“I did not,” he said, looking over her head and out the window. “See, that wee blond has come out and is tending to him.”
Rosalind didn’t turn to look but glared up at him instead.
“She is,” he assured her. “Look, he’s moving now.”
Shaking her head in slow disapproval, she poked him again and took a step toward him. He took a step back.
“I may not approve of his conduct, but your conduct is equally appalling. Lucky for you his neck isn’t broken. And what about all my things,” she said, lifting an arm and making an arc, “scattered across the lawn? It’ll be dawn soon, and what will the neighbors say? And the inkwell . . .”
As she continued her stream of complaints, Nicholas’s attention was drawn to the sound of a door opening from down the hall.
Could it be Tristan?
“ . . . ink everywhere, I daresay, spotting the grass, dotting the flowers, staining the brick . . .”
Nicholas turned his head toward her open door to better listen. Was that footsteps?
“ . . . they’ll see the objects, know they’re all mine and they’ll think I’ve gone completely mad. Nicholas? Are you listening to me?”
“Hush.”
The floor creaked and an older female cleared her throat.
Rosalind worked her jaw. “Did you just ‘hush’ me again? In all my life, I’ve never been hushed once, and you’ve managed to hu—”
He clamped one hand to her mouth, the other to the back of her head. “Someone is coming,” he rushed out in a whisper.
Rosalind’s eyes widened in revelation. Nicholas nodded gravely.
Shuffling footsteps neared. “Rosalind? Rosalind? Are you awake? Such a clamor in this house!”
Nicholas’s gaze darted to her wardrobe, and he quickly assessed that he’d never fit. There simply wasn’t any time to find a proper hiding place.
Swinging a startled Rosalind into his arms, he threw her roughly on the bed. She landed with a bounce and a squeak, but, quick-thinking lass that she was, she lifted the covers up, inviting him inside. Without a moment’s hesitation, he dove under them.
He couldn’t see a thing, thank the good Lord. He did not forget—indeed, how could he?—that Rosalind wore next to nothing and her face was above the covers. If there was a smidgen of light, he could feast his eyes upon her without her ever knowing. And judging by the heat generating under the blankets, she was positioned very close to him.
Golden light pervaded the coverlet, and he swore under his breath. Her dotty aunt must have been carrying a lamp.
“Margaret, build a fresh fire for my niece.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She must have brought her maid with her. Ah, hell. Now the room would be awash with light.
Flat on his stomach, Nicholas kept as still as he could and closed his eyes.
“I needn’t a fire,” Rosalind remarked softly. “It’s rather warm in here, is it not?”
Indeed. Sweltering. Jasmine and cream. Lord, he could smell her, and he had to bite the sheet to keep from reaching out and sinking his mouth onto whatever part of her body he came into contact with first. He’d lick and suck . . . and she’d taste as good as she smelled. He winked open one eye and spied the gentle curve of one bare shoulder, the capped sleeve of her night rail having slid off. Oh, yes. He swallowed, his mouth watering.
“Drafty is what it is,” he heard her aunt say. “Though I do suppose you have such a heap of blankets upon your bed, you wouldn’t feel it. Shall I have Margaret remove some?”
“NO!” She cleared her throat, then added more calmly, “I mean, no. It’s not necessary. I quite like the heap and want it to stay.” She patted the blanket atop him.
“Whatever you wish, child, but you ought to have your maid keep your door shut through the night.”
“I shall remind her,” answered a sleepy-sounding Rosalind.
“Did the noise awaken you, as well?”
A very real-sounding yawn emerged from above his head. “What noise?”
“I was startled awake by a thump.”
“That’s strange. I didn’t hear anything.”
“Hmph.”
“I suppose it could have been Tristan coming home from a late night about Town.”
“I suppose.” Her aunt sighed. “Hurry up, Margaret; I’m going back to bed.” Quick footsteps moved across the room, followed by slower ones. A minute later the door clicked shut.
