Nora should go home where she belonged. She had a family and a life waiting for her . . . a purpose and vocation. She missed her laboratory and all her things. As much as members of the community called her eccentric, she knew she was needed there. She was wanted in Brambledon. She had a place there. Always. Not here. Never here.
As soon as she returned to Birchwood House, she would start planning her return home.
She gasped as their carriage ground to a halt, her hand flying to the loop swaying overhead to catch her balance.
Oh, rot. A delay was the last thing she wanted. When she inhaled deeply, she caught his scent again. Masculine with a faint whiff of soap.
She wanted to get back to the house, to her chamber and her privacy where she could pout in relative peace and safety. Away from him.
Awkwardness swelled around them as they sat planted, the moments dragging into minutes. She folded her hands over her lap and unfolded them. Then folded them again. Restless energy danced along her nerves.
Usually she did not feel so uncomfortable. A sense of awkwardness required self-awareness. Usually she was indifferent to how others perceived her.
At least she had never cared before.
She did not like these sudden . . . feelings. It was not her way. She did not like caring what he thought about her. This sudden interest and concern for how Sinclair perceived her was vexing.
He leaned forward and the sudden movement made her flinch. Her hands flew to clench the edge of the velvet seat. Fingers curling. Knuckles tight.
He paused and looked at her, evidently aware of her reaction, and that brought a rush of heat to her face.
His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he proceeded, scooting forward to part the curtains and peer outside their carriage for a better view of the traffic. His intent all along, apparently, was to look outside. Not to touch her. Of course not. He had always been circumspect toward her.
Except he was so close. His face inches away from her as he investigated the state of affairs outside. She could practically count his eyelashes—all dark and lush and long.
“Anything amiss?” she asked, hating how breathless she sounded.
“I cannot see if there’s an accident or anything of the sort ahead. Hopefully we’ll be moving along soon.”
He dropped back down on the seat again with a sigh, but this time he seemed closer, his bigger body encroaching on her space in the tight confines. He stretched his long legs so that his feet settled alongside hers.
She smiled shakily. “It seems we are stuck.”
“Not for very long, I imagine.”
She nodded. “Indeed.” Pause. “You have been very generous with your time today. You are doubtlessly eager to put this day behind you.”
He canted his head. “Why do you say that?”
“I’m certain you did not appreciate the earlier spectacle with . . .” She gestured vaguely.
“That bastard?”
She jerked at the use of profanity. Not because she was particularly offended, but because she had not expected that from him. It seemed so out of his very dignified character. So very unrestrained and he was the epitome of restraint. She grimaced. The very antithesis of Nora.
He shook his head. “Don’t give him another thought.” His lips twisted wryly. “Believe me, I won’t.”
“He knew the duke. Knows the duke . . .”
“If the man was an important person to Birchwood I would have already met him.”
She nodded, trying to let his words soothe her, but she was still stuck on the notion of how her presence was only bringing discomfort to his orderly and noble life. Certainly she had not thought of him when she barged her way into his world, but now she thought of him.
Now she thought of him a great deal.
Studying him, she admitted that she liked his face. She liked all of him. His face. His form. His large and capable hands.
When she stared at him, she felt a deep pulsing tug in her abdomen. It was most unusual—nothing she had experienced before.
She had not thought him to be the manner of man to appeal to her tastes, but there it was. Attraction. A troubling hypothesis. Not that she felt attraction for someone. She had no problem with that in theory. She was a scientist by nature. As a scientist she was open to different experiences. Just because she was not disposed to marriage did not mean she was uninterested in the possibility of a tryst with a pleasing partner.
Yes, radical thinking for a properly bred lady. She knew that, but she had long ago accepted herself as unconventional. She should shy from the notion of amorous congress outside the bounds of matrimony, but she did not.
The very act seemed a natural thing. What was more fundamental than copulation? Her sisters appeared to enjoy it, if the secret smiles and lingering looks and secret touches they shared with their husbands signified anything. Yes, they did not think she noticed that which seemed inherent to the nature of desire—total blindness to the world around you.
Nora was not averse to the act of fornication in principle, but she was averse to the notion of it with him. Attractive or not, he was not a possible candidate. Even if he was receptive for a tryst, which she doubted he was, he was a totally unfit candidate.
The man was rigid and humorless (well, mostly) and skeptical of her medical abilities. Not to mention wholly ineligible.
He was courting another female—a veritable paragon of womanhood. He was practically betrothed to her, and Nora would certainly never dally with a man already engaged with another woman. She possessed too much dignity for that.
It only underscored what she already knew. It was time to go.
She glanced to the window. The carriage started to roll slowly forward. They were moving again.
“Miss Langley . . . Nora.” At the sound of her Christian name on his lips, she started a bit and looked back at him.
He had never addressed her so intimately. That was not like the reserved Mr. Sinclair she knew him to be at all.
His dark eyes glowed in the dim interior of their carriage and in that moment he appeared almost . . . feral. A beast prowling the dark wood. The sudden notion struck her. Perhaps he wasn’t all she thought. “The way you stood up to that bastard?” he murmured in a low, growly voice. “Where did that girl go? I did not think she cared what some man thought.”
