Lords of the Kingdom

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Chapter Five

  Nic promptly tried extracting his hand from Katrina’s petal-soft palm, but she retained a firm hold. God’s bones, if Needham had seen him caress her face … An enraged father calling him out would muck up his plans entirely and set his sisters’ futures tumbling pell-mell straight to Hades. He tugged and whispered, “Miss Needham—”

  “Don’t be silly, Papa. I’m holding his grace’s hand.” Aye, that made all the bloody difference. “And for a very good reason. I’m sure you’d approve.”

  Hardly.

  Unless betrothed, unmarried, ungloved ladies of quality did not clasp a gentleman’s hand for any reason. Surely she must be aware of the impropriety. Even Nic knew that tidbit.

  “I assure you, Needham, I am not holding your daughter’s hand.” Not precisely.

  Needham’s dancing eyebrows and pointed gaze alleged otherwise.

  Nic wiggled his fingers, and Katrina smiled into his face, giving his hand another squeeze, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to stand before her father clasping a man’s hand. A stranger’s hand, at that.

  Nic gave another tentative pull. Nothing except tingling fingertips.

  Christ, an alligator’s jaw had a weaker grasp.

  “I’m comforting him,” Katrina said without compunction.

  I’m dead.

  Bloody maggoty hell. A groan threatened, but Nic marshalled the involuntary noise. Only an innocent would admit to comforting a man and not comprehend her words’ significance. Ladies most certainly didn’t comfort gentleman acquaintances. Katrina’s naïveté, though charming, might land him on the field of honor.

  She dimpled and angled her father a guileless glance. “He frets for his sisters, and I’ve promised to help him find a bride. It’s all entirely innocent, I assure you.”

  The minx had the audacity to lift Nic’s entrapped hand, which he purposed to keep relaxed, rather like a dead octopus.

  Lord, but she must lead her parents a merry chase. She’d lead her husband a merry chase too, and God above, despite the impossibility, he wanted to be that damned lucky bastard.

  Mr. Needham chuckled and smoothed one side of his sandy mustache. “So I see from the beleaguered looks the duke keeps sliding me. Release the poor chap else he flees before dinner, and I have to explain to your mother why the table is a guest short.”

  After a final reassuring, finger-numbing pulse, she rushed to her father and kissed both his cheeks. “Have you heard from Major Domont?” she murmured softly.

  “Not yet, my dear.” Needham patted her shoulder, his gaze compassionate. “Be patient. He’ll return as promised. He adores you.”

  “Of course he does. How could he not?” An attractive brunette swept into the room, fairly beaming. “Don’t fret about the major. The army doesn’t keep to our schedules. He’ll be along, darling.”

  Greatly resembling Katrina, except for her violet eyes, Mrs. Needham dipped a graceful curtsy. “Your Grace. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to learn of your good fortune, albeit it doesn’t portend well for your unfortunate sisters.”

  Nic bowed. “It is an honor to see you again, Mrs. Needham.”

  Once the greetings had been exchanged, Katrina strayed to peek out the window. Her shoulders slumped the slightest bit, and irritation toward a man he’d never met welled within Nic. True, the major’s military duties might have delayed him, but it only took a moment to jot a missive and send it off to the woman you’d professed to love and promised to marry.

  If Katrina waited for him, he’d not dally, but return at the first opportunity. Hell, he’d never leave her.

  Ever? Not even to take to the sea again?

  A mule’s kick to his ribs wouldn’t have cramped his lungs more, and his breathing stuttered. No, that commitment he couldn’t make. He loved the sea, and she wasn’t a mistress who took kindly to sharing her men. If he closed his eyes and held perfectly still, he could feel her seductive rolling and swaying beneath his feet.

  Nonetheless, he’d been damned disappointed to learn Katrina was practically betrothed. She’d quite captivated him in his short visit with Aunt Bertie. Nic hadn’t minded her delicate hand wrapped in his the least and admitted he’d contemplated kissing her before her father barged in.

  Good thing Needham had interrupted.

  Nic needed her assistance—and her mother’s too, of course—and he’d be a sailless, rudderless ship if they refused to further his cause because he’d foolishly overstepped the bounds. Even dukes couldn’t always have what they wanted.

