Grace Burrowes - [Lonely Lords 02] Page 9

  “You think to corrupt your younger sister, miss?” The earl remained standing, his hands tucked behind his back while Leah sat before him.

  “I think to encourage her to be happy.” Leah bent her head to her embroidery hoop but did not yield to the urge to cringe.

  “Your example has proven instructive,” the earl said, beaming a malicious smile. “It did not occur to me you would have value as a cautionary tale, but it appears you do. I bring you words of caution as well, Leah.”

  Leah raised her gaze to his and felt her chest constrict at the hatred she saw. “I am listening.”

  “Hellerington rescheduled his appointment with me last week, but today I have his note postponing the meeting indefinitely. This tells me you have failed to secure the attentions of even such a one as he, who would at least have taken you off my hands and perhaps paid modestly for the privilege.”

  “I’m sure you’re disappointed,” Leah said, trying to keep her voice even.

  “Sending you into his waiting arms would have had a certain appeal, and you might yet end up there,” the earl replied. “Without benefit of matrimony.”

  “You would condemn me thus?”

  “Happily,” the earl snapped. “And when I hear you spouting off to Emily about choosing a man for his character… Your days under this roof are numbered, miss. I will choose Emily’s husband and the terms upon which she weds, make no mistake about that. I had hoped… well, no matter. I’ve had indications this Lord Reston might be seriously interested in you, and because he is soon to assume his papa’s title, I will take some time to consider the matter of your future. You, however, would be well advised to flirt your way into some man’s affections sooner rather than later. I care not whether it’s Reston or some wealthy merchant. Consider yourself forewarned.”

  He left, sparing Leah the effort of a reply.

  He’d warned her, at least. She could be tossed into the streets, her only recourse to impose on Trent, or perhaps retreat to Darius’s little place in Kent. As her options were truly narrowing, Leah felt the foreboding in her chest congeal into dread. To be not just a spinster daughter, but a poor relation cast out of her own home…

  God in heaven, what had she done to deserve such a fate?

  And God in heaven, what was she going to do? She had four sovereigns to her name. What in the world was she going to do?

  ***

  “Sir.” The butler waited until Ethan Grey looked up from his ledgers. “A gentleman to see you.”

  Ethan waved the salver away. “Tell me who it is.”

  The butler, without raising a brow, read the card. “A Lord Reston,” he pronounced, “and the corner is bent.”

  “Ah, Jesus.” Ethan sat back and saw the usual sea of ledgers, correspondence, and documents covering his desk. First that audience with Bellefonte, now Nick knocking at his door—in person—when there was work to do.

  “Show him in.” Ejecting Nick would take more footmen than Ethan wanted to spare. “Bring us a tea tray with whatever the kitchen can add to it that’s passable.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Nick was here, at Ethan’s town house, and Ethan knew damned good and well who had given him the address.

  “Ethan.” Nick breezed in, his blue, buff, and cream riding attire showing his phenomenal physique to excellent advantage. “My apologies for not sending a note, and my thanks for your willingness to receive me.”

  “I’ve always been willing to receive you.” Ethan frowned, for Nick looked harried. Nick never looked harried. He was the quintessential self-possessed, easygoing charmer. Ethan was the one who couldn’t manage to get enough done in a day.

  Nick looked to be dropping weight as well, and Ethan’s characteristic irritability ratcheted up a notch. Nick was not allowed to be worn and tired. Nick’s job was to be happy, amiable, and bustling around in a fog of horny contentment, flirting his way from one merry widow to the next.

  “Tea’s on its way.” Ethan shoved out from behind his desk and extended a hand. Nick’s expression showed momentary surprise, but he shook solidly then tossed himself down into a sturdy cushioned chair.

  “Thank the gods for a man who appreciates real furniture.” Nick dragged a hand through his golden mane. “How was your trip to Belle Maison?”

  Amiable and very, very direct.

  “Trying,” Ethan said, lowering himself into the other chair and realizing that Nick—and probably Nick alone—was someone with whom he could discuss the trip.

