Guarding a Notorious Lady

by Olivia Parker

  She took a deep breath, suddenly feeling befuddled. “What are you saying?”

  “I haven’t a bloody clue.” He stared straight ahead, quite like he had fallen asleep with his eyes open.

  It was definitely time to put her plan in motion. Tristan looked ready to be sick at the table or slump face first onto it. Delicately, she cleared her throat. “I’ve made a change of plans for later today,” she announced.

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ve decided not to attend the Fairfax musicale this afternoon.”

  He turned to look at her with a serious expression. “You’re not?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why? Don’t you like the Fairfaxes?”

  “I do. I simply decided that I wanted to attend the dowager Lady Beecham’s annual garden tea instead.”

  He mumbled something that sounded quite like “The silliest chits in England can be found there,” but then he cleared his throat and said, “you do know what her little parties are known for, don’t you?”

  Indeed, the dowager’s gatherings were infamous among the younger set as a wonderful spot to mingle with friends and potential beaus without the pressure of dance cards and marriage-minded mamas. Plus, her gardens were extensive and had many hidden nooks to explore . . . and get lost in if one should desire.

  Rosalind lifted a shoulder. “Lots of young women attend.”

  Tristan set down his glass. “She has the tiniest chairs in existence, Rosie. I daresay, she eyes everyone’s bottom size before issuing an invitation.”

  Rosalind grinned despite her mood. “Stop. She does not.”

  He nodded knowingly, then grimaced, as the action must have pained his head.

  “The dowager offers an open invitation. Guests come and go all day.” She almost laughed to think of Nicholas at such an event.

  “Well, go if you must, but I should think you’d enjoy yourself infinitely more at the musicale.”

  “That might be so, little brother,” she said with a sigh.

  Indeed, but if she was right about Nicholas, her brother would certainly inform him of her change of plans as soon as possible, and of course, her guardian would act accordingly.

  And once she saw him at the dowager’s, she’d know the truth once and for all.

  Nicholas was willing to wager that surely there was a special place in heaven for those individuals who, when they had walked the earth, endured varying degrees of torture. Certainly heaven would offer some sort of solace for those souls who had suffered the unfortunate consequence of having to listen to an asinine argument between seven siblings.

  All of them female. All of them flighty, pretentious, and loud. Each one sillier than the next. And all of them seated on chairs made for bunny bottoms, not human bottoms. Somehow that facet made having to endure their incessant prattling almost completely unbearable.

  “Do you like the cobalt? I like the cobalt.”

  “Hmm. Cobalt. I shouldn’t liken that to cobalt.”

  “What then?” another voice yelled.

  “Indigo.”

  “Indigo?” This said with such vehement distaste that one would think someone had just disclosed she was going to elope to Gretna Green with Napoleon himself instead of simply describing the color of a new gown.

  “No, no. Indigo is too dark.”

  Nicholas blinked a couple of times and gulped down his tepid tea in a single swallow. What was it about the color blue that confused these people?

  “It’s cerulean. I had a riding habit made up last fall for a party. It was the same color. Our modiste called it so.”

  “It can’t be! Cerulean makes you look sallow. And since we have the same coloring—”

  “Me? Sallow? Fine time to bring this to my attention now! You could have told me this before I wore it to the Montagues’ soiree, walking around with pride, unknowingly looking like I had the plague.”

  “You have it all wrong, it’s azure.”

  “Azure? Heavens, no. It’s more like—”

  “Blue!” Nicholas bellowed from his perch on the chair. And then with his temper in control, he placed his teacup on the ornate garden table between them and calmly added, “The bloody dress is blue.”

  The walking plague harrumphed.

  The other ladies stared at him mutely for a moment, then ducked their heads together in order to peruse the pages of their fashion page once again.

  “Lord Winterbourne,” the dowager Lady Beecham suddenly exclaimed in her singsong voice, “I cannot tell you what an honor it is to have you as a guest. It is my hope that more bachelors follow your lead. I do so love to see young people mingling about my gardens. Why, last year, a group of men played a game of rounders on the lawn. We had such fun watching them play.”

