Guarding a Notorious Lady Page 7

  That creature could be anywhere, Nicholas thought grimly with a narrow-eyed glare as he scanned the people milling about the streets and surrounding park, his gaze snagging on the unsuspecting women in particular.

  Dangers lurked everywhere.

  Take that situation just over the rise, for instance, he pondered.

  A young, bespectacled, flaxen-haired lass sat on a bench nestled under a tree with a book. Next to her dozed a woman he guessed was her mother, her head slack and resting on the back of the bench.

  Unbeknownst to the sleeping woman, her charge was being watched by a man atop a glossy black stallion.

  As Nicholas passed, the man never took his eyes off the girl, and she seemed completely oblivious to his half-adoring, half-ravenous gaze.

  A lion nearly salivating at a dainty mouse.

  Just what were this fellow’s intentions? Nicholas found himself wondering. It looked nefarious to him, but then again, Nicholas was admittedly more suspicious than most.

  Shaking his head, he crossed the crowded street and quickened his steps. Before long the Devines’ town house came into view. He looked up, noticing a commotion near Rosalind’s front door. Och, were they hosting another party, and in the middle of the day?

  The front door open wide, three men were coming down the steps as two more were trying to get up, their arms laden with blooms of every color and various wee, prettily wrapped packages.

  Nicholas squinted. Was that a horse tethered to the railings, ribbons and small flowers twined through the beast’s mane and tail? What the devil was going on?

  “AAAAAAA-CHOOOO!”

  Nicholas nearly jolted out of his skin as a sneezing man sped past him, holding the largest bouquet of roses he’d ever seen in his life.

  “You there! Sir!” Nicholas shouted. “Hold!”

  With a sigh, the man came to an abrupt stop and turned around. His eyes were red-rimmed and weeping, his bulbous nose shiny and damp. He looked miserable. “Yes?” he asked, sounding nasal and rather irritated.

  “What is this all about?”

  “Well,” the man started, looking peevish and sounding much like he was explaining something to a dull-wit, “these are flowers and I’m delivering them.”

  “To whom?”

  The man sighed. “To Devine Mansion. Again. And I suppose once I return to the shop other . . . ah . . .”

  Nicholas took a step back just in time.

  “ . . . ACHOOOOOOOO!!” The man wiped at his nose with his sleeve. “When I return to the shop,” he began again, “I suppose there will be more . . . ah . . . ahhh . . .”

  “Here.” With one hand, Nicholas took the tall vase of pink roses from the man. “Allow me.” Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, he grabbed some coin and handed it to the man.

  He looked affronted for a moment, then glanced at the money, and then back at Nicholas. “How do I know you’ll not steal these for yourself?” His question was laced with suspicion. “We have a reputation to uphold—”

  Nicholas held up a hand. “You can watch me deliver it from over here. And,” he added with a grin, “you might want to think about another line of work.”

  “I’ll say,” the man agreed, swiping at his sweaty brow.

  “Christ, Rosie! The front hall looks like a bloody jungle.”

  “Don’t I know,” Rosalind cringed from behind an enormous bundle of bright red tulips before dumping them in a vase brought by a maid. “And poor Briggs,” she continued, speaking of their butler. “I sent him off. He couldn’t stop sneezing.”

  “Ah,” Tristan said, shrugging out of his cloak. “That would explain his absence.” He glanced behind him before tossing the garment on the chair to the right of the door, then ceased abruptly once he realized the seat was already occupied by a large potted fern.

  “Bloody bounders,” Tristan growled. “Gabriel’s been gone a whole of five hours and they’re upon you in an instant.”

  “Shh! They’ll hear you.”

  “Have you gone mad? Now you believe flowers have feelings?”

  “Not the flowers, dunderhead. The gentlemen inside the morning room,” she muttered with a point in that direction.

  “Gentlemen?”

  She nodded, adjusting the arrangement of a small bouquet of wildflowers.

  “Inside our morning room?”

  Her lips flattened. “With Aunt Eugenia.”

