He knew it was irrational. Knew he needed to make his peace with it and learn to accept what he could not change no matter how much he willed it. Yet knowing that only served to make things worse. He needed air and space before he was in any fit state to see his sister. At least ten minutes before he could speak, let alone pretend everything in his new garden was rosy. Time to stop the blood rushing loudly in his ears and his heart clanging like a hammer against an anvil in his chest. Before the hovering butler could open it for him, he pulled the door open and plunged through it.
Chapter Seven
Nine circles of hell...
The first Max saw of Miss Nithercott was the startled whites of her eyes as she flew backwards and he only just managed to catch her before the force of his impact sent her tumbling down the unforgiving stone steps. Instinct kicked in and he used both his arms to drag her back to safety, winding himself in the process as she crashed back against him.
As she blinked up at him, he could see her hands curled tightly around his lapels to anchor herself. Just below that, God help him, was one of the most magnificent cleavages he had ever seen. Two perfect rounded mounds strained against the thin fabric and the solid wall of his ribs as her panicked breath sawed in and out. Perfect because they were neither too big nor too small. Encased in soft, peachy skin kissed by the sun. He could feel the press of them through the layers of his coat, waistcoat and shirt. In every nerve ending, too.
Not wanting to be caught staring, he pushed her brusquely to arm’s length and tried to gather his wits. Something which proved near impossible when the woman who had made him yearn in breeches suddenly made his body rampant in a dress.
An outrageously sinful, seductive and spellbinding dress.
One which he was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to peel away.
‘Oh, Miss Nithercott—are you injured?’ Eleanor’s shriek brought him back to his senses. She barrelled past and took control, stealing the new bane of his life cruelly from his arms to check.
‘No. Just a little stunned.’
‘Hardly a surprise when my big oaf of a brother nearly flattened you!’ She glared at him for good measure. ‘What were you thinking, Max?’
He hadn’t been thinking. Just escaping. ‘My apologies, Miss Nithercott. I had no idea you were there.’
‘No idea!’ His sister’s hand swatted his shoulder in disgust. ‘Did you not hear her knock? Did you not see Smithson about to open the door?’ Unimpressed, Eleanor took Effie’s arm and shepherded her towards the drawing room. ‘Fetch the poor thing a sherry, Max. Unless you would prefer a brandy Miss Nithercott? Or tea?’
‘Sherry would be lovely.’
Max stood rooted to the spot as they sailed past, trying and failing not to notice how the magnificent dress hugged her curves or how the glow from the lamps revealed the shadowy shape of her legs beneath the gauzy folds of her skirt, then slowly released the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
That was certainly one way to take his mind off the panic.
Usually, when his emotions churned unexpectedly out of control it took a good fifteen minutes to talk himself down. Yet apparently, a brief collision with Miss Nithercott banished all traces of panic in a split second and replaced it with inappropriate lust. He wasn’t entirely sure which of his body’s reactions was worse. The panic left him fighting for breath and an armful of Miss Nithercott left him breathless.
‘Shall I tell the kitchen to postpone the soup for a few minutes while Miss Nithercott recovers, my lord?’ Smithson appeared at his elbow, carrying the bane’s tattered leather satchel aloft like a tray and the silliest, flimsiest shawl he had ever seen was sat on top of it. A garment so frivolous it was entirely incongruous with the bafflingly intelligent and academic woman who plainly owned it. Without thinking, he took it from the butler to feel the fabric and only just resisted the urge to bury his nose in it when a waft of lilac and rose floated up his nostrils to torture him some more.
‘Yes, Smithson. Apologise on my behalf and tell them it shouldn’t be too long.’ Or at least he hoped it wasn’t. Having her back in his house unnerved him. Although goodness only knew what had brought her back again this time. Miss Nithercott was falling woefully short of her promise to keep the hell out of his way and the more he saw her the more unnerved he became.
