скачать книгу бесплатно
The smile that crept across his face this time held none of its former amusement, only a kind of heat that stirred Nicola’s blood. “All right. Nicola.”
HE WAS THERE AT GRANNY ROSE’S the following Sunday when Nicola arrived. Nicola saw the faint consternation on Granny’s face when she opened the door to find Nicola on the step, as well as the uneasy way she glanced over at her grandson. Though she and Granny talked easily enough together, as equals, she supposed that Granny must be uncertain about her being thrown together with a servant.
Gil rose from his seat at the table, his eyes intent on Nicola’s face. Nicola looked at him, and a wave of heat washed through her, so fierce that she blushed with embarrassment.
She sat down at the table with Gil and Granny Rose, and Granny politely offered her a cup of tea. The three of them sat and drank tea together, their conversation awkward and stilted. But later, he walked her halfway home, strolling along beside her as she led her horse by its reins. They talked about any and everything, from Granny Rose and her home medicines to Nicola’s father to a foal that had been born two days ago at the Tidings stables. Nicola found herself telling him things she had never told anyone before, even her sister Deborah, her innermost feelings and thoughts. When at last they reached the point where he must turn off for Tidings, they hesitated, unwilling to part.
“Will ye be comin’ to the main house this Friday, then?” he asked, glancing at her, then away. “His lordship’s dance, I mean.”
“What?” Nicola was looking at him, watching the play of the sun on his crow-black hair and fighting the sudden urge she felt to reach up and sift her fingers through it. It took a moment for his words to register. “Oh. Yes.”
She grimaced. She no longer had any desire to go to Tidings now that she had found Gil. But she could hardly tell her mother that, so she had had to accept the invitation.
Gil looked away, seemingly studying intently a rock on the ground at his feet. “The others are sayin’ that he’s sweet on ye.”
“Exmoor?”
He nodded. “’Tis common gossip about the house.”
Nicola sighed. “He seems to be.”
“And you?” He looked up abruptly, his dark eyes boring into hers. “What do ye feel for the man?”
“The Earl?” Nicola asked in some astonishment. “Why, nothing. What would I feel?”
“There’s those sayin’ ye’ll be acceptin’ him.”
“Never.”
Gil relaxed a little. “Well, then…that’s all right.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Gil smiled faintly. “Never mind. I’d best be going. Almost anyone could happen by.”
He hesitated, his eyes going to her mouth, and for a brief, dizzying moment Nicola thought that he meant to kiss her.
But then he swung away, moving swiftly down the track toward Tidings, turning back once to raise his hand in a farewell wave. Nicola watched him go, her insides in a turmoil. Had he wanted to kiss her? Had she wanted him to? When he had asked her if she was attending the Earl’s ball on Friday, she had felt an instant’s leap of hope, a vision of his leading her onto the floor in a waltz, before she had realized how foolish that idea was. If she saw him, it would certainly not be on the dance floor, but in the drive in front of the house, helping with the horses and carriages. That was the last thing she wanted, she thought, after this afternoon—to see him in the context of servant, with her the guest, and with Exmoor, her mother and all the others around.
Nicola turned and led her horse to a low stile, where she could climb up and remount him. She scrambled up and turned the gelding toward home, sunk in her thoughts. She had never felt this way before, so confused and torn and giddy. She had wanted Gil to kiss her; she was too honest to deny that fact, at least to herself. She had wanted to taste his lips, and she wished with all her heart that he could be one of the local swains at the Earl’s ball, that she could twirl around the floor in his arms, swooping and turning to the grand strains of a waltz.
But she was no fool. However well she might get along with the servants and the villagers, however much she might think that the common folk she knew were as good as or better than her fellow aristocrats, she also knew that the gulf between her and a stable boy was vast—even unbridgeable. There could be no future for them—nor, if she was honest, could there be much present, either. What could they possibly have except a few afternoons together like this? What could happen except that both their hearts could be broken?
Her thoughts brought her to tears, and she knew that she was already halfway to falling in love with Gil. It would be foolish, disastrous, she told herself. She could not go on in this headstrong, impulsive way.
