People over position. Another point of admiration.
But, God, how Nic loathed the old duke—conniving, manipulative bugger—and God, how he craved the sea’s brisk, salty air spraying his face, tangling his hair—her waves frolicking beneath The Weeping Siren’s hull. For his young sisters’ sakes, he must relinquish his captaincy and venture into Society. A mélange of outrage, grief, and loathing ensured that a steady surge of bile burned his throat and injustice lashed his soul.
Needing a moment, he strode to the dingy window once more and stared outside. The surly, ashen sky mirrored his bleak soul.
A month after Pendergast had secretly married Nic’s impoverished, yet gentle-bred mother and tucked her away in a humble cottage, his scheming father wed an heiress—sweet, plain Lady Sarah Trehmain—for her immense fortune. The lying cull had the ballocks to inform Nic’s mother, already ailing from pregnancy difficulties, that their marriage had been a farce. When his heartbroken mother died during childbirth, the duke had pawned Nic off on Aunt Bertie, forcing her to vacate her governess position to care for him, a premature, sickly infant.
Aunt Bertie hadn’t complained. Not one single word. Ever. She’d loved and nurtured him with a mother’s devotion, and he would do anything for her.
Pride and stubbornness prevented her from accepting the house he’d offered to buy her, as well as the bulk of the funds he regularly deposited into an account for her use. And she wondered where his mulishness originated. She’d only accept enough money to live modestly and retain her maid of all work, but she kept the trinkets he sent her, wrongly assuming the knick-knacks cheap, worthless baubles. If she ever comprehended the ugly trifles’ values, she’d swoon, but in a financial pinch, they could be sold.
The pittance Pendergast had intermittently sent to provide for Nic had ceased after five years—once the duchess produced an heir—leaving Aunt Bertie as her and Nic’s sole provider. His father sired two more sons, each dying in infancy, before Nic’s sisters, Lady Daphne’s and Lady Delilah’s births.
Blister and damn, they weren’t even ladies any more.
Silence hung heavily behind him, and summoning an enigmatic smile he didn’t feel, he faced the ladies once more.
Miss Needham’s curiosity-laden expression begged for an explanation, but she’d not ask the questions no doubt tapping at her teeth and fairly shouting from her bright eyes.
Nic would’ve wagered on it.
As a wealthy banker’s daughter, she’d been carefully, and thoroughly, schooled in decorum and propriety. Yet, an untamed glint deep within her expressive eyes hinted rebellion lay buried within her politesse trappings.
Might as well appease her curiosity.
He flicked an orangey cat hair from his sleeve then plucked another off. “Irrefutable evidence has come forth, proving my sire married my mother before he wed the duchess. Wainwright, his grace’s solicitor, produced the documents.”
A noise somewhere between a hiss and a gasp burst from Miss Needham. “Good heavens. What an unconscionable cawker! I’d run him through, if I were you. Except, he’s already dead. Good thing, the rotting fiend.” She shook her head, sheer disgust pinching her pretty face. “Go stomp on his grave then. You’ll feel better for it.”
Aunt Bertie snickered, really snickered. “Oh, if I were only able, I’d dance a jig, I would.”
One knew precisely where one stood with Miss Needham, for certain. Nic found her transparency, honesty, and unpretentious mien extraordinarily refreshing, if a mite outrageous.
He rather liked outrageous. They’d rub along quite well.
“Oh, your poor sisters. Surely they’re confused and frightened. Whatever will become of them?” Miss Needham sucked in a deep—most indelicate—breath and tossed a thoroughly crumpled handkerchief on the tea table. Her anxious gaze leaped to Nic’s. “Hounds’ teeth. Did they even know you existed?”
“No.” He shook his head, his hair brushing his shoulders. “But they do now. I saw to that straightaway. As you can imagine, they are in shock and frightened about their futures. That’s what their sour-faced governess told me when she met with me at my solicitor’s. More likely she’s worried about her future. As she should, after calling my sisters empty-headed corkbrains.”
Holding his chin between his forefinger and thumb, he dipped his head. His hair swept forward, and he flicked the tawny strands behind him. Ought to see about hiring a valet and having his hair cut, except his spirit mutinied at the notion of having the last vestige of his former life hacked away.
