Guarding a Notorious Lady

by Olivia Parker

  “Rosalind, you’re babbling.”

  She blinked. “So sorry. It’s just that . . . I seem to know how to make matches for others, just not myself.”

  His brow scrunched together. “I think I told you something similar the other day, did I not?”

  She nodded, unsmiling. “I realize you may have no advice to impart, you being one and twenty, and well, a man, but if one knows someone might be, no, is attracted to them but is holding themselves back for some reason, is there any way to make oneself irresistible to them?” Her smile felt more like a cringe. Her little speech didn’t quite come out as she had thought it would.

  “Irresistible?” Tristan’s scowl looked frighteningly like Gabriel’s. “Nicholas?” he asked, his voice so low she almost wasn’t sure he’d said it.

  She hardened her chin. “Yes.”

  Something akin to relief crossed his features, making him look older and wiser than his years. “Well,” he said, placing his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. “My brotherly advice would be to let him come to you. Don’t chase, make no demands. He’ll figure it out sooner or later.”

  “That’s it?” She couldn’t keep the pang of disappointment from her tone.

  “I’m your brother.” He held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “How can you expect me to tell you what to do to attract a man?” He sounded baffled and astounded.

  Rosalind became amused. “Surely you can do better than ‘Don’t chase, don’t demand,’ ” she said, mimicking his baritone. “Come on, then! Tell me something good! Something wicked!”

  “I will do no such thing!” He was starting to look embarrassed.

  “AHA! So you do know things,” she accused.

  He started backing toward the door. “I admit nothing. Now, don’t you have to go shopping? And where’s Aunt Eugenia?”

  Rosalind sighed impatiently. “In the garden working on her needlepoint.”

  “Ahh,” he said with feigned admiration. “I’ve always enjoyed watching that woman work at her needlepoint.”

  “Oh, stop. You do not.”

  Tristan did a remarkable job at looking earnest. “So sorry, but I must away. Don’t want to miss a single stitch, you know.”

  Rosalind laughed. “Wait. I seem to remember you murmuring something at the Fairfax musicale last year—something about watching Miss Marianne eat a piece of fruit? What was it? I can’t recall.”

  She would swear Tristan blushed. “I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes you do.”

  He jerked his chin in the direction of the window. “If you’ve planned an outing, you’d best hurry. Looks like rain again.”

  Sighing, she strode to the window. Unsurprisingly, she saw nothing but blue sky.

  “You’re such a sneak . . .” she said as she turned, but he was gone.

  Shaking her head, Rosalind walked into the hall. Alice was standing at the open door speaking quietly to Briggs.

  “Are you ready, Alice? I thought I’d do a bit of shopping, and then have luncheon in the park. A good plan, I think.”

  “Indeed. It’s such a fine day, and my Nellie should be there with the new baby.”

  Rosalind smiled genuinely, descending the front steps and ducking inside the carriage. “Wonderful.”

  The storm that had blown through the city the night Nicholas had come to her room had been followed by two full days of bright sunshine, but the air yet held a dampness to it, as did the ground.

  Finding a shady, reasonably dry patch for her picnic was difficult indeed. The air smelled fresh, for London that is, and was matched with a warm breeze and bright summer sunshine. The fine weather coaxed many to enjoy the delights of Hyde Park.

  Men flaunted their horsemanship, children rode alongside their papas on their ponies, while others played lawn games or flew kites with their nursemaids. Ladies strolled the clipped lawns and graveled paths with pretty parasols shading them from the glare of the sun.

  Rosalind stifled an impatient sigh, thinking of the pretty parasol she’d seen in the Wedgwood shop an hour before. She’d had her heart set on buying it, but when she’d inquired after it, they’d told her they were to wrap it up for a customer who had purchased it mere moments before she’d gotten there.

  Rosalind heard the coo of a baby and turned her head. Alice sat on a bench in the shade at a distance, cradling her new grandchild in her lap, her daughter chatting next to her.

