Never Lie to a Lady Page 6

  She lowered her gaze, and he dropped his hand. “For Lord and Lady Sharpe,” she managed to say. “I must chaperone Lady Louisa through the remainder of her season. I shall even have to appear at Almack’s. I fear my cousin’s health has taken a fragile turn, and she cannot attend to it.”

  “Good Lord! Almack’s?” His black eyes danced with laughter. “And you shall go?”

  Her gaze snapped back to his. “You doubtless find that humorous,” she returned. “But I have little choice in the matter. And you may believe me when I say there are a thousand things I should rather be doing than rubbing elbows with the ton.”

  He held her eyes for a long moment, some nameless emotion sketching over his features. “Well, then,” he finally said. “Perhaps we are destined to meet again after all, Miss Neville.”

  “Oh, I doubt it.” She managed a teasing smile. “You do not look the Almack’s type to me. I should lay odds they won’t even let you in the front door.”

  Again, he lifted one elegant shoulder. “One never knows,” he murmured. “What sort of odds are you offering?”

  Xanthia laughed. “Oh, just a straight wager,” she said. “I must have a spare twenty-pound note lying about the house somewhere.”

  Nash smiled tightly. “Tempting, Miss Neville, but I think the take would have to be a good deal richer to get me into that sort of gaming hell,” he said. “Too many men have lost their most valuable asset inside Almack’s lofty portals.”

  Xanthia lifted her eyebrows. “What sort of asset?”

  Lord Nash flashed his wolfish grin. “Their priceless bachelorhood,” he answered. “Now I bid you good evening, my dear, until we meet again. I believe I can find my own way out.”

  Amidst a tempest of emotions, Xanthia bathed and dressed for dinner. What a shock it had been to find Nash—Lord Nash—casually reclined in her brother’s best chair and looking very much at home. Today he had seemed so very dark and tall—and altogether more man than she had remembered. In all the rush of Xanthia’s workday, and in all the consternation over Pamela’s health, she had somehow forced away the memory of last night’s foolhardy escapade.

  Well, that was not wholly true, she admitted, studying herself in the dressing mirror as she fastened her second earbob. The memory of Lord Nash’s touch had lingered, hovering in the back of her mind, and engendering vague feelings of embarrassment—interspersed with more than a few stabs of regret. And upon seeing him again, once the initial shock was past, the regret had cut like a keen blade. In the light of day, it was obvious just how striking a gentleman he was.

  He was not handsome, no. Not in the English way. But he was elegance personified; lean and dark, like a cat prowling through a moonlit wood. There was an air of intrigue about the man which made one yearn to know him better in every sense of the word. Today Lord Nash had worn his heavy, too-long hair swept off his high forehead like a mane of sable. His cloak, an almost old-fashioned bit of elegance, had looked to be made of the most supple, finely draped wool imaginable, and his dark gray coat had molded beautifully to the width of his shoulders.

  His face, too, was remarkable. Those hard planes and angles held a severity and a certain majesty which she had not noticed the previous evening. And his eyes—oh, God, those obsidian eyes! They were almost exotic in appearance, and set at just a hint of an angle, as if the blood of a Mongol horde coursed through his veins.

  All of it left Xanthia wondering. What if she had not left him standing on the balcony last night? What if she had been daring enough to act on her fantasies? What if she had simply given him her name and accepted his bold invitation into his bed?

  He would have refused her, that was what would have happened. Once Lord Nash had learned she was unwed, he would have backed away as surely as if she had just burst into flames. He had the air of a man who had been singed before.

  On a sigh, Xanthia straightened up from the mirror and looked herself straight in the eye. Forget him, she told herself. It will never happen. Not with Nash, and not with any other man. Well, not unless she wanted Gareth—and Gareth wanted far more than Xanthia was prepared to give.

  With Gareth there had once been passion, yes. And a sincere friendship, too. But Xanthia understood too well that a woman, once she married, became nothing but her husband’s property. It was not that she believed Gareth would have wrested control of Neville Shipping from her, but merely that he would have had the legal right to do so. And it would have been her choice to give him that power over her and all that she had worked for. She loved him. But she did not love him enough for that.

