He had never felt punished before. Now that he realized what he might have had with Céleste, though, he couldn’t imagine seeing it as anything else.
Life without her was a worse punishment for Nick than ending the title could ever be for his father, even if his father were alive to see it happen.
Nick cursed. “I cannot forgive you.” His jaw tightened, and his throat grew thick as he glanced over the rippling water. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
He felt the sting of tears a moment before they grew heavy and spilled over. He ran a hand over his face to wipe them away.
“I have allowed a dead man to dictate my life for far too long. Now I shall do what I bloody well please, and to hell with what he does or does not deserve. To hell with it all!”
Nick grabbed his hat and stood to untether his horse. André would be waking up soon, and Nick wasn’t about to keep him waiting while he wept in Hyde Park like a woman suffering her menses. André would be driving the servants mad with questions if Nick weren’t there to answer them. Not to mention, Nick had no time to waste in Hyde Park. He had to brainstorm how the devil he was going to stop the most anticipated Parisian wedding of the year.
* * *
Tattersalls was a raving success. They had missed the race for the Gold Cup at Ascots in June, but André didn’t seem to require a race. His face was split with an enormous grin from the second they had arrived all the way until they had returned to Mayfair where he had boasted to every servant he had passed about how he had ridden one of the fastest horses in England.
André’s grin was contagious, and by the end of the day, Nick’s face and abdomen hurt from laughing. He was still laughing, despite his body’s protesting ache, when he stepped into the vestibule, André running in ahead of him.
“A letter, my lord,” the butler said mildly after narrowly avoiding a collision with a small flash of mussed black curls. Then he took Nick’s hat, coat, and cane before handing him the envelope.
Nick broke Béarn’s seal from the back and pulled out the short missive.
His good humor faded as his eyes skimmed over the lines. Then he crumbled it into a ball in his fist and started for his study, his footfalls hitting rhythmically against the marble hall.
Less than a minute later, he was throwing the balled letter into the hearth, watching it blacken and turn to ash.
Béarn had married, and he and his new bride were coming to London.
He was too late.
Bloody hell.
Chapter 15
Nick was to expect them in two months after a short honeymoon in Italy, but the thought of having Céleste under his roof had his stomach twisting in knots. Like a perfect lady, she would act as though nothing had ever passed between them, and it would kill him. She would look at Béarn the same way Kathryn looked at Grey.
Quitting London was looking awfully attractive, and he could think up plenty of excuses for him to be unavoidably called out of town for the remainder of the year.
A coward would do just that: run away.
Nick sat behind his desk and dragged his hands through his hair. Now the two months had nearly passed. If he were planning to turn craven after years of committing acts of bravery edging on stupidity, he only had two days with which to do it.
He could only hope they were detained somewhere. Perhaps they had decided to take an extra week in Florence or sail over to Barcelona before leaving the Mediterranean.
A knock came on the door seconds before it opened, revealing the butler. He blinked as he looked over his master, and Nick let out an amused breath. He didn’t need a mirror to see what his butler found so surprising. It wasn’t that he wore no coat—that was normal—but his cravat was loosened, his cuffs unfastened, and his hair mussed. He looked disheveled.
“Forgive me for intruding, my lord.”
“Not at all,” Nick said, leaning back in his chair. “Well?”
“You have visitors, my lord, but perhaps you would wish for them to come another day?”
The thought was tempting. Nick was in no condition to entertain, but this might be just the thing to raise his spirits. At the least, it would provide a distraction for him.
“Nonsense, Harding,” Nick said, rising from his chair and rounding the desk. “Show them into the parlor and send in refreshments. I shall be there shortly.”
Nick took the stairs two at a time. When he arrived in his rooms, he tied a new cravat, fastened his cuffs, and smoothed his hair. Then he regarded himself in the mirror, wondering why he still felt disheveled when he looked as he usually did. Then he wondered why he wondered at all. The answer was obvious. He was in love with a woman who had recently married one of his dear friends.
