He gave her a cool look. “Naturally I have a plan.”
“Have you indeed?”
“Yes, it’s a simple matter of strategy. You and your friend Lady Lattimer will engage the enemy in conversation.”
“Will we? How delightful. And what shall we talk about?”
“I don’t know. Some sort of private feminine matter.”
“What would you know about private feminine matters?”
“Very little, thank God, but it will give you an excuse for banishing Nell—”
“Nell?”
“Lady Helen.” He tried to ignore the smile playing about his aunt’s lips. She was enjoying this, damn her. “The point is, you must make it clear to the woman that you wish for private conversation with her and only her, and to that end you will send Lady Helen and myself to another part of the room. Leave the rest to me.”
She patted him on the cheek a second time. “Excellent, dear boy. I can see why you made such an excellent soldier. Just one thing.”
“Yes?” he said, impatient to get started.
“Be careful. La Beasley has a fancy for you; she has been watching you like a cat watching a mouse hole for the last fifteen minutes. If she sees your interest in Lady Helen, she will turn on the poor girl like a snake. So be discreet, my boy.”
“I am always discreet,” Harry informed her coldly.
Harry’s aunt rose and shook her friend awake. “Come along, Lizzie, we’re going to talk to La Beastley.”
Lady Lattimer spluttered to consciousness. “What? But I don’t want to speak to—”
“Nonsense. It will be an adventure,” declared her friend. “We are going to rescue Lady Helen from the gorgon’s clutches.”
“Oh, in that case . . .” Lady Lattimer rose and straightened her lace cap. The two ladies swept across the room toward Mrs. Beasley much like two ships of the Spanish Armada bearing down on a small fishing boat. Heads in the pump room swiveled. Conversation buzzed, then died to an avid silence.
Mrs. Beasley watched their approach with frozen fascination as it dawned on her that two titled ladies had finally noticed her. She rose from her seat, smiling.
“Mrs. Um . . . ?” Lady Gosforth inquired, as if she did not know very well who the woman was. She did not even look at Nell.
The woman curtsied. “I am Mrs. Beasley, ma’am, and you are Lady Gosforth.”
“I know,” said Lady Gosforth, inclining her head graciously.
Mrs. Beasley tittered. “And of course, I’ve seen Lady Lattimer here before. A real regular, she is.”
Lady Lattimer raised one aristocratic eyebrow at such a person’s presumption in daring to notice her regularity or otherwise. “Indeed,” she said in a quelling voice.
Nell stood quietly to one side. Mrs. Beasley made no attempt to introduce her. She glanced past the two ladies, to where Harry stood a short distance away, examining a print on the wall.
“And will your gentleman friend be joining us?” Mrs. Beasley asked.
“No,” Lady Gosforth declared. “We wish to have private conversation with you—of a feminine nature. A gentleman would not wish to be present.”
“I see.” Mrs. Beasley looked vaguely alarmed.
There were four ladies present, counting Nell, and only two seats. Lady Gosforth gestured for Mrs. Beasley and Lady Lattimer to sit down, turned to her nephew and said, “Harry, a chair, if you please.”
Harry brought a chair for her, and seeing Nell was still standing awkwardly by, was about to fetch her one when his aunt said, “No, we wish to have private conversation with this lady—please find another seat for her companion, Miss Er . . .”
“Lady Helen—” began Mrs. Beasley.
Lady Gosforth cut across her. “Find Miss Er a seat over there somewhere, Harry, and then take yourself off, there’s a good boy.” She waved him away and turned back to Mrs. Beasley, saying sweetly. “My nephew, you know, and therefore too young to be of any interest to ladies of our age.”
Since Mrs. Beasley was a well-preserved forty and the two aristocratic ladies well into their sixties, Mrs. Beasley tried not to look affronted by this suggestion. She managed a strangled smile and watched, frustrated, as one of the most magnificent men she’d ever seen offered his arm to her drab little companion and escorted her to a distant corner.