  “With Aunt . . . what the devil is going on?”

  She shrugged innocently. “Every girl receives a few gentleman callers the day after a ball. It’s perfectly normal.”

  Tristan shot her an incredulous look. “Normal is one or two, or hell, even ten! This place resembles a hothouse, Rosie.” He stared down at her with eyes the same frosty blue all the Devine siblings shared. “And what the hell is that?”

  Rosalind followed his appalled gaze to a portrait propped up against the wall near her feet. Someone had had her likeness painted and sent it as a gift. She hoped it wasn’t an accurate likeness. She rather looked like she was part horse.

  Tristan shook his head. “As you well know, I am not so overbearing as Gabriel, but you are my sister. Please, do not tell me the number of men in the next room surpasses the number of bouquets in this one.”

  “They’ve been coming and going since eleven. However, rest assured, there are only two now. No, no. There are three. Or was it four?” She scratched at a tickle near her ear and mumbled, “No, Lord Dalhousie already left, that’s right. So that makes . . .”

  “How many?” Tristan nearly growled.

  “There are three,” she murmured very quickly.

  He sighed and ran a slow hand through his tousled auburn locks. “Listen carefully. I’m going to allow them —”

  “Now wait just a minute, little brother,” she warned.

  Tristan halted her puny threat in its tracks with a hardened jaw. “I’m going to allow them to stay until I change my clothes and I—”

  “Are you going back out?”

  “Later, but if you must know I’ve just returned from Angelo’s—”

  “Fencing again?”

  “Yes,” he answered with a slow blink. “Now will you cease interrupting me?”

  She held her tongue.

  “When I come back down, which will probably be in”—he glanced at the long case clock near the door—“a half hour, I want all of them gone. Whoever is still in that morning room when I come down will find themselves thrown out on their posterior.”

  Rosalind couldn’t help but smile cheekily. “Does that include Aunt Eugenia?”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied with a grave nod and a sparkle in his eye. “Indeed, it does.”

  Turning, he shook his head and bounded up the steps, taking three at a time with ease.

  There came a shuffling at the door, which was left open to accommodate the wealth of flower deliveries.

  Rosalind turned to see a pair of long, male legs topped with the most enormous vase of pink blooms she had ever seen. The flowers must have numbered at least two dozen, but what was even more astonishing was the legs that had carried them in here. This was no delivery boy.

  Snug, biscuit-colored breeches hugged every sinewy muscle of his thighs to sheer perfection. Tall, polished boots shown glossy in the light pouring in from the open door.

  My, her newest caller possessed such dashing attire. And must favor physical activity, as well, for no man looked that muscular and virile without it, she was sure.

  The soft heels of her kid boots made not a sound as she approached this new visitor. Reaching forward with both hands, she grasped around the middle of the wide vase, her fingers coming into brief contact with warm hands covered in smooth leather.

  “Thank you,” she said politely, glancing down at the nest of blooms before looking up at the man. “I’ll put them . . .”

  “Rosalind,” Nicholas said, his tone stiff, his gray eyes sparkling like jewels.

  A shock of surprise burned in her chest. “Oh,�
� she said, affecting indifference. “It’s just you.”

  Her feelings were still smarting from yesterday’s ball. The constant swaying of his indifference to interest to slighting her for a dance grated on her mind. Years of being able to read the behavior of individuals in order to gauge the level of interest—or lack of—in others had not prepared her for Nicholas. He was a conundrum.

  She walked away from him, scooting a fat pot of begonias out of the way to make room for the roses.

  He took off his hat as she did so and hung it on the rack next to the door.

  “Those,” he said as he gestured to the roses with an indolent flick of his wrist, “are not from me.”

  She smiled stiffly. “I would never dream that they were.”

  She hated to admit it, but the fickle-hearted buffoon that he was, he still looked gloriously attractive. And had he cut his hair?

  “Is that someone coming up the walk?” She made a show of appearing to look past him and out the open door at his back. No, he hadn’t cut his hair. All those silky brown locks were pulled back and tied with a leather queue.

