Felicity’s berry stained lips didn’t gape, nor did they frown. In fact, he never would’ve predicted such a composed expression in response to those words. She seemed to be more thoughtful than anything—turning things over and looking at them from all sides.
“You thought I would condemn you,” she reasoned. “Think you weak in your vulnerability. That’s why you were so angry for my lie of omission about your father. You were more afraid for me to face him, in the chance he might disclose details of your past.”
Glancing sideways at the tray, Nick crushed some berries to bloody puddles with his thumb. He didn’t want to acknowledge the truth of her epiphany. Not aloud.
Felicity scooted the platter aside and straddled him, her satin wrappings bunched around her thighs. The fabric was cool and slick against his abdomen, but the meeting of their bodies underneath was nothing but luscious heat, even with his trousers between them. She lifted his thumb and sucked away the berry juice, sending ripples of sensation through his nerve receptors.
“Mmm.” He couldn’t resist. Breaking his hand free of her lips, he glided both palms along the soft flesh of her thighs, bunching the fabric around her waist. He stopped at her naked buttocks and pulled her hard against him to bring a breast to his mouth so he could savor it.
She gasped. Her fingers twined through his hair like a cat kneading her paws. “My dearest husband…” Her voice was breathy and low. “I of all people understand the persuasion of desperation and the dregs of shame. But consider this: after the way you’ve protected me since that dark night we met”—she snuggled closer to him— “and the way you saved my niece by risking your life … how could I ever think you anything less than a strong man?”
He halted his reverent exploration of her body, clenching his jaw in astonishment. She understood as she always did. This worldly woman with as many wounds and regrets as him.
Together, tonight, they had put them all to rest.
“So,” he teased, almost giddy with this unfamiliar weightlessness in his chest. He untied the bow cinched beneath her breasts, letting the ribbon coil to the floor on whispers of satin. “My prowess is all convincing.”
“Yes … but I could stand more convincing yet.”
Nick smiled at the wicked glimmer in her dark eyes. “Were you perhaps wanting some sausage with those berries and bread?”
She huffed in feigned annoyance. “I was rather hoping for scones, but I suppose sausage will do.” A surprised snort clipped her lips as he clamped her legs tight around his waist and stood.
He spun around, tumbling onto the bed with her. Before he could initiate a proper seduction, the frame groaned, coming to a jolting crash upon the floor as the legs snapped from their combined weight.
They lay on their backs, startled, bones rattled, staring at the ceiling where moonlight shimmered in waves reflected off puddles collecting on the outer windowsill.
“You’re all right then?” Nick asked.
“I-I am.”
“Good, because I’m telling Lia that was your doing.”
The spontaneity of his bride’s response—contagious, tinkling laughter, uninhibited and pure—carried him to new heights of joy. He rolled to his side and caressed every inch of her silken nakedness while kissing her soundly, deep and long, until her laughter gave way to pleading moans, and the taste of berries and wine mingled between them—a feast fit more for a king than a prince.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Nick sat in the playroom, elbows propped on the wingback chair’s arms as he attempted to carve. Since he’d lost his knife in the bog last night, he’d had to settle for one from the kitchen. It was a poor substitute, and Nick had garnered his share of splinters. But he didn’t dare grumble or make a sound on the chance he’d wake the sprite.
Felicity had cut Lia’s hair earlier this morn, smoothing out the jagged lines Nick’s blade had left. Yet the child looked anything but boyish. In fact, the chin-length waves made her vivid eyes appear bluer and her cheeks rounder, so she favored an angel even more than before. Especially at the moment, with her hair splayed out on the pillow, framing her face like a gauzy halo. One strand was draped across her rosy pout and vibrated with each breath.
A humming surge of protectiveness fizzed through Nick’s blood. He would’ve died had they lost her last night. Thanks to Jasper, they didn’t.
