Rosalind nearly groaned aloud.
Slowly, the men complied, looking for a moment as if they’d like nothing better than to jump out the window to freedom themselves.
Rosalind wanted to feel sorry for them, but she didn’t. None of the men who had come to call today possessed an ounce of sincerity between them. But they never have, she reminded herself, even without the dreadful wager.
Part of her wanted to toss them out, just as her eldest brother advised her to do, but she couldn’t. She needed them. Their presence here today served a purpose. She hoped to draw out her guardian.
“Who’s this?” her aunt asked rudely, gesturing to Nicholas with a lift of her chin.
A warm blush crept up Rosalind’s neck as she realized she had been standing behind him. She stepped forward and made the proper introductions.
Now that Nicholas was here, that made four eligible males in her town house. What sort of guardian could resist such a situation? But she was beginning to believe that the man, whoever he was, was either really good at keeping his distance or incredibly lax in his duties. Perhaps he hovered outside for some reason.
She flicked a glance over to the window overlooking the street. The action was not missed by Nicholas.
“Are you looking for someone in particular?” he asked from beside her.
She pressed her lips together and shook her head.
He gave her a skeptical nod and one of his disarming grins.
Heat infused her entire body. Clearing her throat delicately, Rosalind moved over to the settee against the wall, thinking Nicholas would take the empty chair near the others. She offered it in passing with an open palm and a polite “come and sit.”
However, once she sat down, she realized he had followed her. Flipping the tails of his jacket out of the way, he sank down next to her, his long legs stretched out before them.
It was a big enough seat . . . for two women, but with a man of Nicholas’s size, there was no helping their touching each other. From thigh to knee.
A path of fire seemed to smolder at that seam of contact.
“You there, young man,” Aunt Eugenia replied, gesturing to Nicholas. “You were at the ball last night, were you not? I saw you talking to my nephew.”
“Aye, madam.”
“Weren’t you wearing a skirt?” Eugenia asked, giving him a once-over, the number of her chins increasing as she dipped her head.
Rosalind sighed softly.
“It’s called a kilt, madam. But I thank you kindly for noticing.” And then he winked.
“Such arrogance,” Aunt Eugenia croaked, her wrinkled forehead furrowing further with her indignant frown. “I cannot believe Rosalind let you in the house. Such talk from one of her admirers!”
He cleared his throat. “I am not one of her admirers. I’m here to visit with Tristan.”
Eyes widened, Aunt Eugenia’s wide nostrils flared at the insult she apparently thought was aimed at Rosalind.
“If you’ve come to see to my nephew, what are you doing in here?”
Rosalind looked at Nicholas, curious to what his answer would be to her disapproving aunt.
His gray gaze flicked to her, and then back to her aunt. “Well, you must realize I could not resist ensconcing myself in the company of such fine women.”
What a flirt—and an excellent approach at befuddling her aunt, Rosalind mused, noting that Aunt Eugenia was now blushing like a green girl.
“Shall I ring for a fresh pot of tea, my lord?” Rosalind interjected quietly before her aunt regained her sense.
When he didn’t immediately answer, she turned to meet his gaze. What a mistake. He was too close. And the silver glints in his eyes seared a path straight to her belly, which made her squirm slightly.
“No, thank you,” he answered just as quietly, his gaze dipping to her lips before returning to meld with her own gaze.
He had never looked at her like this before. He looked . . . hungry. Quite like she was a tasty morsel of . . . something, and he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth in her.
For five seconds she forgot to breathe.
“Your eyes,” Lord Bates suddenly proclaimed from across the room.
Blinking out of Nicholas’s surely accidental enchantment, Rosalind wasn’t sure who Bates was talking to, or about, for that matter, until she managed to turn her head in his direction.
“Pardon?” she asked.
Lord Bates gave her a completely besotted—and completely feigned, she was sure—glance. “I noticed them while we danced last night. They’re the bluest I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled, feeling quite awkward. “But I must say I’ve seen many women with blue eyes just like mine.”
“I wanted to remark upon them at the time, but it slipped my mind,” he continued, flushing.
Lord, this was terribly strange.
“I second the notion.” Lord Wells straightened in his chair. “I daresay, they’re not frosty like your elder brother’s, but alluring. Quite like a bright summer sky.”
Nicholas shifted next to her, crossing his arms over his chest.
“No, that’s not it,” Lord Morton replied. “They’re more like sapphires, I say.”
“Sapphires?” Lord Bates scoffed. “Her eyes are too brilliant to be described as such a deep blue. Now, what they are is sparkly. Like a winter morning sky—”
“Gentlemen, please!” Aunt Eugenia proclaimed. “Listen to yourselves. Arguing about the gel’s eye color! Preposterous. Next, you’ll all come to blows on the street over the exact hue. Let it rest. Upon my word.”
The gentlemen quieted their ridiculous debate only to begin marveling over what they deemed was Rosalind’s talent for dancing.
Rosalind pressed her lips together, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the settee. She wasn’t that spectacular a dancer. Only passable at best. Oh, how she wished they would cease.
