Libby had an innocence about her that Eleanor was determined to preserve. Papa had died before she was old enough to recognize the tension in their home, or at the very least to place its origin. She had a rosy view of love and life that would be crushed by some overbearing aristocrat. It was a fate she did not deserve.
Of course, it was a fate Eleanor didn’t deserve, either. The whole situation was just so blasted unfair. Blowing out a breath, she paced the length of the room. Aunt Margaret’s snores filtered past the ebony door that separated their suites, and Eleanor immediately quieted her footsteps. Her aunt’s noise may not wake her, but the woman heard just about everything else in a half-mile radius.
Eleanor would love nothing more than to pour out her frustrations to her aunt, but she had just been so delicate since Mama’s death. Gone was the fiery woman who had once been a tour de force among the ton. Growing up, Eleanor had wanted to be just like her. Widowed young and without children of her own, she had always been so strong and independent—a striking foil to Eleanor’s mother while Papa was still alive.
Now, however, she was simply the aging, older sister to one sibling who was dead, and another who was a boorish nobleman who liked to manipulate them about like chess pieces.
And on top of everything, Aunt Margaret had been under the weather this week, and Eleanor didn’t want to cause her undue stress. Sighing, she rubbed a hand over her eyes. She wasn’t getting anywhere.
A light tap on the door to the corridor interrupted her thoughts. She padded over and pulled it open, only to find Nick on the other side. What on earth was he doing here? His short, brown hair was damp and in need of a comb, standing up in all different directions. He’d taken the time to shave as well, and the late afternoon light illuminated one perfectly smooth, chiseled cheek while the other was cast in shadow.
For one fleeting moment, she had the oddest desire to run a fingertip down the side of his face, to see if the skin was as soft as it looked. And then her sanity returned with a biting snap.
Was he mad? One couldn’t go knocking on a woman’s bedchamber on a whim. She pulled the door mostly closed, leaving only enough room for him to have a clear view of her censure. “Nicolas,” she hissed, annoyance making the single word into a curse, “what are you doing here?”
He lifted one corner of his mouth is a rakish grin, knowing full well that she hated when he acted as though he was some sort of Corinthian. “You ran away without a proper greeting, young lady. I thought I might give you the chance to grovel for my forgiveness before dinner.”
“Oh please, I am not a young anything to you. Now go away, I’ll see you downstairs soon enough.” She started to shut the door, but he put his hand out, stopping her forward motion with a jolt.
“Not until you tell me what is bothering you,” he said, an underlying hint of concern coloring the otherwise belligerent words. Then, just when she was about to think he might actually care, he added, “You are not nearly waspish enough for all to be well.”
She rolled her eyes, her gaze landing on the bulge of his arm muscles as he held the door in place, resisting her attempts to shut it. It was so jarring for him to look so different. And distracting. Her heart gave a little flip as her gaze slipped over his broadened shoulders and the exceptionally sharp line of his jaw. Truly, they must have worked him like a mule in the army.
Good.
Having regained her wits, she glared at him. “Would you please leave me be?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” she said, exasperation clear in her whispered words.
“Right after you tell me what has your face drawn tight as a miser’s purse strings.” He gave another infuriating little grin. “Careful, such a thing will give you wrinkles. Especially at your advanced age.”
“Oh, do be quiet,” she said, shaking her head. “Honestly, Aunt Margaret will hear you, and if you wake her, I will make you regret it.”
He leaned in toward her until his face was only inches from hers, the clean scent of his shaving soap teasing her nose. His light green eyes held the same challenge they always did when he’d set his mind to having his way. “Then I suggest,” he murmured, his voice low and deep, “that you let me in and tell me what is troubling you.”
“You are troubling me,” she insisted, keeping her own voice down. “Now leave. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Nick sighed, shaking his head as though profoundly disappointed. “Only two years away, and they’ve turned you into such an old maid.”