  “Please forgive our daughter for her forwardness, Your Grace.” Sending Katrina a doting glance, Mrs. Needham indicated he should have a seat on the settee beside her. “She possesses a tender heart and at times, forgets herself and what’s acceptable.”

  Katrina’s gaze meshed with his, and she cocked a shoulder. “I do. I try to remember all the rules, but when I get excited, they rush out of my head faster than water over a fall.”

  “It’s of no import.” Nic rather hated rules too, and now he must adhere to an entire litany of the wretched things. He sat, and his attention again gravitated to the portrait dominating the tastefully decorated room.

  Katrina’s clear blue eyes, containing the perfect blend of merriment and innocence, sparkled from the canvas. Her skin glowed like the marble statues he’d seen in Rome, and her lips perfectly matched the pink peonies she held—wherever had they acquired the blooms this time of year? A rich shade between pecan and sable, her glossy hair had been twisted into an intricate Grecian style, intertwined with pearls. More pearls as well as sapphires adorned her ears, throat, and the wrist of the hand clutching the peony bouquet. The jewels enhanced her eyes and the exquisite blue and white gown she wore.

  A gown which revealed tempting cleavage.

  Look away.

  “The likeness is superb,” Nic muttered at last, praying no one noticed his husky tone.

  “It is indeed.” Needham’s perceptive gaze swung between his daughter’s portrait and Nic several times.

  Astute man. Had he heard and discerned Nic’s interest?

  Perhaps Needham would consider a duke rather than a major? No, a doting papa, he’d let Katrina make the choice, and she’d already picked her dashing soldier.

  And Nic had chosen the sea.

  “Mama, I confess, I’m having a deucedly difficult time contriving a list of seemly candidates for his grace’s bride.” Sinking into the chair opposite Nic, Katrina arranged her skirts and gave her mother an engaging smile. “Might I impose upon you to assist me?”

  Osborne entered with the tea tray, and a few moments passed as Mrs. Needham poured tea and everyone selected a scrumptious pastry. At last, she answered her daughter.

  “I should be happy to lend you my advice. I’m sure if we put our heads together, we’ll muster a few acceptable ladies.” She lifted the plate of assorted confections, offering Nic another, which he gratefully accepted. No flaky delicacies like this on The Weeping Siren.

  “How fare your sisters, Pendergast?” she inquired, returning the plate to the table. “I met the dears once, several years ago. Delightful and charming, and both quite bashful.”

  His mouth full, Nic gulped the half-chewed Shrewsbury tart, damn near strangling in the process. He swallowed twice more, cleared his throat, took a hefty sip of tea and scalded his blasted tongue before he could speak.

  Uncouth bumpkin.

  “Aye, they are timid, and they’ve been isolated for months with a crusty barnacle of a governess as the duchess and my brother toured the continent. If I had female relatives, besides Aunt Bertie, that is, I’d promptly move my sisters in with them until I marry. I’m afraid right now, they’d be uncomfortable with only me about. I am a stranger to them, after all.”

  “Too bad Miss Sweeting doesn’t have a bigger house. Your sisters could live with her for the time being. She’d adore it, for she’s quite lonely.” Katrina sipped her tea, a far-off expression on her face.
>
  At least she hadn’t noticed him nearly choking to death or ogling her portrait.

  Mrs. Needham set her china cup upon the oval tea table. “Hugo, what say you we invite Miss Sweeting and his grace’s sisters to stay with us until he marries?” She flicked her fingers ceilingward. “We’ve several empty bedchambers, and since I presume Miss Sweeting will live with Pendergast too, it will give the ladies a chance to become acquainted before he weds.”

  “Surely that would be an enormous imposition,” Nic demurred, though the notion appealed a great deal. Traveling between Chamberdall Court, Aunt Bertie’s, London, and his appointments with Katrina wouldn’t leave him much time for assemblies or courtship.

  Katrina nodded eagerly, the shiny, loose curls near her ears pirouetting. “That’s a splendid idea. And, since Mama and I shall work closely with his grace on finding a bride as well as helping him with a few other areas he has expressed an interest in polishing—”

  She swung him an expectant look, and Nic produced a bashful grin.