“My dear friend Lady Lattimer has been admiring your jewelry,” announced Lady Gosforth, kicking her dear friend on the ankle.
“Ow—er, yes, your jewelry,” Lady Lattimer said with an indignant look at her dear friend. She pulled out a quizzing glass and peered at the vulgar array of jewels displayed on various parts of Mrs. Beasley’s person. “There’s quite a lot of it, isn’t there?” she mumbled. “And it’s very, er, sparkly.”
Feeble as the attempt was, Mrs. Beasley responded with a smug preen. “Yes, Mr. Beasley, my late husband, delighted in purchasing trinkets for me.” She fingered a large ruby brooch, surrounded by diamonds, that rested in the vee of her cleavage. “Mr. Beasley used to say jewels only enhanced my beauty.”
“Fascinating. Tell us the history of each piece,” Lady Gosforth instructed her.
“Go away,” Nell whispered to Harry as they crossed the room. She was very aware of the eyes observing their progress. “Leave now and do not talk to me.”
Harry tucked her hand under his arm. “I thought you were going to London.”
“I was; I still am. We leave in two days,” she hissed. “Please, just go away. If she sees us talking—”
“Yes, she, your employer—the very picture of a delightful little old lady . . . of the vulture clan.”
“She doesn’t bother me.”
“She annoys the hell out of me,” Harry said. “How the devil do you stand the way she talks to you?”
Nell attempted to withdrew her hand from his grip, failed, and said pointedly, “At least she doesn’t swear at me.”
“No, she talks to you like a dog—worse than a dog. You miss Freckles, I suppose.”
The abrupt change of subject caught her unawares. “You’ve seen Freckles?”
He nodded. “She comes over to the house almost every day, from the vicarage, looking for you. She misses you.”
She bit her lip. “I miss her, too. I’m sorry she’s a problem.”
“She’s no problem. Aggie uses her as an excuse to pop over every now and then, just to keep an eye on us. In any case, my partner, Ethan, is happy to take the dog home. Personally I wouldn’t mind if Freckles moved in permanently.”
She gave him a warm smile. “She is a lovely dog, isn’t she?”
His grip on her hand tightened. He stopped dead and stared down at her for a long moment.
She gave him an uneasy look and glanced around. His behavior was drawing unwanted attention to them.
He seemed to realize it, for he moved on as if nothing had happened, saying, “If I’d known I was going to see you here, I could have brought her to Bath for a visit.”
She shook her head. “No, she’ll soon settle down and stop missing m—where are you taking me?” A young boy in an apron held open a brown baize-covered door leading from the main area of the Pump Room.
Without a word of explanation, Harry steered her through it. He pressed a coin into the waiting palm of the boy, saying, “Make sure we’re not disturbed.”
Nell found herself in what seemed like a small storage room. “What do you mean, not disturbed? I’m not staying in here with you!” She tried to push against him.
“You were worried your employer would see you talking with me,” Harry said as he closed the door and leaned against it. “Now she won’t.”
There was a window that led into a back courtyard of sorts. Nell eyed it, but abandoned the thought of climbing out. It would be ridiculous, and besides, she had no fear of Harry Morant. She looked at his tall, powerful body and his broad shoulders. His big fists were clenched.
She folded her arms and glared at him. “You’ve clearly gone to a lot of trouble to set th
is meeting up, so what is it you have to say to me? Say it and let me out. I don’t appreciate being shut in small rooms against my will.”
Harry frowned. “Say to you?”
“Yes.” She waited.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” he said finally. “Forcing that . . . kiss on you as I did. I apologize. I meant no disrespect, but that’s no excuse. I treated you like a wanton.”
She blushed, remembering the scene in the stable. He was not simply referring to the kiss, she saw. It was clear he’d realized where her hand had been, trapped between them.
But that had been unintentional. He’d treated her like a woman, not a wanton. She’d relived that kiss over and over in her mind ever since.
