“You wouldn’t want him,” Rosalind said, discomfited at the note of defensiveness in her own tone.
“Well, I can’t imagine any woman not wanting such a fine specimen for a husband. That’s it, isn’t it?” Lucy gasped. “He’s married?”
“No,” Rosalind muttered, feeling a bit adrift. “He’s not married. He’s a . . . he’s a farmer.” Her insides burned with shame for misleading Lucy.
“A farmer?” Lucy muttered in disbelief. “Here, in London for the season? Business perhaps?”
Rosalind nodded, her own curiosity wrecking havoc on her concentration.
“A farmer, as in a yeoman farmer?” Lucy whispered her question. “Or farmer as in a landowner? A gentleman farmer?”
Rosalind gave a small nod. “Gentry.” With a twinge of guilt she withheld the rumor that he had a distant aristocratic relation. She had overheard Gabriel mentioning that fact late one night while at the billiard table at Wolverest. The men hadn’t known she’d been in the hall, her ear pressed against the closed door.
“Is he a man of substantial funds, then?” Lucy asked, giving a frustrated sigh when Rosalind failed to answer her.
Just what was Nicholas Kincaid doing here?
Gabriel would know. A surge of anticipation quickened Rosalind’s pulse. She wouldn’t have to wait long to ask her brother. Gabriel had requested her presence in his study for a brief discussion before their guests started to arrive this evening. She suspected she was due another lecture about her meddling—er, matchmaking.
Although it ought to be praise. Lonely Mr. Thwaites and the spinster Miss Crofton were now the happy Mr. and Mrs. Thwaites as of just last season. And by the looks of things, Miss Honeywell here would find herself a viscountess very soon. Rosalind itched to take another peek in their direction.
“My Lady. Miss Meriwether,” a gentleman intoned from behind them.
Rosalind turned to see Lord Stokes stepping past the other end of the aisle. A veteran of the marriage mart, the redheaded viscount was rather reserved, but friendly. An acquaintance of Gabriel’s, he often attended all the Devines’ parties.
He tipped his hat, smiling at them in turn. His gaze lingered a touch longer on Lucy, which hardly went unnoticed by Rosalind.
“Well,” Rosalind whispered in her most beseeching tone. “Whatever are you doing here talking to me, dear Lucy, when there is a highly available bachelor right here in this very establishment? I daresay, he is completely smitten with you.”
“You think so? I rather thought he only had eyes for you.”
“Don’t be silly,” Rosalind replied lightly.
“Well . . . perhaps,” Lucy answered, sounding unsure.
“Why don’t you go and speak with him, then?”
Lucy blinked in surprise. “I shouldn’t know what to say.”
“We are at a bookshop, for heaven’s sake. Ask him a question about a book.”
“What book?”
“Any book. It doesn’t matter.”
Hesitating, Lucy tapped her finger against her teeth.
“Go on,” Rosalind urged, jerking her chin in the direction Stokes had gone. “If I were you, I should think I’d sidle up next to him and start fretting about not being able to reach a book. It’s bound to work.”
Lucy gasped, her eyes wide and her smile alight with enthusiasm. “A test of his gallantry,” she replied in a loud whisper. “Brilliant!”
Rosalind nodded in encouragement. “Why don’t you give it a try?”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do just that. Superior idea!”
As Lucy sped off down the aisle—busy with thoughts of snagging Lord Stokes—Rosalind turned her attention back to peeking through the bookshelf in order to gauge Miss Honeywell’s progress.
“Oh, dear,” Rosalind whispered, her shoulders falling in disappointment. It appeared they had gone separate ways.
Rosalind carefully slid a particularly meaty tome two inches further down the shelf in order to get a better view. Lord Beecham had rounded the corner and was clearly exiting in a rush. What had happened? Completely enthralled with just what exactly had occurred between the couple, she forgot her position on the ladder. She arched her feet and now stood on the tips of her toes.