“How awful for your sisters. Their governess sounds hideous.” Compassion lowered Miss Needham’s voice, the huskiness strangely comforting. Arousing too. “If I knew them, I’d invite them to stay with us. We’ve already taken Shona Atterberry into our home, and I know my parents would welcome your sisters. Is there no one they’re close to?”
“No one I’m aware of.” Nic ran a finger ’round his collar, loosening the stranglehold. Bare-chested, he might’ve been accustomed to tropical heat, but not attired in a nabob’s fancy togs. And these stiffly starched yards of cloth bandaging his neck, gagging him, had him well on his way to cursing like a rummed-up sailor.
No wonder Miss Needham drooped from the room’s temperature.
“Old Pendergast, the stupid fribble, named Collerington the girls other guardian, aside from their mother, and he’s contesting Nic’s request for guardianship.” Aunt Bertie, her birdlike eyes round and worried, peered at him, and anxiety shook her wispy voice as her words reminded him of his purpose.
Protect his sisters.
“I cannot imagine why the duke did such a hair-brained thing, especially when he made a point to reveal my parentage in the event my half-brother, Leopold died without issue. Always thought the dunderhead had room to let upstairs. The duke, that is, though, if rumors hold true, Leopold’s candle burned dimly too.”
Aunt Bertie tsked and tutted. “But naming that rutting cit their guardian ...? No, no, that won’t do. Not at all. Everyone knows his financial situation is windmill dwindled to a nutshell, and he has ...” Her faded gaze swerved to Miss Needham, and crimson skated up her thin face. “Unusual habits. Or so I’ve heard.”
Unusual? Not by half. Daphne and Delilah mustn’t be exposed to his twisted perversity. Precisely why Nic hadn’t time to spare with courtship and wooing rigmaroles.
“I don’t give a halfpenny about the dukedom, but I do care about my two motherless sisters, and I’ll not have them subjected to Collerington’s salacious ways, nor will I cloister them with servants and a fusty governess at Chamberdall Court while I blissfully carry on with my life. Daphne and Delilah are the victims in all this wretchedness, and I’ll do whatever I must to protect them and help them heal.”
“That is a truly admirable sentiment, Your Grace.” Approval shone on Miss Needham’s face, but the ‘Your Grace’ falderal would damn well take some adjustment. Ironic that he, a coarse sailor, should inherit a coveted title, one that most heirs typically received grooming for from birth. For certain, he’d not been fed with a silver spoon nor had his bum wiped with silken cloths.
Dalton clattered into the parlor, bearing a laden tray. Once she’d deposited the tea service on the table before Miss Needham, Dalton asked, “Will there be anything else, Miss Beatrice? Would you like me to pour?”
“Thank you, no, Dalton. I’m sure I can impose upon Miss Needham.”
“I should be happy to.” Miss Needham gave a blinding smile.
And for no reason other than that her sweetly curved mouth stirred a similar cheerful sentiment, Nic’s lips swept upward, too, as he claimed the settee’s other seat and Dalton took her leave.
Miss Needham set about preparing their tea, her movements graceful and confident. Each shift in position released her subtle scent: floral fragrance, soap, and something slightly spicy.
Cloves, perhaps?
She caught his perusal, but instead of coloring, becoming flustered, or flirting, she offered a swi
ft partial tilt of her mouth and continued her adept arrangements.
Nic spread a serviette on his lap, enjoying her graceful movements
He had recognized her.
Instantly, truth to tell, but he’d permitted himself a leisurely inspection of her superbly rounded, tipped-up bottom. Though attractive as a girl, the vivacious woman she’d blossomed into beguiled him, and he didn’t enthrall easily. Given his immediate need for a duchess, he’d taken a few moments, probing his memory to recall if Miss Needham had repeated vows yet.
He couldn’t have sworn definitively that she’d wed already, which pleased him no end, as did her spirit and obvious affection for Aunt Bertie. True, he didn’t stay abreast of the ton’s tattle, so Miss Needham might well be betrothed, though her ring finger remained conspicuously bare.
Splendid, and most providential.