She was a peculiar combination and one he really did not understand at all. On the one hand she was an unbelievably learned scholar and as such had the single-minded, dogged and bookish characteristics of all the great minds he had ever encountered at the Admiralty or at the society balls and parties Eleanor insisted he attend each time he was home on leave. On the other, there was an undeniable and overt femininity about his new neighbour which contradicted the absent-minded professor aspects of her character. Then—and he would need a third hand for this one—she possessed a quiet, proud vulnerability which called to him. Max was entirely certain he never wanted to have to think about her, yet since the first moment he’d met her he had. Near constantly. Which rattled him.
‘Max?’ His sister’s impatient, clicking fingers wrenched his gaze from the shawl to the doorway. ‘Any chance you could pour that sherry before the week is over? Please try to be a good host.’ And with that, she spun on her heel.
Host?
In the recesses of his mind he heard an alarm bell ringing andbecause he had a very uneasy feeling, took himself to the dining room. The table was set quite plainly for three.
‘Smithson!’
The butler scurried back from the kitchen and skidded to a wary halt. ‘Yes, my lord?’
‘Is Miss Nithercott joining us for dinner?’
‘She is, my lord.’
‘And when, pray tell, were you apprised of this fact.’
‘This afternoon, my lord. After Mrs Baxter returned from her ride.’
‘But before the tea she took with me at four?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Blasted Eleanor and her machinations. She had set this up behind his back and purposefully left him in the dark. ‘Will that be all, my lord?’
‘Could you tell my sister I need a quick word with her, please?’ Max fully intended to wring her neck—after she had ejected the unnerving new bane of his life from the premises, of course.
In typical Eleanor fashion she took her time in answering his summons and sailed regally into his dining room looking not the least bit contrite.
‘You invited a guest to dinner without my permission?’
‘It seemed the least I could do after you had been so rude to her the day before. Besides...’ she shrugged, unrepentant ‘...she is all alone in the world. When I collided with her this afternoon, she was also upset.’
Upset? Max hated that that niggled, but asking why the bane was upset or who had upset her would only fuel his eldest sibling’s dastardly plot to interfere in every aspect of his life. ‘If you wanted her company, you could have dined at her house. Or at the inn. In fact, anywhere but here.’
‘Because that isn’t the least bit insulting, is it? Not inviting her here only compounds your rudeness by making it appear you are avoiding her.’
‘I am avoiding her. Miss Nithercott is...’ Maddening... Irritating... Confusing... Beguiling... Wearing a dress which made his mouth water ‘...odd.’
‘So are you nowadays, little Brother, so by rights the pair of you should get on famously. Although to be frank, I don’t find her the least bit odd. I think Miss Nithercott is lovely. Refreshing, intelligent and extremely interesting. She is also uncommonly pretty. Surely you have noticed that?’
Noticed! The image of her in breeches had apparently seared itself on to his brain and refused to budge. And now he’d doubtless have the image of her in that gown. Pressed against him and clutching his lapels like a woman waiting to be kissed. ‘I have no patience for your flagrant matchmaking, Eleanor...’
‘Matchmaking?�
�� The immediate and innocent affront was convincing, or at least it would have been had he not grown up with the manipulative witch who stood piously before him. ‘Do not flatter yourself, Brother. I like Miss Nithercott a great deal—but she is much too good for you! Perhaps, I might have encouraged it before you became so bitter and twisted and unreasonably unsociable. But I can assure you my only intention in inviting her to dine with us, aside from repairing any damage done by your shocking rudeness yesterday, was because I should like to further my acquaintance with her. Would it kill you to at least play at being a gentleman for the duration of one meal?’
‘That I have to suffer your uninvited presence is bad enough, but a guest so soon is...’
He watched the sadness draw her features fleetingly before her temper replaced it. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Max! Go hide in your study with a tray, then!’ She had the gall to curl her lip in distaste as if he were the one in the wrong. ‘You have become so very good at that.’
‘I might just do that!’ He had to talk to her retreating back, feeling childish and churlish and thoroughly pathetic for lashing out at Eleanor again when she had stalwartly borne the brunt of all his frustration since the morning they had stretchered him from that ship.
