The Saint of St. Giles

by Millard, Nadine

  Back then, Nicholas had been driven to the brink of madness by anger, despair, and loss.

  He couldn’t, wouldn’t accept that he’d never see Ciara again. That he wouldn’t ever know his child.

  He never returned home. Never saw his father again, just as he had vowed. He stayed in London and threw his money, his time, his heart, and soul into finding her.

  And then –

  Nic flinched away from the painful memory that tried to surface.

  No.

  He never allowed himself to think of it. And he wouldn’t do so now. It had been so long ago, and dwelling on it was futile.

  The only way he kept his equanimity was by remembering Ciara fondly. Not reliving the way he’d found out she was gone forever, along with their child.

  Nic had seen first-hand the devastation caused by letting the past control your life, the way Rob had.

  So, he had refused to do the same thing.

  He had become stoic, calm, steady always. Never having his feathers ruffled. Never having his temperament be anything other than even at all times.

  He dedicated his life to helping the poor souls around St. Giles. The very dregs of society in the Rookery. Around Little Ireland in particular. A place so named because it housed – and he could only use the word loosely – the people from Ireland who had travelled here either by choice, naïvely thinking a good life awaited them on the shores of England, or because they had no other choice. Perhaps they hoped life would be better in London. A mistaken hope indeed.

  Though Nic had spent years of his life in St. Giles, he could never quite get used to the way of life there.

  Though he spent money that would bankrupt a man less wealthy than he, he could never make a dent in the poverty and despair that hovered over the heads of the poor souls living there.

  But he tried. Continued to try. And would keep on trying. For his own conscience, for the memory of Ciara, and because nobody with a modicum of morality could do otherwise once he’d seen the lowest depths to which a man, woman, or child could sink.

  And if at night he still suffered pangs of gut-wrenching guilt, guilt that made him wake covered in sweat and reaching for a crying child, then that was his cross to bear and bear it he would, in the still, silent night. Without witness. And without complaint.

  By day, he maintained his equability with little effort.

  Or he had.

  Until Alison Langton.

  Last year, she’d burst into his life like a beautiful, distracting headache.

  Nic couldn’t even say why she had affected him so deeply, so swiftly.

  He hadn’t lived like a monk, so it wasn’t as though he were starved of female company.

  And he’d been around more than one beautiful woman. So, although she was an extraordinarily pretty thing, there was no reason for his heart to have slammed nearly out of his chest the first time he’d set eyes on her. In the brief time he’d spent at Simon’s estate, Nic had felt constantly unsettled by the presence of the diminutive blonde.

  He’d watched with a growing irritation as the male attendees had salivated over her.

  He’d watched with unwelcome envy as she’d flirted shamelessly with Simon.

  The worst part was Nicholas knew that had Simon not already fallen head over heels in love with Miss Linchfield at that time, he’d have had no problem seducing Miss Langton. He hadn’t been known as a smooth-tongued devil for nothing.

  And the fury that had raged inside Nic at the very idea had baffled and annoyed him. Perhaps even scared him a little.

  And then there was that night.

  The night of a formal dinner for the attendees of Simon’s house party, where he’d found her alone on the balcony, and she’d bloody well kissed him!

  Even now, Nic’s gut clenched with latent lust as he remembered the brazen brat throwing her arms around him and pressing those lips of hers against his, tilting his whole world off its axis.

  The desire that shot through Nic upon contact with her had shocked him to his core. It was beyond anything he’d ever felt before. Molten, unstoppable, incinerating.

  Now, here he stood like a statue in his own study, dreading the arrival of the chit and every stormy emotion she’d bring with her.

  With a muffled oath, Nic slammed the missive onto the oak table that dominated his study.

  What the hell was wrong with him, that he was allowing the memory of his brief encounters with the girl to get to him so?

  It had been almost a full year since he’d last seen her, after all.

  No doubt, he’d convinced himself she was more alluring than she’d been. Conjured an image of blonde-haired, blue-eyed perfection that didn’t really exist.

  No doubt, he was misremembering the desire, the interest, the pull of something he’d felt in her company.

  Bizarre, given that she was everything he didn’t particularly like in a person; privileged, pampered, and pandered to.

  With his life dedicated to helping the most unfortunate souls in London, Nic sometimes struggled with the privilege of the world to which he belonged.

  But he remained in it. Remained a part of it. Because the people of St. Giles and slums all over Ireland and England didn’t just need his charity, they needed a voice in Parliament. And he was determined to be that voice.

  Usually, he knew better than to judge other members of the haute monde. A lot of them, especially the wives and daughters, were involved in charitable endeavours. He never blamed them for their lot in life, for the privilege they were born to.

  It was unfair then to hold it against Alison Langton.

  Yet being irritated by her, critical of her, gave him an odd sense of security. A reason to keep her at a distance.

  Again, his reaction to her baffled him. And if he were being honest, he knew she was probably no worse than any other beautiful young woman of the ton.

  None of the other beautiful young women had stirred something long-buried inside him, though. And that was the problem.