  In the dining room, she and Kieran passed the first two courses of dinner catching up on the day’s post. Kieran was not a man given to casual conversation, but there was a little news from home in the form of a letter from a neighboring plantation, and one of Kieran’s tenants in Barbados had written to ask a rather convoluted question about water rights. Mundane business, to be sure, but it was the essence of their life together.

  Kieran and Luke, and eventually Martinique, whom Luke had adopted, were all the real family Xanthia had ever known. And they were all she needed. Suddenly, however, in the midst of passing a platter of buttered parsnips down the table, Xanthia was struck with a vision of her hand on Pamela’s gently rounding belly. She must have faltered, for Kieran grabbed the dish and drew it from her grasp. “All right, Zee?” he murmured, casting her a curious glance.

  Xanthia forced a smile. “The dish was a little heavy.”

  Kieran motioned for more wine, then sent the footmen from the room. Xanthia knew the pointed questions were about to begin, but she rarely feared her brother’s wrath. Indeed, she understood him better than anyone—which was to say not very well, and yet well enough to grasp the one truth which eluded almost everyone. Each blunt and heavy-handed thing the great Baron Rothewell did was motivated by a bone-deep sense of duty; a duty he had been neither born to nor trained for. A duty which he had brought upon himself—or so he believed.

  Their elder brother’s untimely death had scared them both deeply, for in one horrifying instant, the brave trio of orphans had become but two. And neither she nor Kieran had been prepared for it. So she forgave Kieran his meddling and his barking, and bore it with as much fortitude as she could muster.

  Kieran was circling the wine around the bowl of his glass and staring into it almost blindly. “I wish to hear all about this Nash fellow, my dear,” he said. “I gather you met him at Pamela’s?”

  Xanthia lowered her eyes. “In passing.”

  “Well, you must have made quite an impression, Zee,” he went on. “You realize, of course, that Gareth Lloyd’s heart will be broken if you marry your Lord Dark-and-Dangerous?”

  Xanthia stopped nudging her peas from one side of the plate to the other. “I beg your pardon?” she said. “If I what?”

  Kieran eyed her from across the table. “If you marry Nash.”

  Xanthia’s eyes felt as round as her dinner plate. “What in heaven’s name gave you such a notion?”

  “Perhaps it was the fact that the man asked permission to court you,” Kieran returned. “What, did he not come to the point?”

  Xanthia was aghast. “He certainly did not.”

  “Good.” Kieran took up his knife and deftly sliced the leg off his roast chicken. “I hoped he had cast aside the notion.”

  “Surely—” Xanthia’s voice hit an oddly sharp note. “Surely, Kieran, you cannot be serious about this?”

  “He asked permission to court you,” said Kieran more firmly. “And I put him off. I suggested he find someone younger, and more biddable. Besides, he clearly knows next to nothing about you, Zee, so—” Suddenly, he halted. “I hope, my dear, that I have not misinterpreted your feelings for the fellow?”

  Xanthia shook her head. “No.”

  No. The answer was definitely no. And now the only feeling Xanthia was suffering was the slightest sense of light-headedness. Lord Nash must be perfectly mad. Had he really believed he had so
mehow tainted Xanthia’s precious virtue? With just a kiss?

  But it had not been just a kiss, had it? At the mere memory, a faint tug of desire went twisting through her, ratcheting up her breath. Xanthia closed her eyes. Good Lord, if she allowed herself to think of it, even for an instant, she could still feel that sweet, languorous yearning which his mouth and his touch had aroused. It made one think of candlelight, and of soft linen sheets, and of…

  No. It was not just a kiss. And Nash was right. Had it been Lady Louisa whom he had so flagrantly caressed on the terrace last night, Sharpe would have had him leg-shackled before noon. And he would have deserved it, for Louisa was obviously an innocent. But Xanthia was not—and therein lay all the difference. She marveled that Nash had not noticed it. Perhaps he had. Perhaps that was why he had begun to fear the snap of a parson’s mousetrap.

  Kieran was looking at her strangely.

  Xanthia took up her fork and forced a bemused expression. “Lord Dark-and-Dangerous,” she murmured. “Why do you call him that?”

  Kieran forked up another bite of chicken. “I find a malevolent sort of air about the man,” he said after thoughtfully chewing it. “He isn’t English, either. Or perhaps I should say English is not his first language. Did you notice?”