“I didn’t m—” She stopped. If she said she didn’t mind, he’d think her immodest, even a bit trollopy. She groped for an appropriate expression. “I forgive you” sounded too saintly. “It’s all right,” she said. “I won’t hold it against you.”
His expression abruptly went blank and she suddenly realized what she’d said, remembering how her hand had inadvertently pressed against his aroused flesh. Holding it against him . . .
“I didn’t mean that literal—” she gasped. She pressed her hands over her hot cheeks. “Oh dear.”
She glanced at him again and his face was so rigid she couldn’t help but giggle. “I was trying so hard for sophisticated indifference,” she confessed. “I’ve made a mull of that, haven’t I?”
He relaxed, rueful amusement in his eyes. “I think we both did.”
A short silence fell. “Well, if that’s all,” Nell began. She was well aware of the time passing. She did not want to get into trouble.
“No, that’s not why I brought you in here at all,” he said. “I didn’t even think of it until just now when you asked me what I had to say to you, and I recalled that I owed you an apology.”
“Then what was it? I don’t have much time, you know.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes scanning her face in a way than made her prickle with awareness. “You’re not getting enough sleep,” he said finally.
She blinked. “You brought me in here to tell me that?”
His hand came up and cupped her cheek, tilting her head gently to the light. “You have lilac shadows beneath your eyes,” he said softly. “They’re beautiful but they shouldn’t be there.” His big thumb stroked gently along her cheekbones. “And you’re thinner. There are hollows here that weren’t there before.” His thumb caressed the hollows.
Nell swallowed, her mind suddenly blank. She was braced for an argument, for bullying even, but not for this . . . for this tender . . . concern. She had no defenses ready against that.
She stared into his smoky gray eyes. She could smell him, smell the clean, fresh scent of his shaving cologne, of clean linen and the faint scent of coffee.
“You need taking care of,” he said and his soft, deep voice shivered through her. “And I’m the man to do it.”
His big, warm palm held her, and she wanted to lean into it, to press herself against his big, hard body, so strong, so sure, to let him just take over and do with her what he wanted. It would all be so easy, so much easier, and he was so very strong and appealing. And beautiful. That mouth of his . . . so tender and so dangerous . . .
There was some reason she shouldn’t give in to him, some reason she had to keep fighting herself, as well as him . . . only just now she couldn’t think what it was.
Slowly, slowly his head bent toward her. She knew she should push him away, or turn her cheek . . .
But her cheek rested in his palm and she couldn’t bring herself to pull back, and those gray eyes wove a spell so that she could not move a muscle.
And she was tired, so tired . . . tired of battling against the world, of being alone, always alone, tired of resisting him, and tired of fighting herself. A kiss would do no harm, surely? One kiss, just for comfort . . . for the cold nights ahead . . . His lips touched hers, lightly at first, a warm whisper of sensation and she softened.
Both hands cupped her jaw and she felt like something precious, cradled in his palms. He bent his head to lavish her mouth with tiny feather kisses. She hadn’t really been kissed before—certainly nothing like this: she’d half braced herself for an assault on her mouth, but the sweet, unexpectedness of these soft, fleeting caresses had her melting against him.
His gaze burned into her and she closed her eyes against the intensity. She could still feel it through her lids, the way you felt the sun through closed eyes.
He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. With her eyes closed, she felt each touch more intensely than ever. He did it again, and again, and she clutched at his shoulders, shivering helplessly at the warm, delicious sensations that quivered through her. Her lips parted and he kissed her with his whole mouth, and she shivered again at the heady taste of coffee and Harry Morant on her tongue.
She pulled him closer, loving the hard, solid feel of him against her. She could almost feel the whole length of him against her body; hard, leashed power, pressing against her, into her.
She kissed him back as he had kissed her, tentatively at first, then more confidently, tasting him with her mouth and tongue the way he had tasted her.
She pushed her fingers up through his thick dark hair, loving the feel of the hard, beautiful bones beneath, and as his tongue plunged into her, she arched against him and fisted a handful of hair, pulling him closer.
He groaned and pulled her hard against him.