  “He really is dying,” Nick said softly. “Doesn’t seem right, doesn’t seem like it’s time, and it doesn’t help that he’s ready to go.”

  “He is, isn’t he? Miserable old pestilence.”

  “I think he is miserable,” Nick said. “Angry and ashamed to be old and sick, and ready to get on with being remembered fondly.”

  “By most.”

  “But not all,” Nick agreed, smiling slightly. “I gather you did not grant him pardon, absolution, and remission of all sins?”

  Nick’s directness on that issue was oddly welcome, even though it reminded Ethan starkly they’d once been able to read each other’s thoughts and had Bellefonte to thank for the distance between them now. “I could hardly stand to be in the same room with him.”

  “One doesn’t need to bear a grudge against the man to feel thus.”

  A soft tap on the door, and both men fell silent as the tea cart was rolled in.

  “You pour.” Nick closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I am damned sick of being my own hostess.”

  “You’re soon to acquire a countess, though, aren’t you?” Ethan asked as he peered at the tea. “It’s middling strong.”

  “Let it steep,” Nick said, eyes still closed. “Did you put the earl in his place, Ethan?”

  As if one could. The Lord God Almighty would probably be hard put to do as much. “I left in a snit. I did get something like an explanation from him, though.”

  “Did you now?” Nick opened his eyes and sat up. “The grim reaper must be stalking him in earnest.”

  “Or his indigestion was plaguing him. All those years ago, Bellefonte found you and me in the same bed.”

  “Of course he did.” Nick looked puzzled. “Else the little boys would have heard all our secrets. As it was, every time Dolph had a nightmare, he was in with us as well.”

  “But his lordship thought we were inappropriately attached to begin with,” Ethan said, “and when it became obvious we often bunked together, he decided we were engaging in perversions with each other.”

  There was a beat of utter silence, then another, followed by a roar.

  “He thought what?” Nick shot out of his chair and rounded on his brother.

  Ethan remained seated, peculiarly gratified by Nick’s indignation. “He thought we were lovers, or the adolescent male variation on that theme.”

  “God’s eternal balls,” Nick swore, pacing off. “Jesus George Christ Almighty in the Clouds. I cannot believe this. I am going to kill the misguided old goat and make it hurt. He cast you away because he thought we might have been a little too close? A little curious with each other? Jesus.”

  Nick came to a halt and shut up, breathing deeply. Ethan watched, knowing he’d just seen Nick come as close to losing his temper as Nick ever would.

  “I walked out,” Ethan said, “if that helps. Left him wheezing in his chair while I headed blindly for the stables. I ran into Nita there, and that distracted me temporarily.”

  Nita had been a girl the last time he’d seen her, a pretty little girl who’d once told him he was her favorite brother.

  “Nita would distract St. Peter. I am disappointed in our father, Ethan. I was disappointed in him for separating us in any case, but over nonsense like this… Disappointed and disgusted. Had you any clue?”

  “No.” Ethan held out Nick’s teacup to him. “Not really, though we probably should not have been quite so cozy that late into boyhood.”

  “That is u
tter tripe!” Nick shot back. “You left, so you have no idea what the rest of us got up to, Ethan. I can promise you George and Dolph were up to no good with each other, and Beck used to spy on you and me with the dairymaids while he pleasured himself. The earl had a randy damned pack of sons, and you and I were not the worst of the lot.”

  Nick’s casual recitation of fraternal prurience hit Ethan with a curious blend of revulsion, humor, and relief. “I’ll take your word for it, though I do not think you are paying me the signal honor of a call after all these years to rehash ancient history.”

  “I am not,” Nick admitted, looking at the teacup in his hand dazedly.

  “Sit you down, Nicholas. We can talk more later, if you find you want to. I’m not sure I do. State your business.”

  “I can hardly recall my business,” Nick growled.

  Ethan waited him out.

  “I need some help,” Nick said at length, his tone truculent.

  Not at all what Ethan had expected—though he wasn’t sure what he had expected. “What manner of help?”

  “I’ve been called to Belle Maison, but there’s a young lady here in Town whose safety I have pledged to ensure.”

