Johnny Boy blew a puff of hot air in Nick’s face, once again rescuing him from bitter thoughts.
“Well, you seem to be in high leg this morn,” Nick said. “How about some breakfast? What say?”
Johnny’s tail wagged, but Nick knew the dog had a long recovery ahead. A three-inch seam marred his throat and clusters of raw, pink wounds mutilated his white coat where bits of glass had been worked free. The dog had lost a lot of blood, and was still quite weak.
No. Johnny wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.
Nick, on the other hand, had a mission. He’d already lost three days to sleep, so had little time to spare. He fingered his earring. The man who attacked him so viciously the other night must’ve been Jasper. He was frail and delicate with hands as soft as rose petals, just like one would expect of a man who spent every waking hour with his nose in journals and books.
Nick rubbed his beard in an effort to calm himself. He wanted to pound the mouse. But he couldn’t blame him for trying to protect what was his. Still, at the very least the little professor owed Nick a tour of the butterfly conservatory after what he’d done. There was such a thing as etiquette, even among the reclusive. Who executes an attack before asking questions, after all?
One thing Nick knew: he would get more of an apology by using his surname, but he refused to bring his family into this. They couldn’t know his whereabouts, for they would stop at nothing to bring him home. As much as he missed the manor, he no longer belonged there.
A chill raised the hairs on his bared legs and torso as he slapped off his covers and rolled to his back. He made the mistake of kicking aside the sheer voile curtains that draped the bed’s four-poster frame. Nerve centers combusted in his leg and ribs—angry and hot.
With a hiss, he cradled his left knee and jerked when a halo of stitches pricked his fingers. His ribs caught where a bandage cinched him like a woman’s bustier and a dull ache pounded his head. Easing back to lie down again, he left both legs hanging at the knee over the mattress, his feet flat on the slick floor. The bed curtains had wound around his chest, doing nothing to hide his lower extremities.
He moaned, considering covering up but too woozy to care. Let the old woman return and see him in all his glory. She was the one who took his clothes and refused to bring any replacements.
He resituated to a more comfortable position. Head propped on a lump of covers, he scowled through the sheer curtains at his surroundings. Faint daylight filtered in from beneath the drapes—just enough to illuminate the room to a grayish haze. Floral fabrics and laces bedecked every window and wall.
A white wicker vanity along the north side showcased glass containers of every size along with a silver hair brush and some glistening hair pins. He recognized several of the perfumes by their bottle shape and labels: Lily of the Valley, Magnolia, and Lavender. They were of a rather cheap quality, and most of the bottles were only half-full. Three had toppled to their sides—no doubt leaking their innards to spawn the noxious flowery scent stinging his nostrils.
Feathery scarves and plumed hats were thrown about, and a mismatched assortment of fancy shoes peppered the luxurious rug running down the middle of the tiled floor. Like a lacy waterfall, a petticoat draped a wing-backed chair next to a desk where a pink crystal clock ticked a rhythmic tune.
“Aw, bloody beautiful. A man and dog at death’s door and they put them up in a hoity-toity lady’s parlor.”
Johnny Boy shoved his nose into Nick’s hair and snorted. Nick smiled. One of the things he’d always loved about this dog was his impeccable sense of humor. Nick raised his voice an octave. “Yes Johnny old chap. Let us discuss the latest hairstyles and fashions in Harper’s Bazaar. Perhaps for breakfast they’ll serve us tea and crumpets on tatted lace napkins.”
“There might be a rather … substantial problem with your breakfast plans.”
Nick snagged a pillow with his good hand and planted it firmly in place between his legs. Too little too late.
Pulling a sheet around to replace the pillow, he forced his mutinous body up to a sitting position. He bit back a growl at the resurgence of pain but took heart the dizziness had subsided. Glancing through the filmy voile, he could make out an elegant silhouette in a flowing black dress standing at the door. Though he couldn’t see her face clearly, there was no doubting who she was by her carriage.