  Xanthia’s eyes widened. “You may be right,” she answered. “I have rubbed elbows with sailors so long, I pay scant heed to a faint accent.”

  Kieran looked introspective. “Well, wherever he is from, I am not sure I care for his effrontery,” he remarked. “I believe I shall ask Sharpe about the man’s character.”

  “Oh, pray do not.” Xanthia frowned at her brother. “Indeed, I forbid it.”

  “You forbid it?” Kieran shot a dark look across the table, then relented. “Well, suit yourself, Zee. It’s your wedding, not mine.”

  “It isn’t anyone’s wedding,” she insisted.

  “And you did not answer my question about Gareth, my dear,” he went on. “I hope I need not remind you that Gareth is still our dear friend. Indeed, he is all but family to us both.”

  “What are you trying to say, Kieran?” she demanded.

  “Just do not hurt him, Zee, any more than is absolutely necessary,” said her brother quietly. “If you do not mean to have him, then tell him plainly.”

  Xanthia dropped her fork. “I have told him plainly,” she said. “I have been telling him for about half a decade now, Kieran. Kindly hush about Gareth. I have something far more important to discuss.”

  “Have at it, my dear,” said her brother, his tone instantly lightening. “But for God’s sake, do not speak to me of Neville Shipping, or of what you and Gareth have been about all day. I should rather hear an alphabetical recitation of the Westminster tax rolls.”

  Xanthia shot him a chiding look. “I wish to speak to you of Pamela,” she said. “And do listen, Kieran, if you please. It is important.”

  Now that she was over the shock of seeing Nash again, all of Xanthia’s fear and excitement over Pamela’s situation sprang forth anew. But it took her all of half an hour to explain Pamela’s predicament, and enlist her brother’s cooperation. It came grudgingly, for Kieran had not the least interest in English society. Indeed, since letting his mills and plantations go, and moving back to England, he had shown little interest in anything.

  They finished the meal in silence. From time to time, Xanthia eyed him across the table. She was worried. Kieran spent most of his days reading and drinking, and his nights prowling about in the stews and hells of Covent Garden. He feigned no interest in life’s higher purposes or finer virtues, and had thus far refused to join even the most humble of clubs or societies. Kieran kept low company, odd hours, and bad women. His occasional trysts with Mrs. Ambrose were almost a relief to her.

  Xanthia loved her brother desperately. For so long, it had been just the three of them—she, Kieran, and Luke—fighting against the world. They had lived for one another. Sacrificed for one another. She could not count on all her fingers and toes the times when her elder brothers had literally taken the brunt of their uncle’s wrath for something she had done, or later, the times they had hidden her away from his dangerously drunken friends. Kieran, of course, had always taken the worst of it, for even as a young man, he’d been rash, and far too bold. Luke had possessed a degree of diplomacy. Kieran had possessed a soul filled with passion and anger.

  Xanthia was not perfectly sure what was to become of her brother. He is going to drink and whore himself into an early grave, Cousin Pamela had said. Pray God she was wrong. Still, hearing the words spoken aloud had troubled Xanthia. She had been thoroughly unsuccessful in drawing Kieran into the shipping business, for he had claimed—and not wrongly—that she and Gareth did not need him. Xanthia then tried to convince him not to renew the lease on his vast estate in Cheshire. He would not listen, saying he had no wish to live in the country watching the sheep and grass grow.

  And that was that. Xanthia had her hands full with the business, which occupied most of her waking moments in one way or another. Indeed, with dinner all but done, it was time to attend to it. Mentally, she began to recount the papers she had brought home for review. There was a suspiciously high invoice from the victualling yard for six of Neville’s ships which had gone out in January and were not due back in port for another fortnight at best. She was disinclined to pay the bill until she had compared it to the inventory of provisions they had taken on. There was a stack of insurance forms from Lloyd’s, and a proposal from an insolvent competitor to sell them three dilapidated merchantmen—but at a price Xanthia found hard to resist. She needed to do a little arithmetic to make sure the time in dry dock for refurbishment would not eat significantly into Neville’s profit, for the cost of—

  “Ah,” said a quiet voice. “I see I have lost you again.”

