Nicholas: Lord of Secrets ll-2

by Grace Burrowes

“Nor will I allow my efforts to keep a promise to my father be shown as an empty exercise,” Nick said. “So like the good English folk we are, we will maintain appearances, but, Leah?”

  She was Leah this morning, not lovey, not lamb, not sweetheart.

  “I hope we can do more than that,” Nick said. “I don’t know how, not when the entire business of the marriage bed is going to be complicated, but please know I want us to be at least cordial.”

  “Cordial.” Leah blew out a breath, hating the word. “I can manage cordial, if that’s what you want.”

  “I think it for the best. Shall I peel you an orange?”

  A cordial damned orange. Despair reached for Leah’s vitals with cold, sticky fingers. The sandwich she’d eaten abruptly sat heavily in her stomach, and the chocolate less comfortably still.

  “No, thank you,” she said, feeling her throat constrict again. She didn’t cry, as a rule, not when Wilton insulted her before guests, not when her brothers lectured her about finding a husband, not when Emily was thoughtlessly cruel in her parroting of Wilton’s positions and sermons and criticisms.

  She hadn’t cried when her mother died, hadn’t cried when her father warned her Hellerington would offer for her.

  If she cried now, Nick would hold her and stroke her back gently and murmur comforting platitudes, all the while oblivious to the fact that he was breaking her heart with his very kindness.

  “I suppose our dressing rooms connect?” Leah asked, her voice convincingly even.

  “They do,” Nick said, watching her from the corner of his eye as he buttered a scone. “And you have a sitting room between your bedroom and the corridor, though I do not. I had my bedroom redesigned to encompass my sitting room as well.”

  Always helpful to know the architecture of one’s husband’s rooms.

  “I think I’ll find my things, then.” Leah tossed back the covers and threw her legs over the side of the bed. “I can’t very well review the staff in your shirt.”

  She managed to get free of the room without facing him. The next challenge was closing two doors quietly, calmly, and then the third challenge—barely any challenge at all for her—was to sob out her heartbreak without making a single sound.

  Thirteen

  When Nick knocked on her door, Leah was dressed, thank the gods, and sitting at a vanity, plaiting her long hair. He watched in silence as she wound the coil at the back of her neck, jabbed pins into it, then rose, a faint smile on her face, making her look tidy, capable, and self-contained.

  Just as she’d looked when he’d first met her, when she’d been steeling herself for the prospect of marriage to Hellerington.

  “Are you sorry you married me?” The question came out of Nick’s mouth without his willing it into words, and he saw Leah was as surprised by it as he was.

  “I am not,” Leah said at length. “Not yet. I think in any marriage there are moments when husband or wife or both succumb to regrets, or second thoughts, but you were very clear on what you offered, Nicholas, and what you did not. I am not at all sorry to be free of my father.”

  “That’s… good.” What had he expected her to say? Leah wasn’t vicious, and she’d had few real options. “May I escort you downstairs?”

  “Of course.” Leah smiled at him, but her smile was tentative, and Nick’s silence as he led her through the house was wary, and their marriage had indeed begun the way Nick intended it to go.

  He pushed that sour thought aside as he introduced Leah to each maid and footman, the senior staff, and the kitchen help. From there, they moved to the stable yard, where the stable boys, grooms, and gardeners presented themselves. When the staff had dispersed, Nick led Leah through the gardens, where the tulips were losing their petals, the daffodils were but a memory, and a single iris was heralding the next wave of color on the garden’s schedule.

  On a hard bench in the spring sunshine, they decided to tarry for two weeks at Clover Down before presenting themselves at Belle Maison. The earl had sent felicitations on the occasion of Nick’s nuptials, and yet Nick felt an urgency to return to his father’s side.

  “He has asked you to join him at Belle Maison?” Leah’s hand was still curled over Nick’s arm, though they sat side by side.