‘Good.’ She did not turn around. ‘And do not be surprised if you feel your cowardly ears burning!’
He waited all of six seconds before the ramifications of his sudden absence from the proceedings piled in. Left to her own devices, Eleanor would have no compunction about telling Miss Nithercott all the sorry details of his recent life and the thought of her knowing his intensely private business and, worse, pitying him for it was entirely unacceptable. He did not want the world and his wife knowing the ins and outs of everything. He most definitely did not want his much-too-intelligent and annoyingly gorgeous new neighbour to know exactly how pathetic he now truly was. And doubtless his wily sister knew that, too.
* * *
‘Could you pass the salt, please?’
Self-consciously, from the head of the table, Max did as his sister asked, wishing the lamps in the formal dining room weren’t burning quite so brightly and that Miss Nithercott wasn’t seated to his left. The very least Eleanor could have done was place the woman on his good side. Now he had to avoid any sudden head movements in case he inadvertently disturbed the camouflaging veil of scruffy hair he hid his deformity behind.
‘I think it is outrageous those silly men refused to read your paper, Miss Nithercott.’ He had happily allowed the ladies to keep the conversation flowing because he had none. Simply sitting here took that much effort. ‘Anyone would think they were afraid.’
‘Of course they are afraid.’ The bane waved her fork with the same animated enthusiasm as she usually did with her hands when she spoke, wafting lilacs and roses willy-nilly to play havoc with his senses. ‘Society might actually crumble if they acknowledge women have brains as well as wombs.’ Max did not want to have to contemplate her womb, because contemplating that meant contemplating the route to it. ‘We are supposed to remain content as chattels, Mrs Baxter, with no thoughts beyond those fed to us by our biologically superior husbands and no desire above administering to his whims, popping out the fruit of their intellectually superior loins and choosing the menus for his dinner.’
Loins! Wombs! Did the woman have no boundaries? Now his damned head was filled with all manner of inappropriate images entirely unsuitable and not the least bit conducive to digesting the roast beef he was staring at as if his life depended on it. He could hardly flick more than a glance at her without feeling off kilter. The gown she was wearing was too damned distracting and she was a guest, and that in itself was daunting. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat with anyone beyond the tight circle of his vexing sister and her family.
‘We are oppressed, Mrs Baxter. In thoughts, in deeds—in everything. The law makes us nought but property to our fathers, then our husbands, we are denied admittance to universities, forbidden from practising medicine or law, cannot inherit titles, keep our own wealth if we marry or sit on a seat in Parliament let alone vote for one. At every juncture society forces us into moulds which we dare not attempt to move beyond for fear of censure. And what is worse is that as women we should seek to empower our fellow women, but instead we are taught to judge them more harshly and in some cases more than the men do. Our society is unforgivingly patriarchal.’
‘We clearly need to try harder to work for progress and find some balance.’ Not that Eleanor needed any encouragement to take the lead on anything. She had always been a law unto herself. He pitied her poor husband, who for some reason still adored the harridan.
‘Hardly progress, Mrs Baxter. If history teaches us anything, then we have regressed.’
‘We have?’
‘In ancient Sparta women had much greater freedoms than we do nowadays. They were educated and could inherit. They could divorce feckless husbands and still keep their property. According to Plutarch, they held equal status to men. Can you imagine that? And here, Queen Boudicca raised an enormous army and very nearly toppled the Roman regime. She sacked the Roman strongholds of Colchester and London before being narrowly defeated at St Albans. None of her forty thousand men ever questioned her ability to lead.’ Miss Nithercott speared a potato and began to wield that, too. ‘Then there are the Amazons—if they ever existed, of course, which is still open for debate—who were a famously matriarchal society.’
‘Didn’t I read somewhere they only had one breast?’
Marvellous. Now he could add that word to the mix as the memory of the feel of Miss Nithercott’s bosom against his chest immediately decided to join the overwhelming swirl of inappropriate thoughts in his mind.