He mightn’t have to search for a bride after all—not that the task would prove overly difficult. Even if he lacked social graces and had been a rogue of the sea, a lofty title—particularly a dukedom—combined with his deep pockets proved irresistibly attractive to females.
A great horde of sniping, calculating, determined ladies, all bent on the same purpose: snaring a duke and leg-shackling him. Much like the huge ants he’d witnessed in Africa converging on a dead duckling and devouring it, the tonnish misses wouldn’t be deterred in their quest to become the next Duchess of Pendergast.
A horrified snarl nearly escaped Nic’s tightly meshed lips. God help him. Forced to endure the company he’d always eschewed.
After expertly pouring tea, and adding milk and sugar to Aunt Bertie’s before passing it to her, Miss Needham lifted the sugar tongs. “How do you take your tea, Your Grace?”
“No sugar or milk, please.” He grinned. “Not many cows aboard ships, so I learned to drink tea and coffee plain early on. The orient boasts the best brews I’ve ever sampled.”
“Mama avows the same. This particular blend is pekoe and congo, but oolong is equally tasty.” Lifting her cup, Miss Needham shut her eyelids and inhaled the steam casually spiraling upward. “Mmm.” She slowly opened her eyes, like a woman thoroughly satiated after a satisfying tumble, and taking a dainty sip, her azure gaze sought his.
Nic indulged his naughty daydream for a few tantalizing moments.
Miss Needham’s sultry eyes questioned him above her teacup’s rim. “Now, please tell me about your dear sisters. What do you intend for them?”
Nic reluctantly allowed the tempting image to fade away. “I’m still working on those details.”
“Perhaps I may be of assistance,” Miss Needham offered. “After all, my parents’ sphere of influence is quite substantial.”
Direct and straight to the point—no tiptoeing around the issue with inferences and innuendos. Another factor in Miss Needham’s favor. Yes, she’d do quite well, and enlisting her help? Bloody brilliant, if he didn’t say so himself.
“I’ll have to petition the Court of Chancery for Daphne and Delilah’s guardianship, and that is more successfully done if I’ve married and can establish myself as a respectable fellow, rather than a roving, ship-pillaging scoundrel.” Nic helped himself to a ginger biscuit, a favorite yet rare childhood treat, as he gauged Miss Needham’s reaction.
She nodded, her intelligent face meditative. “Indeed. I understand the advantage. A generous donation to the church as well as a charity or two wouldn’t go amiss. Perhaps something to help London’s street children? It wouldn’t hurt for you to be seen attending services either, though I personally find le beau ton’s Sunday form of Christianity galling.”
“Sound advice.” Nic managed to conceal his cringe. He hadn’t set foot in a church since he ran away. For the girls, though, he would and pray he didn’t burst into flames directly upon entering the sanctuary.
“Hmph, you’re hardly a criminal, Nic,” Miss Sweeting scoffed. “The Crown has sanctioned your activities, and only a codspate would dare speak against you now that the dukedom is yours.” Aunt Bertie removed her spectacles and, after holding them to the window light, proceeded to wipe the lenses with her shawl’s edge. “You needn’t rush into a union quite yet. Though I’m certain eligible misses will flock round you like flies to sweets.”
The duckling image popped to mind again, accompanied by a violent shudder.
Preposterous, a man of his stature and experience trembling in his boots at the prospect of parleying with eager parents and eligible misses hoping to make a brilliant match.
“No, I think I must enter the parson’s mousetrap. For my sisters’ sakes.” No matter how much the idea appalled him. By God, nothing else would drive him to such extremes. However, he’d not parade before the ton on his quest. There had to be a better way.
“How old are your sisters? I confess I cannot remember if I’ve ever been told.” Miss Needham stirred a fresh cup of tea.
“Daphne is thirteen and Delilah eleven.” Idly rubbing his scar, he pictured his sisters the last time he’d seen them from afar, their red-blond heads dipped together as they crooned over a dame’s fluffy white, beribboned kitten. He’d never been permitted a formal introduction, though he’d requested one multiple times. “With their mother gone, they’ll need a woman’s gentle presence, and I know naught of young innocents’ ways or needs.”