  A peculiar slow heat crept through her. Last night he’d looked half gentleman, half wild and wonderful Scot. To her irritation, she hadn’t been the only one who’d noticed. However, amongst all the sighing and wistful looks he’d received from the younger set, Rosalind had also heard some older women mock his physical stature, claiming his muscles, strength, and tanned skin marked him as a common laborer.

  Rosalind didn’t believe there was anything common about Nicholas.

  Indeed, it had been difficult not to stare at him last night, but today was even worse. Today he looked every inch the cultured nobleman with an undercurrent of virility and restrained wickedness. And had she ever seen another man fill his clothes so well?

  Her gaze scoured over his form. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. His black coat was expertly fitted, stretching across his shoulders as if it had been stitched while on him. His waistcoat was also black, but it had threadwork of a pearly blue that swirled in a lazy design across the flat expanse of his stomach.

  She had the sudden urge to fan her hand against it, test its resistance.

  Finally, she looked to his face and found his own gaze was just returning from his own languid perusal. Of her.

  But she couldn’t be quite sure, could she? Perhaps she had a petal or a leaf sitting on her skirt or in her hair. She patted her dark blue skirts down and swiped at her shoulders.

  She looked up to find him looking at her quizzically.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, raising a brow.

  “Is there a leaf or a flower petal or something?” she asked, twisting left and right.

  He stepped forward suddenly and, reaching out, gently pinched at the fabric of her right sleeve, which sent a thousand shivers racing down her arm. A tiny leaf floated to the floor.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  He dipped his chin.

  They stared at one another for a long minute, the only sounds that of the ticking clock and the bustling street scene behind him.

  Sudden sniffling came from the back of the house. Rosalind turned to see Briggs returning to his post.

  “My apologies, my lady,” he intoned, wiping at his nose with a handkerchief before stuffing it in the front pocket of his livery. He closed the door behind Nicholas.

  “No need to apologize, Briggs,” she replied with concern. “I understand. It is the flowers, yes? Had I known they caused you trouble, I would have had them placed in another room.”

  Briggs waved away her concern. “No, my lady. I suppose it is a bit more from this dreadful head cold.”

  Rosalind dipped her head. “Perhaps you ought to retire early, then.” When the loyal servant shook his head, she insisted, “Yes, you should. I’ll have Cook make soup, and Jenny will bring it up to you.”

  “My lady is too kind,” Briggs intoned.

  Her attention returned to Nicholas.

  He was looking about the room, seeming to notice only now the plethora of blooms in which they stood. “For the love of God, woman,” he murmured. “Is this normal?”

  She lifted her chin. “I’ll have you know that it is quite normal for gentlemen to send flowers to a lady after a ball.”

  “Aye, but of this magnitude?”

  “There are some things which I cannot control.”

  “Like your appeal, is it?”

  “That’s not what I meant at all,” she answered testily. “I cannot help it that they were so generous—”

  “Flamboyant,” he interrupted, gesturing to the rather poor, but quite large, watercolor of her likeness.

  “I did not ask for any of this,” she said defensively.

  “Oh, you did,” he murmured darkly. “Just by walking into a room.”

  Her brow quirked at that, but she recovered swiftly.

  “Some gentlemen,” she stressed, “find it is the proper thing to do after an evening in which he shared a dance with the lady. I can only assume by your remarks that you did no such thing for the long list of ladies who accompanied you on the ballroom floor yesterday evening.”

  “One should never assume.”

  “So you did send them flowers?” she blurted, then wished she’d had the forbearance to bite her tongue.

  He was quiet for a moment, and then a broad smile crept over his mouth. “I’m curious to know why you find the subject of such interest.”

  “I don’t.”

  “But you asked,” he said, gazing down at her intensely, the smile turning lopsided.

  She blushed hotly. “So, I did,” she conceded. “There is no reason for you to answer me. I reckon it is none of my business.”