He resisted the urge to drag his hand through his hair again. Instead, he took a deep breath and left for the parlor. He had visitors, probably Grey and Kathryn wondering why he hadn’t come to call in weeks.
He managed not to drag his feet on the way to the parlor. He wanted to see his friends. They were dear to him. He shouldn’t want to walk straight past the parlor doors and right out into the street.
He took a deep breath, then entered the parlor. But as soon as he stepped past the threshold, he froze, his attention shifting between the two callers occupying the settee.
“Béarn,” Nick said, puzzled. “And Juliette.”
Béarn grinned brightly, squeezing Juliette’s hand. “We arrived early. I hope we have not inconvenienced you.”
Nick shook his head, forcing himself to move forward and take a seat.
Béarn had married Juliette. The dutiful Frenchman had chosen love.
“We were enjoying Florence, but I became homesick,” Juliette said.
“We shall only be here for a few days,” Béarn said, glancing at Juliette warmly. “Then we shall leave for Paris. Juliette is anxious to see Céleste.”
Céleste’s name effectively shook Nick out of his daze.
Céleste. Beautiful, unmarried Céleste.
He smiled. “Anxious? You have been away only two months.”
“We have never been apart this long.” Juliette turned to Béarn. “I should not have left her.”
“It was our honeymoon,” Béarn said, taking her hand in his. “She will be fine. You will see.”
Juliette shook her head, biting her lip. “You saw her.”
“She is a strong woman.”
“She is still a woman, mon cher.”
The uneasy look passing between them wormed its way into Nick’s gut.
“Gad, she isn’t ill, is she?”
“In a way.” Juliette’s large, blue eyes found Nick’s and held, strangely accusing.
Nick looked for the same accusation in Béarn, but saw nothing. What did Juliette have against him all of a sudden?
“She is not ill,” Béarn said hesitantly. “But she is not herself.”
“She is heartbroken,” Juliette said with the same accusing expression. “It seems some dishonorable libertine engaged her affections and then left her.”
Nick’s stomach lodged in his throat.
No. Impossible.
“Engaged her affections?” he forced out. “Anyone we know?”
Juliette’s eyes flashed.
“Me?” Nick breathed out, feeling his chest constrict painfully. “No, you are mistaken.”
“There is no one else!” Juliette’s hands curled into little fists in her lap. “You are right for each other. Béarn and I both saw it. That is why he brought the two of you—”
“Ma chère.” Béarn took one of her fists in his hands, shaking his head.
Her lips pressed together, but it was too late. Nick understood perfectly.
“No,” Nick said lowly, scowling at Béarn. “That is why you jeopardized the investigation? Our investigation?”
Béarn shrugged. “The match seemed so perfect.”
“You are insane,” Nick bit out. “Both of you.”
“I had not realized …” Béarn paused. “If I thoug
ht you would abandon—”
“Abandon?” Nick interrupted. “She refused to see me!”
Béarn nodded. “I thought you a romantic, but I was foolish to expect you to change your position on marriage, even for love.”
Nick blinked hard, dragging a hand through his hair.
“It’s just the way you looked at her,” Béarn mused, “before you even met her.”
“All you have in common,” Juliette stressed. “Interests, loss, loneliness.”
True, had he been looking for a bride, she would have been the top candidate. The only candidate. But that was all before. Now… he felt something much more between them than mere common ground and attraction.
“You were right,” Nick admitted. “She is perfect.”
“But not perfect enough for marriage.” Juliette’s gaze locked on him. “Not perfect enough to love.”
“Love?” Nick chuckled humorlessly. “Dear God, do I love her.”
Juliette all but jumped from her chair.
“How dare you claim such a thing?” She scowled. “You left her!”
“I did,” Nick admitted. “I shall regret it for the rest of my life.” He should have stayed in Paris. He should have slept on the street outside her door until he had convinced her how desperately he loved her.
“If that is true, then you had better go to her,” Béarn said soberly.