  “He has not, and he has told me on several occasions not to lay about the place, long-faced and restless, waiting for him to die. He’s sent my sisters off to various friends and relatives, all except Nita, that is. George and Dolph are similarly entertained, and Beckman is off to Portsmouth to see to my grandmother’s neglected pile.”

  “What does Nita say?”

  “I hadn’t thought to ask her. I’ll send her a note today, but I think I should also consult with my wife. How do you feel about going to the family seat when death hangs over it?”

  “I have no strong feelings one way or the other,” Leah said. “When your father dies, there will be a great deal to manage, and I suspect Nita will appreciate some help then. It might be easier to help if everything were not a case of first impression for me.”

  “True,” Nick said, realizing he hadn’t thought matters through from the most practical angle—the angle the women would be left to deal with when Bellefonte went to his reward.

  “Two weeks then,” Leah said, “and you’d best let Nita know that as well. We’ll likely leave here before the neighbors start to call, and that might be a good thing.”

  Which meant what? Nick didn’t dwell on her comment, but instead drew her to her feet.

  “I’ve something I want to show you.”

  “I am at your disposal, Nicholas.”

  As they made their way through the stables, the feed room, and the saddle room, to a space tucked against the back wall of the barn, Nick reflected that he liked it better when she called him Husband.

  “This is a woodworking shop,” Leah said, scanning the tools hung neatly along the walls and the wood stored and organized by size along another. “This is yours?”

  “It is. I have one in the mews in Town, and another at Belle Maison.”

  “Your hands.” Leah picked up Nick’s bare hand and peered at it. “I’ve wondered what all the little nicks and scratches are from, and this is why you have them, isn’t it?”

  “Mostly.” Nick eased his fingers from hers. “I like to make birdhouses.” He pulled a bound leather journal down from a high shelf. “I can show you some of my designs, if you like. You take the stool.” He pulled it up, and Leah had to scramble a little to take her seat. Everything in the room was scaled to Nick’s size—the stool, the workbench, the drafting table, even some of the tools were proportioned to fit Nick’s hands.

  And yet, she looked as if she’d been made to fit in this room with him, on this fine mild morning, sharing a little of himself he hadn’t shown to anyone else.

  “This is one I made for my stepmother,” Nick began, opening the book. He’d drawn sketches, and then colored illustrations all over the pages. She studied each one, asking questions as if birdhouses mattered.

  “This is lovely.” She traced the lines of the birdhouse on the page. “It looks like a garden house, a little hanging gazebo, with trellises and flower boxes. How could you even see to make such things?”

  “I wear magnifying spectacles,” Nick said. “The next one was for my papa, though a birdhouse is hardly a manly sort of present. I was eight, though, and had found my first personal passion.”

  “Eight is a passionate age,” Leah murmured as she followed his castle with a finger. “Was this for your papa?”

  “I only had illustrations in my storybooks to go by, but it was my version of Arthur’s castle. My father loomed in my awareness with all the power and mystery of the legendary king, of course.” And now his father lay dying, and Nick’s birdhouse had weathered to a uniform gray where it hung outside the earl’s bedroom window.

  He would repaint Papa’s birdhouse when they repaired to Belle Maison.

  They spent most of the morning in Nick’s shop, the tim
e passing easily and pleasantly. Nick showed her sketches of the current work in progress, the birdhouse design intended for Ethan, then suggested they repair to the house for lunch.

  As she slid off the high stool, Leah linked her arm through his. “Do you ever miss your mother, Nicholas?”

  “I never knew her, but yes. I wish I’d known her. Do you miss your mother?” Nick posed it as a question, but any woman would miss her mother at the time of her own wedding.

  “I did,” Leah said. “When I went to Italy, I missed her terribly, but it was her idea that I go. And as to that, she proved prescient. When I left England I didn’t realize I was carrying a child. I was twenty and figured my body was just upset, which it was. Darius guessed before I did, and thank God he was his usual blunt self about it, or I might have done something stupid.”

  “Something stupid?” Nick stopped short in their progress past the single iris and stared down at her as her meaning sunk in. “You would have taken your own life?”

