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‘George, you’re not going to insist on this…this promise thing, are you? I know it’s what Father wanted and I suppose he must have had a good reason, but I don’t think he’d have insisted, would he?’
Gently, he shook her hand, though there was no smile to make light of it. ‘Of course I shall not insist. Whatever gave you that idea and, in any case, what good would it do? I don’t have any power to hold back your inheritance because you’ve got it already. Anyway, you know what my thoughts are about women being allowed to choose their own husbands.’ He came to sit by her side again, closer this time. ‘Nobody’s going to insist,’ he said, looking into her darkly troubled eyes. ‘But…’
‘But what?’
‘Well, all Father ever wanted was for you to be safely married. For your own protection, you know. You have a large income, property, a house here in London with a large household…you know…plenty of fortune-hunters on the lookout for more. You can’t call Fergus a fortune-hunter, whatever else you might call him. Perhaps that’s what Father had in mind. Some men have ways of making themselves very agreeable until they’ve got what they want. I’d hate to see you taken along that road.’
‘Well, no one could accuse Fergus Melrose of making himself too agreeable, could they? Far from it. But the road up to Scotland is a very long one, George, and I don’t see my future up there as a breeder of Melroses while he careers off round the world. He may have stallions and mares in mind, but I want more from life than ritual mating once a year.’
Making no attempt this time to hide his amusement at her picturesque speech, George shook his head, laughing. ‘Nick,’ he said at last, ‘all I ask is that you don’t dismiss him quite so soon. People do change. You have. Give him a chance, love. Why not talk to Charlotte about it? She’s quite anxious about you.’
‘George, I’m twenty-four, not twelve. Why should she be anxious?’
‘Vultures, love,’ he said, rising again. ‘Too many vultures.’
‘What are they…something legal, is it?’
‘No, vultures are nasty big birds that the king keeps in his menagerie at the tower. They tear juicy bodies to pieces with their greedy beaks, bone, fur and all. Some men are like that, and some will protect you from vultures. Fergus is one of those. I know him better than you, and if he says he wants you it’s not because he wants your wealth or ancestral links. Why else d’ye think he came round here early if not for a sneak preview after all these years? Eh?’
‘Curiosity, I expect.’
‘Yes, and now he’s seen you, not even your insults have put him off. He still wants you, love. I told you.’
She stared at him, stuck for words. ‘I…I thought…he…’
‘He’d go off with his tail between his legs? Hah! You should know him better than that, lass. He’s got more between his legs than a tail.’
‘George!’ Her heart lurched uncomfortably, making her aware of the sharp pain of her wound.
‘Sorry. I’ll go before I say any more. See you this evening.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t look like that. You’ve got four brothers, remember. You must have seen.’
‘I didn’t look,’ she called after him.
‘Little liar.’ He laughed. ‘Swimming in the river? You too?’
Yes, she remembered that, and the time she’d followed them and got out of her depth and was rescued by Ramond long before the others even noticed, so intent were they on watching Fergus. He had always been graceful and strong, excelling at everything, leading them into risky situations, yet always emerging first, triumphant. She recalled how he had ridden bareback the stallion that none of them would go near, how the maids would giggle and ogle him, how shamefully excited and angry she had felt when she discovered he had kissed one of them. How she had longed to be the one instead of a nobleman’s chit for whom he had no time. Whatever she had done, there had always been time to dream and then to weep with forlorn childish tears. How she had hated and adored him.
Nicola had known that Fergus Melrose would be there—Sir Fergus, as she was now supposed to call him—and while she tried to convince herself that she didn’t care, that she would not dress to impress anyone, least of all him, the end result would have done justice to a Botticelli goddess floating in from the sea. Blue silk, very full, very sheer and diaphanous, very low-cut and high-waisted, very suitable for the kind of open-air feast that Charlotte enjoyed most.