Juliette lifted her chin, a thick, blonde curl bouncing on her shoulder. “Or not. She will marry Prince Leopold and be happy without you.”
“Juliette!” Béarn scowled.
“His highness has been heartbroken, too… ever since his wife, Princess Charlotte, passed. I understand he hopes to find the healing he needs in Céleste.”
“Juliette.” Béarn’s voice lowered in warning.
The warning was too late. Nick was already seething.
The only way his highness would ever touch Céleste was over Nick’s dead body.
He felt his blood heat and his jaw tense. If the prince dared to so much as look at her with lascivious intent, Nick would personally send him to his grave.
“He is such a mild-mannered gentleman,” she added approvingly. “Very gentle.”
“Gentle?” Nick nearly choked.
“You had better move quickly if you intend to prove your love to her before the charming prince steals her away.”
Nick didn’t need to be told twice. He was out of his seat and halfway to the hall before she finished her sentence.
Minutes later, his horse was saddled, and he was racing for Dover to board a ship for Calais.
* * *
Four days later, Nick was standing across the street from Lady Dumonte’s residence in Paris, handing several coins to a group of dirty-faced boys in ragged clothing.
“Keep them busy,” he said quietly as he emptied his pockets. He had come prepared with enough coins to easily feed the boys and their families for a few weeks.
“Oui, mon seigneur,” they said in unison, eagerly grabbing the coins with dirty palms and stuffing them into the hidden pockets sewn into the hems of their shirts. Then they were off, rushing Lady Dumonte’s doorstep.
Nick followed at a leisurely pace.
“Ah, mon Dieu!” The butler’s voice rang out into the street as he lifted his hands to stop the children who all began talking at once and pushing inside.
“Remove yourselves, or I shall send for the authorities!” the butler cried, grabbing one of the boys before he squeezed through the door.
Nick slowly ambled up the steps, easily moving around the children.
“Pardon me,” he said, flashing a forged invitation, identical in script, scent, and color to the one he had received for the June ball.
As planned, the butler was too busy to bother checking Nick’s name against the guest list.
As he entered the vestibule, one of the children ran past him, only to be caught by a footman and hauled back outside. Nick continued through the grand entry hall as more servants hurried by him to help with the disruption at the front steps.
He was in. Part one of his plan had been successful. Part two was to find Céleste.
His pulse thrummed wildly at the mere thought of seeing her again. His hands itched for the feel of her. He needed to taste her, to claim her as his for eternity. It would take all his control not to devour her amidst a crowded ballroom.
As he navigated into the ballroom, he lifted two flutes of champagne from a passing footman and emptied both, feeling the bubbly liquid slide down his throat—the first for courage, the second for luck. Then he scanned the room.
He spotted her immediately, his eyes naturally drawn to the most beautiful woman in the room.
Lavender silk hugged her close around the bodice to hang suggestively along the sleek lines of her hips and derrière. Her dark tresses were bundled in a low pile of curls with wisps falling around her ears and the smooth curve of her neck. Nick’s mouth dried as he drank her in.
Another tray of champagne floated in front of him, and he reached out, grabbing two more a half-second before missing his chance. The two extra drinks didn’t slow the pounding of his heart or ease the shakiness that seemed to radiate from somewhere deep inside him, but drinking another was out of the question. Stumbling across the floor and slurring a declaration of love would not charm Lady Dumonte in the least.
He squared his shoulders and moved across the room, promising for her sake to behave himself… as best he could, at any rate.
* * *
Céleste didn’t see Nick until it was too late. Or rather, she didn’t believe he was real until it was too late.
He was beautiful. A golden-haired, blue-eyed god sent to tempt and torment her in his gold embroidered waistcoat and dark blue jacket, which did nothing to hide the chiseled lines and hard edges kept underneath. His clothes were snugly tailored to his delicious body.
For the first time in a very long time, she felt self-conscious standing in a crowded ballroom. When his azure gaze locked onto hers, she had to fight the urge to fidget.
