Instead of responding to him with heated words, Lydia narrowed her eyes.
“I hardly think that I have to take a lesson in morals from you, your grace! Or is Catherine a sister or a cousin of yours?”
Nicholas had to stifle a laugh at that. The chit was spirited, but it could bring her to disaster if she wasn't careful.
“And now you are speaking the name of my mistress as if you were close friends. Tell me, up until this mad venture, had you even spoken with a man you didn't know before without a chaperone?”
“No.”
“That's right. And this is only the trouble you have gotten into while you were in the countryside. Ever been to London?”
“No.”
“It's worse, believe me.”
“Oh, yes, thieves and bauds around every corner, I have heard the tales, Nicholas!”
“They aren't that far wrong. If you are on your own, you might get snapped up like a fallen purse, don't doubt it. I find that I can't have that on my conscience.”
The look she gave him seemed far too worldly for her years.
“You expect me to be worried about your delicate conscience?”
“Well, unfortunately, yes. I cannot abide the idea of you wandering around London on your own. Especially not since I knew your brother.”
Lydia stared at him, her eyes wide. In a moment, she was around the table, taking his hand as if they were bosom friends, and the glow in her eyes was vivid.
“You knew my brother? You knew Benjamin?'
He knew he should relinquish hold of her hand, but he couldn't quite bear to do so. Her fingers were small and pale wrapped around his, and Nicholas had to hold himself back from kissing them.
“I did. Somewhat. I knew some of his associates, at least, and we've shared a drink at a mutual acquaintance's house.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“Then you know where I can find this Baron Farring?”
“I might,” Nicholas said, wondering that God did not simply strike him down dead on the spot. He could end her quest with a simple declaration of his true identity, but there was no way he was going to do that. “At least, I may know how to locate him.”
“Then—”
“You have a choice, Lydia. Come to London with me, stay in my house as some kind of distant relation, be chaperoned by my great-aunt Eunice, or—”
“Or be sent home.”
“Yes.”
“That's hardly a choice at all,” Lydia said. “You know very well I will come with you to London!”
Nicholas grinned at her, showing his teeth.
“Are you sure? Because at this point, I know that you are not a woman who minds being mistaken for a man's mistress. Who knows but I might make that 'mistake' again.”
Nicholas wasn't quite sure why he had said it. Perhaps he wanted to flirt, or perhaps there was still some inkling of a good man in him that wanted to warn the poor girl off. She was as fresh as a girl from school, and by all rights, his reputation alone should have sent her scampering for home, perhaps even made her faint.
Instead, Lydia actually snorted and squeezed his fingers in hers before letting him go.
“I believe that you make yourself out to be far worse than you really are, your grace,” she said, stepping back. “When a man steps in to save innocent passengers on a coach and when he refuses to let me suffer sleeping on the floor, I think I have a better measure of his character than what he wishes to frighten me with.”
Nicholas stared at her for a moment, and then he shook his head.
“You are the damnedest thing, Lydia,” he murmured, and he couldn't help the small amount of admiration his voice.
Later, while he waited outside the room for her to wash and change so they could continue making their way to London, Nicholas found his conclusions were more somber.
It would be easy, he decided, to spend some time putting her off in London and then to send her home with her conscience clear. Eunice would make sure that her reputation was unsullied, he would play bemused host for a bit, perhaps stealing a kiss now and then when she was particularly bright, but he wouldn't let himself do anything that would truly hurt her.
It was the least he owed her, he decided grimly, and his thoughts strayed to Benjamin Waverly's body on the green grass, his blood black and soaking through his shirt.
* * *
Lydia was a little startled when Nicholas refused to let them take the mail coach farther, and when she hesitantly mentioned that she no money for anything finer, he gave her such a glare that she shut her mouth quickly.
Instead, he hired a coach that would take them the rest of the way to London in comfort. Instead of continuing his ride, Nicholas climbed into the coach with her, and as the countryside rolled passed them, she realized he was watching her closely.
“Is there something about my face that you find so very fascinating, your grace?” she asked finally.
“It's a face of passing prettiness,” he allowed, “but it's not your looks that make me wonder.”
“What is it then?”
“I am merely looking for the reason why I have decided at this late stage in the game to choose to bring into my house a girl whose reputation I need to safeguard.”
A smile tugged at Lydia's lips.
“I suppose you could think of me as the comeuppance for your years of roistering.”
“I think my comeuppance would really look a bit more like, oh, say an indignant vicar perhaps. Not a young woman with eyes like emeralds.”
A part of Lydia wanted to be flattered by that, but she reminded herself of the name that Nicholas had called in the night. He was a man who flirted like he breathed, and under no circumstances could she allow herself to be seduced, no matter how minor the seduction.
“Emeralds? That is too expensive by far for a marquess’ daughter, wouldn't you say? My family was once quite wealthy, and perhaps I would have commanded emeralds then. These days, we are more titles than pounds. Perhaps you should say rather peridots or even green glass.”
