Grace Burrowes - [Lonely Lords 02] Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by Grace Burrowes

  Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by The Killion Group

  Cover image © Edvard March/Corbis

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also by Grace Burrowes

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Grace Burrowes’s Lonely Lord series

  Back Cover

  Also by Grace Burrowes

  The Duke’s Obsession Series

  The Heir

  The Soldier

  The Virtuoso

  Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish

  Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal

  Lady Louisa’s Christmas Knight

  Lady Eve’s Indiscretion

  Novellas

  The Courtship

  The Duke and His Duchess

  The Lonely Lords Series

  Darius

  Scottish-set Victorian Romance

  The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

  This book is for everybody who knows how much love and wisdom reside in people whom the ignorant dismiss as “limited.” One child’s silent smile can illuminate universes, and love has a genius that soars above the pedestrian comprehension of the intellect.

  One

  The English peerage had come to a sorry pass when the heir to an earldom had to duck up the footmen’s stairway to hide from the lovely young women seeking to become his countess.

  Nicholas Haddonfield, Viscount Reston, took those steps two at a time.

  He emerged on the first floor of the Winterthur mansion, the corridor lit by wall sconces and blessedly devoid of footmen, debutantes, mamas, or other aggravations.

  Nick hurried to the first door and found it locked, suggesting the evening’s hosts, Lord and Lady Winterthur, were not entirely foolish. Well, no matter, the corridor was long, and there had to be an unlocked sitting room or parlor where a man could hide himself away for a few minutes of peace, quiet, and solitude.

  He approached an intersection and froze as he heard a twittering female voice.

  “He must have gone this way, Eulie.” The tone was indignant. “The gentlemen’s retiring room is on this floor, and he’s too big to go missing for long.”

  “Really, Pamela…” The second woman’s voice floated around the corner. “I know he’ll be an earl, but you can’t seriously be thinking of marriage to Reston? I heard him tell Lady Lavinia Gregson he killed his mother.”

  The voices were coming closer. Nick spotted a door on the left slightly ajar and sent up a prayer of thanks to whatever saint looked after beleaguered bachelors. He slipped inside, finding the room dark, save for weak illumination from a fire in the hearth.

  “He’s likely hiding,” the first woman decided. “Playing hard to get. You know when he said he killed his mother, it was almost as if he were serious.”

  Nick plastered himself against the wall behind the door while the ladies in the corridor continued their pursuit.

  “Pamela, you cannot have thought what the wedding night with such a brute would involve.” Just outside the door, the lady’s voice dripped with distaste. “Earl or not, he’s simply… well, I would fear for you, my dear.”

  “My mother says they all look the same in the dark.”

  The door swung open. One of the various ladies who’d been watching Nick ever more closely as the supper waltz approached peered into the gloom, then pulled the door shut again. “Nothing in here. Perhaps he’s in the gentlemen’s retiring room.”

  As her voice trailed off down the corridor, Nick considered the intensity of his relief.

  Safe—for another hour he was safe, and so damned tired that a cozy, private parlor was inordinately appealing. He moved across the room, intent on stoking up the fire, when his peripheral vision caught a pale shadow to the right of the hearth.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not know the room was occupied.”

  As his vision adjusted, Nick could make out the soft, billowy shape of a ball gown on a woman seated on a chest or bench along the wall.

  “What if we each agree to be alone in here?” the apparition suggested in a voice that carried the slightest rasp.

  “Suits me,” Nick said, going to the fireplace. “Are you hiding or merely enjoying a quiet respite?”

  “Both, I think. And you?”

  “Most definitely hiding.” Nick’s smile was rueful. “Lady Whoever and her faithful dog Lady Simper have that let-me-be-your-countess gleam in their eyes.”

  “One of them sounded less than enthralled.” There was a touch of humor in her voice, though nothing mean.

  “I’d wish I were a foot taller, if it would scare away more of the debutantes and their mamas. Do you mind if I sit, as we’re each so plainly alone?”

  “Please.” The lady shifted slightly in her corner. “You are Reston?”

  “At your service.” Nick bowed toward the shadowy corner. “And apparently tall enough to have no anonymity left whatsoever.”

  “Or handsome enough. Maybe single enough?”

  Nick scrubbed a hand over his face. “That too, for my sins.”

  He satisfied himself the fire was going to throw off a little more heat, but resisted the urge to build it up to the point where the shadows were illuminated. Without knowing why, he didn’t want to intrude on his companion’s privacy. Something appealed about having a conversation with a woman whose features he could not clearly see.

  He settled back on a sofa facing the hearth, crossed one foot over his knee, pulled off his gloves, and slipped off his dancing pump. His companion was no heavily chaperoned schoolgirl if she could find her way to this little oasis of solitude, and he doubted she’d take offense.

