It would also be dishonorable and cowardly. If he couldn’t keep her by his own merit, then he didn’t deserve her.
He already knew he didn’t deserve her. That didn’t stop him from wanting her.
Gad, what a tangle!
He dragged both hands through his hair. He needed to talk to her. She would set him straight.
He would talk to her, and she would send him packing. God knew he couldn’t do it himself.
* * *
Two hours later, Nick had bathed, eaten, and dressed. He had spent nearly half of that time deciding on what to wear. He had destroyed ten cravats before he had called in his valet. Then he had argued with the man about whether he should wear the embroidered waistcoat or the damask one. Blue or gold with blue stitching? High-collared or with wide lapels?
In the end, he had worn the high-collared golden silk waistcoat with blue embroidery, a snowy white cravat with a sapphire pin, and a dark blue coat with tan trousers. And still, he wasn’t completely satisfied, but it was as close as he was going to get.
Now he stood on the steps of Lady Dumonte’s residence, and it seemed the steps were as far as he was going to get.
“Lady Dumonte is not at home.” The butler stood stoically, eying him in the doorway.
Nick, on the other hand, looked decidedly surprised. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been turned away. “Very well. When will she be able to receive me?”
“She will not be at home until next week.”
“Is she aware I leave for England in three days?” Nick asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
Nick’s jaw tightened as understanding dawned. “She doesn’t want to see me?”
The butler dipped his chin solemnly.
Nick nodded. “I see.”
She had sent him packing, as he had known she would, but he hadn’t expected such a cold sendoff. He couldn’t decide if he was disappointed because he found it cowardly or because he desperately wanted the chance to proposition her. That alone must mean she had made the right decision.
He turned back to his carriage, making a conscious effort not to look back.
She was right. They should have nothing further to do with each other. She only made him desperately wish for a life he had sworn he would never have, and he obviously brought out the worst in her. Or, at least that was how she would see it.
He had spent every moment he had with her purposefully cracking her cool façade and bringing out the fire she had hid inside. Lady Dumonte was an icy façade hiding the real Céleste—passionate and warm.
Idiot. He never would have fallen in love with her if he had not forced her to reveal herself to him. Now he would have to forget her.
Or try, at any rate.
A few minutes later, his carriage was rolling to a stop once again. This time, Nick knew he would not be left out on the stoop.
He was shown inside to a tastefully appointed parlor with soft green walls accented by golden plumes, floral furnishings, and a large rug over the dark mahogany floor.
Tea and cakes arrived seconds before the duke, who seemed to be in remarkably good humor today. Generally, Nick knew the man to be pleasant and mild—never cold, yet too aristocratic to show anything more than faint amusement.
But no, his smile wasn’t any wider than usual, nor was he whistling, humming, or dancing his way into the room. He simply looked… happy.
“I hope I have not kept you waiting too long, Pembridge,” Béarn said as he took a seat opposite Nick.
“Not at all.” Nick worked to pinpoint what it was about Béarn that had changed as he leaned toward the table between them for a piece of lemon cake.
“I was rather busy going over my accounts.” Béarn fixed an assessing gaze on Nick before continuing, “Why is it there are dilapidated heaps of rubbish in my name, Pembridge?”
Nick cleared his throat and forced the lemon cake down. “Yes, I meant to tell you about those.”
“Oh, had you?” Béarn asked.
“Well, no,” Nick admitted with a crooked smile. “That is, I meant to take care of them before you found out. I got distracted.”
Béarn nodded. “I thought as much. You almost succeeded.”
Had he?
“That’s strange, don’t you think?”
“Strange?” Béarn repeated, puzzled. “No. I rarely view all of my properties at once.”
“Then I am at a loss on two accounts,” Nick said. “If anything, I should have expected to be found out while you were cooped up in your home, recovering with nothing better to do than pore over accounts you rarely touch. Instead, you waited until today when you could have been doing all manner of other enjoyable activities.”
Béarn smiled. “I suppose we were both distracted, then. I admit I would not have put myself through the frustration had circumstances not required it.”
What circumstances could possibly require a thorough review of accounts?
The words were on the tip of Nick’s tongue when realization came crashing in. Gad, he had been thick lately. What else would explain Béarn’s need to know the status of his properties? Béarn was getting married.
It was also the reason Céleste had refused to see Nick.
This shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Had he not known from the beginning Béarn was planning to marry Céleste? Had not all of Paris expected it?
Then why did it feel like an anvil had just fallen on his chest?
Nick swallowed the nausea building in his throat and smiled. “I take it congratulations are in order, then?”
“Indeed. Thank you.” Béarn smiled.
“It’s good to see you happy,” he said, hiding his bitterness behind a teacup as he forced the hot liquid down his throat. He only barely kept himself from mentioning the duke would be happier with Juliette. Still, Béarn did look happy.
“It’s good to see you alive,” Béarn returned. “We were worried about you.”
We? Béarn and Céleste were we now?
Nick gave himself a mental shake. It was time for him to get hold of himself. Céleste was probably as happy as Béarn, who was apparently not as in love with Juliette as Nick had thought, but it didn’t matter. They were happy.
