Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  "I'm all packed, my lord."

  "Good." He pivoted on his toe.

  "Oh, take this out with you, please." She thrust a small bottle at him and he took it. "I just got some new medicine from the apothecary and Tommy's father will be waiting for it at the shop. Since you're going by there, I thought you could take it to him."

  He cupped her chin with his free hand. "You're manipulating me, Nicola, and I don't like it."

  She rubbed her cheek against his palm. "Don't worry, my lord. Everything will be all right." She gifted him with a tender smile that left him dim-witted.

  As he left the workshop, he fought the sensation of being cornered, of losing control. He didn't want people to expect anything out of him. Better to be a devil personified where no one expected anything but misfortune than to be mistaken as a saint with everyone expecting something wonderful. Bloody hell, he didn't like it. He damn well might disappoint someone. And why that should bother him was curious in itself. He realized it was because of whom he was afraid to disappoint. That someone was Nicola.

  Chapter 18

  The Duke of Clarence eyed Malcolm. "Society believes you married for the dye, but I know better."

  "Excuse me, Your Grace?" Malcolm inquired politely, turning his attention from the throng of dancers on the ballroom floor of Granger Estates. Because Malcolm and his brother, William, had spent a summer in Scotland with the royal heirs when they'd been boys, the Duke obviously felt he could claim familiarity. However, Malcolm had since then experienced too much, seen too much of the world. The boy of that distant summer had died long ago, his innocence and his happiness. A wistful sensation close to sentiment stabbed him, but Malcolm dismissed it.

  The Duke laughed and swirled his brandy. "Come, come. I know for a fact that if the Black Falcon truly wanted the dye he would have set up a deal nobody could refuse, or else he would have simply stolen the formula."

  "I assure you, Your Grace, my husband would never steal. Malcolm is an honorable man, above reproach," Nicola spoke up, her green eyes flashing.

  Malcolm swiveled his head to witness her scowl. She appeared almost angry. For his sake? Why, she was defending him. He stared at her, surprised. Her fierce protectiveness made him swallow back painful gratitude.

  "Upon my honor," Clarence exclaimed. "All that?"

  Malcolm wondered how far his wife would go. Not that he wanted or expected any more defenses from her. "Perhaps I didn't want the dye at all," he said. He gave Nicola a look that caused a blush to rise to her cheeks.

  "So you are saying you like the arrangement, eh? Very nice," The Duke eyed Nicola with a speculative twinkle.

  Lady Charlotte, the Duke's latest mistress, let out a gusty sigh. "What did I tell you, Frederick, my dear?" She was dressed in a white frothy gown of French gauze. As she turned and bent to give the Duke a peck on the cheek, the gauze opened to reveal a pink silk petticoat. Although the curvaceous woman drew envious stares from other female guests and gazes of appreciation from the men, Malcolm wasn't impressed. She paled in comparison to Nicola.

  "I knew it would be to our benefit to meet this refreshing young woman, and to see how she threw pixie dust on the fierce Falcon," the woman said.

  "Pixie dust?" Falcon scowled, suddenly alarmed. "Why do you use that phrase?"

  Nicola's eyes widened. "Yes, that is a rather unusual thing to say."

  "I don't know..." For a moment, the self-assured Charlotte seemed to falter, then stared at the huge chandelier hanging over the ballroom and said, "A strange dream overcame me one night."

  "A dream?" Nicola asked, following Charlotte's gaze. She froze. "Oh, my," she whispered.

  Malcolm looked at the chandelier and, seeing nothing, wondered if there was something about Nicola that elicited strange phenomena. "Don't tell me you are both delusional."

  "What?" Charlotte exclaimed, seeming to shake herself out of her reverie. "Oh, dear, I must have eaten something that has made me restless. In my sleep, someone sang odes to Lady Nicola's beauty and wit. Anyway, I awakened with the greatest urge to meet you, so I insisted that Clarence include you on the invitation. No offense, but upon reflection I wish I had dreamed about Falcon, instead." She gave Malcolm a look filled with appreciation.

