Guarding a Notorious Lady Read online

  He assured himself that she hadn’t noticed—Rosalind might be perceptive, but she couldn’t read minds.

  When they’d parted, her arms laden with a book her pride wouldn’t allow her to put back, he hadn’t been able to keep the grin from spreading across his face.

  Good Christ. What a pitiful guardian he was turning out to be. After spending the last seven years successfully keeping the woman at arm’s length, he’d almost buckled after being within two feet of her in a public place.

  And she’d done very little to provoke him. She’d simply been herself, looking up at him with those big eyes as if he was responsible for hanging the moon.

  He rolled his shoulders. It was only a twinge of attraction, he told himself. Nothing more. It wasn’t as if he’d never felt it before when he’d been around her.

  Aye, but all those times in the past you could just walk away, leave if you had to.

  Indeed, but he didn’t have that option anymore. At least not for the next three months. The thought made him deuced uncomfortable.

  Slipping two fingers into the top of his cravat, he tugged twice, willing all desirous thoughts of his charge to the back of his mind.

  “Stop fidgeting,” his sister chided from the foot of the stairs.

  Standing in the foyer of his newly rented town house, Nicholas stretched on his leather gloves and grumbled, “Can’t help it. The blasted thing is choking me.”

  Clasping her hands before her, Francesca made a wide arc around him. “You look quite dashing, Nicholas.” She cleared her throat meaningfully. “Even despite the absence of proper breeches.”

  Nicholas shook his head slowly, a derisive smile lifting a corner of his mouth. “Ashamed of your ancestry, are we?”

  “Of course not. But I daresay you’re trying very hard not to fit in with your surroundings.”

  He leveled a stare at his sister. “It is only because I owe Gabriel a favor that I must refrain from my dearest wish. And that, wee sister, is to return to Yorkshire and keep pretending Lady Rosalind Devine doesn’t exist.”

  “Nicholas,” Frannie admonished, “we owe so much to His Grace. You should not speak of his sister as if she is some vexing creature.”

  He dipped his head with a reluctant nod. “Aye, I should not speak of her at all.”

  Frannie’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot help but be curious as to why you feel you must pretend she doesn’t exist. Does she threaten you in some way?”

  When he didn’t answer, she crossed her slender arms over her middle and nodded knowingly. “Very curious, indeed. Especially for someone who has shown nothing but passing interest in his admirers. Does this one have some hold over you?”

  “No,” he said, his tone cold. “The only thing she holds is the means for me to satisfy my need to repay her brother’s generosity.”

  “And that is the only need worth satisfying? With you, there is always work, responsibility. What of love?”

  “What of it?”

  “Criminy, Nicholas. You act as if you don’t know what it is.”

  It wasn’t like that at all. He revered it for the powerful force that it was—and vowed to avoid such a miserable emotion until the day he perished from the earth.

  An image of his father, grief tearing him apart, day after day, sprang unbidden to his mind. If he concentrated hard enough, Nicholas could still hear his father’s whispered prayers in the dead of night, begging for the Lord to take him from this earth so that he could be with his wife once again. His father’s nightly pleading would eventually break into deep, soul-wrenching sobs. Eleven years old at the time, Nicholas would stuff his pillow around his head, his own tears spilling—not just for the loss of his mother but for the horrible, unending pain his father endured.

  Five years later, Malcolm Kincaid’s prayers were finally answered. Nicholas could not deny the odd sense of relief he experienced. His father’s everlasting suffering had come to an end.

  “Why will you not take some happiness for yourself?” Francesca asked, breaking his stream of thought.

  Nicholas’s laugh was quiet and held no humor. “You imply love and happiness are companions.”

  “And you do not?”

  Nicholas gave his head a slight shake. “Are you happy right now?” he asked, regretting his words as soon as he said them. Francesca had lost her husband two years ago. “Christ, Frannie, forgive me. I should not have said it.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, then said, “It’s all right, Nicholas.”

  He was quiet for several moments, then muttered quietly, “I appreciate your thinking of me, but I’m perfectly satisfied with my life.”