  The dowager was a genuinely kind lady, Nicholas conceded. Round and short, her face seemed to hold a perpetual smile, her laughter always at the ready for the slightest quip made by her guests. She seemed to want everyone to enjoy themselves and would feel deeply hurt should that not be the case.

  “Would you like another cucumber sandwich?” she asked.

  Nicholas eyed the tiny morsels. In truth, he could probably eat two hundred of them before feeling remotely appeased. “Thank you,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I’ve heard that Lady Rosalind Devine is coming today. She sent word earlier this afternoon. You’re acquainted with her family, yes?”

  He nodded and pasted a smile on his face that he hoped appeared sincere.

  Aye, he had a hunch the sharp lassie had an idea that he was her guardian. Why else would she change her plans so abruptly after asking him pointedly if he would be attending the musicale?

  Tristan had sent a note advising him of his sister’s new intentions. Nicholas knew he was walking into a trap by her design. No doubt his presence last night had aroused her suspicions.

  Christ, he was an arse. He should have left Tristan on the doorstep and let their butler or a footman find him in the morning. He might not be in this situation then.

  And yet, he knew she’d find out sooner rather than later. Honestly, he didn’t know how the hell Gabriel thought this would work.

  She knew. Oh, dear Lord, she knew, and now she would make him pay. He didn’t know how, and that’s what he feared the most.

  He shook his head. What a coward. Afraid of a wee lassie.

  He forced a smile at his hostess. “I thank you for your hospitality, my lady,” he replied. “And your gardens are lovely, indeed.”

  She nodded, her face brightening even more.

  “And if you’ll excuse me,” he said, extracting himself from the torturously small chair, “I should like to take a closer look.”

  Actually, what he would like to do was to go back in time and tell Gabriel there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d watch his sister for him. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  The Beecham gardens were split into thirds. On the left was an intricate maze comprised of towering yew hedges clipped to depict the crenelated walls of a castle fortress. Next to that crouched an expansive walled garden where pink climbing roses scrambled randomly over the brick and an iron gate marked the entrance. And to the right sprawled a bit of forest, only part of its neatly raked, winding path visible from his position.

  Straightening his beaver topper, he headed for the path. It was the best option he had to ensure that no one would be able to hear an indignant Lady Rosalind shouting at him. But as he strode further into the woods, he couldn’t help but realize the absurdity of what he was truly doing—hiding.

  “How dare he,” Rosalind said rather wearily.

  “How indeed,” Lucy agreed from her perch on the tiny chair opposite Rosalind.

  “He tricked me.”

  Lucy raised a finger. “Not precisely. He misled you. Duped you. Withheld infor—”

  “All right,” Rosalind muttered testily, then mumbled a quick apology for her tone.

  Having arrived moments ago, the two friends were now seated at
a table separate from the others.

  The dowager viscountess Lady Beecham had given them a warm welcome and then pointedly informed Rosalind that Lord Winterbourne was somewhere on the grounds and seemed quite eager for her arrival.

  “I just bet he is,” she had grumbled in response.

  Rosalind squinted into the sunlight as she scanned the grounds for some sign of Nicholas.

  “Can you believe this, Lucy? I’m so embarrassed I didn’t figure it out right away.” She shook her head derisively. “Stupid girl.”

  Lucy nodded in support, then plopped a square of plum cake in her mouth.

  Rosalind leveled a stare at her friend. “You don’t have to be so agreeable.”

  “Oh! So sorry.” Lucy cleared her throat. “You’re not stupid. You were just distracted.”

  “Indeed, I was.”

  Rosalind had, at first, hesitated to apprise Lucy of this personal matter, but the truth was, Rosalind needed to confide in someone. Her mother was gone, Aunt Eugenia was . . . well, Aunt Eugenia, and Madelyn was in Wales, or Italy, or who knew. Truthfully, she had forgotten at present. However, Rosalind hadn’t told Lucy the entire story—she’d withheld that she was in love with Nicholas.