Her hair, severely pulled back into a long sleek plait that reached her waist, was crowned with a garland of blue flowers echoed by a tiny nosegay tucked into the vee of her bodice to hide the top edge of an unsightly red line. Pendant pearls from her ears were the only other adornment and, if she did not quite believe the mirror that told her she looked ravishing, then she had to take account of her maids and the stares of the guests. Especially from two of them.
‘Since no one has yet offered to introduce us, my lady,’ said a personable young man to Nicola, ‘then I must needs do it myself. I asked my brother to, but he has declined.’
‘And who is your brother, sir?’ As if she couldn’t have guessed.
‘Over there,’ he said, glancing with a certain relish across to where his elder brother lounged against a marble table laden with food. ‘Sir Fergus Melrose.’
Nicola followed his glance, relieved to have a genuine excuse to look at him so soon after her arrival. Then, seeing the message that awaited her, she wished she had not done. The business of the day is not yet over, he was telling her. You’ll not get rid of me so easily.
‘My name,’ the young man was saying, ‘is Muir. I expect he’s mentioned me.’ His merry brown eyes were revealing far more than his name—his admiration, for example, his interest in every detail of her appearance as well as in some that were hidden. In that respect, he was easier to read than his brother, more affable, more extrovert in his much-padded pink satin doublet that made her wonder how he managed to squeeze through doorways. The pleated frill below his belt was skimpy enough to reveal what older men kept politely concealed.
‘Master Melrose,’ said Nicola, averting her eyes from the pronounced bulge, ‘why did your brother refuse to introduce us? Would he not approve of us being acquainted?’
‘Apparently not. In fact, he was quite specific about the problem. He said I’d get under his feet. Wasn’t that discourteous of him?’ Like a watered-down version of the original, he was almost as tall, almost as dark, but not nearly as imposing as the brother he criticised; even without the gathers, Fergus’s shoulders were wide and robust, his chest deeper, his neck more muscled, his manner more dangerously mature, less boyish.
‘Extremely discourteous,’ Nicola agreed, bestowing on Muir her most charming smile as long as the two grey eyes glared at them from across the garden. ‘Surely he must have known we’d meet, somewhere?’
‘Not if he could help it, my lady. It was your brother who invited me here. Fergus is trying to persuade me to go back home to Scotland. I came here to the capital for a wee visit, but I didn’t think it would be quite so short.’
‘And what is the purpose of your short visit? Business?’
‘Er…not quite.’ His smile was mischievously rueful. ‘An affair of the heart, my lady.’ Clapping one hand to his heart was too dramatic for it to have been genuine. ‘I had to make myself scarce.’
‘I see. In some haste, I take it.’
‘In great haste,’ he agreed, grinning.
She felt the hostile glare still upon them both and assumed that the younger Melrose was not averse to queering the pitch of his elder brother by telling her of things that ought to have been private. Also, that in revealing his own penchant for non-serious affairs of the heart, he might in fact be offering her the chance to flirt with him and thereby to annoy the arrogant Fergus. With an air that exposed intentions unashamedly several stages ahead of hers, Muir Melrose wore his virility like one who had just discovered its purpose and was ready to put it to good use.
At once, she knew what she would do, that she would have to be careful, and that between them they could make Fergus Melrose’s ambition somewhat more difficult to achieve. It would not be hard to do and must surely be more fun than today’s worsening relationships.
‘Then you cannot go home soon, can you? Not immediately.’
‘It would be a great pity—’ he sighed ‘—now we’ve been introduced. Would you allow me to call on you, perhaps?’ When she purposely kept him waiting for an answer, he pleaded, gently, ‘For the summer months?’
‘Oh, not months,’ she said. ‘Weeks…days…’
‘My Lady Coldheart,’ he said, pulling a tragic face, ‘you cannot be serious. Are you so very hard to please, then?’
‘Alas, I am indeed, Master Melrose. My standards are high, you see, and my interest appallingly short-lived. I’m afraid I send men packing, as your brother may already have told you.’ Their laughter rang like a peal of bells across the sunset garden, and this time she refused to meet the grey eyes that watched the start of yet another impediment to the day’s plans. Then she told Master Melrose of last night’s fencing wager and the way she had dealt with it this morning and together they laughed again and went to look for food with an unspoken agreement already forming between them.