Her head now in the shelf along with a dusty book, Rosalind nudged the thick tome further out of her way with the side of her forehead. Had they argued? And Miss Honeywell . . . where had she gone? She gazed up and down the aisle as far as she could see. Was she upset as well? Oh, dear, what had happened?
If Rosalind had been paying any attention at all to just how far she was leaning to the side, she would have surely caught herself by grabbing hold of the sides of the ladder. Instead, her toes slid on the rung.
She didn’t have time to scream. With nothing underneath for purchase, she toppled backwards, her knees bending. Gloved fingers grasped for the ladder but failed. Her entire body hardened, preparing for a jarring impact with the hard floor.
Her backside never found it.
Two strong hands caught her swiftly underneath the arms, her back slamming into the unforgiving wall of a man’s solid chest. While the air in her lungs seemed to be locked on a frozen scream, his warm, even breath feathered the top of her head. It felt as if time had been suspended.
The backs of her calves rested on the fourth rung, and her feet had pushed a row of books through to the other side. He held her thus, in this ridiculous position, before she realized he was waiting for her to pull her legs out and stand on the floor.
A scorching blush inflamed her entire body. How ungainly, how graceless.
Trembling, she pulled her legs through one by one, while he held her steady. With both of her feet firmly on the floor, he hesitated, his hands firm and reassuring against her back. She exhaled shakily before he finally let go.
Pressing her lips together, Rosalind wavered, reluctant to turn around and thank him for saving her from numerous broken bones. Perhaps he would just walk away and she could pretend this had never happened?
No. That would never do. Good manners decreed she thank him. Straightening, she turned and found herself staring at the middle of his chest. She cleared her throat. “Dear man, I must extend my sincerest . . .” She tilted her head back and met disapproving gray eyes.
“Nicholas,” she barely choked out.
“My lady,” he murmured with a slight dip of his head.
“I . . . I—”
“—should watch what the devil you’re doing?” he reproved, one brow arched. “I certainly hope this isn’t a habit of yours—to behave so recklessly.”
“Er, not usually,” she managed to mumble.
Oh, what a witty girl, she thought, nearly rolling her eyes at herself.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, then paused, his eyes narrowing on her as he apparently weighed the words on the tip of his tongue.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He bent his head even closer, apparently so that no one else could overhear. Warmth spread from her head to her boots, and she felt her body tremble slightly. He was looking so intensely into her eyes that she blindly gripped the nearest shelf to brace herself for whatever it was he was about to say.
I love you, Rosalind. I worship you, Rosalind. I followed you all the way to London just to tell you that you are my sun, my stars, my moonlit . . .
“Apple tree.”
Rosalind blinked. “What?”
“Do you remember that day in the apple tree? I shall never forget it.” His voice was low, his slight Scot’s burr seeming to thrum through her. Having his silvery stare centered on her so unexpectedly and after so long fairly turned Rosalind’s mind to mush.
“It was the first time I saw you.” He shook his head slowly, his intense look never softening. “I spotted you sitting in one of your brother’s apple trees in the walled orchard. I had no idea what you were doing up there. It took me a half a moment to realize you were spying on a man and woman enjoying a picnic luncheon on the lawn
.”
Oh, yes. Rosalind remembered that day. And she had arranged that picnic, too. In fact, she’d picked the menu herself and packed the basket as well. She had been helping a footman woo a scullery maid for weeks. The girl had finally relented, agreeing to an outing. Within the weeks that had followed, the happy couple had married.
But contrary to what Nicholas believed, she had not been spying on the lovers. She had been spying on Nicholas. He had just finished helping their groundskeeper burn a diseased tree on the border of their properties. Believing he’d been alone, Nicholas had slipped off his shirt and washed up over a tub of rainwater near the wall of the orchard. Fascinated, her eyes had lingered upon the flat plane of his stomach and muscled chest, the light trail of hair that circled his navel and disappeared in the band of his breeches. His skin had looked like the color of tea with two drops of cream—and just as warm and inviting. When he’d straightened, shaking the water out of his hair, she had thought he’d caught her eye. She had lurched back . . .