“Come home with me,” he said. “Come home to Firmin Court and marry me. You don’t belong in this sort of life. And you’ll hate London.”
Shocked, she pulled out of his embrace. She staggered back against the wall. The feeling of the rough, cold brick against her palms braced her. “What did you say?”
“I asked you to marry me.” He frowned. “It can’t be that much of a surprise. I did ask you once before.”
“Yes, but you didn’t mean it.”
“I meant it.” He lifted her hand and kissed the hollow of her palm. “Don’t you remember?”
Her fingers curled with memory. Her cheeks burned. She snatched her hand away. Of course she remembered. She wouldn’t, couldn’t forget. “You’ve only met me twice.”
He shook his head. “It was three times—there was the forest, remember? But twice was all it took.”
She couldn’t take it in. “You know nothing about me and yet you want to marry me?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation.
She stared at him, dazed. She had a clear choice; she could marry Harry Morant—the most beautiful man she’d ever met in her life. He wanted her. He’d made that more than clear; the imprint of his wanting still burned sometimes against her palm.
And she wanted him; her knees went weak at the sight of him.
He wanted her and he meant to look after her. He would, too, she knew it. It was more than she’d ever been offered in her life.
But she couldn’t go back to Firmin Court, not without Torie. It was incredible enough that this dark, intense stranger wanted Nell on such short acquaintance. But Torie, too? Hardly.
Even Torie’s own grandfather hadn’t wanted her.
She took a deep breath and said quietly, “Mr. Morant, I’m deeply honored by your offer—more than I can say—but I must refuse. I’m sorry. I can’t return to Firmin Court. It’s just not possible.”
“Why not?” he asked bluntly.
“I don’t have to explain,” she told him. “No should be enough for any gentleman.”
He folded his arms and leaned against the door. “Perhaps, but I’m not a gentleman.”
She tried to think of how to explain it. She couldn’t tell him about Torie, not after Papa had gone to so much trouble to shelter Nell from the scandal of her pregnancy. No. The more people who knew, the more likely the secret would get out. Her daughter would not be labeled a child of shame.
Nell had it all planned out. As soon a
s she found Torie, she was going to take her to some remote part of the country where nobody knew her and pose as a widow with a child. Torie would never know the circumstances surrounding her birth. Only three people knew, and one of them was dead.
“Believe me, Mr. Morant,” she said, “you’re better off without me.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Not the sole judge, I’m afraid. The choice lies with me, and I’m going to London with Mrs. Beasley. Nothing you can say or do will change my mind.”
He frowned. “Does she have some hold over you?”
“No, of course not. But the employment she gives me is very convenient.”
“Convenient?” he said savagely. “Two weeks in her company and you’re thinner than ever. Your eyes are haunted and you can’t tell me she doesn’t bully you. She treats you like a skivvy or an imbecile in front of your social inferiors. Convenient? To be sent running thither and yon at the behest of a harpy?” He reached out and cupped her chin and his voice deepened. “To be looking so damned exhausted when you should be blooming?”
A lump formed in her throat at his words, but she pulled back. She had to resist him. For Torie’s sake. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Well, it damn well bothers me.”
“But it isn’t up to you, is it?” she said quietly. “Now will you let me out or must I scream?”
Recognizing the steel in her voice, he reluctantly stepped aside.
“Yes, Harry, that was wonderfully discreet, I agree,” Aunt Maude said as he walked beside her sedan chair on the way back up the hill. “I particularly admire the way after dragging her across the room, you stopped for a ten-second pause in which you stared down at the girl like a half-starved cannibal about to pounce—just in case there was a person in the room who had not already noticed—and then towed her through that back door out of sight. I wonder you never thought of joining the diplomatic corps, like your brother, Nash.”
“Half brother,” growled Harry stumping along beside the chair. “And all right, perhaps I was not as discreet as I’d planned to be, but that girl . . . rattles me.” It was hardly the word, but there was no word for what Nell Freymore did to him.
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