Not because he truly thought her choices were wrong. But because they were taking her farther away from him.
Why did Ellie want all these things? Why was she so set on a family of her own? Was it because she’d lost her parents when she was a young child?
Was it because she really was wiser than he was?
Because one of the things that kept him up at night was the knowledge that people generally liked him because he was a duke, or sat in the House of Lords, or could provide a courtesan at an hour’s notice.
His life was just like this desk: cluttered at the edges and empty at the center.
Except for Ellie and Sidney, who had always been there. True friends, who smiled at him because he was him—and glared at him a damned lot too. At the heart of hearts was Eleanor, peacekeeping and dishing out sense, bearing her own losses, generous and kind and fiery and impatient.
Ever since he’d met her, his life hadn’t been entirely empty at the center. By God, why hadn’t he asked her to take a larger part in it? Why hadn’t he begged her? There was nothing good without her.
“You look,” Sidney said, “as if you want to hit your head on your desk.”
On his desk? He wanted to clash it between cymbals. His head was in a clamor, ringing with new questions.
And a single, steady realization.
“I love her.” The words, unexpected and quiet, were…right.
Yes. He loved her. How long had that been the case? When had friendship become more?
Maybe it had always been more. He could not remember a time his day had not become better at the sight of her. And it wasn’t the music she’d played that had allowed him to rest. It was her; it was her giving him a makeshift family.
Idly, as if he’d heard nothing of import, Sidney commented, “She’s going to a musical performance at Lady Frederick’s house tonight.”
Nicholas groaned. “Lady Frederick would doubtless prefer I never darken her doorstep again.”
“Then I guess you’d better grovel.”
“I attempted a grovel recently, though it ended up in the mud outside Devonshire House.”
A shame. The white tulips had been pretty, and not inexpensive.
At least he’d managed to give Ellie her red roses, even if she didn’t keep them long.
Sidney tilted his glass, setting the liquor into a gentle swirl. “I did mention at one time that I was reluctant to have Eleanor hurt.”
“As am I. I always have been.”
“Then see to her happiness.” Sidney smiled—almost.
“I intend to.” His brows knit. “How long have you known?”
“That you love my sister?” Sidney scoffed. “Please. It was obvious to me the first time you looked at her, years on years ago. I am the oldest of the three of us, and clearly I’ve been the wisest.”
“You said only a few minutes ago that Ellie was.”
“I take that back. Because the two of you aren’t wed, are you? For the second time, she’s going to marry the wrong person.” Taking a sip of the whisky, Sidney frowned. “Barberry’s less wrong than Palmer, and he won’t make her unhappy, but…I’m not sure he’ll make her happy, either.”
Maybe. Maybe not. But if Barberry was who she wanted, if the safe and secure life was where her heart lay, then that was that. It wasn’t Nicholas’s place to question her judgment again.
But he didn’t have to let her go without a word, either.
“Making her happy will be my first priority,” he assured Sidney, hoisting himself to his feet. “I have a plan.”
After all these years, he would not put himself at its center. He would not leave it puffed up and void within. No, this plan would be for Ellie.
He added, “I’ll practice on these crutches so I can be up and about soon. Expect to see me in Parliament for the session…say, Thursday.” After tonight’s session, that would be the next.
“I’ll see you there.” Sidney drank off his whisky, then returned the glass to the desk. “But if you’re on your feet before then, you ought to come and see the baby. He has started smiling.”
“You are a lucky man,” he told Sidney.
“Why, by having a family of my own?” His friend stood, ready to depart. “I am indeed. And if you play your cards right, maybe you’ll be my brother. Can’t get luckier than that.”
* * *
The daylight was gone, and the lamps were lit in Eleanor’s bedchamber. She was nearly ready to leave for the evening’s musical performances at Lady Frederick’s house. Sitting at her dressing table, facing herself in the glass, she turned her head to poke an earring into the hole in her lobe. She turned the other way. Held up the second crystal drop. Hesitated.
When she put in the second earring, it would be time to go downstairs, to wait for Barberry. He would come for her once Parliament adjourned for the evening.
She was wearing the white and black gown from Mariah that was so severely elegant. Her hair was smooth and restrained, after an ungodly amount of pomade and pins were slicked and poked into it. Barberry would like it that way.
Without consulting a printed peerage, she would never have known his first name: Horace. Barberry was what everyone called him, what he expected her to call him.
Rather like Palmer, that.
If she asked Sarah to turn the lamps down lower, she would hardly have to face herself anymore.
After she’d put her hand in his, she had asked him to kiss her. He had looked startled, unmistakably startled, through the dappled light of the tree. Glancing around to make sure they were unseen, he then obliged with a quick peck on her lips.
“No more of this now,” he said. “We mustn’t make a spectacle of ourselves.”
How much or how little did it take to make a spectacle of oneself? Would she spend every day wondering? Would careful order and good intentions wrap her tight as a winding sheet?
He didn’t love her.
She knew he didn’t, of course, but she hadn’t really thought about what that meant. Palmer had loved her in his way, but he had not respected her. Barberry respected her but didn’t love her—and because to be loved was what she wanted, she would soon stop respecting herself.
