Malcolm motioned to Lady Celeste, a determined look on his face.
"My lord!" Nicola called after him, suddenly realizing her husband's intentions. He ignored her. Humiliated, she stepped back into her shop and began rearranging one of the displays, too edgy to watch.
Malcolm approached the Viscountess. He knew she feared him, as most people did, so when she held out a gloved hand and smiled he felt momentarily off-balance.
"Lord Falcon, how nice to see you."
He nodded, wondering if the woman were ill. "Have you been to my wife's salon?"
"I have, and I just bought one of her creations."
"Then, why aren't you wearing it?"
"So impatient, just like a man." She laughed, then tapped his arm.
He frowned. If he didn't know better, he would say she was teasing him.
She cocked her head. "I will be perfectly blunt with you, my lord, though you must promise to spare Nicola's feelings."
He studied her, surprised by her bravado.
She cupped her hand around her mouth to whisper, "I wouldn't be caught dead in the thing. I merely bought it to appease dear Nicola. She really is lovely and so very delightful that I'm afraid if she knew how lacking her hats are, her spirit would be crushed."
Malcolm adopted one of his worthier bullying techniques. "I tell you that you're dead wrong. Her hats are no different than ones I've seen in London."
"It's also just like a man to not notice the fashions."
She laid her gloved hand on his forearm and leaned close. "I've been thinking the problem over. You've got to gently direct her toward something else, something in which she can excel. Perhaps painting. She seems to have an excellent sense of color."
If he wasn't mistaken, the woman was advising him on what to do with his wife! No one ever counseled the Black Falcon as if he were a friend. The situation was so unexpected, so foreign, he didn't know what to do. "Madam, there's going to be a ball at the Viscount Hathaway's. I want to see you wearing your new hat."
"My lord, have you heard what I've said? It won't matter if I wear it. Good grief, it's a veritable junkyard! I thought I might be able to salvage something, but it's hopeless." She shook her head. "No, it will only make me a laughingstock at the ball and seal Nicola's demise as a woman who has a very indulgent husband. I would not want either of us to be an object of mockery. No, I won't do it."
He gave her a look that had made generals quake. "Have you forgotten that I know your husband's background?"
"I have not, my lord. And your fierce facade won't fool me anymore. I know all about your compassionate nature. But your secret is safe with me," she whispered and gave him a conspiratorial wink before waltzing toward her carriage.
Stunned, he stared as the town coach rumbled away. Frowning with confusion, he turned, barely aware of a wagon rumbling past as he crossed the street and stepped back into the salon.
"What's wrong, my lord?"
He scarcely noted Nicola's expression. "Lady Celeste was acting quite strange."
"In what manner?" She bit her lip.
Pacing, he sought words to describe the encounter. "She was... ah, that is, I don't quite know how to explain it."
"Try, my lord."
He looked up at the ceiling, flummoxed. "Er, she acted... flirtatious, but that's not really the word for it. She said something about me being compassionate, for God's sake. In short, she acted bloody friendly to me."
"Oh, my. That is strange. It must be quite distressing to have a person act agreeable. I wonder what has happened."
"I don't know, and I'm not certain I like it."
"Perhaps it's a passing thing. All will be normal in the morning."
"I most certainly hope so," he said, still scowling. He looked at Nicola and thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in her eyes, but then she turned to her hats and her expression clouded.
"So, did Lady Celeste tell you how much she loves her new hat?" With a bright expression, she turned toward him.
He halted in his pacing. What the devil was he supposed to say when nobody seemed to like her designs? "She loves your hats," he prevaricated. But why? Certainly not to spare her feelings. He had never worried about anyone's feelings—at least, not for several years. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time.
"Lady Celeste loves my hats?" his wife asked, surprised. "What did she like? The way I clustered the gears with the steel shavings?" She smiled then laughed, her relief obvious. "I wondered if the gears were too much, but now I realize how ingenious of me it was to think of it."
"Bloody hell, it wasn't the gears she liked," he muttered.
"It wasn't? She didn't like the gears?" Her lower lip trembled, and his heart lodged somewhere in his stomach.
"She marveled at your choice in... color," he blurted, then admonished himself. Better to tell her the truth, so she could get used to the idea and focus her energies on something else.
"So she liked the flowers." She clapped her hands enthusiastically. "Wonderful news, my lord. I'll make more of them right away." Tapping her chin, she cocked her head. "Perhaps I'll put a variety of small toothed cogs on the next hat instead of flat gears." She bustled toward her workroom and pulled out an array of ribbons and flowers.
He trapped her busy hands in his own. "Stop."
"What?" Her look was so bewildered he felt lost. What was it about her that made him feel like an addlepated fool? Why did he feel so off-balanced when he was around her?