Nicholas tilted his crossed arms, gently brushing against her upper arm in the process, presumably to gain her attention.
She turned to look at him and nearly sighed with thankfulness for his surly expression. He was looking not at her but at the hopeful suitors.
“Is it really always like this?” he said softly, barely moving his lips.
“Yes. And no,” she replied just as quietly. “When Gabriel is here, they aren’t permitted in the house.”
“I see.”
She wondered if he truly did see. Was he aware of how unsettling and downright ridiculous their behavior could be? And she was to think she would find a husband among these men someday?
“You don’t like it,” he stated, and she could feel his gaze upon her.
She looked up at him. “Can you blame me?”
“Do you have high standards of conduct for prospective husbands?”
“Indeed. I suppose there are some women who would be ecstatic to have such enthusiasm in her suitors. However, I would much prefer sincerity over anything else. True affection.”
“Love?” he asked, the timbre of his voice coaxing an unexpected shiver to spark through her.
She could only nod, hoping she didn’t look as vulnerable as she felt at that moment.
“And you don’t think you’ll ever find it,” he finished for her.
She gave him a small smile but was unable to hold his gaze. The truth was, “love” was sitting next to her, but of course she wouldn’t say that aloud. Not when he continued to confuse her about how he felt about her.
“What I think,” she began, still speaking in low tones, “or rather, what I know, is that I will not marry unless my prospective husband surrenders his entire heart to me. If I can’t have it all, I want none of it.”
“Some men might find that prospect frightening. Loving completely. Relinquishing.”
“But why?”
“Perhaps they believe love makes one vulnerable. It weakens you. Opens you up to pain and fear.” He closed his eyes slowly, briefly. “For some, love is like death.�
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She straightened. “But love is life.”
“To you, perhaps.”
“Not to you?”
When he didn’t answer her, she forged onward with her point. “My father charmed my mother at the very first ball she attended, and they were married soon after. She was twenty, romantic, and longed for a love match. She thought she had found that very thing with my father and grew to love him deeply. But my father never reciprocated those feelings. Sometimes there would be a gesture or a kind word, and I believe it was those things that kept her hanging on to the hope that he would one day declare his love. I was thirteen years old and even I knew—”
“He toyed with her feelings?”
She shook her head, the thought that Nicholas seemed genuinely interested in what she was saying warming her heart. It did not escape her notice that she’d never spoken to another man about her parents’ relationship before—besides Gabriel, that is.
“Perhaps he was toying with her,” she said. “He was rarely home, but my mother lived for those times. As time went on, he came home less and less. News of his mistresses traveled to Wolverest and it devastated my mother. Tristan was too young and too much of a free spirit to notice such things, but Gabriel and I watched her slowly waste away.”
Frowning, Nicholas shook his head. “Her love for your father destroyed her.”
“My father’s love would have brought her back to life.” She sighed. “I don’t want to make the same mistake. I don’t want to be in love with someone that feigns his affection. I’d rather be alone.”
He stared at her, his firm, expertly sculpted lips opening slightly as if he was about to say something more but thought better of it. His gaze dropped to her lips and he leaned slightly toward her.
For a moment, she thought he was actually going to kiss her, right here in the morning room, but then she felt his breath at her ear.
“I don’t think you were made to be alone,” he whispered hotly before pulling away.
Her eyes fluttered. She hadn’t expected him to say something like that, and she wasn’t sure she understood his meaning. Was he flirting? Was that some sort of twisted compliment that circled back to his earlier insinuations that she enjoyed the attention from men?
Before she could ask him what he’d meant, her stomach gave a sudden, horrific growl. The spell between them broke and she patted at her skirts, hoping the swishing masked it.
She had been so busy at the door (and at the windows) and in the morning room that she hadn’t eaten a morsel since very early this morning, and it had only been a slice of toast with a drop of honey.
Licking her lips, Rosalind glanced longingly at a plate of chocolate cake.
“Do you want some, lass?” Nicholas drawled from beside her.
She looked over to find him staring at her mouth intently. “Ah, no. No, thank you. I’m fine. Really.”
“I could get you a nice, thick slice. You would like it.”
Her gaze flicked to the plate, then back to Nicholas’s face. “Oh, I would. I would.”
“Then let me get it for you.”
“Winterbourne!” Tristan shouted from the doorway. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Rosalind’s breath shuddered. Just what was going on here? All the man was doing was asking if she wanted some cake, but it somehow felt much more intimate in nature.
Frighteningly, she wanted it to continue. She wanted cake. She wanted him to feed her cake. In truth, she didn’t even care if he ate the cake himself just so that he’d keep talking to her in those dark tones while looking at her mouth like he wanted to kiss her.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Nicholas spoke to the room at large.
Rosalind watched him leave, marveling at his size. She inhaled the hint of his cologne and mourned the warmth he took with him.
Why did he have to be such a confusing, beguiling beast?
As soon as Nicholas was out of the room, Tristan gave her a pointed look, then threw one that held considerable more heat at the grouping of men.
“Gentlemen,” he said, affecting Gabriel’s dark baritone precisely. “My sister has had a very busy afternoon.”