By the time she reached home, she had made up her mind that she would not go to Granny Rose’s next Sunday, however much she wanted to. It would be better all around if she did not let anything develop between them.
NICOLA MAINTAINED HER RESOLVE all week. She tried everything she could think of to get out of going to the Earl’s ball, but her mother was adamant, and Nicola realized that nothing short of a serious illness was going to be enough for her mother to let her stay home. Deborah, a year younger and not yet allowed to go to adult parties, offered to take Nicola’s place, then retired to sulk in her room when her mother told her shortly not to be silly.
Finally Nicola agreed to go, telling herself that it was unlikely that she would even see Gil, let alone come face-to-face with him. Yet she found herself, unreasonably, taking special precautions with her dress and hair. She was aware of a drop of disappointment in her stomach when their carriage pulled up in front of the house and a footman came to open the door. A quick glance around showed her no sign of any groom, only footmen leaping to open carriage doors and help the passengers down.
Nicola went inside, telling herself that it was all for the best. It would be kinder for both of them if she did not see him.
The party itself was the usual fare here in the country—a few guests of the Earl’s down from London, the local gentry, dazzled at rubbing elbows with the sophisticated members of the Ton, and the Buckminsters, Lady Falcourt and herself. Lady Buckminster, of course, was soon engrossed in a deep discussion of bloodlines with an equally horse-mad fellow who made up one of the party rusticating at Tidings. Dutifully Nicola danced the opening quadrille with the Squire, and as it was a long dance and the Squire not much of a conversationalist, it was a rather boring half hour. Exmoor claimed her first waltz, and she acquiesced; she could hardly refuse the host. She could see her mother’s eyes gleaming, for it was a distinct honor and an indication of interest on his part.
Her dance card was soon full, but rather than enjoying the evening, Nicola was acutely bored. The men from the city seemed pretentious and condescending, the local boys unusually callow and tongue-tied. She wished she were back home with Deborah, playing some silly child’s game or reading a novel. As the evening progressed, the room grew stifling, despite the open windows, and Nicola seized the excuse of the heat to slip out onto the terrace.
She made her way quietly into the side garden, hoping that her mother had not noticed her escape, and popped around the corner of a hedge so that she was out of sight of the terrace. She could still hear the music from the ballroom, even though she could no longer see the house, and she hummed as she strolled along, the moonlight strong enough to navigate the beaten dirt path.
At a crossroads, she turned toward the right. A man spoke from behind her, “Wrong way, miss.”
Nicola gasped and whirled around, her heart beating rapidly. Gil stood a few feet away from her in the middle of the path she would have taken if she had turned left instead. “Gil.”
She could not keep the note of pleasure from her voice. “I didn’t expect to see you,” she continued, starting slowly toward him.
“Ye’ll break my heart,” he teased. “I was thinkin’ ye were out here lookin’ for me.”
“I had no idea you’d be here,” Nicola responded, choosing not to notice that she had not denied the idea.
“Surely you didn’t think I’d let the evening go by without seein’ ye.”
“I didn’t know.”
Less than a foot away from him, she stopped. The moonlight silvered his face, throwing his long-lashed eyes into shadow. He smiled, showing even white teeth, and it occurred to Nicola that there wasn’t a man at the ball who could compare to him in looks. He was dressed in his best, black hair combed back, and there was a gleam in his dark eyes that set her pulse pounding.
“We shouldn’t be here,” she said breathlessly, looking up into his eyes. “Someone might come out at any minute.”
His lips curved. “We’re safe here.”
The orchestra inside struck up a waltz, and Gil swept a grand bow to her. “Would you care to dance, my lady?”
Nicola giggled. It was wonderfully, delightfully absurd. She bent deep in a curtsey. “I would love to, sir.”
He held out his hand, and she took it, and he pulled her into his arms. She did not know how he had learned to waltz; it was a dance of the aristocracy, with most of the common folk being content with jigs and country dances. But he followed the steps correctly, if a little clumsily, and somehow moving in his arms was much more wonderful than dancing with any other man, no matter how skillfully he waltzed. Nicola laughed with sheer pleasure as they swooped and dipped across the lawn, dodging flowers and bushes and twirling around hedges.