"It's time," he declared. Time to say her hobby was a fiasco.
"Time?"
He drew her close, savoring the womanly scent of her. She continued looking at him with wonder and curiosity mixed with dread. Such lively, fascinating eyes. God, how could so much energy and light be bottled up in one woman? He couldn't crush her enthusiasm. But he must.
"My lord? Time for what?"
Her perky breasts entranced him as much as the bright aura that surrounded her. He backed her against the table, throwing caution toward the iridescent cloud from which she had surely floated down to earth. "For making babes."
Chapter 15
Nicola had been prepared for a denunciation of her talent. Instead, Malcolm backed her against the table, lifted her upon the flat surface and kissed her.
All memory of her disastrous day disappeared as she felt his tongue in her mouth and his hands in her hair. The tinny clink of hairpins sounded on the table. Malcolm tasted wild and dark and incredibly rich.
He nuzzled her neck, his hot breath causing shivers of excitement. Then those wicked lips traveled lower, over the muslin of her bodice and to her heart, beating as fast as pixie wings. The heat of his breath permeating the fabric was more erotic than if he kissed her skin. He continued then, moving lower, unerringly finding her hard nipple and gently biting it through the cloth. Cool air hit her thighs, and she realized he'd hiked up her skirts. Then his strong hands moved up her legs to the very heart of her.
"Oh!" she cried, startled. She tried to draw her legs together, but his hips were in the way.
"Shhh. It's all right. Last night you wanted to know if there was more, and you were right. There is."
He stroked her. The sensations were so acute, she almost jumped off the table.
His growl sounded feral, reverberated down her spine. "You are so very wet."
She was, she realized. Everything melted as he explored the delicate folds of her femininity. Magic, pure and wonderful, swept her off the ground until she was flying as high as any faery creature.
Experimentally she wiggled her hips against his hand and he groaned, the sound almost agony. Then he entered her with his finger. "This is where I'll plant my seed to create my heir."
"Oh yes," she responded, desire making her giddy. Her legs were spread quite wide of their own volition. She wanted more. A large bulge strained against the front of his trousers. "You'll need to take those off. We need that special ingredient from you. Your seed."
She reached forward, but her ha
nd tangled in the ribbon of one of her more difficult creations. "Cogs!" She held up the flattened hat, bits of starfish crumbling off her palms. "Oh, well. Perhaps Glissando was right. I'm not good at making hats. My destiny is to spend time with you now, making babes."
His eyes widened and he stepped back. Nicola felt his withdrawal as keen as a slap.
"What's wrong?" She knew he wanted her. She could see the evidence straining against his pants. Why wouldn't he accept what his body craved? Why didn't he accept her?
"You're still not ready for lovemaking."
"What? My crescendo?" she asked, feeling bewildered.
He ran a hand through his dark hair. "Damnation."
She arranged her skirts to cover her legs again, feeling like a fledgling who had been pushed out of the nest but didn't know up from down. "I thought you said I was... um, wet. Isn't that enough?"
"Blast." He cleared his throat and ran a finger under his cravat. "Unfortunately, Nicola, we need to wait longer. And I need to get back to the dye house." He strode out of the shop, his walk uncharacteristically jerky.
She looked after him for a long time. Something dark and poisonous was buried inside her husband. Perhaps he would never truly accept her.
But then she recalled his expression. She wouldn't have believed it, but the Black Falcon could blush. And that small evidence of vulnerability gave her hope.
"I'm telling you, Bea, the Black Falcon is mindlessly in love. There's no other explanation for his tolerance of her hat making."
Nicola froze in her stooped position behind Mr. Farrier's display of shoes.
Another woman clucked her tongue. "I cannot see him smitten. Perhaps there's another reason. We knew him as a boy, and he was always a manipulator. There's got to be some ulterior motive. He can't be in love—at least not the kind of love we know. A man who could kill his brother for a title..."
A rooster gave a little crow and landed on the floor next to Nicola.
"Come here, Gladys," the first woman said. Amazingly enough, the rooster obeyed. "But legend says that the Callers can tame even the most dangerous of beasts."
The second voice sounded nearer. "It's true, Nicola's hats are horrendous. Although, like her father, she does seem to have a sense of color."
Nicola had hoped they wouldn't see her behind the desk, but she realized she would have to put a stop to their gossip. Besides, she'd decided two days ago, on her opening day, that the millinery was all wrong for her. She would face her critics head-on.
"Thank you, ladies, for enlightening me," she said, standing up.
Both women jumped. The rooster squawked. Nicola was amused to see the gossips' faces turn the color of the comb on the rooster. The fat one wore all green. Her skinny friend wore all yellow. The green one recovered first. "Oh, my dear, we didn't know you were here. We're so, so sorry for our thoughtless comments."