Nicholas’ laugh was surprised.
“Well, you are certainly the first woman who has said that I compliment her too well. Whatever your family's circumstances, I believe that I will let my compliment stand. Your eyes are lovely, but I am still confused by the fact that I am allowing you into my home.”
Lydia affected a tragic look even if she could not stop a smile from trembling at the corners of her lips. It was strange how much she simply wanted to smile when she was with Nicholas. It felt as if she hadn't really smiled since that awful letter that told them that Benjamin was dead.
“Well, I suppose I could simply be put out of the carriage here, a young girl, lonely and left to the elements by the side of the road, victim to whatever footpad or bandit came this way.”
Nicholas snorted.
“You may not have any perfume left in your bag, but I would not bet a bent pence that you are helpless. Knowing you, you'd have the poor blighter knocked out in a moment and be taking his horse to London in two.”
“I like to think that I am simply resourceful,” she said loftily. “Life has not equipped me with your money, your strength, or your resources, your grace, so I must make do.”
“I told you to start calling me Nicholas. If we are going to be living together and if you are meant to be some kind of distant relation, standing on ceremony by calling me your grace will hardly do.”
Lydia hesitated.
“I feel as if calling you by your rightful title reminds us of who we are. That we are not… that I am not…”
“Am I actually seeing an attack of maidenly fright from the woman who clubbed a bandit right in front of my eyes?”
“No, you are seeing the reluctance of a woman who is doing everything she can to preserve body, soul, and reputation,” Lydia retorted. “Remember, your grace, I was also in that bed this morning, and there was precious little that was keeping you from… from, that is…”
Nicholas’
grin was positively predatory, and as he lounged on the bench across from her, Lydia could feel her heart beat a little faster.
“Say it,” he suggested. “If you can bring yourself to say what it was I nearly did—though if I were truly a cad, I might remind you that you weren't altogether unwilling—I'll let you ride the rest of the way to London in peace.”
Lydia considered just spitting it out. After all, it wasn't as if she didn't have the words for him. She could be as blunt as she needed to be. But then she realized that more than once, simply telling Nicholas the truth had stunned him.
“I'd rather talk with you than sit in peace, Nicholas,” she said, and she was rewarded with a surprised and startled look.
He shook his head slowly.
“You're an unusual woman, Lydia.”
“I suppose I am.”
* * *
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CHAPTER SIX
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Four days later, Lydia paced the length of the drawing room for what felt like the thousandth time. The ladies' drawing room in Nicholas’ London home was well-appointed and luxurious, complete with a writing desk if she cared to correspond, a pianoforte if she cared to play, and a shelf of books if she wished to read. As a matter of fact, she did not care to do any of those things.
Her nerves were a frayed mess, and when the door creaked open, she was ready to pounce on the person entering for news of Nicholas or his investigation. Instead, it was only Miss Eunice Stanhope, Nicholas’ great-aunt, and she was too small and frail to deal with very much pouncing at all.
Lydia had assumed that any female relative of Nicholas’ would be as imposing and impressive as Nicholas himself. She supposed that if she had considered of it, she would have expected a dragon. Instead, Eunice Stanhope was shorter than Lydia and as round as plum, with cheeks that were rosy with mirth. She was close to eighty, and as she had told Lydia when they were introduced, a little forgetful at times, but there was nothing wrong with her heart at all.
Even though she was still grieving over her brother and eager to get on with the search for what had happened to him, Lydia could feel something cold in her thaw under Eunice's fluttering care. The woman didn't seem to care at all for Lydia's mission or her great-nephew’s cautions. Instead, upon meeting Lydia, she tucked her arm through the younger woman's, beaming up at her with pleasure.
"Well, we certainly are going to get along, aren't we?" Eunice cooed, and for the most part, they had.
"Oh, my dear, why do you look so disappointed?"
"I'm sorry, Miss Stanhope. I hoped it might be Nicholas come to give me some news."
Eunice tutted, coming over to sit next to Lydia.
"Well, that nephew of mine is keeping himself busy out of the house for the moment, but I believe that he will be joining us for dinner. Perhaps until he comes to join us, you would care to embroider with me a little?"
There was nothing Lydia wanted to do less, but she watched as Eunice opened her sewing basket. As it turned out, the older woman left her sewing supplies in such a mess that Lydia could take the afternoon detangling all of it for her as Eunice clucked in dismay. By the end, she was as restless as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and when Eunice drifted off with a skein of black silk thread in her hand, snoring quietly, Lydia decided that enough was enough.
"Excuse me," she asked a passing footman, "but have you any idea when the duke will be at home?"
"He should be at home any moment, Lady Lydia. Would you like to have the duke directed to the drawing room?"
Lydia paused. That would be the most proper thing to do. He would come, they could have a civilized talk about her situation, what was happening, and any progress he was making.
And then he would avoid her questions about what came next, what she could be doing to help with the search, and everything else, just like Nicholas had been doing for a week.
"No," she said abruptly. "I will wait for him in his study."