  Besides, Lucy was a good sport and quite adept about keeping secrets. Well, most secrets. All right, Rosalind had threatened to tell Neville Nibbons that Lucy was madly in love with him if she happened to utter so much as a peep.

  Neville Nibbons had long adored Lucy. Lucy thought Neville smelled of old cheese and had wooden teeth; hence, Rosalind’s secret was safe.

  Rosalind cast a brief, narrow-eyed glare over her shoulder to where a thin path snaked through a patch of forest. Oh, she couldn’t see the infernal Scot, but she knew he was there. She could feel it right down to where her toes wriggled in her fine English-crafted leather half boots.

  Turning her head, Rosalind took a deep, calming breath. “If it were not for the fact that I am a lady, I would not hesitate telling him to—”

  “Take a trip to Hades?” Lucy offered with a wobbling half smile.

  “No, no. That is not the thing at all.” Rosalind tapped her fingertip to her bottom lip, searching for the perfect phrase that would describe how she was feeling.

  Now that she knew he was here—and not at the Fairfax musicale—she knew he was her assigned guardian. How could she not have realized sooner?

  Lucy cleared her throat delicately. “I think you should cease blaming yourself for not suspecting. After all, you asked your brother straightaway and he said no. I daresay you should be cross with him for lying to you.”

  But Gabriel hadn’t lied. Again and again Rosalind had gone over their conversation in his study. When she had asked him, his response had been that Nicholas was here on business. That’s it. He’d never said no.

  She should have caught that. She should have realized that the reason he was paying her so much attention was that he was guarding her.

  “He’s coming this way,” Lucy said with a nod in the direction of the woods.

  “Ah. Hiding, is he?” Rosalind stood abruptly, nearly disrupting the table. “Lucy,” she called without looking at her.

  Her friend shot up as well, and together, arm in arm, they approached him.

  His eyes centered on Rosalind, Nicholas tipped his hat and bowed his head in greeting but didn’t say a word. She was quite peeved to discern that he did not look sheepish, or regretful, or guilty. He looked . . . like he wanted to throttle her right here in front of everyone.

  Rosalind and Lucy dipped into shallow curtsies.

  “How interesting to find you here,” Rosalind murmured saucily.

  He said nothing and gave her a barely perceptible nod.

  “There you are, my lordship,” Lady Beecham exclaimed, coming to stand next to their little group. “Did you enjoy your walk, sir?”

  “Indeed,” he nodded, bestowing a devastatingly charming grin on the widow, the ring of silver in his eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

  “Lady Rosalind and Miss Meriwether have only just arrived.” She turned to give Rosalind’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “And now that you’re all together I should like to make a happy announcement.” The last she said loudly and with a turn to address all of her guests.

  “My son, Lord Beecham, has surprised us all yesterday morning and informed us that he has asked Miss Honeywell for her hand in marriage,” the dowager beamed with barely concealed joy. “And the lady has accepted.”

  Gasps of delight and murmurs of congratulations trickled through the crowd.

  “And I invite all of you to a small impromptu engagement ball later this evening. It’ll be most fun! I daresay my staff is always at the ready to throw a party, are they not?”

  After this she laughed uproariously, which prompted a few guests to laugh as well, which, in turn, prompted Rosalind to have the peculiar feeling she’d missed a joke of some sort. In truth, she had never attended one of the dowager’s parties, but her curiosity was indeed piqued.

  Smiling, the dowager turned back to look at Nicholas, and then said candidly, “I’ve to thank Lady Rosalind here for this outcome. I didn’t think my son would ever remarry. Do you know she introduced them?”

  Nicholas shook his head, pressing his lips together tightly in some semblance of a smile.

  “She introduced them and encouraged them when she could, inviting them to join her and Lucy for walks and ices and such.”

  Someone beckoned the dowager and, still smiling, she excused herself from their company, giving Rosalind a wink.

  Hmmph. And Nicholas thought her matchmaking was nothing but fruitless meddling that would do nothing but get her in trouble.