  “Young people can be dramatic when they think they are in love.” Leah regarded the iris as she spoke.

  “Irises symbolize messages,” Nick answered her unasked question. “You would really have taken your own life, but for your pregnancy?”

  “I don’t know, Nicholas.” Leah watched the iris as if it might change from purple to white while she stood there. “My father had killed my husband, and there was to be no recourse. I could not prove we had married, because Aaron had taken charge of all the formalities. I was alone, disgraced, deflowered, and not even afforded the status of widow or access to such funds as a widow enjoys. Then too, my mother’s health had failed, and I foresaw the rest of my life, alone in that house, with Wilton’s criticisms and castigations my daily fare.”

  Nick’s hands slid to either side of her neck, and he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. He showed her a few birdhouses, and she trusted him with her darkest memories.

  “Promise me”—he gripped her gently but quite firmly—“promise me no matter what happens between us, Leah, you won’t let this marriage make you so miserable you think of taking your own life.”

  She laid her hands on his and peeled his fingers away. “I was young, feeling sorry for myself, and grieving. I promise you, I will not contemplate such measures, not as a function of being married to you.”

  “Not as a function of anything,” Nick shot back. “You are too… You just… It wouldn’t be right.”

  “I agree,” Leah said, resuming their progress. “I saw that, when my son died. Life can be difficult, but death is difficult too. Had I taken my life, all of my brothers’ sacrifices and risks would have been for nothing. My mother’s heart would have been broken, my sister disgraced by my suicide. I had no right to hurt the people who loved me like that. Worse, at least at the time, taking my life would have proved Wilton’s assessment of my flawed nature all too true, and that, more than anything, dissuaded me.”

  “And who raised this most convincing argument to you?” Nick asked, letting her draw him along beside her.

  “Darius. Sometimes his ruthless streak is really a strength.”

  “May I ask you something?” And, please God, change the subject?

  “Of course.”

  “Has your brother ever given you the impression that he has unusual personal tastes?”

  A moment of considering silence followed, in which Nick congratulated himself for at least shifting the topic.

  “Not exactly,” Leah said, “but it’s as if Darius associates with a fast set despite his own preferences.”

  “A very fast set,” Nick concurred. “The question is, why?”

  “To disgrace my father? Or because that’s all Darius feels he merits in this life? Because it’s a way to be different from Trent, who can be a dull boy indeed? I don’t know, and it’s not something a sister should know about her brother.”

  “Maybe not in your family,” Nick said as they gained the back steps. “My sisters seem to know every lady to whom I’ve given a handkerchief.”

  Leah fell silent, and just like that, they were surrounded once again by a marital bog, one enshrouded in a fog of hurt feelings and miscommunication.

  And yet, Nick had to try. “I didn’t mean that I’d… I meant, literally, a clean handkerchief. I always carry at least two, you see, and… you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe I have enjoyed spending time with you this morning, but it’s past noon. Luncheon probably awaits us as we speak.”

  “Excellent point,” Nick said, wanting to kick himself. “Shall we go in?”

  They ate companionably enough, the conversation turning to which neighbors lived where in proximity to Clover Down.

  “What will you find to occupy you this afternoon?” Nick asked as he topped off Leah’s teacup.

  “The rest of my things have arrived,” Leah said. “I’ll see them situated and start exploring the house.”

  “Sounds productive. I’m going for a ride. The trusty steeds in yonder stable are getting fat on spring grass, and this I cannot allow. I’ll be back by teatime, and look forward to seeing you then.” He rose, brushed his lips across her forehead, then took his leave.

  Leah would notice that her new husband hadn’t invited her to join him on his ride. Nick knew that, hated it, and headed off to the stables at the most decorous pace he could manage. Once there, only a gentleman’s unwillingness to spook the horses stopped him from slamming both fists into the wall, repeatedly.

  * * *

  So that’s her.

  Leah had taken herself out walking in the afternoon sunshine as soon as her meager wardrobe had been set to rights. The weather was lovely, and Leah had had little opportunity to move around the previous few days, so she’d struck off through the gardens and aimed for the hill behind the estate.