An old maid? For heaven’s sake, was everyone intent on labeling her the doddering old woman today? It didn’t help that he looked as vibrant and virile as a prize stallion. And to think she had been inadvertently admiring him. The men in her family could go to the devil, as far as she was concerned. Fresh anger welled up from the conversation with Uncle Robert, from the helplessness and impotence of being played like some puppet.
Eleanor jerked the door open so suddenly that Nick stumbled forward, very nearly falling flat on his face. She waited until he recovered to pin him with a frosty glare. “I am not an old maid, Nicolas Norton, and you are not some sort of confidant. Why would I tell you anything? You’ve been back all of two hours, and already you have reverted to the wayward young boy who always tagged behind me like a puppy, making trouble for me at every turn.”
She would never in a thousand years say such harsh things to any other person on earth, but Nick had always thrived on annoying her. This was what they did. She doubted she would know what to do if he ever offered her a genuine kind word. To do so would mean that he actually took something seriously.
“What is life without a little trouble?” he asked, brushing off her insults. “You know what I think? I think you’ve missed me.”
“Yes, about as much as one misses a hangnail.”
He chuckled, his green eyes sparkling despite the waning evening light. “You do say the sweetest things, Ellie. Lucky for you, I know exactly what you need.”
She crossed her arms, looking at him with patent disbelief. He knew nothing about what she needed, nothing at all. She needed freedom, respect, the ability to not be married off to the man of Uncle Robert’s choosing. “Oh? And what is that, exactly?”
“To meet me at the ruins. Tomorrow at dawn.” He gave her a quick wink, made a military turn, and marched from the room.
She blinked, caught off guard. Then a slow, reluctant smile softened the corners of her mouth. For once, he was absolutely right. Devil take the man for knowing her so well.
“MY, BUT YOU ARE LOOKING SO WELL, DARLING.” Nick’s mother stretched her lips in a lazy smile from across the dinner table. She was the only person he knew that could manage such an expression without betraying a single wrinkle. Perhaps the vast quantities of drink she had consumed all these years—including tonight—were successfully preserving her after all. “Eleanor, isn’t he looking well?”
Ignoring his mother’s slightly slurred words, Nick raised an eyebrow at Eleanor, challenging her to disagree with the assessment. He could practically hear her grit her teeth.
“Indeed,” she murmured, clearly pained to admit it. An actual compliment would probably kill her.
Although, to be fair, he never complimented her, either. She was slender and beautiful, with full lips that begged to be kissed and gorgeous dark hair that looked so silky, he’d spent the last decade fighting the desire to run his hands through it. All of this, however, would never leave his lips.
Lifting his glass in a mock salute, he said, “Please, cousin, you’ll give me a big head with such eager praise.”
“You don’t need me for that.”
“Now, now, the both of you. Do behave at the dinner table.” Mother paused to take another drink of her wine before turning her less than focused gaze on Nick. “It’s been so long, my son. Please, tell us all about your life in the militia.”
Malcolm’s knife screeched against porcelain as he cut his roast lamb with much more force than necess
ary. “I don’t think we need to hear about his battlefield experiences, Lavinia.”
Nick ran his tongue along his teeth in an attempt to hold back his retort, but it was no use. “Are you certain? I was under the impression gory battlefield details were appropriate conversation for the dinner table, and was about to proceed accordingly.”
His stepfather glared daggers above the floral centerpiece as the candlelight flickered menacingly in his eyes.
“Oh, Nicolas, how you tease,” Mother trilled. “It’s a shame Margaret couldn’t join us. She does so enjoy your cheek.”
Malcolm’s gaze flickered to his wife before returning to his meal. “You remember to keep your cheek in hand, Nicolas, while you are in my home.”
My home. It was a theme that never quite went away. When he first came to live here fifteen years ago, the man went out of his way to put Nick in his place. As soon as he found a school that would take him, Malcolm packed him off with ill-concealed pleasure and washed his hands of him. If it weren’t for school breaks, Nick might have never seen his family.