  But she couldn’t have been quite as beautiful as he remembered. Her smile couldn’t have twisted his heart in such a way.

  Nicholas’s racing heart calmed as he pulled his control around him like a cloak, tamped down any and all emotions, and regained his equilibrium.

  Of course, he wasn’t going to be affected by one young debutante in the sea of debutantes preparing to fish for husbands in the Marriage Mart.

  The Season was close to being in full swing. And Abigail and Robert were determined to throw Alison into the throes of it, according to Rob’s note.

  Alison had apparently expressed the same desire to remain in England as her sister had some years ago.

  So, she’d hardly be around a stuffy duke such as himself.

  No, she’d be off getting every red-blooded male in the vicinity to fall in love with her. She’d be as vivacious, and flirtatious, and superficially charming as she had been last year, Nic was sure.

  But it was no matter. Hadn’t he just decided he wasn’t going to be affected by her?

  Let her come and bring London to its knees.

  Nic had long since given up any interest he had in the beau monde. He attended events because it was expected of him.

  He would attend Parliament because he owed it to people not to abuse his good fortune to have been born a Peer. To fight for the rights and causes of the poor and indigent.

  But that was it as far as being a member of the haute ton.

  He would never marry. Of that he was certain.

  He would continue to do the only thing that gave him any semblance of peace and something akin to happiness anymore; support financially and otherwise the various charities he was involved in around the Rookery of St. Giles and more specifically, Little Ireland.

  And when he did see Miss Langton and realised that his mind had made her more beautiful than she possibly could be, he would regain his famed equilibrium in earnest.

  Feeling far calmer than he had when he’d fir
st read Rob’s letter, Nic straightened his cravat and swept out of his Mayfair townhouse to the waiting carriage.

  He had a busy day ahead of him. And he wouldn’t be distracted by memories of a few brief encounters with a spoilt, Society miss.

  Chapter Two

  “Ally, dear, if you press your face any closer to the window, your nose will go through it.”

  Alison Langton turned to grin at her sister before pressing her face once more to the window.

  She couldn’t help it.

  Finally, finally she was in London for the famed Season.

  Alison had come out in New York, of course, but even Abigail had admitted to her that nothing quite matched the excitement, the pomp and circumstance, the sheer exhilaration of a London Season.

  Having spent almost a full year at Robert’s beautiful but rather isolated seat in Northumberland, Alison was more than ready to be swept up in the excitement of Town.

  Not that the year hadn’t been exciting, of course.

  The arrival of Robert and Abigail’s daughter had caused so much joy for both her parents and her aunt, that it had been enough to distract Alison from thoughts of London.

  But as Charlotte Georgina had grown older, and the Season had grown closer, Ally’s anticipation stirred once more.

  She wouldn’t know many people, but Abigail had assured her that entry to the right places and parties wouldn’t be a problem.

  She was the sister of a duchess, only a step down from royalty.

  “People will be begging you to attend their events.” Abigail had said, rolling her eyes.

  Abigail found the entire thing ridiculous. Ironic given the fact that she, herself, had convinced their cousin James, the Marquess of Avondale, to take her to England so she could enjoy a Season.

  As it had turned out, James had taken Abigail to stay at Montvale Hall first, and Abigail had fallen desperately in love with her duke.

  By the time Abigail had actually travelled to London for her first Season, she’d been in love with and engaged to Robert.

  “It lost some of its appeal,” she had explained to Alison. “When it meant I was away from Robert.”

  Alison sighed wistfully as they rode through the busy streets of London.

  They couldn’t be far now from Robert’s townhouse. The streets were becoming cleaner, less clogged with people and roving animals.

  And the buildings seemed to be getting grander and whiter with every turn of the carriage wheels.

  She would give anything to have a man love her the way Robert so clearly loved Abigail.

  It would be easy to convince herself that such a love was a fluke, if she hadn’t seen the way James looked at Senna, his wife of two years now.

  Or if she hadn’t witnessed how the Earl of Dashford had become so desperately besotted with his now-wife, Amelia.

  There’s had been a story Alison had actually witnessed, instead of just hearing about it.

  And though Amelia had mistakenly thought there was an attraction between Alison and Lord Dashford, ultimately, they had found their way to each other, and Alison had found her first true friend in England, outside of her family.

  She hoped Amelia and Simon would return from their sojourn in Rome soon. Amelia was an archaeology enthusiast, and Simon was an Amelia enthusiast, which meant that wherever Amelia wanted to go and study ancient artefacts, Simon made it happen.

  But they kept in touch through letters, and Amelia had assured Alison they would be back for at least part of the Season.

  Alison was a little worried that her forwardness and inescapable Americanism would land her in ill-favour with the ton.

  She would feel much better having not only Abigail, but Senna and Amelia on her side as well.

  Robert and James had no choice but to support her, since they were family. And Simon had been kind to her from their first meeting and would, Alison was sure, continue to extend the same kindness.

  The only person whose kindness she already knew she couldn’t rely on was the last member of Robert’s circle of friends; the Duke of Barnbury.

  As her mind flitted to the handsome duke, Alison’s heart stuttered.