She stared mutely as he appeared beside the prince and smiled.
“Lady Dumonte,” he rumbled as he bowed over her hand. “You look well.”
Céleste cleared her throat, pulling her hand from his and stamping out the feminine satisfaction she felt at his compliment. It was more than likely insincere. She knew she had lost weight and looked as tired and run down as she felt.
She turned to the handsome prince with his dark hair and quietly commanding presence. At least, she had thought him handsome before. Standing beside Nick, he seemed only mildly attractive.
She shook off the thought.
“Your Highness, may I introduce Lord Pembridge? Lord Pembridge, His Highness, Prince Leopold.”
“A pleasure.” Nick bowed, his gaze turning frigid as it traveled over the prince. Then his jaw tightened as though the handsome royal was found wanting.
“The pleasure is mine,” Prince Leopold returned charmingly. “Welcome to Paris.”
Nick nodded. “I hope you don’t mind my stealing the hostess from you?”
Prince Leopold smiled. “Not at all. I have taken up far too much of her time as it is. Forgive me, Lady Dumonte. I am afraid I have kept you from your duty to your guests.”
“Nonsense,” she argued, her hand lightly resting on the prince’s arm. She watched Nick’s gaze narrow in on the action.
“His Highness apologized because he felt he was keeping you from your guests. You cannot argue, surely. Is it not illegal to argue with a prince?” Nick asked with lifted brows. Then one side of his lips lifted with a crooked smile. “And since I am a guest, Lady Dumonte, do you dance?”
Céleste felt her face flush angrily. How could he be so rude? Prince Leopold was a war hero, and he was dashing and perfect in every way. If anything, at least his rank ought to garner some respect.
She sent Leopold a quick glance to find him politely turning his attention elsewhere. Then she turned livid eyes to Ni
ck.
“How did you get in?” she whispered coolly.
“I asked if you danced, Lady Dumonte. Or would a waltz in my arms reveal too much?” His smile grew wicked, and the predatory glint in his eyes shot licks of heat curling through her. “Are you afraid someone may suspect the passion you keep locked up beneath that reserved façade of yours?”
“Tell me how you got in so I can make certain it never happens again,” she demanded.
Nick’s brow arched. “You are avoiding the question.”
“As are you,” she returned, noticing Leopold now being pulled into another conversation.
Then Nick’s breath was warming her neck. Every cell in her body stood at attention.
“Dance with me, and I shall give you all my secrets,” he murmured in her ear, disturbing the stray curls there and sending warm shivers skittering up and down her spine.
“I don’t want your secrets,” she muttered.
She wanted to forget him, not learn more about him. She wanted to believe she could move on, that she could stop envying the happiness Juliette and Béarn shared. That she could stop dreaming of finding it with Nick.
He straightened and held out his hand to her. She looked from his large, gloved hand to his intensely blue eyes lit with confidence. He must know she couldn’t refuse for fear of him causing a scene.
Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him. He probably wanted her to refuse. He would enjoy making a grand scene in her prestigious ballroom, the scoundrel.
He smiled down at her as she took his hand. Then he was leading her into a waltz with impeccable masculine grace, his hand about her waist, searing through the fabric of her gown and boiling her insides. Colorful blurs of silk and satin twirled about them in time with the music.
He silently watched her as they glided across the floor, easily weaving around the other couples. She hated him for waltzing so well, for making her feel as though every partner she had ever stood up with was a graceless ox, lumbering about the floor with her in tow. As though no other man’s hand had ever rested on her waist correctly or held her hand with such gentle assurance.
No other man had ever made her breath hitch from the mere touch of his gloved hand on hers. Never had she felt her fingers tingle wrapped in another man’s grip. Waltzing had never caused her pulse to triple its pace, her mouth to dry up, or her stomach to flutter. Now she was shockingly aware of all of these reactions and the one man who could elicit them.
To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2) Page 25