‘So legend has it, Mrs Baxter—although by design rather than specific mutation. Apparently, they cut one off so they could hold their bows and fire their arrows better. Staggering, really—but they were fierce warriors who hated men and had absolutely nothing to do with them.’
‘Hardly a surprise then that they died out,’ his sister teased saucily while Max wished he were dead. ‘Men do have some essential uses.’
‘Oh, the Amazons tolerated them for procreation, Mrs Baxter.’ Miss Nithercott’s cheeky grin suggested she knew all about procreation. Of course she did. She apparently knew everything. ‘They abducted men from rival tribes and used them as slaves after they had mated.’
Max nearly choked on his own potato at her phrasing. ‘What else do you do besides digging?’ Enough was enough. Wombs and loins were one thing. Mating and talk of procreation quite another. And they still had to eat dessert. His sister beamed, delighted he had finally deigned to join the conversation.
‘I like to read. I write. I sketch.’
‘Such solitary pursuits. Don’t you ever feel lonely?’ Eleanor said exactly what Max was thinking. ‘Unless you have other family at home?’
‘No. It is just me—I am an only child so it is what I am used to and I do not mind the solitude.’ Although he was sure her eyes said differently.
‘I have never been good with my own company. Growing up I always had Max. A few months before he ran away to sea, I married Adam and had my children. I like the noise and chaos of family, Miss Nithercott. They are my greatest joy. Have you never been tempted to have one?’
Was that sadness he saw in her eyes? Regret? ‘To have a family one must first have a husband, Mrs Baxter, and I am afraid that ship sailed long ago.’
Chapter Eight
Dig Day 764: honey, not vinegar...
‘Your ship hasn’t sailed! You are still young and uncommonly pretty. Isn’t she uncommonly pretty, Max?’
Her host grunted in response, making it difficult to know if he either agreed or disagreed.
‘I refuse to believe no man has ever offered for you.’
‘I was engaged. Once. He died.’
‘Oh, that is awful! Am I
allowed to enquire how?’
‘He was a military man. The cavalry. He was fatally wounded at Salamanca.’ Poor Rupert. It still made her sad to think about it even though it had been three years.
‘And there has been no one since?’
Nor before. Rupert had been the only man who could tolerate her in more than small doses. ‘No.’
‘But never say never, Miss Nithercott... Perhaps Cupid might strike again?’
‘Perhaps...’ And perhaps pigs might fly. ‘You ran away to sea, Lord Rivenhall?’ Effie deliberately changed the subject. Talking about her marital situation always made her feel awkward because inevitably it led to admitting all the reasons why she was still a spinster and was doomed to be one for ever. ‘I did not know you were in the navy. Merchant or Royal?’
‘Royal, of course.’ Mrs Baxter positively glowed with pride. ‘When our father forbade him from ever joining, Max took himself to Portsmouth and enlisted as a cabin boy. From there he rapidly rose up the ranks regardless of Papa’s constant and verbose disappointment. By the age of twenty he was already a master and became Captain of his own ship at just seven and twenty. He sailed alongside Nelson at Trafalgar and has earned a huge heap of medals.’
‘Very impressive.’ Not that Effie’s reluctant and mostly mute host appeared to want to talk about it judging by the intense focus he was putting in to slicing his meat. It was obvious he had had no hand in issuing tonight’s invitation and wasn’t particularly pleased about it either. But for Mrs Baxter’s sake Effie would persevere, even though she wasn’t entirely sure why the woman had thought it appropriate to extend an invitation when her brother was so against it. ‘How old were you when you joined?’
‘Twelve.’ Again it was Mrs Baxter who answered. ‘Our father positively exploded when he realised and immediately dashed to Portsmouth to retrieve him, but Max was already bound for the West Indies by the time he got there. After that there was no stopping him, of course. Max’s calling was always the sea. And he looks particularly dashing in a uniform.’
Redeeming The Reclusive Earl (HQR Historical) Page 7