  Clarence ran a pudgy finger down her bare arm. "Bestow your charms up on me, Charlotte, my sweet, and don't waste them on Malcolm. He is too besotted with his wife to appreciate you."

  Malcolm started. Was his preoccupation with Nicola so obvious? Bloody hell, he hoped not. He resisted frowning. Instead he nodded to Clarence, then turned to look at the opulent ballroom. Granger Estate, located just a few miles from London, was one of many obscure places at which the Duke entertained.

  Although Malcolm tried to get Nicola out of his mind, her presence by his side caressed him. The scent of oranges drifted from her, tangy and sweet, sent freshness into his dank soul. As moodiness shifted over him, he surveyed the guests. He wanted these people to fear him. He needed to hide behind their fluttering hearts, because he didn't want anyone to see his true character—that of a jealous younger brother who had coveted a title, and who feared hell. The sunshine that radiated from Nicola might reveal the hideousness of his decayed soul. Not only that, but he didn't deserve friendships or camaraderie from anyone—not after what happened to his brother.

  A statuesque woman appeared from the crowd. Lady Teresa, William's widow, Malcolm realized. He had wondered if she was in town—had dreaded the meeting. The sight of her brought back all those agonizing days of watching William die, her accusations. Now, he waited for the prick of remorse to stab him, waited for the gut-wrenching agony that had ripped him apart those days when his brother lay in unnatural sleep, those three agonizing days before his father exiled him to India. The emotions never arose, buried too deep in the thick layers of ice.

  Teresa ignored him as she approached. "Excuse me, Your Grace. I couldn't help but overhear. Is this the new Countess of Falconwood?"

  "It is," Malcolm answered. "May I introduce my wife, Lady Nicola? This is Lady Teresa, Countess of Wendleton." Malcolm studied her, the woman who had swept his brother off his feet. After ten years, she hadn't changed. She was still beautiful, with raven-black hair and white-as-snow skin.

  "Is it true what I hear, that you are being so crude as to discuss business with the Duke?" Teresa threw him a mocking smile.

  She was trying to embarrass him, put him in his place. She still held him responsible for William's death. Which, of course, he was. Another cold layer of ice encased him.

  Nicola looked confused and stared at Teresa. Then she smiled. "You were married to my husband's brother?"

  "Yes, although I've been a widow much longer than I was a wife." Teresa's lips thinned and she glared at Malcolm. "Your plans backfired, did they not, when your father didn't die as quickly as your brother?"

  He decided he was wrong. Teresa had changed. Small creases fanned out from her dark eyes, signifying aging and something else that made him uneasy. Years of grief had etched lines around her mouth, her forehead. But he didn't want to think how he had caused that anguish. "I heard that you remarried before you were out of mourning. Wakefield, wasn't it? He died, too, within a two-year period."

  Jerking her head as if slapped, she stepped back. Relentlessly, he continued. "Then there was the Viscount Sagely, who also perished. Your husbands all die early deaths. No wonder you're not married now."

  Her eyes darkened. "And what about you? Coward that you are, you merely waited like a vulture in India before your return to England to claim the title and the lands."

  Nicola, damn her goodness, stepped between them. "William's death was a tragic accident that affected everyone—most of all the ones who loved him. And he was widely loved," she stated firmly.

  Teresa's attention remained fixed on Malcolm. "Yes, most loved him. But others were murderously jealous."

  Malcolm glared at her. "Haven't you learned by now not to prod an animal? You might get bitten."

&nbs
p; Teresa lifted her chin defiantly. "Taking William from me was the worst you could do. You can't hurt me anymore."

  "Oh? I know what you do every Thursday night."

  "You... you...?"