Lord and Lady Coldyngham’s grand and spacious home sat securely on the bend of the Thames in one of the most desirable and attractive stretches between the royal palaces of Savoy and Whitehall. Built around a central courtyard with stables and service buildings at one side, the house extended towards the river with large gardens and orchards and a private wharf where barges were moored. For Lady Charlotte’s thirtieth birthday, the green expanse of bowers and arbours had been hung with streamers of ivy and coloured ribbons, the lawns scattered with satin and velvet cushions while musicians played and small tables were piled with food, and flagons of wine were placed up to their necks in the stone channel of water that ran from the fountain.
So Nicola allowed Master Melrose to offer her the choicest and most succulent morsels of food that came with every accompaniment and garnish, saffron-dyed and disguised, moulded to look like fish or hedgehogs, even when they were not, decorated with feathers, gilded, pounded, pureed, glazed and spiced. Nothing was meant to look like what it was, or taste like it, come to that. For Lady Charlotte, it was a triumph of a meal; for Nicola, it was utterly tasteless, but not for the world would she have said so, nor would she have said why.
Meanwhile, there were other guests to talk to, most of whom she knew, mummers to watch at their antics, jugglers to admire, a jester to avoid if one could, and musicians to applaud for the way they incorporated the duet of tin whistle and tambourine. Nicola had brought presents for Roberta, whose name had been prepared for another boy in true Coldyngham fashion, and eight-year-old Louis, the elder by two-and-a-half years. She gave the tin whistle to Roberta and the tambourine to Louis, who marched solemnly away to show the guests how it was done, though later it was observed that Roberta was rattling noisily and Louis was tunefully piping.
They played tag and blind-man’s buff, and anything else to avoid having to speak to any group of which Sir Fergus was a part and, at last, Nicola gave her garland of flowers to Roberta to take to bed. Naturally, she had to part with the nosegay from her bodice for Louis, by which time she was sure no one would notice.
It grew dark and the music changed to dance rhythms, the river sparkled with reflections from torches, and the distant sounds of Thames oarsmen echoed on the night air as they took their last customers home by wherry. Mellowed by wine, the guests joined hands to snake their way through the plots and arbours, benches and trellises, singing the two-line refrain while male soloists sang the stanzas as the rest marked time on the spot. Then off they went again, lurching and laughing, unsure whose hand they held in the darkest shadows away from the torches.
Muir Melrose pulled at Nicola and headed purposefully away from the light. ‘This way,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
His flirting, Nicola thought, had gone far enough for one day. ‘No,’ she called. ‘No…er…this way.’ She pulled, bumping into someone.
‘Come on,’ Muir laughed. ‘We shall lose them if you—’
She shook off his hand to pick up her long skirts, which were in danger of being trampled, draping them up over one arm. But again her free hand was sought as she was nudged along the line of dancers and, to escape the singing jostling bodies, she went with him, expecting to join up again when she could see what she was doing. His hand tightened insistently over hers, and the noise of the dancers’ cries was cut off by a thick screen of darkness.
‘Master Melrose,’ she said, coldly, ‘we should be going the other way. Please…let go.’ She tried to free herself, but in the dark tunnel of foliage where only pin-pricks of light filtered, his arms closed quickly around her, bending her hard into his body. Then she knew, foolishly, that all young Melrose’s attentions had been directed towards this end, a far from innocent conclusion to his gentle and inoffensive dalliance. Not even to vex Sir Fergus had she wanted it to go this far, and now she was angry beyond words that this gauche young man believed she could have as few scruples as any servant-girl against being bussed and groped in the shadows.