It took her a moment to recall they had been discussing the outraged gentleman and the ugly scene back at the hospital.
“I don’t care what he thinks,” she responded, and then, before she could consider it, she blurted out with: “I care what you think.”
Her declaration hung between them, the words suspended in the heavy, charged air.
He held her gaze and she looked away once to the window, briefly, and then back at him.
He was still staring at her in that way she felt low and deep in her belly.
It bewildered her. She had never felt another person’s gaze before. How was that even possible?
She moistened her lips. “I don’t want to cause any difficulties for you.”
His liquid-dark eyes seeped deeper into her. “Since when do you care about being a pain in my arse?”
She gasped and then let out a single hiccup of laughter. “I care.”
Something that looked suspiciously like a smile shaped his mouth. “Hm.”
“I know how important it is for you to establish yourself as the duke’s heir and bring honor to his family.”
“That is true, but it has naught to do with you.”
She flinched even though there was no unkindness in his words, just cold truth.
It has naught to do with you.
He might as well have said you have naught to do with me. It was tantamount to that bit of dismissal.
Some of her reaction must have shown on her face, for his voice softened as he said, “My rise or fall as the future Duke of Birchwood will be on my head. Don’t hold yourself responsible for such an occurrence.”
“
That may be, but I’m certain you do not relish episodes like today.” With people gawking and whispering and no doubt in a hurry to be off to gossip about him.
“Any talk of that bit of drama will subside,” he reassured with a shrug. “Something bigger will come along. Always does.”
The carriage suddenly jerked forward hard and came to an abrupt halt.
“Oof!” The motion launched her from her seat and tossed her across the space directly into Sinclair’s lap.
It was an uncomfortable position. Her legs were awkwardly arranged, her knees on the floor between them, her face buried in his chest, nose bumping smartly against him.
“Miss Langley!” he exclaimed, his hands seizing her arms and pulling her up as though she were featherlight, which she knew was not the case. “Are you hurt?”
“N-no.” She gave a tremulous laugh. “This London traffic is a hazardous thing.”
He hauled her up higher against him, plopping her down on his lap. Thankfully, it eased the discomfort of her cramped legs as he settled her over him, however much inappropriate.
There was no need for him to hold her like this. Not any longer. There was no need for them to be tangled up like this, however cozy and exciting. And yet she couldn’t move . . . and he wasn’t lifting herself or himself away.
“I’m fine,” she reassured him, releasing an agitated breath and rubbing at the tip of her nose.
Concern was writ all over his face, creasing his brow. Those deep-set eyes of his, so dark and intent, churned her insides. His hands flexed on her arms, and she looked down, noting how very much she was splayed against him, indecently nestled in his lap, her skirts a great pile of muslin around them.
She inhaled, sucking in a great breath, and that was a mistake. He smelled so very nice. Like soap and leather and . . . him. Even with her hand over her nose, his scent enveloped her.
His gaze flicked to her hand, and he frowned. “Did you hurt your nose?”
“Bumped it,” she murmured.
His hands flexed anew, tightening ever so slightly on her biceps. The warmth of his palms and fingers penetrated through the fabric of her sleeves. In fact, all of her felt warm, flushed.
She lowered her hand from her face then, not wishing to appear wounded and elicit more of his concern. Her fingers hovered, shaky for a moment between them. She was unsure where to go, where to land. As though compelled by a force outside of herself, she settled her palm flat on him, fingers splayed on the center of his firm chest. His heart beat strong and a bit fast. A lump grew in her throat.
Touching him like this, alone together in the shadowy interior of the carriage, she felt small and feminine and soft in a way she had never felt before. Her softness to his unyielding solidness . . . she simply wanted to sink into him, to take all of him in, to let herself be swallowed up and consumed by him.
Such thoughts were wholly foreign to her. She had never felt this, never imagined she could. She supposed this was what happened to women and men alike when they cast aside their reservations. Desire, the overriding pull to fornicate, was a powerful thing indeed. The scientist in her was intrigued to follow this through and see for herself what all the hullabaloo was about. For research purposes, of course.
And yet she could not deny that the woman in her was equally intrigued. All her most basic parts were sending forth loud signals. The very core of her pulsed with a deep throb that begged for relief, for pressure.
Only this man was not one for dalliance. At least not with her. She let out a sigh. Unfortunate that. On multiple levels, he was not an acceptable candidate on that score. For starters, he far outranked her. Then there was the fact that he was . . . attached to a lady already. A very likeable and lovely young lady. And he did not like Nora. Perhaps she should have begun with that. He might have granted her pardon to stay with him and the Birchwoods, and he might have treated her to a special day, but it did not alter that he found her to be a duplicitous female. That was forever between them.
He lifted a hand and touched her then, his fingers gently stroking her nose. “Doesn’t appear bruised.”
She shivered a little. Breathing became too difficult. She could not help herself then. She had to move, had to do something to answer the deep throbbing. She shifted, wiggled against him.
