“I didn’t claim to not know his work,” he reminded her. “I merely claimed his poems were overinflated.”
They shared a smile. And another kindred connection stirred for this woman who reminded him of a long-buried love of poetic works. Those he kept company with now were callow, empty shells of people, just as he’d allowed himself to become. He steeled his jaw. Nay, just as he’d been forced to become with the marquess’ treachery.
Justina glanced back at the doorway. “I should leave,” she said softly. She spoke as one who sought to talk herself into the action.
“You do not strike me, Justina, as a woman who does something simply because Society expects it of you.” Nick stretched his legs out and looped them at the ankles.
“And yet, you are wrong,” she said, fanning the pages of her book.
“Am I?” He propped his elbow on the back of her chair and angled himself so he stared directly at her. “Am I, when you went toe-to-toe with a pompous bastard who presumes to know more than you simply because of your gender?”
Most proper misses would have gasped and blushed at his frank speech. Instead, Justina Barrett proved herself remarkably different from those women, yet again. Setting her book down on the empty seat beside her, she put a question to him. “When did you begin reading poetry, Nick?”
Her sudden, unexpected inquiry held him momentarily frozen. How many days had he sat, a boy with reading spectacles perched on his nose, poring over poetry volumes, lost in the words on those pages? He couldn’t even recall that level of innocence.
From the moment he’d sat down with his first tutor and been gifted Coleridge’s works, he’d been lost to the power of words. “I was a boy.” Had he ever been a child? Those days were so very long ago. “Eight,” he murmured. A naïve lad, believing in the great capability of man and the power of love. Back when his family had been laughing and his sister smiling. “It was a poem by Coleridge.” His gut clenched. How fleeting his happiness had been. “The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions…” he murmured in the quiet of the lecture room. The verse of Coleridge’s work echoed around the chambers of his mind.
Why of all the damned women in the whole of the kingdom did Justina have to be bound to Rutland?
Chapter 7
There were no fewer than three reasons that immediately sprang to mind as to why Justina should not be in this lecture hall, alone with Nick Tallings, the Duke of Huntly. One—they were alone without the benefit of a chaperone. Two—if they were discovered, there would be whispers and her eventual ruin. Three—he was a rogue.
And really only one reason that kept her fixed in her chair—she wanted to be here with him, now.
Wanted to be here, when logic and the rules laid out carefully by Society pointed to the folly in it, discussing poetry with him. When every last gentleman in this previously filled lecture room had listened to her talk and gawked at her as though she’d two heads and sprouted a third before their eyes, this man had not. Instead, he’d sat glaring at the lecturer at the front of the room and, with the faint glimmer in his blue eyes, urged her to freely share her mind.
In a world full of those who believed she was an empty-headed miss, Nick’s approval was heady stuff, indeed. Yet… Justina glanced at the doorway that spilled out into the circulating room. Honoria and Gillian would be waiting. If they discovered her alone with Nick it would only fuel their suspicions of the man they called rogue.
Emotion darkened his eyes, filling those blue depths with such a bleak desolation that a chill went through her. All reason for her questioning escaped her. She fixed on that show of emotion. What caused that glimmer of darkness in a man who so easily wore a half-grin on his face?
Despite his open admiration, she did not often freely speak her opinions to all and, as such, perpetuated the same unimpressive opinions people had of her. She’d not been a particularly studious girl and hardly possessed the clear logic of her elder sister. Whereas Nick had been a boy of eight reading works she’d only discovered of late.
It was Nick who broke the easy, companionable silence, pulling her from her musings. “And when did you discover your love of literature, Justina?”
Her neck heated and she looked around the room, contemplating the great differences between her and Nick Tallings, the Duke of Huntly.
Justina picked up the volume of Shelley’s poetry and held it out to him.
“I’m twenty,” she began. What would he think when he discovered that they were less alike in this regard than he might believe?
Nick glanced at the copy a moment and then accepted it in his large, gloved fingers. He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a pair of spectacles. With one hand, he flicked them open and perched them on his nose.
Her heart caught. Those wire-rimmed frames added a realness to him. Oh, how easily she could imagine him seated beside her in a library, in a bucolic scene of husband and wife attending the same works.
He looked up from the book, questioningly, and her cheeks warmed.
Recalling her to the moment, Justina cleared her throat. “One day, I came here,” she motioned about the room. “Well, not here, but the The Circulating Library because…” She grimaced. She’d not speak on the sorry state of her family’s financial affairs. With her father’s wastrel ways, there were no longer the funds for limitless purchases and certainly not the cost of a book.
“Because?” he quietly prodded, his penetrating stare one that threatened to pull out all the greatest hopes and darkest fears she carried.
“Because I sought a gothic novel,” she substituted, offering him the truth of what had brought her here at the start of the little Season. “It is all I ever read.”
“Do you believe there is shame in reading those works?” He spoke as one who tried to sort out the meaning behind her words. Those works. And a little piece of her heart slipped into his hands at the lack of condemnation in that inquiry.