“That goes for you as well, Eleanor,” Malcolm added, residual sharpness hardening his words.
Eleanor’s head jerked up at the mention of her name, her forkful of potatoes halted halfway to her mouth. She looked as though she wanted to argue with the unfair admonishment, but instead merely pressed her lips together and nodded.
Damn it—Nick hated to see her like this. Where was her spunk? Her fire? It was as if all the fight in her fizzled whenever the earl so much as glanced at her. Hopefully tomorrow Nick could shake loose the bee in her bonnet.
Mother took a hardy sip from her wine, seeming oblivious to Eleanor’s distress. Setting down the goblet, she turned to Malcolm. “How wonderful that Nicolas should be here for the house party, don’t you think? I imagine he shall catch quite a few ladies’ attention.”
Nick could tell exactly how excited his stepfather was with his presence. A firing squad might have been more welcome. “I’d rather he’d have come when he said he would. This party is hardly the place for him.”
She pursed her lips, looking as though she were thinking very hard. “Actually, he’s come at just the right time. Lord Kensington’s absence would have had us in quite the pickle. Now there’s no need to fret over our numbers.”
Mother’s statement had exactly the opposite effect on the mood than Nick would have expected. Malcolm slammed his silverware to the table and snatched up his wine glass. Eleanor jumped at the noise, nearly dropping her fork.
What the hell was going on here? And why had Kensington left before the party had even started? Nick wanted answers, but he’d be damned if he’d ask them with his stepfather around.
Mother, as was usual, was completely unperturbed. “Nicky, darling, I have just the girl for you to entertain. Mr. Landon’s oldest daughter turned eighteen this month, and this is to be her first foray into society. She’ll officially debut with Libby next Season.”
“Just what we need,” Malcolm muttered as he set down his drink. “A fresh-faced young debutant providing unfavorable comparison to Eleanor.”
Nick very nearly choked on his peas. Of all the… he may often tease Eleanor, but Malcolm’s comment was designed to draw blood. With outrage burning in his gut, Nick jerked his gaze to her, not even giving a damn if she could sense his fury. Her face was pale, her jaw tight, but she gave her head a quick, nearly imperceptible shake when their eyes met. Her meaning was clear: stay out of it.
Ah hah—he was beginning to realize what might be the cause of her odd behavior since his return. Knowing Malcolm, that was surely not the first comment he had doled out to her as the party approached. Despite her wishes, his fists clenched under the table, a retort poised precariously on his lips.
“Don’t worry,” Mother said breezily, heedless of the tension at the table. “I’m sure Nicky will have no problem keeping the girl occupied.” She smiled broadly, her eyes half closed before lifting her wineglass again and downing the contents.
Glancing once more to Ellie’s wan face, Nick finally managed to swallow the words he wanted to say. “Well then,” he said, working to keep his tone light, “sounds as though Miss Landon and I should suit perfectly. I’ll leave the serious entertaining to Eleanor.”
The rigid line of her shoulders relaxed even as her gaze remained fixed on her plate. Malcolm cut his eyes toward her, his gaze hard and steady. “For once, Norton, you may actually be of some use.”
Agreement from Malcolm? Something was definitely wrong here. Refusing to break from character, he lifted his glass and tipped his head to his stepfather in a classic arrogant move before taking a long drink.
Whether she wanted to or not, Eleanor would tell him what the devil was going on. After all, what good was being trained in the art of war if one couldn’t shamelessly exploit it on one’s family?
Chapter Three
THE SWISHING OF RAZOR THIN METAL through cool air soothed Eleanor in much the way harp music calmed the music lover, or fine wine pleased the connoisseur. In the early morning gloom, damp fog was her cover, the dim promise of sunrise her only light. She moved forward swiftly, danced backwards, and thrust again. Nothing but mist met her blade, though she couldn’t help but imagine her uncle’s chest at the end of her buttoned tip.
“Your form is terrible, cousin.”