  “But you must be lonesome. Was there no one in all of Yorkshire that piqued your interest? Scotland?” He didn’t answer, so she continued unabated. “If not, I daresay, you might find her in London.”

  “Don’t depend upon it.” He plopped his hat atop his head and the butler opened the door. The Winterbourne carriage waited at the end of the walk. “Good evening, dear Frannie. It’s getting late. And I’m on duty.” With that he turned and strode out the door, a waft of cool, night air racing up his thighs.

  “Rosalind! Let me not suppose that you’re daring to open those doors. Come away, gel. Come away.”

  “Yes, Aunt Eugenia,” Rosalind said dutifully, pasting a serene smile upon her lips. “Is your kitty safely ensconced inside your bedchamber?”

  “I’m not worried about Oliver,” her aunt replied, giving Rosalind a scathing look. “He’s shy around people and would never run freely with so many strangers wandering about. What are you thinking?”

  Oh, Lud. It was going to be a long season. “Can I get something for you?” Like a carriage ride back home.

  “Upon my honor,” Eugenia proclaimed in a hushed voice. “Who has a dance with the doors wide open so early in the spring?”

  Those who do not wish to pass out from the stifling heat, perhaps.

  Her aunt patted at her stiff collar, as if to make certain not a whisper of air could slip through the high neckline. “We could all catch a chill. It’s rather cozy in here, and I should like it to remain that way.”

  “Then we shall all melt right along with the candle wax,” Rosalind murmured.

  Aunt Eugenia’s head jerked up. “What was that, child?”

  “I said, I think I just saw Miss Marianne Fairfax.”

  “Ah. She’s the harpist, is she not?”

  “The cellist, this evening.”

  “That’s what I said. Cellist.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Chubby girl, what a shame,” her aunt said with a cluck of her tongue. “She’d be quite pretty if it weren’t for that.”

  Rosalind’s eyes opened wide. What a ridiculous thing to say. “Miss Fairfax is lovely.” The. End.

  Her aunt simply shrugged. “You have your opinion. I have mine. She’s not spoken for, is she? I daresay she is not. And probably never will be unless she does something about that figure.”

  Rosalind let out a breath of frustration to quell the urge to shout at her aunt for being so callous.

  However, she must remind herself that she wasn’t here to defend nice young women against bitter spinsters, nor was she here to play cupid. She wanted to discover the identity of her guardian.

  Expose him, and then dispose of him.

  Her pride depended upon it.

  An oppressive heat seemed to suddenly surround her, and she found herself glancing longingly out the French doors. Being so newly returned to the city, Rosalind ought to feel jubilant. The shopping, the parties, reacquainting oneself with friends, they were all things she had come to anticipate while residing in Yorkshire.

  Tonight, however, she felt an unusual pang for home. For routines and spending time outdoors. To be able to see the clear, blue sky without the blanket of yellow fog that seemed to hang over the city. To be able to watch Nicholas covertly from behind a book she’d pretend to read while he feigned losing a game of chess to Tristan.


  Ah, yes, Nicholas was her own private temptation—though in her daydreams he thought she was irresistible. He’d toss her younger brother out the door, cross the room, sink down next to her on the sofa, and then pull her onto his lap—all of which he would do bare-chested, of course.

  Swallowing, Rosalind opened her fan with a snap and began fanning herself. She really needed to stop looking for romantic reading materials in Tristan’s private library.

  She gave her head a tiny shake. What was the matter with her? She loved the city. She loved the shopping, the museums, the theater, the bustling about, and the endless parties. Yet the truth was that no matter how many friends and gentleman admirers surrounded her, no matter how many places she visited, she was always alone . . . and always daydreaming about him.

  And he was here now.

  Well, not here at this ball, but in London. She still hadn’t figured out why, but she felt confident that she would eventually.

  A group of young men, all of whom she had already danced with at least once this evening, sauntered by. After a quick check over their shoulders (no doubt looking for her eldest brother), they all smiled and gave her a friendly nod.

  She smiled back, not coyly, nor invitingly. Just a smile. A hostess smile. A “please call on me tomorrow so that it may draw out my guardian” sort of smile.