  She turned to him with a smug smile, then remembered that he had tricked her. Well, not exactly tricked. He had misled her.

  Because the truth was, she was hurt. If it wasn’t for the fact that her brother had asked him to watch over her, he’d still be in Yorkshire, ignoring her, while she spent yet another season praying that she would return home in the fall to discover Nicholas hadn’t married someone else.

  She was tired of this game. If he had feelings for her, why wouldn’t he come out with them? She wasn’t a vain creature. But she did realize he was at least attracted to her.

  Was that it? Did he feel guilty for desiring his best friend’s sister? But if he felt guilty, then that would imply that those were the only feelings he had for her.

  That wasn’t enough. She wanted his heart, too.

  She was just going to have to come right out and ask him.

  She turned her back to him and, without looking behind her, trudged to the iron gate of the rose garden, her strides angry and quick.

  And he followed, albeit from a distance, just like she knew he would.

  She flung a glare over her shoulder and noticed Lucy running up to catch her.

  “Wait,” Lucy breathed. “Lady Beecham might have slightly lax rules here, but you cannot go off with Lord Winterbourne alone. At least not so obviously.”

  Rosalind only huffed in response. She unhooked the latch and the gate opened with a groan.

  Together they stepped inside the small garden. Green vines heavy with pale pink roses crawled over the brick walls, swelling near the top. A tall, silver-leafed pear tree punctuated the center of the garden, and several paths radiated from that focal point, rather like the rays of the sun.

  Reaching the tree, Rosalind nodded to Lucy, who wandered down the path directly opposite the graveled path that Rosalind took. It would be a respectable distance from Lucy, one that would still provide privacy for her conversation with Nicholas.

  Rosalind ambled toward the end of the path, which was marked by a stone bench, roses curling along its legs. With serenity she did not feel, Rosalind sank down slowly, adjusting the cream-colored skirts of her frock. She turned her head away from the sight of Nicholas’s slow approach, his hands tucked behind his back.

  When he came to a stop before her, she finally looked up at hi
m.

  It was a mistake. She ought to have continued to avert her gaze.

  He was so achingly handsome. Broad shoulders, encased in an expertly fitted dark gray coat, effectively blocked out the sun. His cravat, for once, was straight, tied in a cascade of folds; the offending green-tipped pin from the evening before nestled inside.

  His eyes, without the glare from the sun, were dark gray today, and there was a softness to them as well.

  And presently, while he looked down at her quite like she was the executioner and he the brave offender awaiting his fate, she was almost inclined to forgive him. Gabriel could be heavy-handed, but her pride wouldn’t let Nicholas off so easily.

  Or her heart. It was what had prohibited her from falling back asleep this morning.

  She had tossed and turned, finally finding comfort in the odd position of hanging half off her bed, her arms stretched downward to pull and tug at the threads of her carpet. Over and over, she’d rehearsed what she would say to him, but now that the time had come, a hollow ache settled in her chest and the cool indignation she had nurtured now smarted with an unexpected sting of wretchedness.

  She took a deep breath, composing herself. “You are the man my brother hired,” she stated simply.

  “Aye,” he said, his face an unreadable mask.

  Her heart gave a little triumphant twist to hear it said aloud. She swallowed several times before she trusted herself to speak. “Why?”

  “He trusts me. He needed my help. I reckon he had no choice other than to force you to stay in the country. You and I both know he wouldn’t do that.”

  “How much?”

  His brow quirked.

  “How much did he pay you?” she repeated a bit more forcefully. It was a guess. In truth, she had no idea if her brother compensated him or not.

  At first he said nothing, and then, having come to some decision within his own mind, he muttered, “A crate of his finest Scotch whisky.”

  There, he said it. Now let her hate him. It was better this way. Easier. For Nicholas didn’t think he could resist the need to kiss her, touch her, hell, just to be near her, much longer. Since coming to London, every time he thought of her, which was all the time, he could feel himself falling deeper.