The lovely body next to him shifted. “They’re gone,” Rosalind whispered.
Nicholas gave a sigh of relief. “That was a close one, lass.”
He peeled back the coverlet to find Rosalind eyeing him curiously, a small smile playing upon her lips. Or, he supposed, she might not have been smiling at all. Those damn, tempting lips of hers had that disarming habit of curving up at the corners. He wondered how her brothers ever knew what she was thinking. Maybe they always assumed the worst.
A sudden yawn overtook her and she settled her cheek against the pillow, gazing at him sleepily.
He liked this Rosalind. She was soft and tender and he just wanted to pull her into his arms. It had been a long night . . . and morning for her. She must be exhausted. Aye, and he was as well.
“You must go,” she said huskily. “The servants will be stirring and I’ve been scandalous enough for one evening, I suppose.”
He nodded, oddly tempted to sleep with her. Honestly, just sleep with her. What the devil was wrong with him?
“I agree,” he said, slipping reluctantly from the bed. “And I’ve had my share of fighting off your zealous suitors for one evening.”
“Me, too,” she said around another yawn.
He came to her side of the bed and, before he even knew what he was about, began tucking the blankets around her.
She sighed, snuggled deeper in the blankets, and closed her eyes.
Trust. She trusted him. She might not realize it yet, but she trusted him. This sought-after woman, plagued with dodging a plethora of bumbling suitors, felt comfortable and safe . . . with him.
He should go. Right now. Creep to the door, listen for the aunt, and slip out and into the night while shadows yet cling to the earth, you great big buffoon.
But he didn’t. Not yet. For whatever reason, he wanted nothing more than to take advantage of her current, appealing state.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, “for helping Tristan up the stairs.”
Leaning down, Nicholas let his lips hover above her forehead for five whole seconds before sinking down for a brief kiss. Her skin was soft and cool, her exotic scent pervading his nostrils and sinking straight to his heart, where he committed it to memory.
Before he could pull away, however, she surprised him by slipping her warm hands around the back of his neck, keeping him close.
Delicate fingers slid into his hair. He licked his lips, unable to tear his gaze away from her sleepy eyes. And then, before he knew what she was about, she raised her head and pressed her lips softly to his cheek.
He stiffened, her scent washing over him and sending heat straight to his loins. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to kiss her, to plunder her mouth until she sighed with pleasure and pulled him down atop her.
But he wouldn’t.
First, he wasn’t so arrogant to believe that the lass would welcome his kisses again. And secondly, this was Gabriel’s sister. He was to guard her, not ravish her.
But he was left little choice in the matter when her soft, rosy lips whispered across his cheek and down his jaw to settle at the corner of his mouth.
His lips sought to feel hers more fully, feathering across hers back and forth. It wasn’t a kiss. It was slow, scorching, openmouthed exploration.
He inhaled her scent, reveled in the heat of her soft breath on his mouth, and tested the plumpness of her lower lip with the edge of his teeth. He heard her breath catch and his responded in kind. The intensity was almost unbearable. He went to pull away, but the pressure of her fing
ertips at the nape of his neck increased, telling him she wanted him to stay right where he was.
“No, lass,” he drawled.
She nodded.
He couldn’t stop his smile. “No.”
“Why?” she whispered. “I want to and I think you want to, as well.”
“You do not know what you ask of me. I have a respon—” He closed his eyes briefly and swallowed. “We mustn’t.”
She nodded as if she understood. A ghost of regret swept across her features. She looked away, hurt by his refusal.
“Ah, lass. You’ll be the death of me,” he groaned, sinking to his knees beside her bed.
Cradling her face in his hands, he brushed his lips across hers in an achingly slow rhythm until he felt her lips blossoming beneath his. As soon as she opened to him, he sunk his mouth fully onto hers in a gentle caress.
She was soft and warm, and he couldn’t stop himself from taking a quick taste. Strawberries and . . . a hint of chocolate. “Mmm,” he said against her lips.