There was no reason for Nick to be melancholy. He was never melancholy. He needed to focus on the reason he was here.
“I heard you came by while I was…” Nick paused. “I am not sure what I was. Not sick, I suppose.”
“Knocked on your derrière is what you were,” Béarn supplied.
Nick chuckled. “I suppose I was that.”
“Emphatically.”
“I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve friends who worry about my emphatically felled derrière,” Nick drawled, mischief glinting in his blue eyes. “But since you are one such friend, I shall have to ask a favor of you.”
Béarn eyed him suspiciously. “What have you done to me?”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Nick mused with mock disappointment. “I merely wish you to be happy, my dutiful fellow. Life is worthless if one cannot enjoy it.”
“Are you so concerned with my happiness?” Béarn asked, raising an amused brow.
“Indubitably,” Nick said. “I promise you, nothing means more to me than the happiness of you and your bride.”
Béarn grinned. “Thank you. I can assure you we shall both be immeasurably happy. I hope you find happiness, as well, mon ami.”
“Of course.” With a knotted stomach, Nick left. It was time for him to go home.
* * *
From the window, Céleste watched the street below as Nick returned to his carriage. Not once did he look back. He didn’t even try to force his way inside or call up to her from the street.
What had she expected? It wasn’t as though he loved her. In fact, she should act the same way toward him. She was Lady Dumonte, and he was a scoundrel. They were enemies.
He was right to leave her the same as every other man she had ever depended on, ever loved.
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“Is he challenging the butler to a duel or scaling the wall to reach you?” Juliette’s voice floated from the sofa.
“Of course not,” Céleste answered tightly. “He is leaving like any rational gentleman.”
Céleste heard the rustle of silk, and a moment later, Juliette was gazing out the window beside her.
She harrumphed disappointedly with her hands on her hips. “I had judged him to be a better man than that.”
Céleste forced herself to turn away from the window. “He acted as any civilized gentleman would.”
“Not as any smitten gentleman would.”
“He isn’t smitten, Juliette,” Céleste said for the third time that day. “He is simply a scoundrel, and now he is moving on to the next conquest.”
Juliette’s fair brow knit. “But the way he looked at you… I could have sworn…”
Céleste took a deep breath and started for the settee. She might have thought so, too, at times, but she had obviously been mistaken.
“Come, Juliette. We have a wedding to plan.”
It had been a wonderful shock when Céleste had returned to Paris to hear of Juliette’s engagement. It was a perfect fairy tale. Juliette had stolen the heart of her prince, and they would live happily ever after.
She swallowed the lump forming in her throat as Juliette hurried back to the settee.
“Yes, we do!” Juliette grinned. “Oh, Céleste, I wish you could be as happy as I am right now.”
“You forget I was married before,” Céleste said, opening a bridal catalog. “Now it is your turn for happiness, and Béarn will make you exceedingly happy. He will strive for it.”
Céleste ignored the pulling on her heart that told her she had never been as happy as Juliette was at that moment, that she had never allowed herself to feel such happiness. She doubted she was even capable. The closest she had come were those few moments in Nick’s arms.
She cleared her throat and made herself focus on the task at hand.
She turned the pages of the catalog and pointed to a page she had previously marked with a slender ribbon. “What do you think of this one?”
It was a wedding gown of white satin and lace with pale pink silk cinching the waist and lining the hem, puffed sleeves, and full skirts. It was a brilliant creation by Céleste’s own modiste.
Juliette’s eyes widened. “I could never ask Béarn to spend so much on a gown I shall only wear once, Céleste.”
Céleste raised a brow at her friend. “Do you not like it?”
“Of course I do, but—”
“Consider it a wedding present, then,” Céleste said with a satisfied smile. She tilted her head as she examined the drawing. “Well worth the price, I think.”
A second later, Céleste was captured in slender arms and crushed while Juliette laughed and cried into her favorite morning gown.
Céleste didn’t mind one bit.
Several hours later, Céleste lay in her bed, tears glistening her eyes as the loneliness edged in. She hugged her arms around herself, staring at the canopy overhead.
“Oh, Pierre,” she whispered into the darkness, her voice choked with emotion. “I was so foolish.” She laughed, an airy, desperate sound. “I know you would have wanted me to find happiness and love with another, but I have ruined it. I have fallen for the wrong man.”
Silence.
How she wished for one more conversation, one more bit of advice.
“It’s just that… I didn’t know. How could I have known it could be like this? The passion, the feverish need. It is otherworldly.” She sniffled, hot tears rolling down her face. “I loved you, Pierre, but what I feel for Nick is… Well, it is wicked. It is beautiful. It is heavenly and sinful.” She choked back a sob. “It’s over. Oh, Pierre, what am I to do? How am I to survive another loss?”
Céleste turned over, buried her face in her pillow, and sobbed until her world fell into the darkness of slumber. Not the calm, peaceful slumber that she had known before the handsome Englishman had waltzed into her ballroom, but a tumultuous, chaotic beast of a slumber that had her tossing, and muttering, and crying out in her sleep.