A hissed breath escaped him and she felt her eyes widen in her face. Her fingers stirred, the tips exerting the slightest pressure on him. Their gazes locked, held interminably, and she felt like she was drowning. How could any one person have such dark, lush lashes?
His hands moved then, landing on her hips, fisting in her skirts. “So much bloody fabric,” he muttered.
A ragged breath escaped her, expelling from her lungs, easing the tightness in her chest but doing nothing to cure the throbbing.
He uncurled his fist from her skirts, loosening his grip, letting go. His warm palm covered the back of her hand entirely, engulfing it where she held it against him. The intimacy of his longer fingers threaded with hers made something other than her core ache. Her heart gave a tiny little squeeze, and that was alarming. She’d thought this was only physical. Simple biology. Nothing that consisted of sentiment. Nothing as complicated as that.
The carriage resumed, rolling forward and jarring her.
They both blinked, severing the spell, for it did feel like a spell. Some enchantment that had thoroughly addled her and made her forget herself—just as he clearly had forgotten himself. There had been nothing of him in this. No glimpse of the taciturn colonel-turned-duke-to-be. No, he’d been as primitive as the beast in the woods.
But that was gone. The carriage was moving again, and Sinclair was back in all his austerity. His hands briefly gripped her waist and set her on the seat opposite from him, his touch perfunctory and brief.
The carriage rolled to a smooth stop. For a moment Nora thought they were delayed again due to congestion, but then she realized they had arrived at Birchwood House.
“We’re here,” he said unnecessarily, his voice almost overly loud in the closed confines.
Sinclair extended an arm to open the carriage door, reaching it before the groom could. He exited and hopped down deftly, stretching out both hands to assist her. She descended, feeling giddy and breathless from the day’s outing. Once beside him, he offered his arm and she accepted, nestling her gloved fingers in the crook of his elbow.
The air between them still felt thick and charged as they made their way up the steps and inside the house. A pair of footmen stepped forward to collect their gloves and hats.
She tried not to look at Sinclair as she slipped her gloves from her fingers and handed them off to the stoic-faced footman.
She tried, not so valiantly, to not think of those moments earlier in their carriage. When they had been alone and his face had been so close that she could admire the sooty length of his lashes. When he had hauled her onto his lap and seemed like he wanted to kiss her and get his hands under her skirts. Heavens. He’d behaved like he wanted to tear those skirts off her. She dragged in a heavy breath, suddenly feeling overly warm. Goodness. She needed to find Bea and start packing.
She had just untied the ribbons of her bonnet and removed it from her head when the housekeeper appeared, breathless and holding her side as though she suffered a stitch. “Mr. Sinclair. Miss Langley. Thank goodness you’re both home.”
“What is it, Mrs. Blankenship?” Sinclair asked.
“It’s the duchess. She’s ill and taken to her bed.”
Sinclair turned his gaze on Nora. He did not need to say anything. Words were not necessary. His expression said it all.
It was time for her to do what she had come here to do.
Chapter 16
Constantine took Nora by the hand and hastened to the duchess’s bedchamber, his pulse pounding anxiously in his ears.
The duke was sitting at his wife’s bedside when they entered the room. His eyes landed on Constantine instantly. “Where have you been?” he demanded. When his gaze al
ighted on Nora some of the panic ebbed from his bloodshot eyes. “Ah, you’re here, gel. Thank heavens. Help her. Please.”
Constantine took Nora’s arm and led her closer to the bed.
The duke vacated the chair so that she could use it to sit closer and examine the duchess who reclined listlessly in her regal bed.
The duke took up position beside him along the wall where he stood a safe distance from the colossal bed at the center of the chamber. “Where were you?” he grumbled, his resentment sharp on the air.
“I took Nora . . . er, Miss Langley to visit Middlesex.”
Birchwood looked at him askance. “The hospital? Why? Is the girl ill?”
“No. I thought she might like to observe the surgical theater there. It is quite renowned.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed and he looked at Constantine long and hard before facing forward again. “We needed you here.” He nodded at Nora. “We needed her. Is that not why she is here? To help my Maude? Not to go off gallivanting with you?” The duke’s lips tightened, almost disappearing before they released and he spoke again. “What is this girl to you?”
Constantine could only stare. He had no response. The question was absurd.
After some moments, he finally found his voice. “Nor—Miss Langley? She is no one to me. She’s here because she is a very skilled herbalist.” The words felt wrong somehow. He studied Nora as she bent over the duchess, her hands gently probing and touching the duchess’s inert body.
She was not no one.
She was someone. Someone who drove him to distraction and made his skin feel too hot and too tight over his bones.
“You best leave her be then. She is here for my Maude. Not for you and whatever oats you seek to sow. Lady Elise is for you. Busy yourself with wooing her.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
It was far easier to agree with the man. Especially as he stood fretting, clearly distraught over his wife. A wife who looked alarmingly pale and listless beneath Nora’s ministrations.
The Duke Effect EPB Page 12