In the glass, her eyes looked shadowed. Had she not known their color, she would not be able to tell what it was.
Nicholas had been honest with her the day before, as brutally honest as she’d been with him. And he’d been right: she had married Palmer for the wrong reasons. He was her instead of, her distraction. Her hope that they’d both grow together enough to make a marriage work. But they had grown apart, their differences magnified. Her determination, his impulsiveness: they grated wrongly, like chalk and cheese.
With Lord Barberry, she seemed the impulsive one. Too young, too fond of brightness, too eager to laugh.
“Are you ready to go, my lady?” Sarah’s voice broke into her reverie.
Was she ready? One more earring, then she could get up, right now, and walk into that life. It would be a safe life, a dependable one. Barberry would give her everything she asked, if he could.
But no more than that. She could not command him to love her. She ought not to expect him to change for her. Only one person had she ever loved, just as he was. Thoughtful and arrogant and well-meaning and imperfect, all the contradictions that made life interesting.
She didn’t want only to be married. She wanted to be loved. And maybe that wouldn’t ever happen, but she wouldn’t settle again for a second-best life.
“My lady?” Sarah asked again.
“No. Not yet.” Eleanor set down the crystal earring with a satisfying click, then removed its twin. Deliberately, she pulled the pins from her hair and pattered them over the top of the dressing table too.
“Clean the pomade from my hair, please, Sarah, and let it curl. But first, I have to change my gown.”
Chapter Seven
Lady Frederick’s flag-bedecked ballroom was as suited to an evening of musical performances as it was to a c
ard party—which was to say, not really. But, Nicholas had to admit, it made for a pleasant sight. The long room was filled with rows of small chairs facing the eastern wall of windows. They showed a void and black sky without, but within was a wood floor of golden gloss, footmen carrying trays with flutes of wine, and a makeshift stage with chairs, stringed instruments, and a grand pianoforte.
He did not want to know how, or with what effort, the pianoforte had been hoisted up the house’s steps, past the ground floor, and into the ballroom above. Climbing the stairs on his crutches, with nothing to lift but his own cursed weight, had been grueling enough.
Well. Maybe he did want to know how the feat had been managed, at that. Anything to distract him from noticing that Ellie was late. Parliament had adjourned long ago, and everyone else who was expected tonight was here—except for Lady Eleanor Palmer and Lord Barberry.
He didn’t want to think about why that might be.
Fortunately, a diversion interrupted his futile wonderings just then. “Your Grace.” Lady Frederick stood at his elbow. “My footman said this was from you.”
As beplumed and exuberantly dressed as ever, his hostess looked wary as she indicated the wigged servant behind her. With jaw set in an expression of strain, he hoisted a potted tree a yard tall. Its glossy green leaves were bright and toothy. If a plant had an expression, this one wore a grin.
But Nicholas had better not. It was time to grovel. “Lady Frederick, I was ungracious the last time you were so kind as to welcome me into your home, and I apologize for that. Thank you for extending another invitation.”
True, Sidney had managed the matter, but Lady Frederick might as well get the credit. As he waited for her reply, Nicholas hitched a crutch more firmly under one arm, drawing attention to his injured ankle. Though he’d stuffed his heavily bound foot into a pump large enough to fit a giant, the crutches gave him the unmistakable air of an invalid who had wanted, tried, determined desperately to be here. If that helped her ladyship forgive his trespasses, it was all to the good.
“Oh. I didn’t expect…that is, don’t give it another thought, Your Grace.” Lady Frederick looked hesitant. “I do not recognize the little tree. Has it some significance?”
“Indeed it does. It’s a cane apple—or some might call it an Irish strawberry tree.”
The footman holding up the pot grunted. Lady Frederick noticed the alarmingly red cast of the straining man’s complexion. “Good heavens, James! Take it to the conservatory and set it down.” After he vanished, shuffling awkwardly as he carried the pot, she added, “Irish, you said, Your Grace?”
“It is. It grows only in Ireland but, I hope, will flourish in your conservatory.” Nicholas attempted to sketch a bow without losing his balance and falling arse-end up on the floor. “You have welcomed the Irish into our union”—he did not say, and in a most patronizing way—“with great enthusiasm, and now you have a little piece of Ireland for your home. In autumn, when it grows larger, it will bloom and grow fruit.”
Her ladyship’s whippet-thin face softened. “That is most thoughtful of you. I thank you sincerely.”
He tried for another bow.
This ought to have concluded the conversation. Indeed, Lady Frederick was already turning away to speak to one of the night’s performers, a young woman clutching a violin about its neck.
But he had one more thing to say. “Lady Frederick.” Once she turned to face him again, he lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “I am sorry to ask you for a favor, ma’am, but I must impose once more. Might there be time for me to offer a brief performance this evening?”
* * *
By the time Eleanor arrived alone, breathless from her mad dash up the stairs, the musical performances had already begun. Backed by the tall flag-flanked windows of the ballroom, a harpist in a flowing white gown plucked strings while wearing a beatific expression.