  With Nick, it was ever a problem with the ladies. The predictability of this also gratified. “What manner of young lady? I’ve no need to take on one of your lightskirts, Nicholas.”

  “She’s a decent woman. I’ve asked Della to invite her to Clover Down for the week, or until I can get free of Bellefonte. Her dear father, the Earl of Wilton, seeks to wed her to Hellerington, or somebody of that ilk. If she can’t secure such a match, the old man might procure a different sort of situation for her.”

  Ethan didn’t bother to keep amusement from his face. “You are in the shining-armor business, it appears.”

  “I am not, but neither can I leave somebody who is essentially helpless in harm’s way.” Nick’s pronouncement was made in tones of self-disgust, which Ethan allowed to remain unremarked.

  “What am I supposed to do? Wilton is a nasty bugger, Nick, and I am not anybody’s heir.”

  “Just escort Della and Lady Leah out to Clover Down,” Nick said, “and hang about until I come back from Belle Maison.”

  “I can do that.” Ethan was surprised to see the depth of the gratitude in Nick’s eyes. “Christ, Nick, are you really so alone as all that?”

  Nick’s gaze slid away, and Ethan had his answer.

  “Your ladies will be safely tucked away in the country,” Ethan assured him. “Is there more you would ask of me?”

  Nick was silent, and Ethan reached over and plucked Nick’s empty teacup from his hand.

  “This is me, Nicholas,” Ethan said in low, impatient tones. “I accidentally branded your bony little arse, I was the first person to get drunk with you, and I wouldn’t know how to read if you hadn’t taught me my letters. What?”

  “Come to his funeral,” Nick said, his gaze on his empty hands. “Not the service, if you don’t want to, but to Belle Maison.”

  Ethan rose and ran a hand across hair slightly darker than Nick’s. “I did ask.”

  He turned his back to Nick, staring into the fire as a plethora of emotions rioted through him—resentment, surprise, and something else. An elusive little bolt of warmth Ethan wasn’t about to examine too closely. Nick needed him, and for the first time in more than ten years, Ethan could help. The sneering, righteous rejection he’d practiced off and on for all that time was the last thing on Ethan’s mind.

  “You don’t have to.” Nick rose as well. “I’m presuming, to put such a request to you.”

  Ethan half turned and regarded his younger brother—his harried, tired, worried, very large younger brother who had gone into the shining-armor business, whether he admitted it or not. “I’ll go. I’ll escort Della and your damsel, and when Bellefonte goes to his reward, I’ll at least put in an appearance, if you’re still certain you want me there when the time comes.”

  “I will,” Nick assured him, eyeing him grimly. “Beck is lying low in Portsmouth, Dolph and George will probably be skipping around from one house party to the next, you’ll be easy to reach, and…”

  “And?”

  Nick slapped riding gloves against his thigh in a slow, solid rhythm. “And of real use. To me. To the girls. They’ve missed you.”

  Ethan said nothing rather than remark on all the letters he’d never received from his devoted sisters.

  Nick turned his back and reached for the door latch. “God knows I’ve missed you too.”

  And then he was gone.

  ***

  “Wilton has made it plain that I’m to secure Lady Warne’s sponsorship for Emily, and that’s the only reason he’s allowing me to accept this invitation.” Leah ambled along on Nick’s arm at a decorous pace completely at variance with the panic building inside her.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Leah?” Nick’s tone was pleasant, a gentleman escorting a lady on a casual ramble by the duck pond on a spring day.

  She wasn’t telling him she was scared nigh to death, wasn’t telling him she needed his embrace with a desperation that qualified as pathetic.

  “Wilton’s getting worse, Nick. He no longer seems to care what befalls me or who learns of it.”

  Nick’s hand closed over hers in a warm, reassuring squeeze. “In two days’ time, you’ll be ensconced at Clover Down. Because I must away to Belle Maison, my brother Ethan will escort you, and you can pry all my boyhood secrets from him. We were incorrigible, of course…”

  She let the soothing patter of his voice wash over her, let herself believe that a week in the country would work some miracle where Wilton was concerned. She also let Nick draw her once again into the privacy of the willow bower on the far side of the pond.