She struggled fiercely, dropping her skirt to beat at him and push him away, but he was remarkably strong, too strong for his size, and there was no chance for her to cry out for help before his mouth silenced her protests with a firmness that belied all his earlier frivolity and playfulness. After his teasing manner of the evening, this was certainly not what she had expected from him and, although she had understood from the start that he was probably promiscuous, she had not for one moment believed that he had intended to defy his brother so insistently, or so soon. Or without any kind of warning. This was more than flirting—this was a determined, serious and skilled performance that from the first touch had the effect of holding her mind into that one place where sensation burst into bloom like the springtime of all her twenty-four years.
Her hands forgot to beat, but clung helplessly to his shoulders, as bewildered as her mind. Obedient to the hard restraint of his arms, lured by the skill of his lips, she had no choice but to surrender to the confusing thoughts circling her mind that this did not match the rather silly, witty, shallow creature she had saddled herself with for the last few hours. It was a complete revelation, and an exciting one, but a high price to pay for a scheme that had so soon got out of hand.
For all her popularity with men since her appearance in London, and indeed before that, she had never allowed more than a chaste kiss upon her cheek. Her inexperience showed, for now anger, outrage, and something quite new and fearful combined to tell her that, however much she had wished for a kiss with someone else, this must be stopped by any means available, whether ladylike or not. With a push of superhuman strength and a twist of her body, she tore her mouth away and bent her head towards the hand that held her wrist in a grip of steel, biting hard into his knuckles and releasing all her fury, not only at his immediate behaviour but at his deception too.
She felt the resistance of bone under her teeth and the taste of his skin on her tongue before his fingers relaxed and pulled away and, though she half-expected a howl of pain from him, there was no protest and no retaliation. It was as if he had been waiting for it, deserving it, accepting it.
In uncharacteristic silence, he put his arm across her shoulders to lead her forward as if he knew the way back, but she balked at this too-easy dismissal, taking time to lash him with her tongue before they parted. ‘Don’t ever…’ she panted ‘…ever come near me again. Do you hear me? Now leave me…let go of my shoulder—’ she shook his hand away ‘—and speak to me no more of friendship, sir. You are despicable! Go away!’
It was too dark for her to witness his departure, though she felt that he bowed before he left and, in only a few more hesitant and lonely steps, she was within sight and sound of the music once again. Most of the guests had now regrouped around a male soloist whose low voice, accompanied by his own lute, was holding them all spellbound. Thankful of the darkness and their diverted attention, she waited for a moment to gather her thoughts, to smooth her hair, and to lay a cooling hand upon her mouth that still tingled from his kisses. Her pounding heart she could do nothing to moderate. Like a shadow, she glided round the edge of the crowd to see who sang and played so sweetly, experiencing such a weight of numbing disappointment that her first real kisses should have come so insincerely from a man of his small calibre, a virtual stranger and self-confessed philanderer. It had served her right. She should have had more sense. He had disappeared quickly enough afterwards with not a word of explanation or apology, not even an enquiry after her state. The man was a worm, after all.
Dazed, still furiously angry and disturbed at the violation of her emotions, she felt the dull thudding in her chest change to a stifled gasp of horror as she peered through the crowd, rooted to the spot and unable to believe what she was seeing. His dark head bent over the lute, the soloist was Master Muir Melrose and, by the soaring final chord and the warm applause at the end, it was clear he had been there for some time.
Now, with her heartbeats drowning out all other sounds, her eyes combed frantically through the group to find the one man she had avoided all evening, the one whose message had warned her that his business with her was not over. He was there, alone, standing by the fountain and holding one hand tightly clasped inside the other, not applauding. As she watched, he lifted the hand to his mouth then back to its mate for some kind of comfort, turning his head as he did so as if to seek her out.
Through the dancing shadows and the flare of torches, their eyes linked at last and held, part possession and part solace, and while her eyes communicated shock and disbelief, his message was that he was in charge, that she was not free to follow his brother’s lead, and that she would not escape him. A shiver of fear coursed through her again. Fear and excitement.
Slowly, he wound his way through the scattering crowd and came to stand beside her. She, reluctant to be seen so patently avoiding him, remained fixed to the spot, overwhelmed by the urge to flee, but hampered by legs that would not obey. ‘Barbarian!’ she growled at him under her breath.