  The acclivity was crowned with trees at the top, a pretty copse that was leafing out nicely, the occasional patch of lavender-blue wildflowers dancing at the foot of the trees, as if laughing in the dappled sunlight.

  Leah took a seat among flowers nearly the color of her husband’s eyes, intent on enjoying the view of the surrounding neighborhood. Clover Down, neat and tidy, its back gardens awash in color, spread before her to the left. On the right, another estate, just as tidy and even more generously dressed in flowers, graced the view. Whoever lived there was also unwilling to waste the lovely afternoon, and was moving into their garden. Leah made out a man and a woman, both blond, their arms linked while they looked for a spot to make use of the sketch pad the man carried under his arm.

  She was struck first by the companionability of the couple. Though the lady was tall, the man’s head was bent to catch her every word, and when he seated his companion, he settled in right beside her, still listening intently. Even seated, though, the man was quite a bit…

  Taller—Leah’s heart lurched in her chest, a painful, aching dislocation that did not ease as her eyes confirmed what her mind had already deduced: That was Nick, that tall, blond, so-considerate escort down there in the distance. That was her husband, kissing the woman’s temple, hugging her… Oh, God.

  As Leah sat in abject misery amid the flowers and the dancing sunlight, Nick made his companion laugh frequently, and each time the lady laughed, Nick smiled down at her.

  Leah was too far away to see details of Nick’s expression, and the breeze blew in the wrong direction to carry their words to her, but she knew from the angle of his head and the worshipful way the young woman beamed back at him, that he loved her and she loved him. Still, Leah could not bring herself to leave until Nick had escorted his hostess back inside.

  He’s going to ride home and take tea with me, asking about my afternoon and pretending to care. He won’t be honest, but he’ll be as kind as he can be.

  And sitting alone on the hill, Leah hated him for it.

  For all of about three minutes. Sustained ill will toward him would have been quite handy, except Nick had been honest when it counted. He’d ne
ver lied to Leah about his availability as a husband, never tried to convince her she held his heart or he wanted to hold her heart. Nick was as much a victim of circumstance as she was, and there was nothing to be gained by dramatics.

  There never had been.

  Leah had no recollection of returning to Clover Down, but as she made her way down the aisle in the stables, petting velvety equine noses and carrying a fat yellow tomcat purring against her middle, she heard Nick’s voice in the yard.

  “Hullo, Wife.” Nick handed the reins off to a groom and strode over to Leah’s side. He bent down to kiss her, but Leah shifted to let the cat go at the last instant, so Nick’s lips landed on her cheek rather than her lips.

  * * *

  “Hullo, Husband.” They were prosaic words, and Nick’s wife uttered them in the most unremarkable tones, but still, Husband… He was a husband, and being labeled as such left an odd ache in Nick’s chest. And he wasn’t just any husband, he was her husband. Leah Haddonfield’s husband.

  “Did you have a pleasant afternoon?” his wife asked.

  “It’s a pretty day, but I ran into some neighbors,” Nick said. The warmth in his chest died as he eyed her profile. He knew women, and his instincts were warning him something about her was off. Then again, he’d also just told a half-truth, and the guilt was no doubt making him jumpy.

  A quarter-truth, he corrected himself, then sighed.

  He’d misrepresented entirely.

  “What did you find to do in my absence?” Nick asked, wishing his conscience would just shut the hell up.

  “I hung up my dresses and poked around the house,” Leah said, letting Nick take her arm and steer her down the barn aisle. “I also established menus for the next week with your housekeeper and put my seal of approval on the organization of the pantries. Very impressive staff you have, Lord Reston.”

  Her voice had taken on a brittle quality, not quite ironic, but not… Not his usual Leah.

  “Lovey?” Nick peered over at her. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “No, actually.” She paused in her progress toward the house. “I did not sleep as well as I would have liked last night, Nicholas, and think I might be developing a headache.”