Both girls had been visiting their father in the turret for the whole of the morning, while Nick and Felicity greeted the incoming patrons. It was well after lunch now, and Lia had needed her rest. The only way Binata could convince the little sprite to leave her father for a nap was by promising Nick would sit with her and hold her hand until she fell asleep. Nick had been more than happy to comply.
Lia’s lashes twitched dreamily in pale seams over her eyes, and a tiny snore drifted over the ticking of the pink clock. Nick smiled, basking in memories, awash in his earliest experience in this chamber when he’d first met the exceptional woman who was now—miraculously—his for life.
Looking every bit the lady of the manor, Felicity had greeted each guest this morn as herself without the mask of wrinkles. Encased in velvet and lace, she was a picture of grace and confidence. Even the three clients who would’ve been her undoing, she handled without the misbegotten flutter of an eyelash.
The first, Lord Treyton, was almost blind now, and had no chance of identifying her since Jasmine had kept her trysts muted for the most part, only responding if spoken to. And what man wants to waste time talking when he’s visiting a brothel? The second, Lord Stanford, had been involved in a fox-hunting accident which injured his brain—the very side which retained snippets of the past.
But the third. Lord Rasmuth … oh, he’d recognized her. Nick had caught the glint of lustful malice behind the man’s gaze. Rasmuth had even been so bold as to make an unseemly remark. At which point Nick took him by the scruff of his neck out to the courtyard for a lesson in manners and discretion, then, after insisting Rasmuth apologize to his wife, sent him on his way.
It mattered little what the aristocratic swine might say once he arrived back in London, for Felicity’s livelihood and the girls’ welfare no longer depended upon her reputation. And even if her butterfly business faltered, she had the Thornton name to cushion her, and beyond that, Nick was here to oversee the peat bog venture. He would assure that she’d never face the upper class or its prejudices alone again.
The sound of steady rain brought Nick’s musings back to the playroom. Ribbons of silver streamed down the window pane. He couldn’t remember ever being this happy and content. Everything in his life was now perfect … almost.
Only almost, because his father had yet to arrive. Shaving a long, splintering sliver from the block of wood in his hand, Nick paused. He should be relieved. But after last night’s clearing of closets and rattling of bones … he couldn’t shake the desire to be rid of this one last skeleton. If his old man didn’t show by late afternoon, Nick would head over to the train station at Carnlough to see why he’d been delayed.
Legs stretched out, he crossed his ankles then concentrated on the knife’s blade, watching the wood sliver beneath it. He’d wanted to mend Lia’s carousel ponies today, but the rain intervened. So, for now, he worked on carving a miniature merry-go-round for her doll garden in the greenhouse. Over the past few hours, he’d managed a rough horse-like shape, but it was a slow process. Once they hired workers for the bogs and had a steady income, he would buy a new carving knife to etch the more intricate details.
He was just about to get out of his chair and head to the kitchen in search of a better blade when he heard footsteps clomping down the corridor.
A familiar, deep voice thanked someone for the escort before a lighter set of footsteps faded away. The heavier footsteps resumed, alternating with the clack of a cane.
Nick froze, gripping the wooden horse and knife so tight his knuckles bulged. He’d know that sound anywhere…
“Nicolas.”
; Gulping, Nick stood, feeling every bit the child again. He turned to face his viscount father: the grand Lord Thornton. A rush of terror trailed the action. This must be what Felicity experienced while facing her scar last night. Other than his old man’s darker hair, he might as well be looking in a mirror himself, to see his image in twenty years.
The viscount’s broad shoulders tensed in his tailored silver waistcoat beneath Nick’s silent regard. He smoothed a red silk puff tie into the lapel of his lime-green embossed vest. Even after all these years, he still preferred the garish style of his Romani heritage. And damned if it didn’t tug at Nick’s chest—a nostalgic ache that made him feel more vulnerable than he cared to admit.
Steeling his resolve, Nick shifted his gaze to those eyes so like Julian’s—steadfast and gray. Though unlike Nick’s twin, these eyes were offset by crinkles at the edges, forged over decades of laughter and tears.