  Nicholas sat on a bench in the distance, his top hat low and his head bent as he feigned reading a book. Oh, he was watching her. She could feel his gaze upon her. But he hadn’t made any pretense to approach her at all, and she was starting to get a bit annoyed.

  After all, she had eaten at least seventeen strawberries (they were rather small) and she was starting to feel quite ill. This was rather silly. Here they were at the park together, but separate. Dear Lord, she was tired of this game.

  She was four and twenty and every season was the same. She’d come to London, dodge a plethora of hopeful suitors, dance, make merry, and, of course, pine for Nicholas secretly.

  Was this all there was? Would she simply grow old waiting for Nicholas to make some sort of indication, either way, of his feelings? She knew he felt lust for her, but was that all? She refused to believe it.

  He’d mentioned in the morning room the day she’d stuffed cake in her mouth that some men feared love, avoided love, thought love brought them unbearable vulnerability—as if they believed, she mused, that in opening their hearts, they opened a wound.

  Could he have been talking about himself?

  She looked down at her pale pink skirt, shooing a tiny beetle from her hem.

  This season was different from all the others. He was here—Nicholas, not the beetle—and while perhaps he wasn’t here for the reasons in her romantic daydreams, it occurred to her that she should seize this opportunity to tell him how she felt once and for all.

  She was going to tell him that she loved him. She needed to.

  Resolved, she collected her plate and napkin and placed them in her basket. As soon as she was all packed up, she was marching straight over to him and confess. In truth, she rather thought that he might already know.

  A pair of tall, polished boots came to a stop at her side.

  She looked up to find Nicholas staring down at her. He grinned.

  “May I join you?”

  She nodded.

  He settled himself beside her, one knee bent, his other leg slightly gaping. He leaned back on his hands.

  Rosalind had never felt so very feminine, just by having a man sit next to her on a blanket. Her gaze fell to his lap, where a long box rested on his taut thighs.

  Looking up at him, she noticed that his gray eyes shown like shards of broken glass. Those eyes drank in every inch of her.

  Her breathing sped up in response. “What is it?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  “That dress.”

  She raised a brow. “Do you like it?”

  A short, low chuckle rumbled in his chest. She felt it all the way through her bones.

  His smile was devastatingly handsome . . . and dangerous. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing, lass?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes you do. And I like the dress.”

  “Thank you,” she responded pertly, straightening her spine.

  “And the strawberries,” he swallowed. “You have such a delightful way of eating them. Sucking slightly before popping them into your mouth.”

  “Enjoyable for you?”

  Shaking his head slowly, he chuckled, low and quiet. “I don’t like to be teased.”

  She swallowed. “Teasing implies that I wish to arouse your hope, only with no intentions of giving you satisfaction.”

  “And do you?”

  “You can have what you want, Nicholas.”

  He licked his bottom lip and dropped his gaze to her mouth briefly bef
ore speaking again. “Be careful, Rosalind. You may think you know exactly what I want, but you can only imagine.”

  With those words hanging in the air, he leaned toward her, handing her the box.

  “What is it?”

  “A gift.”

  She blinked in surprise. “A gift? For me? Why?”

  He nodded, his brow furrowing in such an adorable fashion that she couldn’t help but grin. “Is it not the eighteenth?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I suppose. But what would that have to do with—?”

  “Isn’t it your birthday?”

  Her mouth opened on a gasp. It was her birthday, and she had completely forgotten all about it. “You knew it was my birthday?”

  “I know a lot of things about you. Here.” He handed her the long, narrow box, a neat band of blue ribbon looped artfully on the top.

  She stared at it for a moment, not sure what to do.

  “Take it,” he said.

  Quickly untying the ribbon, she balanced the box on her hip and lifted the lid. She gasped in delight at the contents. Tucked inside was the parasol she had seen at the Wedgwood Shop.