  “You are pale, lovey,” Nick said, wrapping his arms around her. “Your eyes are haunted, and fatigue shows around your mouth.” He bent his head and brushed his lips over that mouth. “You must not fret. All will be well.”

  When he held her like this, Leah could believe it—Nicholas seemed to believe it, but then, his father hadn’t murdered his betrothed, and all but promised to deliver him, bound hand and foot, into a life of abject depravity.

  She let herself cling to him for just a few more minutes, storing up the sandalwood scent of him, the heat of his tall body, the solid muscles enveloping her, and then she forced herself to step away.

  “For two more days, I can manage, Nicholas. I’m not usually inclined to such dramatics.”

  The look he gave her was searching, far more serious than his usual genial expression. Meeting his gaze, Leah was struck in a whole different way with how very attractive he was, and how male. The woman he married had best guard her heart and guard it well.

  The breeze stirred, teasing a lock of blond hair across Nick’s brow. They were still in the sheltering embrace of the willow branches, so Leah allowed herself to smooth that errant lock back into place.

  “Two days, lovey, and then Ethan and Lady Warne will kidnap you from your tower. Wilton won’t risk anything drastic when he knows you’re expected by a dowager marchioness at week’s end. Be strong for two more days.”

  He kissed her again, a sound smack on the lips. One of his kisses for courage—though what did it say about her, that she was starting to catalogue the kisses of a man whom she had no intention of marrying?

  Six

  It nearly killed Nick to leave Clover Down without stopping in at Blossom Court, but he’d learned years ago that Leonie was a creature of routine. She loved him, and he loved her, but that meant he loved her enough that if she wasn’t expecting him, he could no longer disturb her peace by just dropping by.

  When he did reach his father’s side, he was glad he hadn’t tarried on the way.

  “What took you so infernally long to get here, boy?” Bellefonte’s voice had lost volume but not bite, Nick noted as he mentally armored himself for this interview.

  “One doesn’t leave Town in the middle
of the Season without having to send out regrets, confer with solicitors, and make other arrangements.” He met his father’s gaze, but it was an effort. The old man was losing ground, and that, not the earl’s temper, his displeasure, or his infernal meddling, was what bothered Nick most.

  I’m losing him. Nick wandered around the overly warm, camphor-and-books-scented study, the better to avoid looking at his father. We’re losing him. Nick would never again be a little boy who could throw himself into his father’s arms and feel small and protected, knowing a robust, if irascible, father would defeat all demons and slay all dragons.

  “Perhaps one doesn’t.” The earl’s scowl eased. “You’re too skinny, Reston.”

  “Too much dancing.”

  “Not enough dancing. You’ve brought me no sweet young thing for my approval.”

  “I’m considering a few possibilities,” Nick said, “but I figure you’re too stubborn to die until I find the right lady, so there is no real hurry.”

  “Cheeky.” The earl grinned fleetingly. “You get that from me, but don’t be too cocky, my boy.”

  “Of course not.” Nick nodded graciously and forced himself to take a seat opposite the desk that now seemed to dwarf its owner. “I want this marriage business over with probably more than you do.”

  The grin evaporated. “You don’t make sense. Of all my lusty boys, you are the lustiest of the lot. Word is you’ll swive anything in skirts—unlike your nancy brother, George, by the way—so what’s the delay in finding a countess?”

  “In the first place,” Nick said pleasantly, “I do not swive anything in skirts, but am, rather, very choosy about my partners. In the second place, keep your beak out of my personal business, or I’ll dawdle until June to make a selection and let her choose the wedding date. In the third place, not just any woman could take on the family you’ve created, my lord, much less your rather generously proportioned heir.”

  The earl waved a bony, mottled hand. “Marry some bovine parson’s daughter, my boy. You know I believe in the occasional outcross.”

  “I will consider that advice,” Nick said, his tone somewhere between bored and pleasant.