A lively country dance followed, and by the time it was over, the two of them collapsed on the nearest stone bench, out of breath and laughing with the sheer pleasure of the moment.
“You know, my gran warned me away from you,” Gil said lightly.
“Warned you?” Nicola turned to look at him, surprised and a little hurt. “But why? Granny Rose—I mean, I thought she liked me.”
“Oh, she does. She says you’re a wonderful young lady—smart and good and eager to learn.”
“Then why? I don’t understand….”
“She says we don’t belong together. It’s dangerous, moving outside your class like that…wanting something—or someone—you can never have.”
“But who is to say that you can’t have it?” Nicola protested.
At her words, something sparked deep in his eyes, something hot and primitive. He crooked his finger and put it under her chin, tilting up her face to his. Nicola’s breath caught in her throat. She knew that she ought to flee, but nothing could have made her leave this spot at that moment. His face loomed closer, and then his lips were touching hers, soft at first, then harder and deeper. His hands settled on her shoulders, steadying her more than holding her, but it was Nicola who moved closer, curling her fingers into his jacket, pressing up into him, astounded by the pleasure of his mouth.
At her response, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him, and his mouth claimed hers. They clung together, lost in the moonlit night, heat mingling with heat, bodies alive with sensations, hearts pounding so loudly they could not distinguish one from the other. It was a moment that seemed to hang in eternity, endlessly breathtaking.
At last Gil raised his head and looked into her eyes, his own dark orbs flaming. And Nicola knew at that moment that none of the conventions mattered—nor their stations in life or their families’ wishes or Society’s shocked exclamations. There was only one man in the world for her.
“I love you,” Nicola breathed.
CHAPTER THREE
1815
TEARS GLITTERED IN NICOLA’S EYES, turning the coals of the fire into a red, wavering curtain. She would never love like that again.
She sat up, wiping the tears from her eyes in quick, almost angry gestures. It seemed unfair that that old pain should come sweeping in on her like this, slashing through her chest, reminding her of her loss as if it were a fresh wound, as if Gil had died only last week instead of ten years ago.
After all, she was content with her life now. She had accepted the fact that for her there would be no wedding day, no children, no growing old together. That part of her life was over, even if she was only twenty-seven years old. She had moved on. She had developed things in her life that were pleasing to her. She helped women in the East End; she gave them some hope, she thought. She matched wits with others at her eccentric aunt’s salon. She danced at parties and went to the opera and flirted when she felt like it with certain men to whom she knew it meant no more than it did to her.
Her life was full—or full enough, she reasoned. There were other women who had less than she, aristocratic women who had married as they were expected to and lived in loveless unions with nothing to interest them except clothes and gossip. There was her own sister, for instance, tied to a man like the Earl of Exmoor, miserably childless and panicked by fear that she would once again miscarry.
Better by far the life she had. Nicola swallowed hard and stood up from the bed, straightening her dress. She was foolish to wallow in her old grief, she told herself sternly, going to the dresser and pulling open drawers until she found where the maid had stowed her nightdress. She laid the gown out on the bed and began to undo the buttons of her dress.
No more thinking about her lost love. No more feeling sorry for herself. It was an isolated instance, she reasoned, brought on by being back here at the place where it had all happened. But she had grieved for Gil for ten years; she had long ago gone through the dark pit of despair and come out without losing her sanity or her life. She had learned to live the life that had been given to her. And she was not going to let herself be overwhelmed by old grief just because she was at Tidings.
On that firm note, she slipped out of her clothes, neatly laying them aside over the chair, and pulled on her nightgown. Extinguishing the oil lamp on the small bedside table, she climbed into bed and settled under the covers. But even though she determinedly shut her eyes, it was a long time before sleep crept over her, and when it did, tear tracks stained her cheeks.
“ISN’T IT A LOVELY MORNING?” DEBORAH asked, setting down her teacup and gazing happily around her at the small garden. “I am so glad that you suggested taking tea out here.”