The footman was far too well-trained to protest her unorthodox behavior and simply led her to the study.
Once the door closed behind her, Lydia felt a pang of doubt. She had only been in her own father's study a handful of times, and Nicholas’ was far grander. It was paneled in dark wood with a thick Aubusson carpet underneath, and the desk, empty with only a few envelopes on top of it, looked like some kind of pagan altar, a place where maidens could be sacrificed to hungry gods. The light was beginning to fail already, giving the place an entirely gloomy look.
Lydia felt like an intruder as she paced the Aubusson carpet, tilting her head to look at the books that lined the shelves. It didn't matter if it was a little gloomy. What mattered was getting answers about what he was doing to help her.
And if he isn't, I shall simply have to leave and make my own way in learning what happened to Benjamin.
She was slightly startled to realize that she had not really remembered her brother in a few days. She knew why she was in London, but Benjamin's face hadn't crossed her mind at all. Perhaps she was beginning to heal after her loss, and though there was still that stab of guilt and sorrow, it faded quickly. She didn't think her brother would begrudge her the lessening of her grief.
"I wonder what you would have thought of him," she said out loud. "You were always so quick to protect me from the rough boys, but he's not really that sort, not at all."
There had been no kisses since they had come to London, though more than once Lydia had caught the duke staring at her mouth with a hunger that had nothing to do with the food between them. Though she certainly felt the gravity between them herself, she was careful to keep her distance. It wasn't a maidenly fear that held her back, although perhaps it should have. Instead, it was a fear of forgetfulness. When she had kissed Nicholas, all consideration of her mission fell out of her head. She was willing to heal, but she was far from willing to forget.
Idly, Lydia wandered to the desk, not quite brave enough to wait for Nicholas in his own chair. She could see from the faint scars and a few spots of ink staining the desktop that it was actually used for work. Somehow, the idea that Nicholas was a man who actually managed some of his own estates and property pleased her. It made her think that Benjamin would have liked him indeed.
There were two chairs across from the desk, likely for when solicitors and other men of business came to call. Lydia was just circling the desk to take a seat there when her eyes fell on one of the envelopes on the desk. She had no urge to pry, but with a shock like lightning striking a tree, Lydia realized that the address on the envelope was none other than that of her own home in Carmody.
She froze, looking again, but the address did not change, and she reached for the envelope with shaking hands. It was slightly rumpled and creased, as if it had been passed from hand to hand, but it was unopened. She hesitated again, but with a trembling hand, she picked up the letter opener on the desk and slit the top of the envelope.
After all, if I were at home, I would likely be the one opening it anyway, she decided a little wildly.
The letter was dated the night she had come to London, and she recognized the strong and assured script as Nicholas’ right away.
To the esteemed Marquess of Carmody:
We have not had the pleasure of being introduced to one another before this time, but in the course of my travels, I believe I have made the acquaintance of your daughter...
Lydia read on with growing disbelief. The letter was short and to the point. Nicholas had met Lady Lydia Waverly while riding the road to London, he had taken custody of her—and oh, how Lydia seethed at that idea! —and seen her safely to his home in London where she was being chaperoned by his entirely respectable great-aunt.
Nicholas was ready to return her home or to otherwise wait for her father's instructions. Lydia slammed the letter down on the desk, her breathing quick and angry. She w
as so furious with Nicholas that she barely knew what to do, and when the door creaked open behind her, she spun around, the letter opener still in her fist.
For a moment, Nicholas simply looked at her, and then coolly, he closed the door behind him, coming to stand a short distance away from her.
"Good evening, Lydia. Is there something you wish to speak about, or do you simply wish to stab me with my own letter opener?"
"I should stab you! Did you truly send this letter?"
"I did. Barnes said that a letter had been returned to my desk unopened today. I was afraid it was that one."
"How dare you pry into my business and try to notify my father behind my back!"
Nicholas shot her a dry look before going to sit at his desk, ignoring the letter opener she still held.
"Lydia, you ran away from home to pursue some mission of vengeance in London. Surely, you can't think that your absence was not noticed. Your father must be worried sick."
Lydia dropped the note scornfully on his desk.
"Does it look like my father was overly concerned? He is either in the backcountry doing a spot of hunting or he is at home and cannot be bothered."
Nicholas scowled at the letter.
"The grief over your brother's passing—"
"My father barely looked up during the funeral. He had other things to occupy him. Benjamin and I... we only had each other."
Furiously, Lydia knuckled a tear out of her eye. Nicholas rose in concern, but she waved him off angrily.
"I don't need to be comforted! I need to know what you have done to locate Benjamin's killer, and I need to know now! You can't keep me in your house as if I was a prisoner!"
"You are not a prisoner," Nicholas said calmly. "You are a guest, but you are also an unmarried woman in my house being chaperoned by my aunt. By tradition, I am the one responsible for your well-being."
Christin's Splendid Spinster's Society (The Spinster’s Society) (A Regency Romance Book) Page 24