“Father.” Setting aside his project on the chair, Nick stepped up to shake hands. He pumped once then released, nonplussed by what to say. “Mother. How is she?”
“She’ll be weeping in relief, once I tell her you’re still among the living.” His cane under one arm, his father shifted his weight off his bad leg and raked a palm down his salt and pepper beard. The thick locks upon his head had flecks of white as well, and Nick wondered how many of those hairs he’d caused. “Imagine my surprise, to find you here, of all places. Ireland? Why did you leave without any word? Why did you let us think—”
“Because you told me you’d rather see me dead than what I’d become.” Nick clenched his teeth upon the biting response. He hadn’t meant to say it, but too much hurt and regret had surfaced before he could drag it back down.
His father’s full lips pressed to a thoughtful line. “Those weren’t exactly my words, son. I said you’d be better off with your dead uncle if you were to follow in his footsteps … using women, driven by bitterness and rage over losses you couldn’t control. Thinking of only yourself and your pain.”
Nick snarled. “You’re the one who named me after him. What did you expect?”
“I named you Nicolas because I loved my brother. Because, in death, he became a better man. I hoped you’d honor that better side as his namesake and give it new life.” His father studied Nick’s every feature, as though seeing his brother in that very moment.
Nick struggled for some way to bridge the gap between them.
“Mister Sir…” Lia’s breathy voice rescued him.
He looked down to find the little sprite blinking her lashes heavily. He moved his carving articles to the floor then tugged his chair bedside. Taking a seat, he coaxed gossamer strands from her face. “What are you doing awake?”
She yawned. “I … heard voices.” Rubbing her nose, she slanted her sleepy gaze over Nick’s shoulder. “That man looks like you.”
Nick’s father smiled kindly, his beard opening to a spread of white teeth. He’d always been handsome. From as far back as Nick could remember, his mother had called him her gypsy prince. Time had only mellowed his olive complexion to something more regal, like the weathering of bronze statue.
“He’s my father,” answered Nick, focusing again on the child.
A second yawn broke free and another plump hand appeared outside the blanket to rub her eyes. “Has he been pretending to be dead like mine?” Her voice was as drowsy as her heavy blinks.
Nick tucked her arms beneath the covers once more. “No, angel. I’m the one who was pretending. Now, take your nap, or Binata will put you to bed early before the sun even goes down tonight. And you promised to count stars with your father and sister, remember?”
Sighing, Lia nodded and rolled to her side. Her eyes fluttered shut and the gentle snore resumed.
“Beautiful child. And quite precocious.” The viscount’s voice came soft and even from somewhere above Nick’s right shoulder.
Nick nodded, feeling a pride that wasn’t truly his to feel; still, the observation warmed him all the same.
“I didn’t mean to wake her,” his father said by way of an apology.
Nick raked a finger across her flushed cheek. “She was more asleep than awake. I doubt she’ll even remember the conversation.” Nick repositioned in the chair but remained seated in case the little sprite needed him again. “We have two days to hash all this out. Perhaps we might do it later.”
“Yes, of course.” His father limped around the wingback to face him, the long tails of his waistcoat rustling. “However…” He kept his voice to a murmur. “There’s something we need to clear up right now.”
Nick shrugged—an effort at nonchalance when inside he felt only dread and self-loathing. “If we must.”
His father leaned against the window and used the tip of his cane to touch Nick’s carving on the floor. “I met the countess downstairs. I’ve been in the dining hall for the past half-hour having a private tea with her. She told me of this little one’s love for carousels after I asked about the broken horses outside. They reminded me of ours at home. You should bring her to London, so she might see a real one. Let her ride the ponies we made together.”
Nick winced beneath yet another bout of nostalgia. So many months they’d spent working on that carousel, the three of them. Nick carving the intricate forms, Julian tweaking the pulleys and drive belts on the mechanism, their father painting the mounts, and the saddles and bridles. Nick had missed those days, that comradery. “Last I saw that ride those horses were in worse wear than the ones in my courtyard.”