  “Dancing, properly knotting a cravat, which fork or spoon to use, a new wardrobe … I’m sadly lacking in refinement,” he admitted.

  Needham leaned into his ornate chair, his tall frame almost too big for the dainty structure. Hands folded across his trim waist while clearly taking Nic’s measure, he wiggled his fingertip.

  Would Nic pass muster?

  “I have no objection, and as someone born on the wrong side of the blanket myself, I can empathize with what you’ve endured these many years, Pendergast. Also with what your sisters will bear.” He scratched his nose and hooked an ankle over his knee. “That’s why I extended you the funds to buy your ship, you know, though you were hardly more than a boy. I saw your potential, your determination, and might I say, you’ve not disappointed.”

  Such a rush of emotion engulfed Nic, he couldn’t find his tongue for a moment. “Thank you, sir. I cannot tell you how honored I am at your faith in me. And thank you for your generous offer to invite my sisters and aunt to stay here. I gratefully accept on their behalf.”

  “Wonderful.” Katrina beamed as she took a dainty nibble of her biscuit.

  Aunt Bertie would have a conniption at first, but she’d come round. She cherished the Needham women, and they’d encourage her to eat and exercise properly too.

  A commotion at the drawing room’s entrance preceded two young men around Nic’s age, a plumpish, dark-haired girl, perhaps a year or two younger than Katrina, and a very fat pug.

  Introductions were made to Katrina’s brothers, Simon, seven-and-twenty, and Theodore, four-and-twenty, as well as Shona Atterberry, the Needham’ permanent houseguest. A flat-faced, snarfing, fur-covered sausage with four legs that Katrina introduced as Sir Pugsley—Sir Pudge was more apt—begged treats from all present. A swift half an hour passed, filled with comfortable conversations, good-natured bantering, and usually two or three people talking at once.

  Wonderful chaos.

  A close-knit family, the Needhams’ warm interactions sparked an envious craving in Nic. Except for a handful of bristly sailing chums and Aunt Bertie, he wasn’t particularly close to anyone. He’d never experienced the familial intimacy the Needhams took for granted—honestly hadn’t realized he’d missed it. Until now.

  Needham slapped his knees before standing. “I’ve correspondence I must see to before dinner. Pendergast, no sense leaving only to return in a short while.”

  “Yes, Hugo is right, Your Grace.” Mrs. Needham rose and swept her arm in an arc. “Do stay and make yourself comfortable. Read, nap … pen a letter. Osbourne can provide you with anything you might need. Katrina, may I impose upon you to help me bundle the remaining clothing for the unfortunates? I promised Mrs. Huntington I’d have them for her tonight when she and the vicar come to dinner.”

  “Of course.” Katrina curtsied prettily, bestowing one of her ever-ready smiles upon him. “Until later, Your Grace.”

  Nic bowed, murmuring, “I look forward to dinner.”

  Hopefully, he could manage the meal without a repeat of the tart episode or another maladroit incident.

  After the Needhams departed, Nic stared out the window. What warped providence had landed him in this household with the one woman he wanted, but couldn’t have, for his duchess? He dragged a hand through his hair. Or lack of hair. That would take getting used to.

  He snorted, startling Sir Pugsley from his slumber.

  Nic had a whole buggered new life to get used to.

  Osborne entered and, as he cleared the tea’s remnants, said, “Sir, might I suggest you partake in a rest in a guest chamber before refreshing yourself and joining the others for dinner?”

  “Yes, Osborne, you might, and I shall gratefully accept your offer.”

  Decent of the majordomo not to also suggest Nic change into something more appropriate for a dinner party. He brushed the front of his less-than-fashionable jacket. This coat was the nicest he owned, and compared to the Needhams’ fancy togs, he looked to have stepped from the poor house. The cast-off clothing Katrina and her mother even now wrapped for the unfortunates were likely finer garments.

  Almost two hours later, Nic stood before the grand, carved mahogany fireplace in the same drawing room, sipping a glass of superior brandy. The flames illuminated the umber liquid, much finer than the swill he regularly drank aboard ship, or in port, for that matter. He didn’t frequent lofty establishments, but the same hellholes his crew favored.

  Except when it came to his women and rogering.