It was midmorning, and she and her sister were sitting in the little garden beside the house, sheltered on one side by the looming house and on two others by an outside wall. It was a mild winter’s day and pleasantly warm in the small area. Winds did not reach here, and though in the afternoon it was cast deep in shadows, in the morning, the sun shone brightly in it. Two stone benches had been placed here long ago for enjoyment of the sheltered location, and a small fountain and delicate green bushes enlivened the area.
Nicola smiled at her sister. Deborah looked much better this morning. Obviously she had had a good night’s rest—more than Nicola herself could say—and just being out of the house had brought a little bloom to her cheeks. Nicola was glad that she had suggested coming out here to have their cup of tea while they chatted.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It is pleasant. I am so happy to see you looking well.”
Deborah grinned. “Not as happy as I. It is wonderful having you here. Now…” She leaned forward, eyes alight with curiosity. “You must tell me all the gossip from the City. Mama wrote me that that plain little Penelope Castlereigh has caught our cousin Bucky. Is that true? And is Lord Lambeth really marrying an adventuress?”
Nicola made a face. “That certainly sounds like Mother’s version of events.”
After Gil’s death, ten years ago, Nicola had left the area, unable to bear the constant heartbreak of living where she and Gil had loved. She had moved to London to live with her aunt, and her mother, angry with her at the time for having turned down Lord Exmoor’s offer, had been happy to let her go. But after Deborah had married the Earl, Lady Falcourt had relocated to the City herself, where she had insisted that Nicola come to live with her. Anything else “looked odd,” she explained. Nicola suspected that it was simply that she wanted someone to listen to her recitals of her many illnesses and their symptoms, and to offer her the appropriate sympathy and errand-running. She had resisted for some time, much preferring life with her forward-thinking aunt, but at last she had given in to her mother’s tears and whinings, as was usually the case, and had moved into her mother’s house.
While Nicola ran the household, her mother rested, kept up a voluminous amount of correspondence with people all over the country, and received the calls of her numerous middle-aged female acquaintances. As a result, though her mother rarely left the house, she knew all the gossip about everyone in Society—not only in London but in the whole of England.
“The truth is, Bucky simply woke up to Penelope’s wonderful qualities.” Nicola grinned, adding, “However, Marianne and I helped to lay a little trap.”
“Marianne? Oh! The beautiful red-haired woman at Bucky’s party?”
About a month earlier, Nicola had come with a number of other guests to her cousin’s estate for a house party. Among them had been Penelope Castlereigh, a distant cousin of the Earl of Exmoor, as well as Nicola, Lord Lambeth, and a beautiful woman named Marianne Cotterwood, whom Bucky at that time had been pursuing. Deborah had attended the ball Lord Buckminster had given during the weeklong house party and had met the guests, even though she had left early due to her “delicate condition.” She had, therefore, missed the tumultuous conclusion to the party, which had included a kidnapping and shooting.
Nicola looked at her sister, wondering how much of the story she had heard from Richard. Nicola suspected that Deborah’s husband did not tell her everything, especially any events that might reflect badly on him.
“Yes. That is Marianne.”
“Isn’t she the one whom Lambeth is marrying?”
Nicola nodded. “Yes, but she is not an adventuress, as Mother said.”
“Then who is she? Tell me about her. I had never seen her before—or even heard of her.”
“No one had, until Bucky tumbled knee-deep in love with her. It is quite a tale.” Nicola looked at her sister’s bright eyes and rising color and decided that a bit of gossip was doing her a world of good. “I met her only a week or two before Bucky brought everyone down to his estate for the party. The fact of the matter is, she is the whole reason that Bucky even had the party. He was quite enamored of her. Bucky and Penelope met her at a crush of Lady Batterslee’s, and Bucky urged me to invite her to a soiree Mother and I had the next week. Of course, I did; I was dying of curiosity to see who this ‘Mrs. Cotterwood’ was. Bucky could talk of nothing but her. I liked her immediately, but I was a little concerned because Bucky was so head-over-heels.
