“Nicholas, huh?” he said, baring his teeth like a wolf. “Is that how you refer to him? Nicholas? A bit informal for an employee-employer relationship, don’t you think?”
Alarmed she had slipped, she cried, “There is no relationship, I swear! He asked me to come here, and I did. That’s all! I’d not have someone like him! You have no cause to be upset.”
“No? You dress like that and you think I won’t be upset? Every man in this place was staring at you, and there you are, on display like a common whore,” he ground out, his hand tightening on her breast. She didn’t even know how to make him let her go, and she swallowed against the bile rising at the back of her throat. “You decline my offer to buy out your debt, and then you come here with Wetherby? You dance with Campbell? If you’re going to play the part of a doxy, I’ll remind you, I’m the one who paid for you.”
She shook her head. “I only just met Mr. Campbell tonight. I know what I owe you. I swear there is nothing between Mr. Campbell and myself or between Mr. Wetherby and I. I swear.”
He thrust his hand up under her dress to cup her buttocks. Pulling her in to a painful kiss, he shoved his tongue in her mouth. She tried to wrench away, but his grasp on her was too tight. Gagging, desperate, unable to think of anything but escape, Lexie did the one thing she had left to her. She bit him.
He reeled from her, roaring. He raised his hand to strike her, but Lexie had lived with her father long enough to become accustomed to dodging blows, and she scampered out of his grasp. Her lips curling into a sneer as she tugged her gown back into place, she hissed, “Come toward me again, and I’ll scream. I’m sure my new friend the governor wouldn’t take kindly to you flogging me, regardless of our relationship.”
“I’ll tell them what you are to me,” he sneered.
“And I’ll tell them how it is that I came to be your fiancé. What do you think that will do to your political aspirations? You bought a wife. So go ahead, Mr. Buchanan, tell them,” she dared. Rage glittered in his eyes, but he remained tight-lipped and silent. Encouraged, Lexie leveled her voice and said, “If, however, you leave now, I’ll keep my silence and my virginity, and you can have both when we wed.”
He dabbed at his lip where she had bitten him. The door to the balcony opened, and someone stepped through, but Lexie didn’t take her eyes off Buchanan. Glancing in that direction, he turned back to her and kissed her on the cheek. “I don’t much care about your mouth, but you keep that virginity of yours. Or there will be hell to pay,” he whispered. She glared up at him, her lips pursed, but she held her tongue.
The smile he gave her was cold and reptilian, little more than the baring of teeth. He knew she’d say nothing. What could she say, anyway? That he attacked her? What would that do to her future? She didn’t exactly have the means to back out of their agreement, and her father had no way of procuring such funds. Abandoning her father to his fate in the poor house didn’t sit well either, no matter what he’d done to her. She’d already done that once.
Ashamed, she turned her face away and stared out into the dark.
“Good night, Miss Markland,” he said, his tone modulated into a polite, false formality.
“Mr. Buchanan.”
She waited until his footfalls sounded far away before finally turning her eyes to the men who had come onto the balcony. Nicholas held a drink in his hand and glared at Buchanan, and James stood behind him. James searched her face with his intelligent, thoughtful brown eyes, and Lexie had to cast her gaze to the ground for fear he would learn too much.
“What was that about?” Nicholas asked, glaring at Buchanan’s back.
Lexie smiled at Nicholas weakly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tears standing in her eyes, and shook her head, trying to convince him nothing had transpired between Buchanan and herself. She failed miserably. At her smile, Nicholas’s expression turned positively dark, and she suspected if she gave Nicholas any indication Buchanan had acted in a manner unbecoming, he would turn and challenge the man right here. James and Nicholas exchanged a glance. Something passed in the space between them, but Lexie had no idea what it was.
The one thing she knew for certain? Both men were well aware that something unpleasant had happened on the balcony tonight.
James turned his brandy-colored eyes to her and regarded her seriously, his eyes fixed on her face. “I’m not altogether convinced that was something so easily dismissed, Miss Markland.”