  “My poor, lordly, single feet are expiring,” Nick muttered, massaging his arch.

  “Bride hunting is work,” the lady said. “Almost as hard work as being hunted.”

  Nick’s hands paused in their ministrations, and he cocked his head to peer into the dark corner. “So are you a staked goat as well?”

  “I am on my way to slaughter, I fear.” For the first time, her voice had a careful, controlled quality.

  She’d been crying. Nick knew it like any man with four sisters knows such things, like any man who adored women—most women, most of the time—could sense female upset.

  “Your intended is not to your liking?” Nick asked, trying not to let himse
lf care. He couldn’t even see the woman, for pity’s sake, though Nick had the sense she was as weary of the ballroom battleground as he.

  “My intended is more than twice my age, and while that alone would not matter, he’s spent more years being dissolute than I have breathing.”

  “Gads.” Nick switched feet. “At least I get to do the asking.”

  “At least.”

  “Who is this reprobate?” Nick inquired after a moment, stretching out his stockinged feet toward the fire. “Shall I call him out for you? Buy up his markers?”

  “I really ought not to be so sensitive,” the lady said with a touch of asperity, “but I do not appreciate the levity, my lord.”

  “Who’s joking? Tell me who he is.”

  “Hellerington,” the woman said, a wealth of resignation in her voice.

  “And you’ve accepted him?” Nick asked, leaning back and closing his eyes.

  “I have not, but he told me at supper he would be speaking to my father, and once they come to terms, my refusal or consent won’t mean anything.”

  Nick opened his eyes and frowned. The man’s name wasn’t ringing any particular bells, but then, Nick had spent much of the past few years in the country, dodging his responsibilities and larking about with friends—to hear his father tell it.

  He thought of his father, now growing increasingly frail, and wanted to howl at the moon with the weight of his grief and guilt. Rising, he crossed the room to a decanter on a sideboard and poured two glasses.

  “Dutch courage.” He passed one drink to the lady. “Sip it carefully, though Winterthur will have only decent libation on hand.” A graceful bare hand emerged from the shadows and took the drink. No gloves. The lady was making herself quite at home here in the dark little parlor.

  “Good lord,” the woman gasped, “that is… potent.”

  “Warms the innards,” Nick said, sipping his own drink. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not.” She tucked her skirts closer to her side and scooted more deeply into her corner.

  Nick lowered himself beside her, making the padded bench creak. “Have you no other prospects?”

  He leaned back against the wall, savoring the moment. The fire hissed and popped softly beside them, and the lady herself gave off a subtle fragrant heat, such that even sitting beside her was an odd comfort.

  “I am barely received,” she said. “My debut was eight years ago. I should feel lucky to have any offer at all.”

  “A fossil then, though not as prehistoric as my handsome self.” And no wonder she didn’t quail at sharing the parlor with him for a few moments.

  Or a drink.

  Or a bench in a quiet corner.

  “Men do not become fossils. They become distinguished.”

  Nick sipped his drink. “Good to know.”

  “How is your father?”

  The question surprised him, but if she knew who he was and that he was hunting a bride, she’d likely know why as well.

  “Failing,” Nick said, surprising himself with his honesty. “He’s a tough old boot but hasn’t lived an easy life, and seeing me married is all he’s asked of me.” And Nick had given his promise that before the Season was out, he’d have not just a fiancée, but a bride. The already depressing evening threatened to become downright morose.

  “Parents. They excel at the gentle art of unspoken guilt.”

  Understanding like that was balm to a tired bachelor’s soul. “Is that why you’re on your way to slaughter?”

  “Not parental guilt. Sororal guilt.”

  “I am one of eight,” Nick said, citing the legitimate total because he was in polite company. “Sibling guilt can be powerful.”

  The guilt of a grown, unmarried son and heir more powerful yet.

  “My younger sister will make her come out next year, and I must be safely away from the social scene. One wouldn’t want to queer her chances by association with me.”

  “You are truly so wicked?” He couldn’t credit that, because he knew—in every sense—the truly wicked and fast ladies of the polite world, and he did not know this shadowy creature beside him. He could not place her slightly husky voice or her lily of the valley scent.

  “I was wicked,” she said. “I caused quite a scandal once upon a time.”

  “All of my dearest friends have at least one scandal to their names.” As did he, though he’d endure death by torture before he’d let Society catch a hint of it. Nick put his drink to his lips again, only to find he’d drained his glass. “More brandy?”

  “Maybe just a drop. It grows on one.”

  He brought the decanter to her and poured them each another two fingers.

  “You have no brothers or aunties or grandmother who can stay your father’s hand?” Nick asked as he settled back down beside her. He wanted to stay close to her scent and to the pleasing melody of her voice in the dark. On a night otherwise devoid of comforts, the impulse was not to be questioned.