A small sound came from the back of her throat, and it called to him like a sea nymph beckoning him to his doom. Without a whisper of warning, the pressure and rhythm of the kiss escalated—openmouthed and wet and addictively erotic.
She arched upwards, pressing her soft breasts against his chest. One of his hands held the back of her head; the other slipped behind her back to hold her even more tightly against him.
He thought he could take a sip of her and stop. How foolish. He kissed her like a man starved for her. Shyly, her tongue flicked his, coaxing him, encouraging him. She gave an impatient whimper, and he suspected she didn’t know what she wanted, she just wanted. He sank his tongue inside her welcoming mouth with lazy sweeps and she moaned, threading her fingers through his hair. Holy hell, this had to stop.
Shakily, he pulled away.
Reaching back with both hands, he gently—regretfully—pulled her hands away from the back of his neck. They felt so delicate in his own.
“I’ll see you later this afternoon,” he said quietly, “at the Fairfax musicale.” Bringing her hands to his mouth, he kissed her knuckles.
Still panting, she nodded, gazing up at him as he stood.
“Sleep well, Rosalind,” he said, turning to head for the door.
“Sleep well, Nicholas.”
And then he forced himself to steal out of her room and out of her house. He retrieved his coat from the summerhouse, then collected all of her things from the lawn and placed them near the door to the kitchen for some servant to find and return to their mistress.
As Nicholas winded his way through the darkened streets, he was grateful that he had remembered his coat, but he chose not to wear it. He needed the harsh chill in the air to diffuse the heat of desire that thrummed through his veins.
He must banish the memory of her scent, her warmth, and the feel of her lips pressed gently to his bristled cheek. The taste of that kiss. Christ, how he wanted to go back to her room and make love to her.
She claimed she wanted to marry for affection, love even. She was not impressed by her tactless suitors, nor did it seem as if she appreciated all the attention. In fact, she seemed to despise them for their insincerity. She wanted loyalty, honesty, and love. She didn’t put it in those exact words, but there it was.
He would want—no, demand—those same things from a wife should he allow himself to be the sort of man who wanted to marry, to fall in love.
But he was determined not to. If he avoided love, he avoided pain. It wasn’t that difficult a task.
As he walked onward, he told himself that Rosalind would not, would not, get under his skin.
Perhaps by the time he reached his town house, he’d believe it.
Rosalind snuggled deeper into her blankets, replaying the events of the past hour over and over. Mostly, that kiss.
She sighed, pressing her fingertips lightly to her lips. Since her debut, there had been a couple of gentlemen—their names escaped her now—who had surprised her with a kiss in a dark garden at a ball. They’d been short, unmemorable busses that had made her blush, nothing more.
But Nicholas’s kisses made her forget she was a lady, made her think, if only for those precious moments while his lips and tongue tended to her mouth, that rules and strictures of society weren’t important. All that mattered was that he must do it again and take all that he wanted.
His hands had felt so delightful upon her skin, and he’d smelled so good and felt so wicked stretched out next to her under the covers.
And if he had been like her other suitors, he would have revealed his presence to her aunt, thereby forcing their union. A compromising situation. But he hadn’t. A little voice told her that he hadn’t because he didn’t like her and wouldn’t want to marry her, forced or not, but Rosalind promptly crumpled up that thought and threw it from her mind.
She smiled and sighed instead, thinking he must be warming to her.
He had even made a point to tell her that he would be seeing her later today. Much later, after they all slept, of course. She wondered if he would steal a kiss at the musicale. She rather hoped he would. It wasn’t the sort of thing her brother attended, so perhaps they could slip away . . .
Rosalind froze. How had it come to pass that Nicholas had found Tristan this evening? She had asked her brother if Nicholas had gone out with him, but he’d said no.
Tossing back her covers, Rosalind charged across her room, flung open her wardrobe, and put on a proper robe.
She carefully opened her bedchamber door—the last thing she wanted was to reawaken her aunt—and crept down the hall to Tristan’s room.