Miss Needham coughed into her hand, muttering something which sounded suspiciously like, “Bold truth there.”
He grinned. Saucy wench.
“Dominic ...?” His aunt dashed at her papery cheek. Tears? Why now?
Nic swallowed his spicy-sweet mouthful before angling his head.
Aunt Bertie rarely used his full given name. His mouth twitched. Well, she had often enough when he’d been into mischief as a lad, which, given his propensity for adventure and mayhem, had been more often than he cared to admit. However had she put up with his antics? His anger and petulance? His naughty humor? Frogs and snakes and caterpillars in the kitchen and parlor?
He knew the answer, of course. She adored him.
Love covered a multitude of sins, thank God.
“What has you distressed, Bertie, love? My marrying so speedily? I must find a willing bride yet, and that may take a few weeks.” She fretted for him, even after he’d proved his prowess as a privateer. That was what normal, loving parents did. What he’d do when he became a father. “What if I promise to allow you input regarding the lady I select, and if you object to her, I’ll consider another? Would that satisfy you?
After all, he intended Aunt Bertie reside with him, and his wife must treat his cherished aunt with respect. As she must his impressionable sisters. The girls might prove to be a trifle difficult at the onset, and he would insist upon a patient and sympathetic duchess, not a feckless, selfish shrew.
Blast, if Collingsworth weren’t respectably married, Nic might wait to venture down matrimony’s prickly path himself. “I’m confident between us, we can select a lady who we’ll rub along well with.”
He wasn’t at all confident, but that burden was his to bear.
“Yes,” said Miss Needham. “A lady who will adopt the role of a loving elder sister, rather than attempt to replace their mother. They’d resent that, I think.” Daintily nibbling a buttered bread triangle, she considered Nic. A dab of butter remained at her mouth’s corner, and she darted her tongue out to lift the trace.
If Aphrodite had manifested from the linen-wrapped teapot’s steam, he wouldn’t have been able to haul his attention from the moist pillow passing for her lower lip. His own tongue breached his lips briefly before he snatched the traitorous organ inside again.
Nic wiped his moist brow. Less than half an hour in Miss Needham’s presence and he’d contemplated bedding her multiple times. Her qualifications and appeal grew by the minute.
“A woman boasting a degree of acumen and wit, too.” Gazing into the fire, her eyes half-closed, Miss Needham tapped her chin. “And not given to vapors or histrionics. Can’t abide either, personally. Musical
and artistic aptitudes are desirable, as is a strong constitution. And since you’ve traveled extensively, a well-read lady with geographical knowledge would provide you discussion fodder other than fashion or weather twaddle.”
“Absolutely.” Nic’s hearty agreement earned him a grateful tilt of her lips. Sharp-witted, she’d neatly and concisely described his ideal duchess. Particularly that last bit. By Jove, he’d go mad, listening to bilge-water prattle about bonnets and ribbons and parasols or the latest on dit. His duchess must at least be able to carry on an intelligent conversation about something other than fripperies and gossip.
Undoubtedly, Miss Needham would be able to.
Soft snuffling drew his attention to his aunt hunched in her chair.
“Aunt Bertie?” he prompted gently, setting his cup upon the low table this time. “Please tell me what has you distraught?”
She sniffed and dabbed her damp face. “It was selfish of me, I know, and I’ve wronged you, Nic. I meant to tell you. Truly, I did.”
“What was? Tell me what?” He shot Miss Needham a puzzled look.
Slightly lifting a shoulder, she gave a tiny shake of her head. She had no more inclination what caused his aunt’s upset than he did.
“I should’ve suspected Wainwright possessed evidence verifying Maureen married Pendergast, but I knew you’d be taken from me if your legitimacy was confirmed. And Pendergast, the cur, would’ve destroyed me—threatened to do so if I questioned him or pursued the issue further. How could I, a poor spinster without means, prove my sister married the duke prior to his and Lady Trehmain’s nuptials?”
“You did what you thought best, and I cannot fault you for it, my dear.” Nic leaned across the table and took her thin hand in his. “I shall always be grateful for your sacrifice, and I’m a far better man having been raised by you than that spineless sot.” He kissed her fingertips before releasing her.
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