Justina shook her head so quickly an ever-recalcitrant curl fell over her brow. She shoved it behind her ear. “Rather, it is the something that brought me here,” she pointed to the floor. “To this room.” Stealing a glance about and finding the hall was still their private sanctuary, she leaned closer. “There was a gentleman…” Though, with the exception of the Marquess of Tennyson’s title and rank, there wasn’t a thing gentlemanly about him. She tightened her mouth. A gentleman still hunting her, unyielding in his determination. Feeling Nick’s gaze on her once more, she continued. “There is…was a gentleman pursuing me.” He was always pursuing her. For reasons she did not understand, Lord Tennyson had set his sights upon her long before she’d even made her Come Out. When he knew nothing about her. He still knew nothing.
A low, primitive growl rumbled in Nick’s chest and an odd lightness filled her at that protective response so unexpected in the males in her life. Her own father would throw her from Tower Bridge if the Marquess of Tennyson offered him the right amount. And her brother, though loving, didn’t truly wish to be bothered with her. But for Edmund, there was no other…and his first priority was and always would be his wife.
“Who?” Nick gritted out.
She shook her head and dislodged the same curl. “It does not matter,” she evaded, dodging his question. “But rather, it matters how I came to be here. My brother-in-law,” threatened my father, “convinced my father I was not yet ready for a Season.” Just like everyone else, Edmund had seen an empty-headed innocent in need of protecting. “While other ladies my age were making their Come Out, I was reading gothic novels.” Those books she’d once lost sleep well into the night to read. “I’d come here and a…” She hardened her mouth. “Gentleman was pursuing me. In a bid to escape his attentions, I slipped into this room and sat over there.” Justina pointed to the last seat in the far left corner; that spot she’d occupied all those months ago. “I was merely escaping.” A coward in her actions that day. “I didn’t come here to be enlightened or because of any keen intellect. And certainly not b
ecause I’m the spirited woman you took me for when I happened to speak my thoughts aloud.” For she hadn’t been. For nineteen years and a handful of months she’d been quite content to admire and long for nothing more than a bonnet or hat. “I went countless years,” too many, “reading the same fairy tales and longing for pretty fripperies. I only stumbled upon Shelley by chance.”
For a long while, Nick remained quiet. Then he shifted. The thin shellback chair groaned in protest of his broad, powerful frame. He dusted his knuckles down her cheek, eliciting delicious tingles at the point of contact. “It hardly matters how long it took for you to develop that appreciation, just that you did. Some of us are boys of eight, forever transformed,” he said, brushing his hand back and forth in a whisper soft caress. Closing her eyes, she leaned into that seductive touch. “And some are young ladies just twenty.” His words ran through her, lending a dangerous power to his touch.
Then he removed his hand and her eyes flew open as she mourned that loss. Except, he merely moved his attentions. Her lips parted on a whispered sigh as he captured her loose curl between his thumb and forefinger and gently rubbed. How was it possible for that action to warm her from the inside out, with the same heat of his caress?
She waded through the haze of desire. “Yet by your admission, you no longer read those works.” What had led him to abandon his readings? Or had he, too, moved to a new interest that had taken the place of a once-great love? “You indicated that life killed the joy in those words.”
A muscle ticked at the corner of his eye. “Is that a question?”
“Only if you answer.”
He made an impatient sound and she thought he would not answer, but then he gave his head a shake. “Life intrudes. Oftentimes in different ways for different people. For you, it awakened you to a love of the poets and literary works. And for me, it intruded with responsibilities and expectations until there no longer exists time for such frivolities,” he said, his voice hard with regret.
Justina leaned up, erasing the distance between them. “I do not believe a gentleman who knows Frances Burney’s works and quotes Byron and Shelley with equal aplomb would ever dare believe literature is frivolous in nature.” She braced for his rebuttal. Instead, the column of his throat worked, his eyes conveying a man at war with himself.
Footsteps sounded outside the room, followed by the sounds of two voices. Two familiar voices. Heart pounding, Justina jumped to her feet just as Gillian stepped inside.
“There you are…” Her words died as quickly as her smile as she moved her gaze from Justina to Nick as he unfurled to his full six-feet three-inches of raw masculinity. And then back to her. Gillian rounded her eyes.
Nick dropped a bow. “If you will excuse me?” He pocketed his spectacles. “I will leave you ladies to your pleasures.”
A protest sprang to her lips and then withered. There was nothing proper in him being here. The rules of Society made his presence here not only an impossibility, but a dangerous one that could see her ruined. “Your Grace,” she murmured, sinking into a curtsy. Justina rescued the volume. “You’ve forgotten your book,” she murmured, holding it out.
He studied it for a long moment. And for an even longer one, she thought he’d reject that offering. Then with an in imperceptible nod, he accepted it in his long, graceful fingers, the same ones which only a moment ago had gently caressed her cheek. With long, powerful strides, Nick started for the door. The other lady hurriedly stepped out of his way and then he was gone.
When the two young ladies were alone, Justina wetted her lips. “He was merely here to select a book.”
Gillian smiled. “I did not say anything.” No, her eyes alone had conveyed the depth of her concern. “If Honoria did, however, note his presence here with you, then I expect she’d cancel her plans to visit your sister.” Justina’s stomach knotted. “Which is why,” she said on a conspiratorial whisper, “it is best if we not mention anything to her.” She followed her suggestion with a wink.