Chapter 14
Nick stood on deck, watching Calais disappear into the distance. In a matter of hours, he would be back in England. Tomorrow, he would arrive in London. No more skulking in dark alleys, fighting fisticuffs with hulking criminals, or worrying about disposing of dead bodies. No more hunting ghosts of his past or hiding from a Parisian goddess.
He could finally retire to the country and enroll André into Eton. He could spend his days strolling through the garden or riding across his estates. He could host country fêtes and garden parties. He could find little worn-down cottages to breathe new life into.
He could forget her: the feel and taste of her, the sound of her voice, the way she had made herself a servant to defend the honor of the man who had left her, and the way she had attacked a villain three times her size to protect a boy she hardly knew.
Nick shook his head and rested his forearms against the railing, leaning to stare into the waves below. Everything looked so choppy from up here, but he knew, just below the surface, everything would seem calm and quiet. The howling of the wind and the sound of waves crashing against the boat would fade into hushed murmurs.
France was above water, loud and unsettled. England would be his peaceful depths of calm and quiet. It would remind him of why things were the way they were, why ending the title with him was the right thing to do.
He only hoped he didn’t drown there.
* * *
Nick whistled a cheerful tune as he climbed the steps to Ainsley’s house in Berkeley Square and rapped the knocker.
Lord and Lady Ainsley had been like family to him since he had been a young man at Eton. Ainsley and Nick had fought in the war together, in and out of uniform. They had worked side by side as covert agents for the Home Office.
Now, after five years in France, he would finally see them again. Their faces alone would chase away the melancholy that had been shadowing him since he had left Paris. They would bring him back to his senses.
The door opened, and the old butler’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets. “My lord!”
Nick grinned. “Does that gloomy devil Ainsley still reside here, Charles?”
“In the private parlor, my lord.”
“He lives in the parlor?” Nick teased, shaking his head. “What did he do? Forget the lady’s birthday and start a fight?”
“N-no, my lord.”
“He only started a fight, then?”
Charles shook his head mutely.
“Ah, I have it!” Nick exclaimed, lifting a finger. “He stumbled down to Jackson’s, three sheets to the wind, and picked a fight… on their anniversary. Now the misses is teaching him a lesson.”
“No, my lord!”
“Oh, never mind, then.” Nick smiled mischievously and stepped inside. “I shall find out for myself.”
Nick knew the house well enough not to need Charles to show him to the room in question. He found it exactly where he remembered it being, although it had gone through a change of décor since last he had seen it. Now it was a parlor of subtle blues and greens with dainty lace curtains and delicate floral and mahogany furnishings. It was a far cry from the dark and masculine simplicity he had been accustomed to seeing in Ainsley’s house.
Yet the biggest change was the lord of the manor.
Ainsley sat sprawled out on the floor next to his son with a proud grin on his face. A grin! Nick had not seen him do that since before the war. Now he was positively beaming, his gray eyes lit from within. His wife, Kathryn, had done that to him.
Kathryn sat in a nearby chair with a book, but she was peeking above the pages to smile at the tall and precariously crooked tower of blocks the small boy was building.
Nick’s throat thickened, and something dangerously akin to longing tore at his chest… and perhaps a tinge of jealousy. He shook it off and grinned
from where he stood in the doorway.
“I see you have redecorated, Grey.”
Two sets of eyes swung his way, wide with surprise. A third smaller set narrowed at him in annoyance. It was understandable. Nick had stolen his spotlight, after all.
“Nick!” Grey and Kathryn called out in unison.
Grey stood, dusting off his trousers. Then he moved to help his wife up from her chair. She went to Nick and squeezed her arms around him.
“I am so glad you are back,” she mumbled into his waistcoat, suspiciously thick.
Nick watched her with a raised brow as she let him go. “You are not going to cry, now, are you?”
She shook her head, but tears were already brimming her lashes, and she had to dash them away.
“You cannot blame her, Nick,” Grey said as he wrapped his arms around Nick’s shoulders and squeezed. He stepped back with a smile. “She is expecting, and apparently, we simply have to grin and bear it.”
“Expecting?” Nick looked to Kathryn. “Did you not have a child just last year?”
Kathryn nodded, a warm smile lighting her face. “Baby Charles is asleep in the nursery.”
“Baby Charles, is it?” Nick grinned. She was showing only a little, but she had the glow. “By gad, just look at you. Congratulations to you both from the bottom of my heart.”
“Thank you, Nick,” Grey said.
They were beaming. They were happy. Nick thought he had been—if not happy, then at least content. However, he had never been like this. He had not believed this sort of happiness truly existed.
“Now, sit and tell us what the devil kept you in Paris for five years,” Grey said, gesturing to the chairs and settee arranged between a large window and the hearth. Grey’s son, David, began restacking the blocks in front of the settee, periodically sending Nick curious glances.
Outwardly, Nick was smiling in his usual, carefree manner. What he was doing on the inside was altogether different.
The last thing Nick wanted to talk about was Paris and about how embarrassingly long it took him to shut down Chouvigny’s gang. The second to last thing he wanted to talk about was his failure to find those responsible for his father’s decline into bankruptcy, treason, and suicide. He had hoped he would be distracted from those things here.
To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2) Page 23