  Another long pause, and then he finally replied, “I did not send flowers. I’m sure that marks me a savage in your eyes, but there you have it. Next, I presume, you’ll think I like to swing from trees and eat soup with my fingers.”

  She pressed her lips together, smothering a smile. “Very well,” she managed after a moment. “I was only curious, I imagine, not jealous.” Oh, dear God, why had she said that?

  A muscle in his cheek twitched. “I didn’t say you were.” He walked around her and headed for the double doors of the morning room.

  She followed the insolent man.

  The distant murmurings of the gentlemen ensconced in the room reached her ears. Aunt Eugenia’s perpetual disapproving tones were loudest of them all. One of the doors was open a crack. Nicholas tilted his head to peek through between the doors.

  She took a deep breath, then whispered harshly, “Why are you here?”

  He looked down at her, those devastatingly gray eyes twinkling. “Are you up to something? I ask because you seem guilty. Are you meddling? Eavesdropping? Matchmaking?”

  “Indeed, I am not.”

  “You could be,” he said quietly. “Your aunt is a single lady, and there are”—he glanced around the door to look inside the deep room once again—“three men present.”

  “Those three gentlemen are old enough to be her sons.”

  He shrugged one shoulder while he continued to spy on them. “It would not be unheard of in your circles.”

  “Just what is that supposed to mean?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

  “Oh, I think you know.”

  “I’m afraid I am at a loss. Explain.”

  “I’d rather not,” he mumbled.

  “You are stubborn.”

  “And you are surprisingly astute.”

  “Well, thank . . .” Her gratitude died on her tongue. “Your insult was poorly veiled as a compliment.”

  “As I said, astute.”

  She nearly gave a small scream of frustration. Instead, she asked through a tight smile, “What, pray, are you doing here?” When he failed to answer her directly, she gave his back a poke and couldn’t help but notice her finger met steely resistance. Was every inch of him covered in muscle? “Perhaps you were lost?”

  “Very funny.
I’m here to see Tristan.”

  Her brow quirked at that. Although he and Tristan were friendly, they weren’t close.

  “I was hoping he could lead me in the direction of a gambling club.”

  “I see,” she said tartly. “Well, if you’re looking for a night of prowling for feminine distraction, I’m sorry to inform you that you’ll have to do that on your own. Tristan has been engaged since last autumn.”

  “I do not intend to take the lad with me.”

  Something inside her crumbled a bit. It displeased her to realize that Nicholas was looking for a night of carousing and sordid female companionship. She hadn’t thought he was like that.

  She blinked rapidly, trying to keep disappointment from her expression. “Shall I ring for him, then?”

  He nodded without moving his assessing gaze from the occupants of the room.

  Rosalind turned to a young, freckled maid who was passing down the corridor in the direction of the front door, a large carrot in her hand, presumably for the horse tethered outside—a gift Rosalind could not, in good graces, accept. The horse, that is. Carrots she liked just fine.

  “Maria? Will you inform his lordship’s valet that he has a visitor?”

  The maid curtsied. “Yes, miss.”

  Rosalind turned back to Nicholas. “You can wait for him in the study. It’s down the hall on the . . .”

  He was gone.

  “ . . . right.”

  But gone he was not. Heavens, no. That would have been too easy. The stubborn man was now standing in the middle of the morning room as if this was his residence.

  As she watched, he spoke to her trio of male visitors, who, in turn, regarded him with the flare of competition in their eyes.

  She would like to blame his brashness on his newly titled status, but he’d behaved in much the same manner that day in the bookshop. At least he was consistent in that.

  She crept inside the room, her dark blue skirts swishing on the Aubusson carpet. The seated men instantly stood, greeting her with wide smiles.

  “Please, gentlemen,” Aunt Eugenia implored haughtily. “Do sit. The gel is likely to stand all day. I’m not sure what’s wrong. She’s been rather fidgety, peeking around the drapes to look outside. I can only presume you’ve all spoiled my niece with the attention and she’s grown bored.”