Nicholas put the drink down on the railing, touched her cheek, and tucked a curl back behind her ear. He held her at arm’s length for a moment, his eyes glittering with rage as he looked her over for...something. Evidence of a lurid encounter, maybe. She wasn’t entirely certain what he searched for as he studied the way her gown settled on her hips, the way it draped over her shoulders. He gave her dress a gentle tug, settling her bustle back into place, but a slightly askew bustle was easily explained away.
Cupping her face in his hands, his voice shaking with barely suppressed anger, Nicholas said, “If something happened, you can talk to me.”
So he hadn’t found whatever he’d been looking for. She wasn’t certain if she should be relieved or disappointed.
The lump formed in her throat as she looked up at his handsome, concerned face. He knew it wasn’t “nothing,” and she couldn’t tell him what had happened, no matter how much she wanted to. Too much depended on her silence. She would never tell him what had passed between Buchanan and her. What would he think of her if she told him about her engagement now? How little would he think of her, how diminished she would be in his estimation? She hated the thought of losing Nicholas’s esteem almost as much as she hated the thought of marrying Buchanan.
Turning her eyes to James, she asked, “Is this just punch or does it have a little something extra?”
James’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I do believe it’s got a little kick, yes.”
“Perfect,” she said, draining the glass and handing it back to James. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Campbell, I’d like another.”
James laughed. Glancing at Nicholas, he said pointedly, “I’ll see to her drink, if you’ll see to her person.”
“Indeed,” Nicholas replied. James regarded Nicholas for another moment, and again, something passed between the two men. Inclining his head, James turned and left.
See to her person. Now that’s a thought, Lexie thought wildly. She already felt a little foggy from all the wine and the punch from earlier. The idea of Nicholas seeing to her person should have galled her, but instead, it filled her with such anticipation her skin tingled and her stomach did a delighted little flop.
Turning to her, he reached out to touch her face, gazing upon her with an expression of such gentleness she turned from him and rested her hands on the balcony. She looked out at the grounds for a time, fireflies dancing around her in time to the music, and it soothed the anger of her soul. She was to be married to that brute of a man, and she couldn’t do a damn thing about it. She needed the money to settle her father’s debts, and Buchanan would never let her go.
Nicholas leaned on the balcony and looked out at the grounds with her. A glass of punch appeared next to her, but James came and went so surreptitiously she didn’t even notice the glass until she nearly knocked it off the railing. When Nicholas glanced at her, concerned, she winked at him and drained her glass, and then offered it to him, silently suggesting he get her another.
“I think you’ve had enough,” he answered. “I’ll only go get you more if you ask for it.”
She scowled at him and shook her head. He studied her for some time. Finally, he sighed and patted her on the hand. “As I suspected,” he said, a tinge of bitterness in his tone. “You won’t speak to me even to get something you want.”
She shook her head, knowing she hurt him but unable to do anything else. She wanted to speak, but if she did, she would cry, and she wasn’t about to let Nicholas witness that. Turning, she gazed out into the manicured gardens behind
the mansion. This night had been so beautiful—between the music, the men and women bedecked in all their finery, the magnificent food—and everything had all been ruined by an encounter with her fiancé. She didn’t need reminding of her of her obligation to him. It tainted every interaction she had with Nicholas. Not for the first time, she wished she had never made that blasted agreement.
Nicholas placed a gentle hand over hers and whispered, “If you ever need to talk about what happened, please, Lexie, talk to me.” She smiled faintly at the gentleness in his tone, the kindness of his words. Mrs. Ferguson was right about him: beneath the roguish exterior he had cultivated, Nicholas had a noble heart. When she turned to face him, he caressed her cheek. Holding out his hands to her, he asked, “Dance with me?”
She looked into the busy ballroom, but couldn’t bring herself to face all those people, didn’t want to go back where Buchanan might see her and become jealous all over again. Who knew what he’d do next time? She shook her head and motioned to the ballroom.