His hand moved over the wounded knuckle, though his eyes remained upon her, searing her with their unaccustomed warmth. ‘Wildcat!’ he whispered. ‘I can tame you.’
The daunting words brought her eyes to his face again, as he knew they would. But if she hoped that the creases around his mobile mouth were formed by pain, she was forced to conclude that there was quite a different emotion on display there and that he had seen how her hand stole of its own volition to comfort a certain sharp pain of her own.
Chapter Three
‘W hat is it, love?’ said Lady Charlotte to her sister-in-law. ‘I saw you speaking to Sir Fergus before he left. Are you still angered? Or is he angered that you spent more time with his brother than with him?’
‘No, Lotti,’ said Nicola.
Not quite satisfied, Lady Charlotte drew Nicola’s arm through hers and strolled away from the river’s edge towards the house. It was still ablaze with light from the torches, the musicians were packing away their instruments and the servants glided through the shadows to gather left-overs into baskets. Ripples from the last of the departing wherries lapped shallowly at the jetty and rocked the one remaining boat that belonged to Lord Coldyngham.
Merchants’ wives, collectively envied for their access to the newest styles and finest fabrics from Venetian and Genoese trading galleys, had a reputation for wearing their wealth without the slightest flair. But Lady Charlotte was an exception; tall, elegant, ma-donna-like in many respects with soft sea-coloured eyes that changed with the light and a top lip that barely covered her white teeth, she wore her wealth with more sophistication and discretion than most. She and George made a perfect couple and, for Nicola, Lotti was the only woman with whom she could talk intimately. Tonight, however, she did not intend to talk about Fergus Melrose when she suspected that parts of the conversation might accidently leak back to her brother during the night. George’s enthusiasm for the match had not been lost upon Nicola.
They sat together in one of the leafy alcoves on one side of the garden where Nicola watched the full moon’s reflection, striving to place those amazing kisses in the context of Fergus instead of Muir, trying hard to reverse her disappointment yet unable to think more positively about such a phenomenon. A few moments ago, she was sure he meant to chasten her, humiliate her. It was what he was best at, after all. He had done it that morning. Now, she was sure of only one thing: that they both intended to do battle.
Lotti’s head dipped gracefully. ‘George has told me something of the problem,’ she said softly, ‘but can you hold that against Fergus now, after all these years? It was a long time ago, love. He obviously intends to win you, you know.’
Nicola’s resolve not to speak of him instantly dissolved. ‘He wants to win because that’s the way he is,’ she said. ‘He’s always been like that. Tell him he can’t have something and he’ll prove to you that he can. Imagine being married to a man like that.’
Lotti’s sigh finished with a musical, ‘Mm…m.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ said Nicola, smiling at last.
‘Is it someone else? You have a lover?’
The question took Nicola by surprise. ‘Not a lover, exactly. Friends, not lovers. There’s Lord John, and…’
‘You mean Jonathan Carey, Earl of Rufford?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re fond of him?’
‘Well…yes…in a way. He’s fun to be with.’
‘He wants you to marry him?’
Nicola glanced at Lotti’s profile, but could see nothing of the concern in her eyes that George had spoken of. But the question was not easy to answer. ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘I think…well…I think so.’
‘You mean he’s not said as such in so many words, is that it?’ When Nicola hesitated even more, Lotti began to understand. ‘You mean he wants you to go to bed with him. Yes, well…he would.’
‘What d’ye mean, he would? He’s nice. Very courteous.’
‘Of course he is, but how much do you know about him?’
‘Well, I know that he’s experienced. Most men of his age are if they get half a chance. I expect Fergus Mel-rose is too. I dare say Lord John would marry me if I gave him a little more encouragement.’
Experienced was not the word Lady Charlotte would have chosen to describe the dubious charms of the Earl of Rufford—Lord John, as he was known to his acquaintances. ‘Then for heaven’s sake don’t give him any encouragement, love. Marry Sir Fergus. You’ll be on safer ground there.’