“You tipped backwards and would have come crashing down, but by some miracle you hung on to the tree limb by the backs of your knees.” He shifted his weight. Lord, he smelled wonderful and warm. Light cologne and utterly masculine. “And there you swayed back and forth. The only thing that ended up falling to the ground was your bonnet.”
Her skirts had flipped over her head, too. A flush of heat fanned through her upon realizing that Nicholas must have seen her unmentionables that day. She was just glad he didn’t reveal that particular fact.
His eyes sparkled mischievously, but only briefly. It still managed to trip up her heart. Perhaps he was remembering that flipped skirt after all.
She inhaled slowly, shakily, and rallied her composure.
“So this is”—he looked off in the distance briefly, then swung those eyes back to her—“at least the second time you’ve fallen off or out of something.” The corners of his mouth turned downward in a teasing manner that made her feel like she was a debutante again. “One would think you would have learned your lesson.”
“To not climb trees,” she answered cheekily.
He sighed, giving a nod to the next row. “Perhaps if you weren’t so preoccupied spying on people,” he said, a muscle twitching in his jaw, “and paid attention to yourself, you wouldn’t have fallen off the ladder.”
All of a sudden, her mind seemed to awaken out of a blanket of fog. Her eyes narrowed on him. “You were deliberately blocking my view,” she accused in a sharp whisper, taking a step closer to him.
“And you are ever the wee snoop, I see,” he whispered back, his warm breath dusting her cheek as he, too, took a step closer to her.
Her mouth opened on a silent gasp. “How dare you make such assumptions,” she whispered as loudly as one could and have it still be considered a whisper.
A wicked gleam lit his gray eyes. “Is it quite beneath you, then? Women of society don’t meddle in people’s lives?”
Her mind, refined and knowledgeable in the art of giving someone a fantastic retort, went startlingly blank. Not only was he accusing her of spying, which of course was exactly what she’d been doing, but they were also standing so close to each other now that a deep thrumming began to vibrate through her. Did he feel it, too?
Giving herself a mental shake, she reminded herself that he was chiding her as if she was some vexing creature—a little sister, perhaps. Frustration simmered inside at the thought.
She might be someone’s little sister, but she wasn’t his. And she certainly didn’t want him to view her that way—not when she was undoubtedly a woman full grown, not when her feelings for him were so strong, so lasting. Her love was not a transient thing, an infatuation.
It occurred to her then that he was waiting for her to say something. Refusing to take a step back, she held her ground and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “If you must know, I was trying to get a book down.” She lifted a shoulder daintily, her face a mask of nonchalance.
“That’s all?”
“And I couldn’t quite reach it.”
One brow raised in apparent disbelief. “Indeed?”
“Indeed.”
“All right then, which one?”
“What?” she hedged.
“Which book?”
Her eyes flew to the shelf.
One long, blunt-tipped finger gently tapped her chin. “No peeking.”
A shaky sigh escaped her—as did the title of the book she wanted. Of course, as the book was imaginary, that was to be expected.
“Now, lass, tell me which book it was that you couldn’t reach,” his eyes dipped to her mouth briefly, “and I’ll get it for you. Easy enough.”
She swallowed, and then without looking, she reached upward and pointed in the general direction of the shelf she had been poking her head through. “It was on the top shelf.”
With his serious gaze still upon her, he reached high above her head. His chest so close, the stiff lapels of his coat almost brushed her cheek. His scent surrounded her, warm and clean, and making her want nothing more than to bury her face in the soft folds of his cravat.
“There’s only one book up there,” he said, his eyes lifting away to look past her.
“Then, that’s the one,” she chirped, banishing her absurd face-in-the-cravat fantasy.
“If that be your wish, lass.”
“It be,” she said, then cleared her throat. “I mean, yes. Yes, it is.”
