Chapter Twenty-Eight
When Nick received an invitation in his mother’s hand, requesting his presence at a picnic in Richmond, his first instinct had been to toss the card in the trash where it belonged.
But he hesitated. Perhaps Adelaide had received an invitation, as well.
It had been just over a week since their visit to Epsom, and in that time he had spoken no more than a half dozen politely bland words to her—which was exactly the opposite of what he wanted. What he wanted was to hold her in his arms and say all the right words—the words she most longed to hear, the words that would fix everything.
But that was impossible, since he had no idea what those words might be.
Which was exactly why she belonged with Montrose, not Nick. His chest squeezed at the thought, but he welcomed the pain. This was his penance.
At the appointed hour, he found himself standing in the street outside Wintham House, Adelaide’s darling hand in his as he helped her into his carriage. She was wearing a pretty dress of pale yellow, with a purple satin ribbon tied into a bow beneath her breasts, as though to make a present of them. Her sweet, lilac scent teased his nostrils.
She turned, releasing his hand immediately, and sat down. Almost instantly, she rose again. “What’s this?” she asked, feeling the cushion beneath her. She pulled out a book. “The Knight of St. John: A Romance. Oh, how lovely. I shall be entertained all the way to Richmond.”
Nick felt a small stab of satisfaction. At least he had done something right.
He swung up on his mount, and Nathaniel followed suit. They rode side by side while two carriages stuffed with Eastwoods and Bursnells followed behind. It was unseasonably cold and the sky threatened rain. How delightful.
They decamped in a park along the River Thames. It was a rather wild spot, quite different from the tamed and manicured parks in town. He separated from his family to stroll closer to the bank’s edge. The water churned gently, warning of an impending storm that had not quite reached them yet.
Nick wanted a storm. Something to give voice to the hunger that had whipped in his blood ever since he handed Adelaide into the carriage and caught the scent of lilacs that clung to her hair.
He could smell it now, the perfume growing stronger by the second. He turned, and there she was, holding a sweet in her hand.
“Have a tart,” she said, extending it to him.
It was all he could do not to fall on her and devour the lady and pastry together.
“I would rather have you,” he said, because he couldn’t seem to give her anything but honesty, even though it made him the lowest form of man.
She gave a startled laugh and shook her head, so he reluctantly settled for just the tart. It was delicious, but the cherries, sweet as they were, did little to assuage his hunger. “Thank you.”
She clasped her hands in front of her and looked at him from beneath the thick, dark fringe of her lashes. “You seem out of sorts today, Nick.”
He didn’t hesitate to take advantage of her concern. Montrose would have her for a lifetime. All Nick could take was today and perhaps tomorrow. A week, at most. He could be content with that, couldn’t he? For her sake, he must. “I would feel better after a walk. Shall we?”
“By all means.”
He offered his arm and, after hesitating long enough to make him anxious, she took it.
“It is not just today. You have been quite odd of late. Am I… Are you very angry with me, Nick?” she asked quietly as they strolled arm in arm.
He looked down at her in surprise. Why the devil would she think that? Her face was turned toward the river, her bonnet obscuring its expression.
“No, angel,” he said gently. “I am never angry with you.”
She looked at him then with an expression of disbelief. “That is a lie.”
“It isn’t. I may have been aggravated a good many times,” he admitted, “but never angry.”
“Hmm.”
She did not see the difference, he could tell, so he hastened to assure her, “I’m not angry. Not even aggravated.” He paused. “I have heard the matter between you and Montrose is all but settled.”
Her arm spasmed against his, and she stumbled. When she was once again steady, she said, “He has not yet spoken to Father.”
“But he has spoken to you.”
She said nothing.
Nick narrowed his eyes. “Adelaide. We have been through too much together to start keeping secrets now.”
Her eyebrows shot heavenward. “Start keeping secrets? All there has ever been between us is secrets.”
“You know what I mean.” He waved a hand dismissively. “We cannot help each other if we are not honest. Have you received an offer or haven’t you?”
She bit her lip. “I have not yet, but I expect to within a week’s time. Montrose intends to speak to my father upon his return to London.” She played with the ribbons that hung from her breasts to her waist. “I know you are friends, Nick. But you have put him forward at every opportunity. You don’t mind, do you?”
He minded very much, actually. But no one said penance should feel pleasant.
“Do you love him?” he asked, and hated himself for his weakness.
She grimaced. “Love has little to do with marriage, as you once told me.”
“Ah, but as I recall, you had hoped for something more than mere security.” He stopped, turning her to face him. “You’d hoped to find a more suitable husband than myself. So, tell me. Is Montrose that man? Will you be satisfied with him for a husband?” The very thought was torture, but he couldn’t stop the words. He needed to know she would be happy. Otherwise his own suffering would be for naught.
“He is a duke” was her ambiguous reply.
Nick felt his jaw tick with the effort to control his emotion. “You never cared about titles before. I remember you once preferred the company of a lowly soldier in Cornwall.”
“I am much more practical now.” She shrugged. “His title is quite enticing.”
That moment was the first time in his life he had ever been tempted to do violence to a woman. He wanted to shake her or…or kiss her. He wanted to prove she still preferred the soldier.
She was watching him, a little smile hovering on her lips. “You are angry with me now, aren’t you?”
“Very,” he said tersely.
That seemed to make her happy, contrary woman that she was.
“Don’t sulk, Nick. It’s unmanly. Anyway, once you are free of me, you can pursue Lady Claire in earnest.”
He looked at her blankly. “Lady Claire?”
“You sent her roses twice,” she reminded him. “Which is fine, of course. I am sure a great many gentlemen send flowers to a half dozen ladies at once. You only sent me one bouquet, as I recall. I think you must prefer Lady Claire.”
He was taken aback. Had he sent two bouquets to Lady Claire? He certainly hadn’t meant to. He had sent her flowers the day after the ball, when he’d also sent a bouquet to Adelaide. And then… Well, damn, how was he supposed to keep track of such things? This was why gentlemen hired secretaries, no doubt.
He looked at Adelaide, who was stubbornly refusing to meet his gaze. He no longer wanted to shake her…but he still wanted to kiss her. He would have, were their families not so close by.
“Are you jealous?” he asked.
She muttered something unflattering under her breath.
He grinned. “You are jealous.”
She turned away, but not before he saw her red cheeks. “Don’t be impertinent.”
He laughed, but then turned serious again. “Adelaide, do you mean to accept Montrose when he offers?”
“I haven’t made up my mind. But as he has not yet offered, I still have time to decide.”
Time.
Perhaps Nick could have this week with her, or even a fortnight. No more.
But what wouldn’t he give for a lifetime?