  Xanthia looked up to see that Kieran was already pouring his port, which one of the footmen had carried in on a tray.

  “My apologies,” she said mechanically. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”

  Kieran’s mouth turned up at one corner. “Yes, in Wapping, I suspect.”

  Xanthia moved to slide back her chair. “I fear so,” she said, rising as the footman leapt forth to assist her. “Which reminds me, I have a raft of papers I must see to by evening’s end. You will be going out, I collect?”

  He smiled faintly and tossed off a portion of his port. “I daresay I shall.”

  “Then I will bid you good night.”

  “Yes. Good night, Zee.”

  At his elbow, however, Xanthia hesitated, then impulsively, she bent and brushed her lips over his cheek. “Do be careful, Kieran,” she murmured. “Promise that you shall?”

  He tossed a dark, sidelong look up at her as if he might snap at her with one of his ugly retorts, but at the last instant, the expression faltered. “All right, old thing,” he said quietly. “I shall be careful.”

  In Park Lane, the evening was drawing to a close. Working London had long since gone home to dinner, and traffic up and down the hill had waned to little more than the occasional brisk rattle of a fine carriage passing by. Agnes, the first-floor parlor maid, was working her way through the house, methodically sweeping the hearths and drawing the draperies as she went.

  In Lord Nash’s vast library, she hesitated. Coals yet glowed in the grate, casting an eerie red light along the mantelpiece. She began instead with the floor-to-ceiling curtains, drawing snug the weighty velvet panels using a long brass rod. When the last was drawn against the evening’s chill, she put down the rod and turned to the hearth.

  “Thank you, Agnes,” said a deep voice in the shadows.

  Agnes shrieked, nearly leaping from her skin.

  “Thank you, Agnes,” Lord Nash repeated. “You may go now.”

  Agnes bobbed unsteadily. “Beg pardon, m’lord,” she squeaked. “I d-did not see you. D-Do you not wish a lamp lit?”

  “Thank you, no.” There was the sharp chink of a vodka decanter as he refilled his glass.
“The dark can cover a multitude of sins, can it not?”

  Agnes bobbed again, as if for good measure. “I—I daresay, sir,” she whispered. “Am I to do the hearth now?”

  “See to it tomorrow.” The marquess’s voice rumbled in the gloom. “You are excused. No—wait.”

  “Yes, m’lord?”

  “Is Mr. Swann still in, by chance?”

  “I—I don’t know, sir,” admitted the parlor maid. “Shall I send a footman to fetch him, sir?”

  “Please do.”

  The girl darted out, leaving Nash alone again with his thoughts. He slid deeper into his armchair, cradling his snifter of okhotnichya against his shirtfront. He had been sitting thus more or less since his return from Rothewell’s mansion in Berkeley Square, his solitude broken only by dinner. Perhaps he would not have thought to eat at all, but Tony had come to dine, blowing in and out like an August thunderstorm.

  Nash wished he had not invited him. Not tonight.

  Though they had always been close, they were like chalk and cheese, he and his stepbrother. Tony lived in the present, Nash in the past—or somewhere in between. They shared little by way of personality, and nothing at all in appearance. Tony was fair and handsome to Nash’s dark glower. Tony was slender, elegant, blue-eyed, and Oxford-educated. Yes, Tony was the one thing Savile Row’s finest tailoring would never make Nash—the perfect English gentleman. But like most of them, Tony held a provincial view of the world, and England’s place within it. To him, there was nothing which mattered beyond Albion’s white shores.

  So whilst Tony was left to fight and finesse and scrap his way up the government ladder, here was Nash, being…well, Nash—a title almost as old and as grand as fair Albion herself. It seemed contrary to the laws of nature. It seemed…a little unjust, really. Tony was the grandson of a duke—which in England counted for quite a lot, even if two dozen cousins would have to perish to put him within sniffing distance of the title.

  It was a pity, Nash often thought, that Tony could not simply have had the marquessate—and he could not escape the feeling that Nash’s late father had probably thought so, too. The perfect English gentleman for the perfect English title. And by now, left to his own devices, Nash might have been a major in the czar’s Imperial Guard. Or left in peace to stroll the hills of home with his favorite wolfhound.