Chapter Nineteen
Nick awoke the next morning to the realization that he had made a terrible mistake.
And not just because his eyeballs felt like they might explode in the light streaming through the window. Sunlight had been created solely to torture those who imbibed. Ten out of eleven days he could count on good old dreary English weather, but on the one day he felt the worse for drink, naturally the sun shone brilliantly, beaming down on its pale citizens like a fireball of doom.
That was how he felt. Doomed.
His intentions had been pure: sneak into her room, warn her off the loathsome lords, then bid her a gentlemanly adieu. But she had greeted him with those doe-dark eyes and soft, warm lips, and he had lost his wits—not that he’d had many to lose, thanks to the copious amounts of brandy he had consumed with Nate and Wessex.
He had wanted her—God, he had wanted her so badly. And she had certainly seemed willing—nay, eager—for one exquisite moment. Here, at last, had been the Adelaide he remembered, so sweetly desirous, so hungry for his kisses.
Thank God she had stopped him when she had. If he were not careful, they would end up married despite her adamant wishes to the contrary. And then what? She would learn what he was—what he truly was—and she would hate him. He didn’t think he could bear that.
He rose from his comfortable bed at the crack of noon and made himself presentable for breakfast. He could manage to feed himself, which was more than he expected of first sons in general and his elder brother in particular, but Nick preferred not to. Besides, he must meet with Montrose. Therefore, he found himself returning to his club a mere half day after leaving it.
He picked up his pace. It felt good to move, in spite of the slightly sick feeling in his stomach. Every stride put more distance between himself and his regrettable decisions.
The club was blessedly dim as he entered. He told the man to bring him cold chicken and strong tea, and if the man thought it was an odd choice, he kept it to himself. Nick looked about the club and, after noting Montrose in the far corner by the bookcase, took a seat and awaited his food and the morning paper.
A moment later the duke joined him. “Eastwood, at last.”
He sat, looking stiffly at ease, in the ducal way. Still, Nick liked Montrose, for all his elegant formality. There was a kindness to him that Nick knew was genuine.
The tea arrived, along with the chicken. Nick waved off the man and served himself.
Montrose watched with amusement. “You will have to learn less self-reliance once the letters patent are signed. A marquess must not serve his own tea. What would people say?”
“That there is a man who knows how to lift a teapot?” Nick suggested drily.
Montrose laughed, clearly not the least bit offended. Oh, yes, Nick liked the man greatly.
But would he like him for Adelaide’s husband? That was the question.
He offered tea to the duke, who declined with a shake of his head.
“I have news,” Montrose said. “I received word yesterday. A good number of the House of Lords have privately expressed support for your title. I believe in a fortnight’s time I shall have enough signatures to present to the Prince Regent. This is merely a formality, you understand. The signatures are not necessary to issue the letters patent, but the Prince Regent prefers the show of support.”
Nick nodded. This was good news, indeed.
Montrose paused, appearing to consider his next words carefully before he spoke. “There is the issue of your father. You understand that this is a rather delicate conundrum, a second son being ranked higher than his father. It makes some of the other peers uneasy. It would go a long way for Wintham to express public support.”
Again Montrose paused, giving Nick the opportunity to speak.
Nick said nothing.
“So long as he does not oppose you, there is no cause for alarm. The letters patent will be signed.” Montrose crossed his legs and reclined slightly. “Still, there are whispers of an estrangement. You must be very careful over the next few weeks to keep all scandal at bay. Until your title is secure, you must be an exemplary gentleman.”
Nick considered all the peers he knew and quirked his lips.
“Yes, I see the irony, as well.” Montrose smiled slightly. “So much is forgiven when one is titled.”
“I shall do my very best. You have done much for me, and I will not dishonor you.”
Montrose waved his hand. “Nonsense. You saved my life. But this title is an award for your service to country and crown. You have earned it with blood. Still, that will not be enough for the peerage if a scandal should arise.” He hesitated, again seeming to choose his words with great care. “Many have seen you in the company of Miss Bursnell.”
Ah, he had wondered if Montrose would mention her.
Nick kept his face blank. “Miss Bursnell is hardly scandalous,” he said, aware that his statement was only truthful so long as no one ever discovered their past. “Nor is my friendly interest in her.”
“Friendly interest.” Something flashed in the duke’s eyes. “Are you courting her?”
Nick could hardly deny it, when he had sworn to do that very thing. Yet he did not want to scare the man off. “I have not yet decided. We have only recently become acquainted, you understand.”
“Hmm.”
“A man could do worse.” Nick wiped his mouth with a napkin and studied the duke. “Her dowry is good, as is her family. And her brother-in-law will one day be Earl of Wintham.”
“And she would be the Marchioness of Rain.”
“She would have you to thank for that.” Nick paused. But why hesitate? He had made his decision. Now he must act. “Any man would call himself fortunate to marry such a girl. Even, perhaps, a duke…”
Montrose was quiet for a long moment. Then said, “I have given some thought to marriage of late. An heir is not yet impossible. I would indeed be fortunate to marry Miss Bursnell, for she is sweet and I think we would get on well together. But perhaps she has different hopes for a husband.” He shrugged. “I am well aware that a dukedom only goes so far. I am so much older—although I must confess I don’t feel as old as the mirror claims I am. If a younger marquess, for example, were to offer for her, she would likely find that to be a more palatable option.”
“She does not know that I am to be a marquess.”
“Perhaps, then, you will not tell her…” Montrose suggested.
Nick gave him a penetrating look.
The duke grimaced. “Not very sporting of me, I know. But we are friends. I find myself unwilling to ask you to quit the field completely, but perhaps you would not mind a small handicap?”
Nick swallowed, and forced himself to say, “I have no horse in this race. The lady is yours for the wooing.” But the words tasted foul in his mouth.
“Thank you.” The duke scraped back his chair and stood. “I bid you good day, Eastwood.”
Nick watched him go.
A strange feeling of loss consumed him, as though he had tossed away something precious. Which was nonsense, of course.
Whatever he had lost should never have been his to begin with.