  If her plan was to work on the morrow, she had to sow the seeds now, and plenty of them, too.

  Rosalind knew tonight would be a crush. It seemed nearly all of society was attending. To be sure, most had come to see the new Duchess of Wolverest, who was standing at the top of the room with Gabriel greeting some newly arriving guests. However, by the sheer volume of debutantes in attendance, Rosalind rather thought that many had come to get a peek at the new Marquess of Winterbourne.

  And he wasn’t even here yet. Rosalind wondered if he was late by design. Perhaps he wanted to make a grand entrance. Noblemen were notoriously arrogant.

  “Lady Burberry!” Aunt Eugenia suddenly exclaimed, waving her closed fan slightly. “Pleasure to see you! Come sit!”

  Rosalind smiled politely at the older woman as she ambled past to plop down in a chair against the wall next to her aunt. Ah, the spinster corner. Every ballroom had one.

  With her aunt occupied with genial conversation, Rosalind took a backward step, and then another, and then another, until she was far enough away that she could slip away.

  Sliding her gaze over to her aunt, she was relieved to see the woman hadn’t noticed. She seemed to be craning her neck in order to look toward the front of the room.

  Rosalind supposed she ought to be standing near her brother, but she could inspect the faces in the crowd much better from the back of the room. If her guardian was here tonight, he’d be watching her, wouldn’t he?

  A smear of red hair caught her attention. Lord Stokes, the very man Rosalind imagined would someday make a declaration to her friend Lucy, was slowly walking the perimeter of the room. He seemed to be watching everyone carefully. Perhaps he was looking for someone in particular, but then again . . . perhaps he was her guardian.

  Her lips lifted in a small, secret smile. Nothing was going to distract her from her mission. If she were to slip away from the ballroom, perhaps he would have no choice but to follow her, and then she’d know for certain.

  She turned to do just that when the butler’s flat voice resounded throughout the room. “Presenting the Marquess of Winterbourne.”

  Hissing whispers, giggling debutantes, the jovial mumblings of men—all of it lowered as heads turned to the front of the room.

  Being short, Rosalind couldn’t see a thing. For a fleeting moment, she toyed with the idea of standing on a chair but decided her aunt might have an apoplexy if she did.

  All thoughts of her guardian flew out the doors at her back in the face of discovering why this new marquess held the guests in such a state of open curiosity.

  As she threaded through the guests, whispers surrounded her.

  “He’s a Scot, eh?”

  “He’s a handsome one.”

  “God’s truth, that isn’t a padded jacket. That’s him!”

  “Did you see those legs? Now there’s a man who needn’t employ false calves.”

  “Stand straight, Mary, or else his lordship might not ask you to dance.”

  “Formidable-looking fellow. Kincaid’s the family name.”

  Rosalind’s head snapped to the right. Did someone just utter “Kincaid,” or was she simply going mad? Her heartbeat tripped and her breathing quickened.

  She rushed ahead, desperate to see what held everyone so spellbound. But the crowd seemed to close in around her as others shuffled closer to the top of the room. She looked to the right and left, but there was no escape.

  Her shoulders heaved with a sigh and she relinquished the fight.

  Perhaps if she feigned a swoon, a space would be cleared. She gave her head a slight shake. No, that would never do. At least not right now. Everyone was so distracted that they’d probably step over her.

  Squeezing past the back of a portly gentleman, Rosalind thought she heard someone say her name.

  “Pssst. Rosalind.”

  She turned to see Lucy Meriwether slide up to her.

  “We’re thinking about calling him ‘Lord Sin,’ ” Lucy whispered in delight. She did a little excited hop. “ ‘Lord Winter’ doesn’t sound half as exciting, though his stare is rather frosty.”

  “Who are you speaking of?”

  “Why, Lord Winterbourne, of course.”

  “Already?” Rosalind gritted her teeth.

  “Already what?” Lucy even had the nerve to look perplexed.

  “Already,” Rosalind repeated with an agitated nod. “I can’t even get to the top of the room in my own house and you’ve all made a nickname for him?”

  Lucy looked taken aback. “Well, it’s not our fault you’re lollygagging.”