‘Thank you, but no. Stuck up in the wilds of Scotland with nothing but a clutch of bairns for company is not my idea of safer ground, Lotti.’
‘He’s comely,’ Lotti replied. ‘And wealthy. And intelligent. What more d’ye want?’
Nicola cast a reproachful glance at her sister-in-law before returning to her study of the moon. ‘Do you have a spare four hours?’ she said. Then, regretting the reply, she tried to put into words the essence of her objections while wondering if Lotti would be able to see what lay beneath them. ‘Lotti,’ she said, ‘I want to keep hold of my new life. That’s what I want. I’ve only just discovered how it feels to take control of my own affairs, to be secure in my own home, be my own mistress. Without a mother I’ve had to suffer the control of four men in different dosages. Then the strict family in York. Now I’ve chosen friends who like me for my own company, men who actually seek me and vie for my attention. That’s new, Lotti. I’m enjoying it. I could become addicted. Do you understand? I know George thinks they’re all after something more interesting than me, but that’s what I’ve always been told, never that I was worth seeking out for myself alone. Now I know different, and I can pick and choose, and I can stop a man’s friendship if he doesn’t come up to scratch. I’m turning the tables, Lotti.’ She laughed with excitement, not noticing how Lotti studied her carefully. ‘I shall go too fast for them and leave them behind. For the first time in my life I can call my own tune and have men dance to it, and if Fergus Melrose wants to join in, he’ll have to do the same. So it’s no use asking me about marriage, Lotti. I don’t know. I’m not interested. Ask me again in ten years.’
‘So you’re still a virgin?’
‘Yes, silly. Of course I am. What makes you think I’d give that away so soon?’ Furtively, one hand crept up to hitch the vee of her bodice by a notch and to hold it there as the moon smiled knowingly back at her.
As far as it went, the explanation would probably convince Lotti, though Nicola knew only too well how much more personal it was than that. It was to do with the prickly defence she had placed around that tender place deep inside, a place that Fergus Melrose had trampled over and must not be allowed to reach again. It was to do with their old immature relationship where he had been the one to call the tune and she had followed, blinded by the force of adoration.
Yet now there was a new and more disturbing element that made it hard for her to dismiss him as she would like to do, as she would have done to any man guilty of such advantage-taking. Fergus Melrose would not be pushed aside as other young hopefuls had been, and she would have to fight him tooth and nail to maintain her ground and to show him that he could never be a part of her life. Whatever reason he’d had for changing places with his brother and making love to her, Nicola understood that he did not mean to play by the rules.
Her night at her brother’s River House was anything but peaceful, despite the ministrations of her maids, the coolness of white linen sheets, the regular call of bells and the nightwatchman’s reassuring cry. From the first fierce invasion of his lips, she had been badly shaken, but the question that remained longer than all others was to do with his deceit. Would she have pushed herself away so soon if she had known it was Fergus instead of his fawning brother? ‘Damn you!’ she whispered to her pillow. ‘I’ll make you pay dearly for that.’
‘George, dearest?’ said Lady Charlotte to Lord Coldyngham that same night, slipping a bare arm through his.
He clamped it to his side, possessively. ‘The answer’s no. I’m too exhausted.’ His grin was poorly concealed.
‘Stop teasing,’ she chided. ‘It’s not that.’ Even now, he was still able to send shivers down her legs. ‘It’s something else.’
‘So if it’s not that, it must be money. How much?’
‘George, stop it!’ Charlotte pulled at her arm, laughing when George held on to it. ‘Listen to me seriously. You’ve got to get Nicola and Fergus together somehow. Are you hearing me?’
She had few clothes on; in the light of one candelabra, she glowed like a young girl, alluring and lissome. It was not likely that George was listening as he turned her in his arms and let his hands wander. ‘Well, that’s the general idea, my sweet, isn’t it?’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Come to bed. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