Voices whispered nearby. He took a step away from her, seeming to finally acknowledge that they might be creating gossip fodder.
He pulled back further still, and suddenly the thick book she had nudged with her forehead earlier was thrust in her face. “This book?” he asked suspiciously.
“Indeed.” She took it with two hands, nearly losing the thing when her wrist twisted from its weight. He caught it before it slipped through her fingers and landed on his feet.
“Thank you,” she said, grateful that she affected a somewhat lofty tone.
He bent his head toward her, his eyes intent on the book. Long, slightly calloused fingers reached toward her bodice but stopped short to trace the embossed title stretching across the cover.
She hoped her barely audible gasp went unnoticed by him.
He chuckled low and deep in his chest. “A Detailed History on the Production and Use of Cannons and Muskets.” He straightened to his full height, a rare smile playing with the corner of his mouth. “I would never suppose that a woman of your sort would be all that interested in the tools of war.”
My sort? Whatever did he mean by that? “Well then,” she said pertly, “perhaps a man of your sort ought to cease making unfounded assumptions.”
He tipped his head in a conceding gesture, a curious warmth in his gaze.
She fought the nearly overwhelming urge to ask him what he was thinking. “If y-you’ll excuse me, I have a book to purchase.” What a coward she was turning out to be.
He stepped aside, extending his arm to allow her the way.
Chin lifted, shoulders back, Rosalind passed him and strode toward the front desk, willing herself to keep her pace steady and unaffected.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that he wasn’t that far behind, about three feet back to her left. However, just when she believed he was going to follow her, he turned and strode toward the exit.
The pretty shopgirl from before approached the door at the same time, her arms full of novels. Tipping his hat to her, he smiled as he opened the door for her.
Rosalind let her giant book slam on the counter.
He smiled? He hardly ever smiled.
“My lady? Is something amiss?” A very concerned-looking Mr. Thwaites peered at Rosalind from behind tiny, round spectacles.
“No, Mr. Thwaites,” she said flatly. “I am perfectly content this morning.”
He visibly relaxed, though he appeared not to believe her. “Good to hear. Good to hear, my lady.” He gestured to the book. “Wi
ll you be purchasing the book?”
Rosalind pushed it toward him with a sigh.
“Shall I list this on your credit, my lady?”
She nodded absentmindedly, her eyes drifting back to the door. After Mr. Thwaites finished recording her transaction, she mumbled her thanks, politely inquired after Mrs. Thwaites, then yanked the book into her arms before shuffling to the door.
She sighed, hefting the book in her grasp. Glaring down at it, she had the fleeting thought that should she meet Nicholas Kincaid on the street, she’d very gladly wallop him with it.
What a smashing day it was turning out to be. She had become the object of an idiotic wager that was nothing more than a flagrant waste of time, she had an appointment with her brother that most likely included dire warnings about meddling, she’d made a fool of herself in front of the man she loved—who’d admonished her as if she’d been but a child, and now she found herself saddled with a two-stone book that she had to carry all the way home and would most definitely never read.
As she neared the windows of the shop, a splattering of raindrops dotted the glass. Outside, her maid, Alice, appeared to be choking their umbrella. In another second, the thing fell apart in her hands. The girl looked up to see Rosalind through the window and lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug.
Wonderful. The day couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Chapter 2
“You’ve hired me a nursemaid?”
Using every ounce of self-restraint, Rosalind managed to remain seated across from her eldest brother—and not surge upright and stomp her foot like the child he clearly believed her to be.
Gabriel leaned back in his chair and eyed Rosalind with a gaze as frosty blue and unyielding as her own. “Not a nursemaid exactly.”
“Then tell me, what is the difference? You say I am to be watched, looked after, that if ever a circumstance arose in which I need assistance, I am simply to call out and some unnamable brute shall spring forth from the shadows to come to my aid.”
Guarding a Notorious Lady Page 2