“We patched them up as best we could, but it was your sister’s contribution that truly gave them life again. She’s become quite good at painting. She’ll trump me one day soon. She seemed restless after she stopped receiving post from the countess. Wasn’t even interested in attending galas anymore, or meeting suitors. We had to find her a new hobby.”
Moving his boot to tow his carving away from his father’s cane, Nick kept Jasper’s secret tightly locked away. No one, other than Nick, Willow, and Julian, had known Emilia was writing the novel with the countess to begin with. His parents had believed it to be correspondences about butterflies. Perhaps they could accept their sweet, young daughter having a penchant for scripting sensual tales. But Nick was sure they wouldn’t approve of a widower scientist, some eight-years her senior, exchanging such erotic and intimate passages with her. Despite that Emilia was nineteen now, and of age to marry, she was still their adored and precious girl.
“So, she took up painting to assuage her boredom?” Nick tried to guide the conversation back to safer waters.
“She realized she had a knack for colors and brushwork. She’d be so eager to show you. She misses you. Your brother misses you. He would have accompanied me, had Willow not been so close to her confinement. Their second child will be here within a couple of months. We already see so much of you in their son, Nico.”
Nick’s brow furrowed. “That’s his name?”
“His full name’s Nicodemus, but they call him Nico.” An intensely proud expression crossed the viscount’s face. “In honor of his uncle Nick.”
Nick’s eyes stung as something new stirred within; no longer envy but regret over time lost. “Uncle Owen, Aunt Enya … and Leander’s family. Are they well?”
“Yes, physically. But emotionally? They’re heartsick from worry. Home hasn’t been the same without you these past few years,” the viscount pressed.
Nick set his jaw in spite of the tenderness gnawing at his heart. “I can never call London home again.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t visit your family and mend fences. And I’m not leaving this room until you understand that you’re always welcome there.”
Nick picked up his miniature horse and the kitchen knife, holding silent.
His father propped his cane against the window ledge and embedded a hand inside his vest’s pocket. “The countess said you came here a month ago, looking for work. Then you married her two days ago to protect her and the girls.”
Nick’s pulse pounded. “Yes.”
“She also told me her true identity.”
Nick ground his teeth. He hadn’t wanted his father to know of Felicity’s past. Not that Nick was ashamed. He simply didn’t want her to be misjudged.
“She’s afraid there might be some repercussions in London after your run-in with Lord Rasmuth,” his father explained. “She wished to let me know ahead of time, so we’d be prepared. She doesn’t want your mother or sister hurt, or for our newspaper or manor to suffer any fires sparked by the man’s forked tongue.”
“You have some time yet.” Tucking the knife and wood between his thigh and the chair’s frame, Nick propped his elbows on his knees. He adjusted the cuffs of his Fairlawn shirt. “I doubt Rasmuth will show his face in society until both black eyes have healed.”
His father snorted softly. “That’s my boy.”
Nick bit back a wave of emotion at the affection in his old man’s voice. “So, that’s what all this talk of coming home is about. You’re going to tell me what a mistake it was to wed a woman of Felicity’s …” He cast a glance to Lia, assuring she still slept. “Repute. No doubt you plan to disinherit me unless I annul the arrangement and return to London. Well I don’t bloody care. This was no marriage of convenience. I love her and these girls. And that’s more valuable than any inheritance or title or lands.”
His father’s jaw twitched as he pulled a forget-me-not from his vest. “A very charming lady, your bride. I was surprised by her age, obviously. Expected someone much older. But such a wizened heart. To admit something as intimate as her past to her father-in-law—an investor in her business and a man she hardly knows—all in hopes to protect her new husband’s family. That takes real courage.” He lifted the flower, a puzzled pull to his brow. “She’s mysterious, that one … so like your mother.”
The Glass Butterfly Page 39