He groaned. Dandy way to make a first impression on the countess.
“A traditional Irish breakfast”—the flared hem of her form fitting skirt swished around her ankles as she stepped inside— “consists of sausage and black and white pudding.”
“So what might the problem be?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Well, we’re out of sausage.” She bent to pick up some scarves and hats, stuffing her arms on her way to dump them in a trunk in the furthest corner. Passing the window, she coaxed the drapes open with a gloved hand and tender light blanketed the room. “But it appears you’ve brought your own. An excess, in fact.”
Nick flicked the bed curtain away to get a clearer view of her back, impressed and surprised by her impropriety. “I’m perfectly happy to share.”
From behind, she looked like any other dowager with her silver-blonde hair wound to a knot at the base of her neck, gleaming like the polished blade of a brand-new carving knife.
The countess bent down to pick up a pair of mismatched lady’s shoes. Her waist was petite, hips small yet nicely curved. The hips of a woman who had never given birth. An unusual aspect for one of her class. Most noblemen married for no other purpose than to perpetuate their line through heirs. Other than that oddity, she could’ve been any forty-some-year-old widow.
Until she turned and their gazes met. In that instant, the clock on the desk ticked so loud Nick felt it in his pulse, for that’s where all conformity ended. Her eyes were so unique—mystifying. A deep sadness lurked beneath those long lashes … lashes so dark and thick, they could’ve belonged to a child … and her eyebrows boasted the same dark hue—not a hint of white or gray within them.
Nick ran his fingers through his scruffy whiskers, wondering at the strange niggle of attraction awaking within him. Surely he’d been too long without a woman to be seeing a dowager in such light.
Speaking of light, the lady stepped into the gentle radiance splaying from the window and her irises took on the color of mahogany, warm and rich. He saw a familiarity in that gaze … but couldn’t place it.
A lacy black scarf hid her neck, secured with a glistening butterfly brooch. The jewels reflected tiny sparkles of light upon her face, dancing along her skin. Her wrinkles could’ve been made by the etch of a knife—inscribed for character yet sanded to subtlety. As an artist, he couldn’t help but admire the intricacies. Were he carving a woman’s maturing face of smooth white pine, he couldn’t have done a more masterful job.
He absently rubbed Johnny’s velvety head, too confused by his piqued interest to even care that an uncomfortable silence wreathed them. She was indeed a contradiction; for though a fringe of lines skimmed her lips, her mouth was plump and shapely and smooth. He wanted to trace it with his fingertip, to see if it was as soft as it appeared.
“Generous of you to offer.”
Her words shook Nick out of his fantasizing. It seemed she’d read the direction of his thoughts. “Offer?”
“To share your”—those tragically expressive eyes wandered to the sheet at his nether regions— “provisions. But I’m partial to scones and Devonshire cream. I find them much more satisfying.”
Nick smirked. “Ah. You obviously haven’t sampled the right sausage.”
Without even blinking, she took back the reins. “There is a change of clothes for you in that wardrobe.” She gestured to the wall behind him as she reached for a key looped around her waist on a delicate chain. “But before I give you the means to open it … I must first demand an answer as to your appearance here three nights ago. How long have you been working for Donal Landrigan?”
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The query forced Nick away from a surreptitious appraisal of her breasts—pert and nubile beneath the sheath of her full-coverage bodice. She wasn’t wearing a corset, which further shocked and intrigued him. It was apparent this woman had never had babes to nurse.
He ceased petting Johnny. “Donal Landi—what?”
“He’s a snake, in case you’re unaware.”
Nick frowned, baffled by the direction of her query, but enjoying the wordplay. It had been some time since he’d kept company with such a witty and well-spoken woman. “I thought Ireland was the land of no snakes,” he baited. “There are tales of your blessed St. Patrick taking care of that.”
“St. Patrick merely took care of the legless variety. There are still vipers aplenty roaming our land. See that you don’t become one by association.”