Eleanor sidled into the back of the room, not wanting to draw notice from the scores of listeners in their tidy rows of chairs. The day had been longer than long, and she hadn’t really wanted to come, but now that she’d changed into her blue gown and her hair was properly a-tumble, she had to go out. It was a matter of principle—or maybe of pride in herself.
She hardly listened as the harpist concluded her piece, then stood and bowed to great applause.
A footman passed by Eleanor with a deliberate glance she found rather impudent, then made his way to the side of the low platform on which the instruments had been placed and where Lady Frederick stood. As applause dwindled, he communicated some message to her. The woman nodded, dismissing the servant, and stepped up onto the makeshift stage.
When she lifted her hands, the assembled guests quieted again. “Tonight,” she called in a carrying tone, “I am delighted to present a special performance from His Grace, the Duke of Hampshire.”
Nicholas? He wasn’t musical—at least, not enough to perform in public. What on earth…? She craned her neck to get a better look at the raised area being used as a stage.
Dutiful applause followed her ladyship’s words, combined with carrying whispers of curiosity. They followed Nicholas as he swung and stepped, crutches and sound foot in turn, to the center of the performers’ area.
“Thank you, Lady Frederick, and thank you all for your kind welcome.” He looked roguish, his clothing rumpled and awry due to the tug of the crutches. Short locks of dark hair had shaken over his forehead. Barberry would tidy those back.
“I intend to perform a special piece for you all tonight,” he added. “I learned it from a musician who plays from the heart. I was an inept student for many years, and you will doubtless observe shortcomings in the quality of my playing. The blame for that belongs on my shoulders alone.”
Another smattering of polite applause as Nicholas turned, leaned his crutches against the side of the pianoforte, and hopped to take a stance before the center of the keyboard.
Eleanor was getting apprehensive about this.
With a great show of preparation, Nicholas limbered his wrists and placed his hands on the keys. And then…with one forefinger, one deliberate note at a time, he picked out a tune.
The notes jangled in Eleanor’s ears, meaningless, as she tried to assimilate the sight of the Duke of Hampshire poking his way through a pianoforte tune before scores of mystified nobles. What was he playing at, besides an odd attempt at music? Was he making mock of Lady Frederick again? No, for their hostess stood to one side with a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile, as if this performance was entirely to her liking.
One note at a time, one vibrating string at a time, the song continued—and at last, the muddle resolved into sense. She knew this tune. She knew it by heart, for she’d played it for Nicholas.
I sowed the seeds of love,
It was all in the spring…
By the time he concluded his performance, her heart was in a thunder. She lifted her hands to cheeks grown hot—with confusion, with embarrassment, with hope.
Nicholas turned, bowed, and retrieved his crutches in an excruciating silence. Lady Frederick stepped forward, clapping her hands with great enthusiasm.
“Your Grace, thank you! Thank you for a most unique performance!” Her wink at Nicholas could not have been broader. “I fear you need more lessons, though!”
Relieved laughter eddied through the audience, followed by more applause. Under the growing wall of sound, Eleanor could not hear Nicholas’s smiling reply, but he soon followed Lady Frederick from the stage. She did not see where he went then, or whether he even remained in the room.
The next performer was a cellist, a man with a grand waxed moustache who took an age to tune his instrument. While he was still fussing with the pegs, a voice at Eleanor’s right said, “My lady?”
She stifled a yelp. “Oh! Lady Frederick! My apologies—I was lost in thought.”
“I should think so.” The older woman smiled. “If you do not mind missing the cellist’s performance, His Grace would like to speak
with you. There is a private parlor beyond this ballroom; simply retrace your steps and open the next door on the right.”
Eleanor searched her hostess’s face. “I do not understand.”
“It’s not for me to explain, my lady.”
All right. Fine. Nicholas was up to some devilry, and he had enlisted Lady Frederick as an accomplice. But…it seemed to be nice devilry, if strange.
I sowed the seeds of love…
“I do not mind missing the cellist’s performance.” Eleanor echoed Lady Frederick’s words. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Think nothing of it!” Her ladyship leaned in closer to Eleanor’s ear, then whispered in a tone of glee, “The Duke of Hampshire apologized to me! Can you credit it?”
His tulips had gone in the mud, and he had tried again. Well done, Nicholas. “Actually…I can.”
She found the private parlor, just as Lady Frederick had directed, and pushed open the door with hands that trembled.
“Ellie, thank God. I hoped you’d come speak to me.” Nicholas had evidently been waiting by the doorway. He shut the door behind her, then paused. “May I lock the door, so we are not interrupted? I ask for only a few minutes of your time.”
“Um…all right. If you like.” While he worked the key, she looked around. The small room was cozy and warm and fire-licked. Paper in a light print of gold and gray hung on the walls, and gilt-framed mirrors flung candlelight about the space. It was just the sort of space where she might again pull the pins from her hair, settle into a deep-seated chair, and feel perfectly at home.
But she wasn’t home. She didn’t even know if she had a home. In the last fortnight, she’d lived in too many places and changed too many plans to know any more than which way was up.
And to know too that when Nicholas turned away from the door toward her, she had never before seen the look on his face. It was one of curious intensity, his eyes fixed on hers as though he could imagine looking nowhere else.
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