  Oh yes. He knew. When he'd first arrived from India, he'd had Gaspar follow her to discover her secrets because he knew she would be dangerous and hostile to him. Now, as he watched her turn as white as the plaster figurine of Venus behind her, he should have been pleased by his forethought. But all he could feel was a yawning emptiness.

  Teresa gave a jerky nod. "I must check on my aunt. It was a pleasure meeting you," she said to Nicola, then stared in horror at Malcolm before scurrying away.

  Clarence whistled, then turned to Nicola. "See what I mean about your husband? What the devil do you know that has Lady Teresa scurrying away like that?" he asked Malcolm, lifting his shaggy brows.

  "Believe me, Your Grace, you don't want to know." Malcolm gave the Duke a hollow smile. "Now, can we discuss the subject of changing the uniform of the King's army?" He was aware of how Nicola hovered, her brow puckered in worry. Why would she be concerned? Did she think to protect him in some way?

  He almost laughed, but held the sound in check because, with horror, he sensed it would come out as a sob. The wound of William's death was reopened, and he suddenly feared that she could see. If she discerned the gangrene in his soul, she might try to heal it. And there was no hope of doctoring such festering gashes.

  Clarence shook his head. "You are an eccentric man, Malcolm. I always knew that about you. Nobody comes to a ball to dicker for a contract."

  Malcolm forced his mind back to business. "And few invite a gentleman who is openly in trade."

  The Duke smiled. "You entertain us, Falcon."

  "I aim to please."

  Clarence laughed. "And Napoleon is a man of peace." With a pointed look, he used the jibe to direct the subject back to his purpose. "Speaking of Napoleon …"

  "The color is brighter than past uniforms," Clarence murmured.

  "However, you must admit the Clockwork Blue is rich." Nicola motioned to her new ball gown, drenched with the color. No pearls or diamonds decorated her bodice. She hadn't wanted to detract from the shade.

  The Duke looked at her skirts. "Perhaps too rich."

  "Not too rich for the 47th Regiment," Malcolm said. The Duke was partial to that special fighting force.

  "True," the Duke murmured. He fingered his cravat, his eyes narrowed. "They deserve to stand apart from the others. But I guarantee you one thing."

  "What is that, Your Grace?" Malcolm inquired.

  "The 47th Regiment could never display their uniforms in such a pretty manner." The Duke stared at Nicola's low neckline. The mounds of her breasts rose above the cloth—golden skin so soft and creamy that Malcolm was struck with yearning. He wanted to wrap her in his waistcoat, to hide her from the attention she was getting. Why it should bother him, he didn't know. Her attire was in vogue, not much different from all the other women at the soiree. But somehow the other swooping necklines didn't affect him in the manner that Nicola's did.

  He managed a strained smile, ignoring the sudden tightness in his breeches, hoping nobody else noticed his reaction. "If you would enlist women in the wars, I think they could distract the enemy into forgetting what they wanted to fight about in the first place."

  The Duke chuckled, then fondled his cravat, his expression thoughtful. "I believe you're on to something, my man. All right, Falcon, we'll use your dye. I think it will buoy our soldiers' spirits."

  Deep satisfaction swept over Malcolm, and he discovered himself glancing at Nicola, wanting to see her reaction. The warmth of her brilliant smile radiated to the bottom of his Hessians. Damnation, but he was attracted to her—fiercely so. But the appeal was all wrong. Couldn't she see that he was bad for her, that he could be her downfall, her destruction, her demise? Everyone else saw it. He thought of the day of the accident, when William had fallen. His father had recognized the evilness in his soul. Why couldn't Nicola see it? Like a moth, she would flutter into the fiery evil of him and die. Suffocation engulfed him, pressing down so hard that he knew he had to escape.

  "If you will excuse me," he murmured. "I must leave, my dear."

  "What?" Nicola looked at him, her eyes wide.

  Although it was difficult, damned difficult, he resisted that look of vulnerability. "Lady Celeste will make certain you arrive at the town house safely."