  “How did you know?”

  He grinned. “Not telling.”

  “It’s lovely, Nicholas. Thank you,” she murmured.

  “You’re very welcome.” He stood suddenly, holding out his hand to assist her to stand. “I have something to ask you as well.”

  “Hmm?”

  “My niece’s birthday is a week after yours, but my sister is having a party for her two days hence. Would you come?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Your aunt is welcome, of course.”

  “Thank you, but she’s not feeling very well.”

  “Good.” He cleared his throat and she laughed. “I mean, that’s too bad. Certainly you could have Tristan bring you?”

  She nodded, smiling.

  “I’ll walk you back to your maid.” He looked off in that direction and cringed. “It seems she’s caught your butler’s cold as well.”

  Rosalind looked over to see that Alice was handing her grandchild back to her daughter. Once the baby was settled, Alice shook out a handkerchief and sneezed into it.

  Nicholas plucked Rosalind’s blanket and basket from the grass. Together they crossed the lawn. She took out her new parasol and opened it, marveling at its beauty.

  “Nicholas?” she beckoned softly once they were halfway there. It was time to declare her love.

  “Yes?” He stopped, turned, and looked down at her patiently.

  “I want you to know. I . . . I’ve always . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve always . . . I’ve always wanted a parasol just like this one.”

  What a coward.

  Chapter 14

  “The road’s washed out ahead, my lady. We’ll have to turn back.”

  “To London?” Rosalind shouted over the sound of raindrops pummeling the carriage rooftop like the pounding of a hundred drums.

  The driver shook his head, rain dripping relentlessly over the brim on his hat. “No. I’m to take you to an inn, Bleak Hill.”

  She smiled, her eyes widening. “My, it sounds welcoming.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said, it sounds lovely,” she shouted, sitting up. “Is it nearby?”

  He gestured behind the carriage with a nod of his head. “His lordship says it’s back down the road in the village. You’ll wait out the storm there.”

  “Did my brother say how close we are to Lord Winterbourne’s sister’s?”

  After a brief hesitation that gave Rosalind the impression that she had somehow confused the man, he shook his head. “No, my lady. But you’ll be spending the night. Even if the rains stop, it’ll take some time for the water to recede.”

  She nodded and settled back against the squabs.

  He gave her a queer look before shutting the carriage door.

  “Lud, whatever did I say to provoke such a look?” she asked no one in particular, being quite alone in the carriage.

  Alice and Aunt Eugenia were back in London suffering from the atrocious head cold Briggs had undoubtedly passed to them. Rosalind couldn’t have been more pleased—not that they were ill, of course, but she was delighted that she would arrive without her disagreeable aunt in tow.

  Of course, she wasn’t traveling completely alone. It had been agreed upon that Tristan would escort her to her destination. He had been riding behind the carriage for the past several miles. They’d had a late start, and evening was fast approaching.

  Reaching up to unbutton the clasps of her midnight blue pelisse, she sighed, suddenly feeling overheated.

  Where London could be at times cold and damp, the southeast had some of the warmest temperatures in England. Rain often brought a warm humidity and, being from the North Country, Rosalind soon deemed it positively sweltering and shrugged out of her coat completely.

  She gazed out the window at a darkening gray sky. The rain had lessened to a steady drizzle, but it showed no signs of stopping. Still, the landscape was quite marvelous—fruit orchards and fields of strawberries, hop gardens, and oast houses, with their steeple-like kilns.

  A blur of a shadow at the window caught her attention. Rosalind leaned forward and spied the shadow of a rider practically fly past the carriage.

  “Oh, Tristan, you reckless boy,” she said with a wry smile.

  Before long, they rolled to a stop, the carriage jostling a bit as the driver jumped down.

  “Thank the Lord,” Rosalind muttered, the muscles in her back stiff from a long day of travel. Scooting to the edge of the seat, she stretched, thrusting out her chest with her arms thrown over her head.