“We don’t have to go inside,” Nicholas said in a gentle voice, motioning for her to take his hands. “We can dance out here.”
The balcony seemed too small for such an action, but Lexie couldn’t resist the temptation. The music drifted out to them, but, out here, it was accompanied by the sound of chirping crickets. Rather than the brighter lights inside, they had the soft lighting of a few lanterns, the moon, and fireflies to guide them. And as she took his hands, and he pulled her into the warm circle of his arms, she knew, without a doubt, this was the most romantic moment of her entire life.
Nicholas held her close, and she felt safe and warm in his embrace. After a time, he gazed down at her, and he whispered, “Talk to me, Lexie. Please.”
She had to close her eyes against the force of his voice and what she heard there—passion, wanting, a longing intense and matching her own. It was such a simple thing he requested of her, but, given her encounter with Buchanan, so fraught with danger. She understood what he asked of her: tell him what Buchanan had done. But if she told him, he would confront Buchanan. Nicholas was the kind of man, who, though he lived by his own code, had an intact sense of honor. If he confronted her fiancé, given Buchanan’s temper, he would risk arrest or die for her. Neither was a viable option.
As his arms tightened around her, his intentions became clear. He was going to kiss her. And she wanted him to.
Lexie was just sober enough to realize that wasn’t a good idea. She put her hand against his chest to create distance, but he caught it in his and kissed the pads of her fingers through her satin gloves.
“Oh,” she breathed, her heart slamming against her ribs so powerfully she wondered vaguely if it might burst. Her skin, suddenly too tight, tingled where he touched her. She wanted to get closer to him, to feel the heat of his body against hers. She wanted to burn with the unique fire they created between them.
She’d be a fool to allow it.
She’d be a fool not to.
Desperate, torn between two conflicting desires, Lexie turned and fled.
Nicholas watched her go, her bright scarlet skirt swishing as she raced into the ballroom. She hadn’t spoken to him, but he hadn’t imagined the breathy, sexually-charged voice, the heaving of her bosom when he had kissed her fingers. He suspected she had run from him precisely because she wanted to relent, wanted to give into this thing brewing between them. He heard her passion in her voice, saw it in her actions, felt it in her touch. As for him, he was painfully aware of the effect that one simple sound had on him.
Taking a moment to still his own racing heart, he followed Lexie back into the ballroom.
By the time he returned to the room and located her, she was already dancing with someone else. Sighing, he stood by the wall to watch her. Of course it had only taken her a moment to find some eligible bachelor to take his place. He consoled himself with the idea she would be going home with him, and only him, and waited for his turn.
As the dance ended, Lexie extricated herself from her dance partner’s arms, and he caught her eye. She smiled and began moving toward him. Then he heard the hushed female voices, and something in their tones made Nicholas turn and pay attention.
“Do you know who that woman is?”
“No, but you saw who she arrived with.”
“And what is she wearing? Dressed like that, it’s no wonder all the men are paying such particular attention to her. Just another gold digger.”
The other woman laughed. “Harlot is more like it. Did you see with whom she spent her time? Our governor, George Wallingford? Nicholas Wetherby? Womanizers, the lot of them.”
Nicholas realized he had lost Lexie in the crowd, and hoped she hadn’t heard the vile women’s comments. Not for the first time tonight, he regretted his reputation, wished others thought him an honorable sort, wished he hadn’t been so consumed with taking his pleasures that he was worthy of a woman like Lexie. And when he caught sight of her, she had stopped short and blanched, her hand coming up and splaying across her chest, a futile attempt to cover her bosom. She’d heard. Damn the vile women. Every woman in this room was but a pale shadow when compared to her. He wanted to tell them so.