Eleanor gasped at the sudden pronouncement, and swung around, her rapier extended. Nicolas’s smiling face was inches from her blade. He didn’t even have the decency to flinch, drat the man. “Even my worst form would be miles better than yours.”
Leaning back against the crumbing ruins of the old abbey wall, he nodded solemnly. “I agree wholeheartedly. Unless, of course, we are speaking of fencing. If that is the case, allow me to clear up your misconceptions.”
She didn’t relax. The way she was feeling this morning, she could happily take her meddling step-cousin’s head right off. “Sounds like a challenge to me. Have you come prepared?”
Though they used to meet frequently for these clandestine matches, it had been over two years since their last one. As much as he was a thorn in her side, she would be forever grateful to him for teaching her the sport. It had started as a lark, but had quickly evolved to their favorite form of communication, taking their verbal sparring and converting it into proper duels.
Stepping back, he whipped his own sword up to clang against hers, making an X of the two weapons. “But of course. I wouldn’t dare meet anyone at dawn unarmed, least of all you, dear Ellie.”
She rolled her eyes, sending a brief glance heavenward before meeting his gaze. His amused gaze. Of course. Everything was a game to him.
“En guard,” she commanded, planting her feet more firmly and extending her left hand behind her for balance. “And don’t call me Ellie.”
“As you wish, my sweet.” He paused for a moment, pursing his lips, then backed up a step. “By the way, I’m very sorry about your mother. I know I said as much in my letter, but it was a damn shame.”
She blinked, taken aback by his quiet words. Sincere words. Leave it to Nick to throw her off kilter. She swallowed against the sadness that rose from deep within her, letting her gaze fall to the rocky ground. “Thank you,” she said, nodding twice before looking back up. “I’m very glad to have Aunt Margaret, at least.”
She smiled tightly, willing him to move on from the topic. This gentle side of him she kept catching glimpses of unnerved her. She didn’t quite know what to make of the changes she saw in him.
As if sensing her desire, he repositioned his blade, tapping it lightly against hers. “Shall we?”
“Do you think you can keep up?” she asked, lifting a brow in challenge.
Below his morning scruff, his lips curled in his signature grin. She let out a relieved breath—they were back on familiar ground. He knew it drove her mad when he gave her that self-satisfied smile, which meant he was rarely without it. “Now, do try to be nice. It’s been weeks since I’ve had a
proper match.”
Before the last word had even left his mouth, she lunged forward, going straight for his gut. He flitted backwards, parrying her move and striking forward with one of his own. His foil slapped against her right shoulder.
She gritted her teeth, not so much against the sting of the hit as the sting to her pride. He was toying with her, damn him. “Two years in the militia and that’s all you’ve got?” She tsked as they both got back into position. After the awfulness that was last night’s dinner, this was exactly what she needed.
“Taking it easy on an old gal like you.”
“Old gal? I’m all of two years older than you, thank you very much.” She engaged him once more, darting forth with lightning speed and poking his ribs with a sound thump.
“Ow,” he laughed, slapping her foil away with his own. “Careful, that’s tender young flesh. You’ve likely forgotten how delicate youthful skin can be.”
She bit her bottom lip to keep from grinning. He was always such a pest. For that little quip, he earned himself a slap across his gloved hand. “Sorry, did that hurt? You’re right; I can hardly remember what such a hit feels like. Though it’s less from my advanced age and more from the lack of a proper opponent.”
“Ah, you’ve missed me. Should I come home more often then? Clearly you are in want of my company if it is a proper opponent you seek.”
He whipped his foil up again and charged her, a move that she easily deflected. They carried on for a few more swings, the clashing of their blades ringing out in the pre-dawn hush. She was starting to enjoy herself, to push aside the fury of her recent arguments with Uncle Robert, and give herself over to the mind game that was fencing.
When she finally had the upper hand, she tagged Nick once more on the shoulder. “Ha! What were you saying about a proper opponent? Unless your valet cares to extend his services, I know not why your visiting home more often should make a difference in my ability to find a worthy adversary.”
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