  “Lolly—” Rosalind cut herself off before she lost complete control of her temper. She paused and breathed deeply. In and out. In and out. “Now,” she said, feeling infinitely more at ease. “Why are you all calling him Lord Sin? Is his name Sinclair?”

  “La, I am not aware of his family name.”

  “Is he a rake?”

  Lucy shrugged and shook her head.

  “A scoundrel?”

  “Well, no one knows. He’s only just arrived.”

  “Then why are you all calling him ‘Lord Sin’?”

  Lucy looked flummoxed. “Well, you’ve taken a good look at him, haven’t you?”

  “No. No. I have not,” Rosalind said, noting that she sounded a little shrill. “I have been fighting to move an inch. Break it to me, I implore you.”

  Lucy bent her head close as they shuffled across the room. “Well, he just . . .” Her words trailed off as she turned an alarming shade of crimson. “. . . he’s tall and scandalously tanned by the sun. And his evening clothes!”

  “What could be so remarkable about his evening clothes?”

  Lucy sighed like a girl fresh out the schoolroom who was seeing her first well-dressed man. “He’s simply sinful to look at.”

  “Oh, how preposterous,” Rosalind exclaimed. “Really, Lucy, you cannot be serious.”

  “I’m dancing the minuet with him first,” Lucy blurted, counting off on her fingers. “Jane Locke is next for a country dance set. Clara Hopkins promised him the quadrille. Oh, and Mary Chambers was asked for the Scottish reel. And . . . is there to be a waltz this evening?”

  Apparently, Lord Winterbourne did not hesitate in the filling up of dance cards.

  “How did you all acquire dances with him so quickly?”

  “Well, he asked us, ’tis all.” Lucy eyed her speculatively. “I say, are you jealous?”

  Rosalind leveled a stare at Lucy. “How on earth can I be jealous of the fact that you all have dances with someone I have never met?”

  Lucy’s brow puckered in confusion. “But you said you knew him.”<
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  “I did?” Now it was Rosalind’s turn to look confused. “When did I say that I knew him?”

  “In the bookshop,” Lucy muttered, “this afternoon.”

  Rosalind’s heart dropped down to her stomach.

  “And you said he was a farmer.” Lucy snorted. “A farmer, indeed. Admit it. You just didn’t want me to set my cap for him because you wanted him all for yourself.”

  “It cannot be,” Rosalind murmured.

  But it was.

  Before her, the crowd thinned and parted, revealing her eldest brother and Madelyn. Next to them stood Kincaid himself, tall and arrogant, looking like the handsomest devil in all of England, bare knees and all.

  “It cannot be,” she repeated.

  Nicholas Kincaid was Lord Winterbourne? Nicholas Kincaid was a marquess? Which meant . . . she knew exactly why he was in London.

  He had come for a wife.

  Nicholas wagered that most observers, upon entering the Devine ballroom, would describe it as a gilded nest for the social elite. A prestigious affair, where the privileged could frolic, twitter to their hearts’ content, and proudly puff out their feathers to display to all.

  Nicholas saw it as a den of horrors.

  Aye, it was beautiful, with its gleaming parquet floors and glimmering chandeliers glowing with hundreds of beeswax candles, but it was also stifling, crowded, and if one more lady’s jaw dropped at the sight of his kilt—and his legs, for that matter—he would surely bend over and flash her something truly shocking.

  Dressed in formal Scottish evening wear, Nicholas, for the most part, looked like an English gentleman from the waist up, and a Scot from the waist down. Apparently, it wasn’t an everyday sight, which was fine, really. He was probably making them feel about as comfortable as he felt himself.

  But he was nothing if not responsible. He would do his duty. And then he was going back home to the country, where a man could walk across a room without getting four separate embroidered handkerchiefs discreetly stuffed in his palm—all of them accompanied with whispered invitations that would make a naval captain blush.

  Three out of the four handkerchiefs were from married women, the fourth from a widow who couldn’t have been a day over twenty. And if he wasn’t getting offers for carnal companionship, the marriage-minded mothers were brazenly thrusting their daughters at him as if they were sacrificial lambs.