Clenching his jaw against the bright flash of anger surging in him, he approached her and took her by the elbow. He would never tell her that, in trying to cover herself, all she did was draw the eye, emphasizing the expanse of her creamy breasts against the bright scarlet of her gloves and her bodice. His breath caught in response to the beauty of her body—the soft, white flesh, the narrow waist, the gentle flare of her hips. He doubted he had ever seen such beauty.
Helen of Troy had nothing on Lexie.
He pulled his eyes up to her face and caught her eying him warily, her obsidian eyes glittering. It took him a moment to realize they were heavy with the weight of unshed tears, and he felt like a cad for paying more attention to her bosom than to her feelings.
Granted, he’d always paid more attention to a woman’s bosom than her feelings. That’s how he’d gotten his reputation in the first place.
“Don’t mind them, Lexie. You’re beautiful,” he whispered, studying her small, slightly round nose, the gently arching black brows, the large, round eyes. Everything about her was smooth and round—there was nothing sharp about her. Her softness made her irresistible. He reached out and stroked her cheek in front of everyone, and for a moment they may as well have been the only two people in the room. She surprised him by allowing it.
Lexie looked up at Nicholas. When she had first approached him, he had been staring at the very bosom so offensive to the women. Between the comments of the women and the appearance of her fiancé, Lexie wished she had never come. She didn’t belong here, among these people. These were people of culture, powerful men and the women who stood behind them. She was better suited to being Nicholas’s maid. At least she knew how to dress the part.
Then Nicholas called her lovely, and all her melancholy thoughts evaporated. No matter what the others thought of her, she was lovely to him, and the thought warmed her heart. When he stroked her cheek, his fingers warm against her skin, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.
A moment passed, then another, before she remembered where she was and stepped back. If Buchanan saw this intimacy swimming between them, in his anger, he would do something rash. She had witnessed his temper for the first time tonight. If he had been willing to accost her on the balcony as he had, steps away from powerful men where anyone could interrupt them, she had no idea what he would do in a more private setting. Tell Nicholas of their relationship, certainly; challenge Nicholas or beat her senseless, possibly. And if he told Nicholas of their relationship, Nicholas would see her for what she was. A whore. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t one, given that she had agreed to marry a man she didn’t care for in exchange for money. More than anything, she didn’t want Nicholas to think of her that way.
Nicholas stroked her elbow with a feather-light touch, dotting her arms
with gooseflesh. Softly, he said, “Don’t let them get the best of you. You’re better than they are. Dance with me once, show them they aren’t worth your pain, and then we’ll go.”
She frowned at him. She wanted to go home, crawl into her bed and pretend this night had never happened. Then she had to strike that—what she wanted was to go to Nicholas’s home, go up to his magnificent library and hide. Her own home held no draw for her. Glancing away from Nicholas, she found the women who had been so offended by her presence standing behind him. They regarded her with judgment in their eyes and sneers on their faces. She decided Nicholas was right. She might be just a maid, and maybe she didn’t know what to wear to such an occasion, but she didn’t deserve their disdain. They would not reduce her to a weeping coward. To hell with them, to hell with Buchanan. She was nobody’s whore—not his, not Nicholas’s, not anyone’s—and she’d dance with whomever she wanted until the day she married.
She flashed him her most winning smile and accepted his hands. If she ran away, ‘they’ won: Buchanan, the women who called her harlot, her father. No one would get the better of her. Those people might hurt her, but she would be damned if she let them see it.
They said nothing as they danced. In truth, the dance required regular partner changes, so they actually danced together for little more than a moment. But as Nicholas reclaimed her toward the end of the dance, he quirked a smile, and asked, “Feeling better?” And when she smiled up at him, her fingers grazing his arm, he said with a roguish grin, “No need to flirt with me, Lexie. You’ve had my full attention all evening.”
“Ha!” she burst out. She’d watched him flirt with other women. She rather doubted any woman could hold Nicholas’s attention for an entire evening. Then she scratched the thought. He may have flirted with other women, but his attention had always returned to her, measuring her reaction.
Perhaps, she really had had his attention all evening.
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