  Sloshing footsteps approached, and in the next second, the carriage door flung open. “Sweet Christ,” someone shouted, then slammed the door shut.

  Rosalind’s eyes widened. “Nicholas?”

  Slowly, she opened the door and looked left and right. Finally, she spied him, carrying her heavy trunk up the steps and into the Bleak Hill Inn.

  Bemused, she sat there for a moment, staring out into the drizzle.

  A second later, Nicholas reappeared and strode over to the carriage with such brisk, determined strides that she almost shrank away.

  Without saying a word, he grabbed her pelisse, threw it over her head, scooped her up and out of the carriage, and started toward the entrance of the inn.

  Or, at least she thought he was. She really had no idea, for she couldn’t see a thing but the inside of her coat.

  “Where’s Tristan?” she asked, her voice muffled.

  “He rode ahead about two miles ago.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Precisely. Where’s your maid?”

  “At home, ill, with my aunt and her maid.”

  “How bloody convenient,” he muttered with disdain.

  His tone had her writhing in his hold. He had no choice but to put her down, she supposed, or he might drop her. Feet on the hard surface of what could only be the front step of the inn, she flung out her arms, fighting with her coat until she managed to pull it down from her head.

  She could tell that her bonnet now sat at an awkward angle on her head, but she didn’t care. Fueled by her agitation, her chest rose and fell rapidly and her eyes narrowed on him. “Are you implying that the maids and my aunt are sick on purpose? Just to make things inconvenient for you?”

  He didn’t answer but continued to scowl down at her from under his low-brimmed hat, his hair sodden and resting on his shoulders, his broad chest blocking out the view of the narrow, cobbled lane at his back.

  She poked him in the chest, her temper ignited by his suspicious gaze. “I’ll tell you what’s inconvenient—being saddled with a surly guardian. Oh!” She looked about her. “And let’s not forget the implication that I am worth my weight in whisky! Indeed, this whole experience has been nothing but unadulterated pleasure.”

  He sighed, an odd sparkle in his eyes. Truly, he looke
d as if he would smile. Rosalind rather thought she’d stomp on his toes if he did.

  “Are you finished, love?” he asked rather nicely, grinning like the handsome devil that he was.

  She sniffed, shifting her stance. “I think so.”

  “Good. Let’s go in.”

  Clutching her pelisse to her chest, she allowed him to guide her inside, his hand at the small of her back.

  A rather tiny wrinkled man with a full white beard greeted them. His name was Mr. Peters. While Nicholas spoke quietly to the proprietor, Rosalind removed her bonnet and looked about her, noting that her heavy trunk sat near her feet.

  The glorious scent of roast beef and—she inhaled deeply—batter pudding wafted over to her, making her stomach growl. Lord, she hadn’t had batter pudding since she was a child. Her gaze flicked over to the room adjacent to the one they stood in. It seemed to be a small banquet room of sorts, and it was packed with hungry overnight guests.

  Eager for a bit of privacy, a room to relax in, and a plate of food, she edged closer to where Nicholas spoke to the innkeeper.

  He was trying to explain something to Mr. Peters, and she wished he’d hurry.

  Her temper was still steaming with the notion that Nicholas thought she’d had a hand in the fact that she had no maid or chaperone. As if she was trying to orchestrate some sort of seduction. What arrogance, she thought with a roll of her eyes.

  A scowling Nicholas came over to her then, bending his head low. “I’m going to have to lie, Rosalind. There is only one room left and you well know that there could be a hundred rooms and you still cannot travel alone and keep your reputation intact.”

  “I suppose you think I anticipated this outcome and sent word ahead, asking the good people of Kent to rush to the Bleak Hill Inn and book all the rooms so that we’d be stuck together. Hmm?”

  That curious sparkle returned to his gaze. “Just hush,” he drawled.

  Her brow rose, as did a new facet of her temper.