Nick clenched the sheet around his waist, no longer amused. She had every right to disparage and doubt him. He’d broken into her grounds. But ever since his youth, it had always grated on his last nerve to be reprimanded like a schoolboy. This lady assumed that just because she was his senior, she had lived more life and gleaned more wisdom than him.
Well she was bloody wrong.
In the past, he would have lured her into his bed. He would have stripped her of her stodgy attire and lay her out beneath him, disproving those notions of inexperience. He’d always had a way with the older women. It’s what made him both rich and poor, all in the same breath.
Caught off guard by that thought, he ground his teeth.
He should never have sworn off bedding the ladies after his wife’s death. Two years gone by without any sort of physical interlude had left him at the mercy of his libido. Until now, he’d had no desire to seek companionship again. Strange that this aging woman with a shattered gaze had reawakened it.
Too bad she was as frigid as sculpted ice.
“Do not speak to me as if I’m your son, madam. You are a stranger. The solicitudes of which are as useless and forgettable as a clouded sky that never swells to rain.”
As if to disparage his comment, the room grew darker and droplets began to spatter on the glass. A flitter of some unnamed emotion—smugness perhaps—swept over the widow’s face then faded with the change in lighting. “But we are hardly strangers, Lord Thornton. Considering your father has been buying pupas from me for years.”
Nick felt his surname like a punch to the jaw. Hell. He’d been found out. Come to think, he vaguely remembered his attacker recognizing him the other night. Or had he dreamed that?
The dowager shifted her feet and ruffled her hem. “Again, I’ll ask. How long have you been working for Donal Landrigan?”
“I’m not working for him … whoever he might be. I’ve ne’er even heard the name.”
“Then why were you lurking in my greenhouse? Was it at the behest of your father? Or perhaps your sister, checking up on me?”
“Certainly not. My family and I have been … out of contact for some while.” His head lowered. Better it stay that way. Better they think him dead or missing. They didn’t need his constant shadow of misery and missteps darkening their doorway.
“So, your purpose here?” The key pendulated from the tips of the widow’s fingers in time with the clock beside her.
She pursed her mouth at his silence.
“I see,” she said. “This is a game to you. You rather enjoy being bared and on display. All right then. I shall wait for the novelty to wear off.” With that, she eased gracefully into the winged back chair, not even bothering to move the petticoat draped over it. The lacy slip bubbled out around her, offsetting her black ensemble as if she were a chocolate candy laid out on a white doily.
Nick licked his lower lip at the imagery, thinking she’d be a bit more bitter than sweet to the tongue. “Perhaps”—he rubbed his palm across the tender bump on his nape— “if you were to stop staring, my penchant for nudity would lose its appeal.”
“Perhaps, were you to tell me of your purpose for being here, I might be inclined to stop staring.”
Although more verbal jousting was tempting, he had to come up with a feasible explanation. This courtly lady had allowed him to stay in her home for several nights. She’d had his wounds tended even after he violated her privacy. “Before I tell you anything, I ask for your word.”
Her dark eyebrows lifted in interest. “My word on what?”
“That you’ll not involve the RICs about the pony. I fully intend to give her back to her owners. I meant to all along.”
Glancing thoughtfully at the window, the dowager shrugged. “Well enough. You should be the one to return her. Besides, I harbor no allegiance to the Constabulary. My only loyalties are to my loved ones … the souls that are here, in my care.” The key slid through her fingers, still dangling on the chain. “Which leads us back to my original query. Why would you break into my estate when you could simply introduce yourself at the gate by ringing the bell?”
“I wanted to see Professor Blackwood’s work.”
She paled as if her blood drained to her feet, then quickly schooled her features to a serene mask. “What do you know of the professor?”
Nick squeezed his thumb and forefinger around the jagged gem set within his ear. “I read a newspaper interview with him a few years ago, about a special breed of butterfly he’s raising. I was in the greenhouse last night to explore in solitude before announcing my desire to invest. I realize now I went about it the wrong way—”
“You have money to invest?” she interrupted. Her long lashes trembled anxiously.