“Frankly, I was a trifle worried, too, that she might be an adventuress,” Nicola continued. “Besides, I knew how much Penelope loved Bucky, and I kept hoping that someday he would wake up and realize what a treasure he had right there in front of him. So I was quite prepared to dislike Mrs. Cotterwood. But once I met her, I couldn’t help liking her, just as Penelope did. Marianne had no interest in Bucky. In fact, she is the one who came up with a delightful scheme that cooled Bucky’s fever for her and threw him right into Penelope’s arms.” Nicola smiled at the memory. “I wish you could have seen her performance.
Whenever Marianne was around him, she played the most shallow, self-centered creature in existence, making sure always to leave him with Penelope for comfort and advice. Eventually, even Bucky saw that he was pining after the wrong woman. And Lord Lambeth, as you know, won Marianne’s hand.”
“When are Bucky and Penelope to be married?”
“Soon. They are going to be married here in the village church in a month. It seemed only right, what with an alliance between a Buckminster and a Montford.” The Montfords, the family to which the Earl of Exmoor belonged, and Lord Buckminster’s family were the noble clans of the area.
“That’s true. Penelope’s mother was a Montford,” Deborah mused. “I sometimes forget that Lady Ursula and her mother are Richard’s cousins. We see them so rarely.”
Nicola carefully made no comment. It was a well-known fact that Penelope’s grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Exmoor, had little liking for the man who had inherited the title when her own husband died. Though the Countess sometimes wintered in the Dower House, which was also in the area, Nicola doubted that she called on or received the Earl of Exmoor.
“The Countess is in her element, let me tell you,” Nicola continued, sliding past the subject. “Preparing the whole thing as if it were an army going to battle. She and Penelope and Marianne will be driving up to the Dower House in a couple of weeks to oversee the preparations. I can hardly wait for you to get a chance to talk to Marianne.”
“But I cannot imagine Lady Ursula letting anyone else arrange Penelope’s wedding,” Deborah protested, mentioning Penelope’s overbearing mother. “And do you mean that the Countess is taking on Marianne’s wedding, also?”
“Even Lady Ursula will back down in the face of money. The Countess knew that Penelope would not get the wedding she wanted if Lady Ursula was in charge of it. So Lady Exmoor told Ursula that she would pay for the entire cost of her granddaughters’ weddings—but she made it clear that her word was the one that would be final in all matters. You know what a skinflint Penelope’s mother can be. She gave in—though you may be sure that she does her best to try to run the thing, anyway. As for Marianne’s wedding—well, that is the most fantastical thing of all. I wonder that Richard hasn’t told you about it.”
“Richard? But why would he? Men have little interest in nuptials, I find.”
“Yes, but I would think he has quite a bit of interest in Marianne. You see, it turns out that she is Lady Exmoor’s granddaughter, too—Richard’s cousin.”
“What!” Deborah stared at Nicola, her jaw dropping. “You’re joking!”
“Not a bit.” Nicola shook her head. “She had been lost to the family for years. That is why no one knew her. But she is one of Lord Chilton’s children.”
“Lord Chilton? The Countess’s son? But he—didn’t he and all his family die years and years ago? I mean, that is why Richard inherited the earldom, is it not? Otherwise Chilton would have been Earl after the old Earl died.”
“That is what everyone has believed all these years.” Nicola shrugged eloquently. “But it turned out that the children escaped. It was only Lord Chilton and his wife who died.”
“But…this is fantastical! How could Lady Exmoor not know? What happened to them?”
Nicola knew that she was treading on shaky ground here. She could hardly tell Deborah what the Countess believed had happened without bringing Richard into it. And she could not bring herself to tell her sister, especially in the condition she was in right now, what a thorough blackguard her husband really was.
“I, uh, I’m not exactly sure about all the details,” Nicola hedged. “But apparently the children were rescued by a friend of Lady Chilton’s, an American.”
“I see. Then she took them to the United States?”
“Yes, one of them. The boy, John, died of a fever he contracted on the journey. But the other, Marianne, uh, wound up in an orphanage.”