Dawn was fast approaching, streaking pink and blue light through her brother’s windows.
Standing in the doorway, she regarded his prone form. Was he asleep?
“What do you want, Rosie?”
She nearly jumped a foot. “Are you asleep?”
“Ah, yes. I’m supremely talented and can hold coherent conversations whilst I’m dreaming.” He sighed. “Come on, what do you think?”
“Do not most people, after a night of imbibing heavily, fall into a deep slumber?”
“I suppose most do.” He hiccupped. “However, I am, apparently, not most.”
Rosalind could tell by the tone in his voice that her brother was still quite inebriated. Cranky clearly, but inebriated. Good, then he would answer her questions without any filtering. And there was also a good chance he wouldn’t even remember talking to her later on today after he had slept.
“Did, ah, Nicholas join you in your ‘celebration’ this evening?” She’d already asked the question, but she figured it couldn’t hurt to do so again. Maybe she’d get a different answer.
“No,” he answered impatiently.
She swallowed hard. “Then how did you come about him?”
“Where did you think, Rosie?” Tristan mumbled, sounding exhausted. “He was guarding the front door.”
Chapter 9
The following afternoon Rosalind swept inside the gold-and-cream dining room and found Tristan seated at the head of the table, his forehead in his hand. A large glass filled with a thick red liquid sat before him, and a stick of celery sat on a linen napkin to his left.
“That cannot possibly taste good,” she said, breaking the silence of the room.
“Rosalind,” Tristan replied a bit desperately, “must you shout?”
“Sorry.” She pressed her lips together as she took the chair to his left.
He waved away her apology with a flick of his fingers.
“I will not ask how you’re feeling, as it is obvious.”
“I would nod,” he said quietly, “but then my head might roll off my neck.”
“I see. Can’t have that.” She twisted her hands in her lap.
Part of her wanted to just come right out and ask Tristan if Nicholas was her guardian. She needed to know whether or not Tristan’s drunken admission was indeed the truth. However, part of her wanted to p
retend that the mounting evidence didn’t exist.
Certainly, it was odd to see him in London, but he had inherited a lofty title. He was at least thirty and unmarried. It made perfect sense that he should come to Town for the season and look for a wife.
And he had come to call yesterday afternoon to speak with Tristan—not to scare off her gentlemen callers, although he had forced his way into the morning room and made himself quite comfortable by squeezing next to her on the settee. But then again, if he was her guardian, wouldn’t he have stayed until they’d left? But wait . . . hadn’t he? Or had it been coincidence that his meeting with Tristan had ended soon after her callers had left?
And surely it was pure happenstance that he had heard Rothbury slurring Shakespeare at her window, although Nicholas’s behavior did border on protective, didn’t it?
Lord, she was confused. She did know one thing for certain: if Nicholas was her guardian, she would find out today. All she had to do was change her plans.
“Are you still going to Angelo’s to fence?”
“No,” Tristan groaned. “I’m going to crawl back to bed, actually.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Tristan I know.” Indeed, it did not. He was physically active almost to a fault.
“Yes, but I was not myself last night,” he murmured before bringing the glass to his lips with a grimace. “I suppose you weren’t either—being yourself, that is.”
Her brow quirked. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Standing there, making calf-eyes at Nicholas.” He took another sip and shuddered.
“I didn’t make eyes at him!”
He closed his eyes briefly. “Rosie, the shouting . . .”
“So sorry,” she murmured quietly.
“If it wasn’t for my presence, I think you would have thrown yourself at him . . . or kissed him, or something else foolishly dramatic . . .” His mumbled words died away as he brought the glass back to his lips.
“Don’t be absurd.”
He raised a dubious brow. “Are you going to sit there and tell me that you don’t notice it? You, the little cupid, detecting attraction between man and woman before the poor souls even know for themselves?” He shrugged, nearly sending the slushy brew over the rim. “Perhaps that’s it. You can see it in others, but not for yourself.”
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