Surprisingly, they all stood and made their hushed excuses.
Twenty minutes later, Aunt Eugenia rose and declared she was to return to her rooms. “I’ve eaten too much cake and talked to too many idiots for one afternoon,” she said.
Which left Rosalind alone with her thoughts—and the last slice of luscious chocolate cake.
The house was incredibly quiet. Nicholas had probably left, as well.
She strained to hear his voice down the hall, but she perceived nothing but the ticking clock and the occasional sniffle from Briggs.
Silent, like a cat, she stole across the room. Sucking in her lips, she plucked the moist wedge from the plate, and then, opening her mouth wide, she shoved the entire thing in her mouth all at once.
It was heaven. It was divine. It was . . .
“Impressive.”
Cheeks full to bursting, she turned her head to find Nicholas leaning inside the doorway, a grin slanting across his handsome face.
She froze, but only for a moment. Her cheeks probably looked as plump as a cherub’s. She ought to be mortified, but she wasn’t.
Undeterred, she finished chewing, dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin, and then, of course, took an exaggerated bow. She came up smiling broadly, knowing that chocolate most likely stained her teeth, making it look like she was missing a few.
Nicholas pushed off the doorframe, clapping politely. He knew that it would be an infinitely wiser choice to turn around and make his exit, but his feet were apparently paying no attention at all to his thoughts. Before he could stop himself, he stood before her, the small table with an empty cake plate squatting between them.
His eyes followed the path of her pink tongue as it peeked out to lick her lower lip. Sweet Christ.
“Has Tristan given you a sufficient supply of the best gaming hells, then?” she asked, a bite to her words.
“Adequate, I suppose.” He hated having to lie to her, but he couldn’t very well tell her he’d had to tell Tristan that he would be watching the house this evening.
“Nicholas?”
He inwardly cringed. He knew that tone. He had a younger sister, after all. That pitch in her voice meant she was about to ask him a question she suspected he wouldn’t want to answer.
“At the ball the other night,” she said, skirting around the table to step closer to him.
He took a backwards step.
“I noticed you danced, oh, seven sets—to the delight of the debutantes in attendance.” She took another step, the hem of her dress brushing the toes of his boots.
He gulped.
“Why did you not waltz?”
For a moment his mind froze. He hadn’t expected her to ask him that question. “Well, I-I . . .” Damn, but she had him blubbering like a schoolboy. He cleared his throat. “I cannot waltz.”
Her chin dropped.
There. He’d said it. It wasn’t true, but he was quite proud of himself for being so very clever. Three wee words and now he was neatly exonerated from ever having to dance with her at any of the numerous balls she would undoubtedly be attending. The dread that hovered in his dreams, whispering warnings that he wouldn’t be able to control himself, hide his attraction if he was forced to hold her in his embrace, evaporated in an instant.
“You cannot waltz?”
He grinned wide and sanguine. “No.”
Her azure gaze narrowed on him as a slow smile curled her lips.
A sense of foreboding as heavy as an anvil dropped in his stomach.
Before he could react—and truly, he didn’t know what he would have done if he’d had time—Rosalind did a little hop where she stood and grabbed his hand.
“Then I shall teach you,” she chirped, pulling him with her.
Chapter 6
“Teach me? Now? Here? Where a
re you taking me?”
“To the wilds of South America,” she intoned dryly, rolling her eyes. “To the middle of the room, Nicholas.” Letting go of his hand, she scooted a chair to the side. “Sheesh, you act as if you fear I’ll ravish you.”
Quite the reverse, I fear I’ll ravish you.
“All right,” she declared, holding up her arms as if an imaginary man stood before her. “This shouldn’t take too long, seeing as how well you danced the other night. And you did watch the others dance, I presume.” She smiled at him. “Come on. I promise not to stomp on your toes. Seven seasons and not a single victim to date.”
Like an imbecile he just stood there, frozen at the prospect of holding her in his arms. Sitting next to her on the sofa had been one thing—there had been other people in the room, after all. But they were most definitely alone now. Alone and unchaperoned. Clearly, she had no idea at all about how attracted he was to her, which was a good thing, but he suspected the threads of his restraint were popping free, cord by cord, each time he had to touch her.
It’s only lust, he kept telling himself.
His every step measured, Nicholas came before her, resigned to her little dance lesson.
“Now,” she said, her tone befitting one of his old mathematics tutors. “You do know the waltz time? The music for the minuet last night was in waltz time . . . one . . . two . . . three.”
He responded with a grunt.
“Good.” She smiled. “Now hold me.”
“What?” he asked a bit loudly.
She sighed, though he detected a shakiness to her breath. “Encircle my waist with your right arm. Keep your posture firm.”
Hardening his resolve to behave, he closed his eyes and slid his arm around her. He felt her shiver.
“Now, hold my right hand with your left,” she said softly. “Keep your arm bent at the elbow.”
On purpose, he held it too high.
“Lower. Almost to the height of my waist.”
And then, because Nicholas was a little bit wicked, he let the hand that splayed across the base of her spine lower inch by glorious inch until his thumb rested at her waist, his fingers at the top of her backside.
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