  “No aunties or grandmother.” The lady did not sound forlorn so much as stoic. “Two brothers, and they have done what they could to spare me these past few years. Papa is determined to be rid of me though, so a-marrying I will go.”

  A-marrying, an ironic reference to a-Maying. Nick appreciated the bravado.

  “It’s cheering, in a bleak sort of way, to commiserate with somebody else who has so little enthusiasm for wedded bliss.”

  “Did you really tell that poor woman you killed your mother?” The amusement was there again.

  Nick peered at his drink, watching as it caught and reflected the firelight. “I did kill my mother, in a manner of speaking. She did not survive long after my appearance in the world, which I attribute to the rigors of birthing a child who was half the size of a bull calf. Informing my various countesses-in-waiting of this fact cools their heels a bit.”

  “Naughty of you but not unsporting. Childbed is a dangerous place, irrespective of a lady’s wealth or position.”

  “So I tell myself. How would your papa react were I to pay you my addresses?”

  The lady beside him went still in some considering way.

  “You’re serious. That is very kind of you, my lord.”

  “Not kind—it’s self-serving. If I am seen to choose a prospective fiancée, then at least half of the gaggle following me from ball to soiree to Venetian breakfast will lose heart, and I’ll have a little more peace for the next few weeks.”

  “My lord”—the lady’s voice indicated she was looking at him while she spoke—“you don’t even know who I am, what I look like, what scandal lies in my past.”

  Nick shrugged his shoulders, their width causing his arm to brush inadvertently against his companion. “Nor do I care. You are an eligible female, which makes you credible for my purposes, and you are a damsel in distress.” She also had a pretty voice, wasn’t the least missish, and her scent was luscious and soothing.

  “Your rescue could misfire,” the lady pointed out. “If Hellerington thinks you’re considering me as a potential wife, he might negotiate with my father that much more quickly.”

  “Suppose he could.” Nick felt a passing relief his impulsive offer was not going to be accepted, though it meant more weeks of Lady Simper and her ilk. “It’s still a thought.”

  “Generous of you.” The lady touched her glass to his. “To a knight errant of the ballroom. May you find happiness, despite your apparent fate.”

  Nick saluted with his glass. “And you as well, my lady.”

  They drank in companionable, thoughtful silence until Nick spoke again.

  “What’s going to be the worst part? The worst part of being married to this Lord Hellerington?” He occupied himself with such dolorous musings when he contemplated his own impending marriage.

  “Besides the loss of hope?” She was silent a long moment, while Nick tried not to let that term—loss of hope—settle too hard in his mind. “It should not bother me, for a wife must do her duty, but the thought of t
hat man kissing me… His teeth—what teeth he has—are not attractive, and he takes snuff… And this is really more than you wanted to know. I am being ridiculous. The man can’t have that many years to live, after all.”

  Nick patted her hand. Kissing, done properly, could be more intimate than coitus.

  “I understand. What years you have left, you shouldn’t have to spend trying not to gag in the dark as your privacy is violated in the name of marital duty.” She went still again, shocked maybe, but Nick wasn’t sorry he’d spoken.

  “Blunt,” she muttered on a soft exhalation, “and bloody accurate.”

  Bloody. He liked her more and more.

  “Shall I kiss you, my lady? I have all my teeth, and I am accounted somewhat skilled in the art. I think I shall. You may consider it a kiss for luck.” He set his drink aside and took hers from her hand as well. He kept his movements deliberate, giving her every chance to demur, turn his threat into a joke, or slap him. Nick was no stranger to a woman’s palm walloped across his cheek, though it had been awhile.

  But she kept her silence—his liking for this woman was becoming considerable—so Nick followed her arm up with his hand until he could anchor both hands on her neck and cradle her jaw. He could find her lips in the dark easily enough, but he wanted to know the feel of her cheekbones under his thumbs, wanted to experience the exact warmth of that special, feminine place where neck and shoulder met.

  “You can stop me,” he assured her on a whisper. “You need only tell me.”

  Her breathing had accelerated slightly, though she held still and waited.

  Patience in a female is a wonderful quality. Nick let his fingers tunnel carefully into the silky warmth of her hair and his thumbs slide first over her lips. Gads, she was soft, smooth, and warm. A pleasure to stroke, to inhale.

  He brushed his lips gently over hers and felt her breath feather over his mouth. When he repeated the caress, her lips closed but stayed unresisting under his.

  “Kiss me back, lamb,” Nick whispered. “Give me something to dream about too.”

  She made a little sound in her throat, a groan, and she swayed toward him, but still Nick merely sipped at her mouth, wanting to go slowly, to savor and pleasure and share with her just a few moments against all the years they would both be married to other strangers.