so big. She felt the impact of his touch through her entire body.
“I wanted to take this off when we were dancing,” he said in a low tone that made her shiver.
She started to speak, to rush past the importance of this moment. She couldn’t let him know what she felt about it—he was merely comforting her, even though she didn’t need comfort. “I got brandy all over my gown. Some of it even splattered onto my face.” She knew she was saying whatever popped into her head to avoid saying what was in her heart—thank you for caring. Thank you for not judging me. For being as imperfect as I feel.
“Where?”
She brushed at her face, feeling the stickiness of the brandy. “I think mostly on my cheeks and my nose.”
And then he was touching her face, sliding his finger over her skin, pausing as he found a sticky spot, then trying to wipe it away.
Her chest tightened. “It’s fine, I will take care of it in a moment.”
“I will do it,” he began in his naturally assertive tone.
“Hush,” she replied, putting her index finger to his lips. They were surprisingly soft. She emitted a gasp, dropping her finger as though it had been burned. Scorched.
“I won’t apologize,” he said in a much stronger tone. “He deserved it. Whether it was from you or me.”
She drew back in surprise. “I wouldn’t have punched him.”
“Maybe you should have.” He made it sound as though it was a reasonable suggestion. And to him it was.
“Ana Maria!”
She turned at the sound of Thaddeus’s stentorian tone, pulling her fingers from his hand. Feeling guilty, even though nothing had happened.
He touched me. My skin. My cheek, my nose, my fingers.
I touched him. His skin. His palm, his mouth.
So don’t pretend nothing happened. Even though he likely thinks it was nothing.
She stepped out from under the tree, unconsciously straightening her shoulders.
“There you are.” Thaddeus’s gaze narrowed as he saw Nash emerge also. “And you.” His tone was accusatory.
Ana Maria felt her cheeks start to heat—please don’t make this into anything, she begged inside her head. He is my friend, we are all friends.
“Nash.”
Nash nodded in reply. Of course, taciturn Nash spoke with his fists, and his nods, and his expressions.
“The carriage is waiting.”
Thaddeus held his arm out and Ana Maria took it, wishing it was Nash’s arm. She glanced back behind her, where he still stood, all the broad massiveness of him. His expression set, his gaze shuttered, and she nearly went back, to see if she could break him open, to understand him, but Thaddeus must have sensed it, since he put his other hand on hers to hold her more firmly to him. “The carriage, Ana Maria,” he said in a low tone. “We need to go.”
The door to the carriage had just shut when Thaddeus spoke. “What happened?”
We held hands, he wiped brandy off my face.
“With that lout Brunley.”
Oh. Right.
“It’s nothing, I don’t want either you or Nash to bother about it.”
“Was that what Nash was doing? Bothering about it?” He sounded disapproving, and she felt herself get defensive on his behalf.
“He only meant to help.”
Thaddeus sighed. “Which means there was violence involved.”
She couldn’t refute that, so she said nothing.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. A very uncharacteristically casual Thaddeus pose. This must be serious.
“Nash isn’t—you know, never mind about that.”
Drat. She generally disliked Thaddeus’s reticence, but never more so than now.
“The important part is that Lord Brunley informed me the two of you are engaged.” A pause. “Is that true?”
Ana Maria’s mouth dropped open.
“Absolutely not! He did make a proposal”—of sorts, by cornering me in an empty room and then threatening me—“but I declined.” And then Nash declined even more forcefully.
The thought should not make her warm inside—after all, she’d rebuked him for treating her as a damsel in distress—but she had to admit there was something thrilling about all that strength focused on protecting her.
No wonder early cavemen were able to find mates. And the idea of Nash clad only in a scanty fur was rather appealing.
“Good,” Thaddeus replied in satisfaction. “I know you are a sensible woman, Ana Maria, but I also know that you are newly arrived to Society, and you might not be able to see through some of these more charming gentlemen’s subterfuges.”
Ana Maria felt her hackles—and her eyebrow—rise.
“Are you saying I am too naive to realize when someone is being sincere and when someone is trying to use me?”
“Uh—” Thaddeus said. He sounded uncertain. Good.
“Because you should not worry, cousin. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I am not—nor will ever be—a damsel in distress.” The vehemence of her tone matched the vehemence of her emotions.
Men.
“I see that, of course I see that, but I just wanted to let you know that I—that we—that Sebastian made us promise to take care of you.”
She was not mollified. Because who had taken care of Sebastian for the first eighteen or so years of his life? Had she been incapable then?
“Ana Maria?” He sounded anxious, and she suppressed a smile. That was precisely what she wanted, even as she wanted someone to protect her—she wanted both protection and the assurance that nobody would vault in to do something she was perfectly capable of.
Oxymoron.
“I know you have my best interests at heart. As does Nash. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”
“Good. Because if I had to call that Brunley my cousin I’d probably swallow my tongue.”