  Chattering and laughter announced the other guests’ arrival several minutes ago, and they’d been ushered to the floral salon, which was probably where he was supposed to go too, and which explained why the drawing room was empty when he’d entered.

  Nothing like complete social ineptness.

  Still, rather than join them, he’d helped himself to a tot of brandy and, savoring the fireplace’s warmth, unabashedly goggled Katrina’s portrait across the room. He’d not bedded a woman in a goodly while as the slight swell in his pantaloons confirmed.

  Nic had always been fastidious about swiving, to the point that his crew taunted and heckled him about his pernicketiness. His surname partially contributed to his nom de plume, The Saint, but his sexual selectiveness and abstinence had truly earned him the moniker. Not that he hadn’t ventured into carnal delights, but he restricted his pleasure to a very few, select, disease-free women, and he always used an English overcoat. He’d beget no by-blows and have his child grow up fatherless.

  Taking a healthy sip of the brandy, he savored the slow burn as it slid down his throat. Damned good stuff. This ducal business might well turn him into a dandified fribble. Rotating his neck to ease the stiff muscles caused by sleeping on a lumpy mattress two nights in a row, he sighed before wandering to stand before Katrina’s portrait again.

  Truly a vision. If only Fate had allowed him to meet her a few months ago, before she’d met Domont. Of all women, she might have tempted him to leave privateering behind.

  Sighing again, he tucked his chin to his chest and rubbed his sore nape.

  His worn boots contrasted glaringly with the immaculate Aubusson carpet. He raised one scuffed toe, squinting at his pantaloons. An inch-long tear in the seam disappeared into his boot top. Bloody damned perfect. Best ask Needham to recommend a reputable tailor. A bootmaker and glover too. He’d rather be keelhauled than stand for hours being fitted, but he’d suffer through the measuring and pinning for Daphne and Delilah.

  “You look woefully melancholy, Nic.”

  Nic lifted his head as Katrina, wearing virginal white with lavender ribbons, over-lace, and beading, floated across the carpet to stand before him. The charming gown’s purple hues turned her eyes light periwinkle, matching the gemstones at her throat and glittering on her ears.

  “You are exquisite, Katrina, a joyful sight to brighten this dreary tar’s ruminations.”

  She dimpled prettily, and holding her skirts wide, whirled ar
ound once. “Isn’t it unbelievable what a lovely gown, a few jewels, and a talented abigail can do? I feel like the princess I pretended to be as a little girl.”

  She took no credit for her loveliness? Could she really be so unassuming and modest? She’d led a pampered life, yet demonstrated none of the characteristics of an indulged and pampered society miss.

  “What were you thinking just now? You seemed much too serious.” She touched his arm but, considering the wide open doors, must have thought better of it and let her hand drop to her side.

  “Actually, I was contemplating the horror of having to acquire a new wardrobe.” He winked, and lowered his head conspiratorially. “I quite hate fittings.”

  Rising on her lavender-slippered toes, she grasped his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “I do too.”

  Arousal surged, immediate and primal.

  If he rotated his head, a mere two inches, his mouth would brush hers. What would she do if he took the liberty? Slap him? Screech? Rant? Or would betrayed accusation fill her beautiful, trusting eyes?

  He couldn’t bear to hurt Katrina, so he kicked his ardor to the room’s farthest corner and commanded it to stay there.

  “Major Domont won’t be here for dinner. To Mama’s chagrin, the table will be uneven after all.”

  To Katrina’s chagrin as well.

  Settling her heels on the lushly carpeted floor once more, she sliced a sideways glance at the now-closed curtains. Though she valiantly hid her hurt, he recognized pain in her hushed tone, saw confusion in the less-than-vibrant gaze she turned on him.

  “I’m sure he has a valid reason.” Not unless he’d been abducted by highwaymen, pressed into service aboard a ship, or died, the mangy cur.

  “Yes, I suppose.” She conjured a cheerful smile. “Let’s start your lessons tonight, shall we?”

  So like her to put aside her worries and focus on someone else’s needs. Few people possessed such unselfishness, and even fewer within her social set.

  “I’ve asked that you be seated beside me, Nic. Observe what I do, and you will be fine.”