“I do.” The injuries on his body blossomed to heat, as if lit afire by the blatant lie. He couldn’t imagine where such a reaction had come from. Lying to women had never bothered him before. “But I must admit. I feel at a disadvantage, speaking business with you, the lady of the house, while in less than my skivvies.”
She stood and smoothed her skirt, once again drawing Nick’s attention to her enticing figure. “Then by all means, let us amend that.” She stepped toward him and held out her down-turned hand. The wardrobe’s key had been freed of the chain and wedged between two fingers for a tradeoff.
Nick carefully stood on his good leg, holding the sheet in place with one hand as he took her palm with the other.
She barely came to his collarbone when they were both standing. She looked up at him, her fingers stiffening in his grasp.
Again, he noticed something familiar about her. Her delicate size for one.
His gaze trailed the shape of her face, the poetry of her neck’s curve beneath the scarf. Faint notes of orange blossoms and spice swirled around him at her proximity, making his mouth water. He’d smelled such a scent in the greenhouse … when he was wrestling with his attacker.
His very soft attacker…
As the key passed between them, Nick let his fingertip brush the tiny snippet of skin peering out where her glove dipped low on her inner wrist. She sucked in a breath and he savored the reaction, surprised to find her skin as supple as rose petals.
“I was mistaken,” he said. “We’re not strangers at all. No. We’ve met before. Though under much different circumstances. Isn’t that right?”
Chapter Four
Gaping, Felicity stepped back, but her obstinate guest refused to release her hand.
Her heart butted against her sternum, competing with the clock and the rain. He couldn’t possibly remember what she had once been, couldn’t know her from their encounter all those years ago. It had been too dark that night; he’d been drunk. Only his face had been lit up, just like the other evening.
And now … her disguise should at the very least throw him off the scent. The wrinkles, the hair.
“You’re mistaken, Lord Thornton,” she intoned. “Other than my association with your family, we’ve not met. And I’d like you to relinquish my hand.”
“Not until you address me properly. Lord Thornton is my father’s name. I am Nick. Nothing more.” His lips curved to a half-moon grin. Felic
ity’s own lips trembled in response. No man should have a mouth so full and sensual. It was too distracting.
She jerked free, taking back the key and knocking him off balance. He put his full weight upon his injured left knee then lost his sheet trying to compensate with his good leg. Felicity froze for an instant, taken aback by his impressive … physique. His only frailty appeared to be the mottled bruises beneath his dusting of golden hair. It had been so long since she’d seen a man in the raw, much less touched one. It left her rattled to the bone.
He cursed and grabbed his sheet, trying not to topple. Felicity gathered composure enough to rush to his side. She held his sheet around him as he propped his arm on her shoulder, limping the three steps back to the bed with her help. He groused all the way, displeased with having to lean on her. “What the hell is wrong with my leg?”
She eased him onto the bed’s edge, surrounded by his scent—clean and earthy—like cool water beaded upon leather. She watched as he unwound his hair where it had caught on his earring. The strands glistened like sunshine. “Your muscles have been torn. It will take some time for them to mend. I’m sorry.”
His eyes met hers—as gray and soft as a wolf’s winter coat, yet with enough hardness they could drift to steel in a blink—every bit as unpredictable as a wild beast’s moods. “Why should you be sorry? It isn’t as if it was your doing.”
Felicity swallowed against the bramble of nerves in her throat. She busied herself by strolling to the wardrobe with the key and opening the door. “I … I simply meant—”
“The man who attacked me with the whip. Where is he?”
Felicity procrastinated answering. Instead, she rifled through the clothes in the wardrobe—outfits once worn by her late husband that smelled of moth balls, cedar, and dusty terror. Stumbling upon a lawn shirt the color of cornflowers that would complement her guest’s eyes, she tamped the ripple of emotion his touch and proximity had inspired.
How could she be feeling this way? She wasn’t some inexperienced ingénue.
The Glass Butterfly Page 3