She laughed at how forceful he sounded. Thaddeus, the most honest and forthright man of her acquaintance. The one she knew would leap to her defense, even though he didn’t seem to understand her. The one who’d insisted his home would remain hers, who had been generous with his money, who’d given her the freedom to do what she wished.
“Thank you.”
“Well, so that’s that, then,” he said, sounding awkward. She smothered another smile and watched him turn away from her gaze, as though embarrassed at his emotion.
Nash stepped back into the cover of the tree after Thad and Ana Maria left the terrace. He far preferred being in the shadows to being in the spotlight during normal times, and this wasn’t a normal time. It was far, far worse.
His palm tingled where he’d held her fingers. He raised his hand to his mouth, smelling the slight scent of brandy on his fingers from where he’d touched her skin. He licked his finger, licked the sticky sweetness off.
Goddamn it. He shouldn’t be thinking about her that way, shouldn’t be wondering where else he could lick brandy off her. He was supposed to be searching for a woman who wouldn’t make him feel anything, not discover one who could make him feel everything.
If he let her.
He wouldn’t let her.
He couldn’t. He’d promised himself not to hu
rt anybody he was determined to protect, and he’d hurt her if he let her into his heart. You take after me. In every way.
“Duke!”
The command came from his grandmother, who was peering out of the doorway. The lights of the ballroom shone behind her, outlining her slight form, making him realize just how frail she was in body, if not in spirit.
Her damned cane was there, too, and she stuck it out of the door onto the terrace, her expression hesitant.
“Over here,” he said, walking out from under the tree to the door. “Don’t come out, it’s dark, I don’t want you to risk falling.”
“Don’t you worry about me,” she snapped back. Sounding much like another lady of his acquaintance. “I came out here because you are not inside meeting anybody. What are you doing skulking about?”
He took her arm, turning her so she was facing back into the ballroom. “You said it yourself. Skulking.”
“Humph,” she muttered. “We won’t get anywhere with this if you refuse to engage with any young lady.”
But I have. Of course he couldn’t say that to her; she would leap to the next logical conclusion and wish him to make an offer for her. She definitely wouldn’t understand if he told her he couldn’t marry her because he actually liked her.
The sooner he found a lady he didn’t care for the sooner she would be out of his house. He should be focusing on that, not on the taste of brandy from Ana Maria’s skin.
His grandmother was still talking.
“What?” he said, interrupting her.
She planted her cane down on his foot. “Not ‘what,’ it’s ‘pardon.’ ‘What’ makes you sound like a commoner.”
I wish I were. The thought wasn’t a new one—he had it any time someone said, “Your Grace,” but now he had to temper that—ha!—with the thought that if he weren’t the duke that would mean someone else was. Someone who was even less capable than he of managing a temper.
“Pardon, then. What did you say?”
She huffed an exasperated breath. “I was saying that there don’t seem to be many suitable candidates here. I would expect the Duchess of Malvern to be impeccable in breeding, education, manners, and appearance.”
And how do you expect that paragon of perfection to agree to marry me? I might be a duke, but I am also a sullen, scowling man who doesn’t care for Society’s trappings. Never mind that if she was that excellent a specimen he would run the risk of falling in love with her, and that he could not do.
Perhaps he could find a lady who abhorred brandy, enjoyed making polite conversation, and insisted that gentlemen be garbed as gentlemen at all times. His ideal match.
“I will review Debrett’s, and compile a list.”
The promise felt like a threat. His future was being as tightly squeezed as his neck in the hellcloth.
He swallowed all that anger, as he always did. Unless it was a justified reprisal. Or he’d lost control. That innocent chair. “Good,” he replied in a tight voice.
“We will have you married off and with children in no time,” she said determinedly.
He grunted.
He needed to go punch something else right now. Something or someone that deserved it.
Or Finan.
“Instead of taking pokes at me with your slow fist, why don’t you just tell your grandmother you refuse to marry?”
Nash shook his head in regret.
The two men were in Nash’s sparring room, a room that had once been purposed as a guest bedroom, but since Nash never invited anybody but Sebastian and Thaddeus over, he had decided to make the room useful. He’d had the furniture removed, the rugs stored, and all the paintings taken down from the walls. He’d put in special flooring to muffle the sound of feet, and put extra padding on the walls to muffle the sound of the blows.
The room held only a few pieces of furniture now: a chest of drawers where the linens for wrapping fists were stored, a small sturdy table that held a pitcher of water and a few glasses, and two mismatched chairs for when the opponents needed a rest.
Nash hadn’t even needed to tell Finan what he wanted; as soon as his valet saw his face, he’d risen from his chair and gone to his room to change. Nash went to his own bedroom and quickly stripped off his evening wear, giving an especially disdainful look as he tore off the hellcloth, dropping it onto the ground and deliberately stepping on it.
He knew he’d have to go out again wearing the same blasted outfit, but at least this particular hellcloth would never serve its hellish purpose again.