The words of thanks died on Justina’s lips as Honoria rushed into the lecture room, breathless. “The Duke of Huntly was here.”
“In here?” Gillian asked, puzzling her brow.
“Not in here.” The lady threw her hands up in exasperation. “In the circulating room. I saw him taking his leave.”
Justina nudged her chin up. “As a duke, I expect the gentleman can go anywhere.” Even as she appreciated Honoria’s loyalty, she did not appreciate being treated as though she did not know her own mind. She had lived with that low opinion since she was a girl with a frustrated governess.
“Gentlemen do not come to circulating libraries,” Honoria snapped. “And most especially not dukes.”
“Gentlemen are patrons, as well,” Gillian pointed out helpfully.
For which Justina gave her a grateful smile.
“A duke would not come to a place that primarily offers gothic novels and romantic poetry.”
Pity filled Justina. What had shaped Honoria into the cynical figure she’d become? “I believe it is a sad way to go through life, forming opinions and judgments on what a person should read, or where they should or should not visit, simply because of Society’s perceptions,” she said solemnly. After all, weren’t those the same rigid constraints she herself had lived under as the label of Diamond she’d been hideously assigned? How often did the world expect her to act a certain way and be a certain thing just because Society’s norms dictated it? “I will not pass judgment on a person simply because of what Society says of the gentleman, and most especially not when he’s already only shown me the greatest kindness.”
Honoria passed her gaze over Justina’s face and then let out a long, slow sigh. “I do not want to see you hurt as your sister was.”
“My sister is hopelessly in love with her husband,” Justina pointed out, needing to remind the other woman that there was good in gentlemen, even if Honoria herself did not trust it or see it.
“Only after he hurt her,” Honoria challenged, her words blanketing the room with tension.
“Honoria,” Gillian chided, placing a hand on the other woman’s arm.
“I am grateful to you and Gillian for taking me under your wings,” Justina began.
“We are your friends,” Gillian protested, a frown on her lips.
Justina gathered the other lady’s hands. “I know. I also know Phoebe asked you to look after me, for which I am grateful. However, I will not allow myself to be hurt,” she directed that pledge at Honoria.
Honoria worked her jaw. “You cannot control the actions of others and, as such, you will not be able to protect yourself from hurt.”
“Perhaps,” Justina conceded. That lesson had, in fact, been handed down years earlier when she’d discovered just what manner of person her father was. “But neither will I build protective walls about my heart. Not when it would only deny me the possibility of knowing joy and love.” For the ugliness in her father’s soul, there was good in Andrew. And Phoebe. And Edmund.
And in Nick.
“Come,” Gillian urged. Eager to be done defending her decisions, Justina started forward.
“Justina?” Honoria called out, staying her.
She glanced back.
“Mayhap the duke only came to return your book,” Honoria conceded. “But what would he have been doing at Gipsy Hill when you were there?”
Justina frowned. Beyond the romanticism of his rescue and the chaos of that day, she’d not truly considered what had brought Nick to Lambeth.
Despite Honoria’s wariness, only one question held her focus: would she see the gentleman again to find out?
Tugging on his gloves, Nick exited The Circulating Library and searched for his carriage.
His meeting with Justina Barrett had been a success in all the ways that mattered. The lady had been properly seduced with words and shared interests. Yet, instead of the thrill of victory, his body burned with the remembered hunger of her kiss. Locating his conveyance down th
e way on the opposite end of Lambeth, he started forward.
When he’d crafted his plan to break her heart and destroy all the Barretts, he’d been singularly fixed on his goals of revenge against Rutland. He’d not given thought to who Justina Barrett was. As such, he’d never expected to feel anything for the young lady.
Now, following their exchange in the library and all their previous encounters before, he was riddled with not only a desire for her, but intrigue. The self-centered girl, with a head for nothing more than bonnets and baubles as had been presented in the information he’d obtained about her, didn’t fit with the woman he’d just left. A woman who wrote her own verses and attended lectures and challenged old, angry, and male scholars.
He frowned, despising the disquiet that came with that truth. It shouldn’t matter what books she read or what dreams she might have. Only her connection to the Devil who’d destroyed all those he loved was relevant. Nick wound his way through the carts until they thinned and then reached his carriage.
His driver hovered at the edge of the door and he waved him off. “Your Grace,” the servant said in gravelly tones. The man glanced about, nervousness in his eyes, and then tipped his chin toward the carriage door.
Nick followed the man’s gaze and gave him a questioning look. The driver nodded. Tensing, Nick moved deliberately around the other side of the pavement and pulled the door open.
The baroness sat in the corner of the carriage in an elegant gold cloak. She pushed her hood further back and gave him a hard smile. “I’ve missed you, my love,” she whispered.
By God, the lady was mad. Or tenacious. Mayhap both. Swallowing a curse, Nick climbed inside and quickly yanked the door closed. “What in blazes are you doing here?” he gritted out, assessing the red velvet curtains to ascertain they were properly drawn. One of the conveniences of his partnership with this viper had been her banishment to the countryside by her doddering husband.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 122