Both women appeared about to cry. In fact, the second let out a pitiful wail. Nicola gave them her most pleasant smile. "That's quite all right, ladies."
The first woman's pudgy lips wobbled, then she rubbed her large stomach as if to give comfort to herself. It was an oddly familiar motion. "Lady Nicola, you know we have your best interests at heart."
"Rest assured, I do. And I've wanted a straight answer. However, everyone is worried about my feelings, including my husband."
The fat woman looked at her skinny friend significantly.
The skinny one named Bea widened her small eyes. "Are you serious? Your husband is worried about your feelings?"
Nicola realized she was serious. Malcolm was protecting her, and he'd gone to great lengths to keep her distracted from her failure. She still burned when she recalled how he'd touched her. Why had he when he'd announced the night before that they would wait a fortnight? The only reason was because he wanted to comfort her. The thought warmed her—increased her hope for their future. The elderly women looked at each other, nodding. The one with spiked hair adjusted the rooster under her arm. "Lady Nicola, I'm ashamed to say that we were gossiping about you in the cloth shop a few days ago. The Black—er, Lord Falconwood heard our opinions of your shop. It's true. The pixies have worked their magic on him, and he's beginning to fall in love with you."
"I don't know about that, but I do know he is terribly misunderstood."
"He is?" the spiked-haired woman exclaimed. "In what way?"
"I think he's been blamed for everything, even as a boy. The old Earl always favored his older son, William, you know."
The rooster and its owner cocked their heads at the same time. "That is true."
Nicola nodded. "It's understandable that the villagers around here always thought Malcolm killed his brother. Why, even his own father accused him, going berserk in his grief after the accident."
The pair glanced at each other with a frown, then smiled politely at Nicola. Clearly, they weren't convinced.
Nicola shook her head. "Malcolm was horrified by the accident. He was definitely in mourning—and still is, for that matter."
The roosterless woman patted Nicola's arm. "If you say so, dear."
"I do say so," she responded. "How could you cast stones so easily at him?"
Mrs. Spiked-Hair knitted her brows. "But I was present when the old Earl questioned the boys. The Black Falcon said he did it."
"He was forever protecting his brother," Nicola explained. She watched the two women mull that over.
Doubt still clouded the women's eyes, but Nicola could tell that they were wavering. She decided to add more color to the mixture. "And now Malcolm defends the stockingers."
The woman with the rooster stared at her. "What do you mean?"
"My cousin can be quite reckless. Let me just say that Malcolm saved him from deportation by risking his own life."
"He did?"
"Yes. Several weeks ago, shortly after the Earl's return to Windmere, Ramsey was attempting to smash a loom, and the militia was closing in." It was a fib, but not too far from the truth. "Don't ask me how Malcolm knew Ramsey was there, but he arrived like a dark savior. Malcolm warned Ramsey, and together they jumped through the window and onto their horses." Her imagination just kept getting better and better, Nicola decided.
"What happened next?" the thinner woman whispered, her eyes wide.
Nicola didn't know from where the urge came, but she realized that each time she fibbed, she added something more outrageously heroic to the tale. "Well, the militia spotted them and the chase was on. The night was a misty one and the woods dangerous." She paused for effect. "Malcolm knew the militia was closing in. He told Ramsey to grab a branch and hide in the tree. Malcolm planned to lead them away."
"Very clever of him," the fat woman said approvingly. "But what about poor Falcon?" the other asked.
"It was bad, dangerous work indeed." Why Nicola continued to elaborate more and more on that disastrous meeting in the workhouse, she didn't know. But she couldn't stop herself. "The militia began shooting their guns."
"Oh, my," came the reply, breathlessly. "This legend is becoming better and better."
"As good as any of the legends of Lumière," the fat one agreed. "Go on, tell us more."
"Well," Nicola said, "he managed to cross the creek and lose them there. The water threw the scent of the hounds. Oh, did I forget to mention the militia had hounds with them?"
"What a heroic man!" The thinner woman clutched the collar of her bodice.
The rooster owner gazed at Nicola with wide eyes.
"Imagine the courage it took for the Black Falcon to do that for practically a stranger. He must be totally committed to helping the stockingers."
Nicola was already nodding even as she marveled at her own storytelling. "He certainly is. He plans to talk to Parliament on their behalf."
"Oh, my," the second woman said again.
Its owner fiddled nervously with the comb on the rooster's head. "I feel quite guilty for misjudging the Black Falcon like that. But how were we to know?"
The woman sniffed, eyes a little teary. "Well, he must let his deeds be known."
Hands on hips, Nicola raised her brows. "And how is possible that when people don't recognize good deeds when they see them?"
Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles) Page 20