“I can’t tell her I won’t marry because I have to marry.” Nash punctuated his words with quick feints toward Finan, who dodged them easily. There was a reason that sparring with Finan was so satisfying. Nash had yet to meet an opponent who could best him, but Finan was the closest he had come.
That was how they had met, actually—Nash had come upon Finan in an unequal battle, there having apparently been a dispute about politics, and Nash didn’t think three against one was a fair fight. Three against two, however, when one of the two was Nash and the other one was Finan, meant that the two would win immediately.
“And that is because—?” Finan asked, twisting to avoid a direct hit.
Nash grunted.
“That’s not an answer,” Finan replied, not sounding out of breath at all. Disappointing.
Nash had shared some of his past with his friend, but Finan didn’t know the whole of it. Nor did he know about Nash’s heir. So he’d have to get over his usual reticence and actually talk.
He’d much rather punch.
He didn’t speak, but kept sparring, the thoughts building up inside his brain until he felt as though he were going to burst—those were the only times he found he actually wanted to talk, when not talking would be more painful than the alternative.
“We’re done,” he said at last, backing away from Finan’s upraised fists. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”
“Took you long enough,” Finan grumbled, his hair wet with sweat, his shirt sticking to his skin.
Nash quickly unwrapped the linen from his hands, dropping it into a basket specifically for that purpose. Then he yanked his sodden shirt over his head, tossing it on top of the linen.
He grabbed the pitcher of water and poured two glasses, handing one to Finan, then sitting in one of the chairs. Finan followed suit, taking a swig from his glass and dragging his chair so it was closer to Nash. “Well?” he said.
“Well.”
Finan shook his head and made noises indicating his irritation during Nash’s recital.
“So you’re going to marry, after all,” he said at last. He tipped his head back in thought. “But why not marry someone you know?”
Nash’s chest tightened at Finan’s words, because of course Nash only knew one unmarried young lady. Mostly because he’d spent the three years of his dukedom specifically avoiding young ladies so as to prevent this whole marital occurrence.
“That Ana Maria is pleasant enough,” Finan said at last. As though Nash couldn’t have thought of the only unmarried young lady himself.
“No.” The word shot out of Nash’s mouth like cannon fire.
Finan’s eyebrows drew up into his hairline. “It sounds like you have a reason. She’s not hideous to look at, so it’s not that.” A pause. Nash thought frantically of what he could possibly say that wouldn’t be the truth—not because Finan wouldn’t understand, but because Nash didn’t want to admit to him, admit to anyone, that he was deathly afraid of exhibiting the same weakness his father had.
He didn’t want pity, and he didn’t want people in his life protecting him from potential upset. He would most certainly unleash his fury at that. Which would be the opposite of what anyone wanted.
“Lady Ana Maria is more like a sister to me.” Hopefully that would satisfy Finan.
“A sister who isn’t related to you, who is beautiful and intelligent and seems to like your sullen self,” Finan pointed out. “That’s a rarity, and you might ac
tually be happy at the end of it.”
The words struck more terror into Nash’s heart. Because if he could be happy, he could also be sad. And angry and furious and explosive. It was far better not to care about anything than to risk that possibility.
He’d rather spend the rest of his life keeping everyone—including and especially a wife—at a distance.
“Out of the question,” he said, getting up out of his chair.
“You’re an idiot,” Finan called out after him as he left the room. “And I won the match.”
Nash didn’t bother replying. There was only so much talking a man could do in an evening, after all.
Chapter Six
“I want the peach-colored gown today,” Ana Maria said. She sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair, although Jane kept reminding her that ladies did not brush their own hair.
But Ana Maria did. Another reminder that she might be a lady in name, but she was not a lady in action.
Thank goodness, she thought wryly.
“That one looks more orange to me,” Jane replied. It did not sound as though she liked the orange gown.
“It doesn’t matter what color it is. You know which one I mean, so can you bring it out? Or I can,” Ana Maria said, beginning to rise from her chair.
Jane held her hand out. “No, no, don’t get up. You’re not supposed to be doing any of this.”
“Apparently I’m not supposed to be deciding what gown I wear either,” Ana Maria remarked in a dry tone.
Jane went to the wardrobe and searched through the gowns, Ana Maria watching her in the looking glass. The wardrobe was full to bursting with gowns, nearly all of them new. And brightly colored, not the white it seemed Jane thought was proper.
Though, to be honest, everyone else thought white was proper for a young unmarried lady as well. Except for Ana Maria. She wanted color, riotous color that would make her smile every time she saw herself.
Once she’d succumbed to Sebastian’s constant nagging, she’d let herself be subsumed in the pure delight of it all, visiting modistes and hatmakers and cobblers. He’d footed the bill, and then when he had left, Thaddeus had done the same, insisting on providing her with her own money so she could feel more independent.
Tall, Duke, and Dangerous Page 5