  Handsome didn’t really do him justice, truth be told.

  He was the most beautiful, masculine man Alison had ever seen.

  And Robert, James, and Simon weren’t exactly displeasing to the eye either. But there was something about the dark-haired, navy-eyed duke that heated Alison’s blood in a way she’d never experienced before or since.

  The first time she’d met him last year, her breath had caught in her throat and for the entirety of Lord Dashford’s house party, she had felt unbalanced by him.

  Which was terribly romantic and exactly what she’d wished for when she’d been dreaming of England and all its charms.

  The intense dislike she’d felt emanating from the quiet, solemn duke had been rather less enjoyable.

  Alison remembered in embarrassingly great detail the exact moment she’d met Lord Barnbury.

  They’d all been invited to Lord Dashford’s seat in Liverpool, ostensibly for a party to honour his cousin. They knew now, however, that the entire party had been thrown so Simon could spend time in Amelia’s company.

  She’d walked into the beautiful drawing room of Simon’s manor house, looked around with curious eyes, and landed on the most breath-takingly handsome man she’d ever seen.

  Well over six feet tall, he was a comparative giant to her own five-feet-four-inches.

  His broad shoulders had been encased in a navy-blue superfine, and her throat had dried as she realised the jacket was the exact shade of his eyes. He had lashes a lady would kill for, thick and black, and his chestnut hair gleamed in the afternoon sun.

  Alison had known she was gaping rather embarrassingly, but she couldn’t help it. Her eyes drank in the chiselled jaw, the strong chin, the solid chest under his snowy white cravat.

  She had blatantly and thoroughly studied every inch of him, right down to the shiny Hessian boots.

  But when her eyes had travelled back up and clashed suddenly with his own, her breath had caught for a very different reason.

  At first, his gaze had flashed with something so scorching that Alison felt as if the look seared her skin. But in the next instant he’d looked hostile, almost as though her mere presence had angered him.

  She’d been left feeling rattled and shaken by the look and later, when they’d been introduced, he’d been coldly polite and nothing more.

  In fact, for the rest of Alison’s time in Dashford, she’d felt nothing but antagonism from the solemn duke.

  Whatever madness had overtaken her on the night of the dinner, the night she’d decided that she wanted her first kiss to be with the sombre duke, it had only served to make him dislike her further.

  For a brief, wonderful, earth-shattering moment, he had kissed her back. She was quite sure of that.

  Though he’d pushed her from him, gently but firmly, though he’d stared at her as though she’d run mad, though he’d spoken not a word before he had turned on his heel and fled, never speaking to her about it or anything really again, Alison knew he’d kissed her back.

  She knew because for almost every night since, she had replayed that moment over repeatedly in her foolish mind.

  She had been thrilled by the encounter, having spent the entire evening building up the courage to do it.

  By her reckoning, she had come to England to have an epic love affair with a dashing English lord, and she was impatient to get started.

  In retrospect, it probably would have been best to at least give the man a clue as to what she wanted before attacking him.

  But when he’d come upon her on the balcony, in the moonlight, it had seemed like Fate.

  When he’d run away afterwards, it had felt decidedly less like Fate and more like she were some sort of predator.

  After, Alison knew that whatever slight flicker of liking he might have held for her had been well and truly s
nuffed out.

  Though he’d never said anything outwardly rude, to be fair.

  And from what everyone said, anything other than politeness and gentlemanliness from the handsome Peer was unheard of.

  That meant whatever negativity he felt toward Alison was reserved only for Alison.

  That had been tough to swallow, and Alison would like to say it had cured her of her infatuation with the man, but sadly it had only made him more enticing.

  Though it made her seem unbearably conceited, the fact was that Alison wasn’t used to not getting something she wanted.

  Even with her parents, who had little time for any of their three daughters, Alison had been coddled more than Abigail and their younger sister, Beth.

  In New York she’d been treated like royalty by matriarchs, fawned over and flattered by dandies.

  She’d never really encountered someone who blatantly disliked her…

  The carriage jolted suddenly, bringing Alison back from her wandering thoughts.

  Abigail’s six-month-old daughter stirred, and both ladies immediately snapped to attention.

  But the baby settled once more in her mama’s arms, and returned to her deep, steady sleep.

  “Ah, here we are.”

  Alison turned to take in the white stucco front of Robert’s townhouse.

  It was huge and beautiful, as Alison had known it would be.

  Robert was a duke, after all. And rich as Croesus.

  “James’s house is across the Park,” Abby said as the carriage rolled to a halt. “And Simon’s is a short walk from James’s.”

  The door opened, and a footman hurried to place a stool at the opening.

  “And Nic’s,” Abby continued. “Is just there.”

  She pointed to another, equally large, equally beautiful home only steps from where their carriage sat.

  Lord Barnbury was, of course, a duke, as well. Though his duchy was in Ireland, Abigail had informed Alison that he never went home. Not even for the passing of his father.

  “So, he lives here in London all year?” Alison asked, keeping her tone casual.

  “I assume so. Nicholas is never particularly open about what he does. He’s a very private person.”