  Ignoring the quiver of her lower lip, he bowed to the Duke and murmured appreciation for the business arrangement.

  Clarence clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll send my man of affairs around to you in a few days to work out the details."

  "I shall expect him."

  Nicola smiled brightly at their host. "I, too, must be leaving, Your Grace. Your soiree was quite lovely; but …" She glanced demurely at Malcolm. "My husband and I retire early every night. You know how newly married couples are."

  The Duke gave a bawdy laugh. "Indeed I do, Lady Nicola. Go on, Falcon. Take your bride home." And with that, he gave Malcolm a hearty slap on the back.

  She'd crossed Malcolm, and he obviously wasn't used to being defied. Well, too bad. Nicola gritted her teeth, determined to keep him near her because that was the only way to chip away the frosty indifference he tried to maintain. There was fire under that block of ice—a heat she was very close to revealing. And she wasn't about to let him run from her again, a warning she hoped to imply with the innocent fluttering of her lashes.

  Clarence sighed. "I envy you, Falcon. Not many gentlemen can claim such luck when they wed."

  "Yes, Your Grace." Malcolm took Nicola by the arm and escorted her out of the ballroom. At the front entrance, they stepped outside and hailed the coachman. His grip wasn't harsh, but she could feel the way Malcolm's fingers trembled as if he were restraining himself. For the first time, a frisson of doubt flitted through her. Had she pushed too far? Would she be able to survive the furnace of emotions that would erupt once they were alone?

  As he handed her up into the town coach, she braced herself for his anger. The dark interior encompassed her, then he lowered himself onto the squabs next to her before the coach jerked into motion. She couldn't read his expression, but she could see the brief glitter of his eyes as they passed a gaslight. "Isn't that amazing that the Duke can have modem lights out here in the country? And to live so close to London that he can throw such a nice ball. I think it's marvelous."

  "Nicola."

  "What do you know about Lady Teresa that sent her scurrying away?"

  "She goes to Madam Electra's on a regular basis."

  "You mean the mesmerizer who communicates with the dead?"

  "Yes. You are trying to distract me."

  "From what?"

  "From your actions just now. You deliberately defied me. You refuse to learn your place."

  Like everything else, she decided to meet his fury head- on. "Just where is my place?"

  Anger rolled in waves from him. "Not in this carriage with me. Madam, you haven't learned when to stop pushing yourself on me."

  To be unwanted: It was the worst situation Nicola could dream of in marriage. For her husband to resent her insistence to be with him made her throat ache with unshed tears. Following on the heels of humiliation came anger, righteous anger. "You're good at business deals, my lord, yet you fail to fulfill the contract you have with me, something I should have warned the Duke against. The matter of making babes, remember?" she added when he gave her a blank stare.

  For a moment he was quite still. A cloud covered the moon, throwing the coach into inky darkness, causing the tension in him to intensify. "Bloody hell, woman, you are a hazard to yourself. Don't you know the danger of taunting me when I'm in this black mood? Instead of baiting me with demands for conjugal rights, you should realize how insane it was to go against my wishes."

  "Your wishes?"

  "Yes. I don't wish to become enamored with you."

  She
had to fight the overwhelming pain his comment caused. Did he even know what he wanted? His actions contradicted his words. Those times he'd kissed her, touched her intimately, weren't actions of a man who didn't want love. In fact, those very acts, the manner in which he had to fight her, his very anger right this minute spoke of deep feelings for her—deep enough that he had to fight to keep his desire in control. Damnation, she was going to break that control, because she was going to get what she wished for in life, and he would soon realize he wished for it, too.

  Love.

  Her hand balled into a fist, and she decided to fight. "On the contrary, my lord."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I beg to differ, but you don't know your wishes at all. Or your fate. You see, you're part of a legacy of magical pixies who have determined your destiny. And even if you don't know it, your ultimate destiny is to fall in love with me."