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“I’m already aware you’re a rake, Nicholas.”
He laughed. “Yes. But in this case, she was a sweet, chaste type. All prayers and charity. I never seduce such easy prey. But there was a particular Portuguese grandee with rather less restraint...”
He wove a story of duels and honor, and battlefield friendships forged in blood and laughter. For a dreamy moment, the pale English sun flared with a Spanish summer, and an angry Irish sergeant berated a rifleman. She drowsed against Nicholas’s warm, firm body and let the tales lull her into dreams.
****
By the time they reached the final inn of the night, their braziers long since cold, she found she heard many tales yet knew very little of their teller. The thought niggled at her through dinner and as Staunton braided her hair. Lady Mornington shared the room’s larger bed with Amy, but she only wanted to talk about Scotland and Amy’s clothing for the wedding.
“Lady Mornington?” Amy asked after the last lamp was down and the hearth fire’s weak light failed to pierce the heavy, old-fashioned hangings on the bed. “Have I made a mistake?”
The older woman lay silent for too many heartbeats. “You could’ve made many worse choices. You could’ve made a fair few better ones, too. I love my brother, but he is not...” She trailed off and sighed. “He’s complicated, Amy. This won’t be the easiest of marriages.”
Amy rolled onto her side to face Juliet’s exquisite, shadowed profile. “Are you afraid of him?”
“What?” Juliet’s head jerked toward her, then the other woman’s body relaxed again. “Oh. You’re worried he’s like Darby?”
“Among other devils.” Amy cleared her throat. “I ... I’ve seen households where everyone lives in terror of the master.”
“Every wife has cause to fear her husband. They may beat us, abandon us, or cut us to ribbons in a thousand ways. Our sole protection relies on other men or on money we are not allowed to have except by their grace. Even the best man in the world may be a monster in the dark.”
“Some of them are monsters in the daylight.”
“Nicholas can be very cruel,” Juliet said after another long silence. “But it’s not his general nature. He was a sweet boy. But he was alone in the world very young. It’s made him ... hard.”
“I don’t mind that.”
“Then you should have nothing to worry about.”
And which of us sounds least convinced...?
Chapter Five – Nicholas
(Coaching Inn, Grantham. Nov 12, 1813)
The frigid morning proved just as miserable as the night, but with one bright spot—the shivering servant he'd set to watch the doors reported that Miss Sunderland had stayed put. Nicholas paid the man and wondered whether he ought to console the young lady or cheer her. Certainly, my bankers will be relieved. The pair of missives that reached him at dawn would please the creditors, too.
It turned out that Miss Sunderland’s fortune came via her mother’s marriage settlement and a fond uncle, and neither part was revokable by Baron Sunderland. More interestingly, Markham was near certain that Sunderland had barred his only living son from inheriting anything but the family title and main estate in preparation to lure some poor heiress into marriage, due to the fact that Sunderland was dry on capital after a disastrous investment and was retrenching his assets. Which may explain Amy’s urgent flight from his claws.
Nicholas crossed to the private parlor Juliet and Miss Sunderland had the use of for the morning. To his surprise, Amy was already up and dressed, though Juliet wouldn't set foot outside their shared bedroom for another hour at least—she held herself to a high standard, even while traveling bleak winter roads. Miss Sunderland, on the other hand, was dressed simply again, her hair tidy but pulled into an easy arrangement. A book held her in thrall, and his entrance had gone unnoticed. He peered at the title and smiled, recognizing the title. Camilla. "I see my sister is loaning you her romances already."
Amy turned the page and did not look up at him. “This copy is mine, as it happens.”
"Are you reading it for the first time?”
“No. It’s an old friend.” She granted him a faint smile.
“The biggest mystery in that tome is what manner of head injury the heroine's love interest suffered,” Nicholas said, choosing a cake from a small tray of them on the side table. “The endless misunderstandings the man could've avoided by simply speaking to the woman he claims to love must account for half the tale.”
Amy’s brow twitched, and she lowered the book. “But if he’d shown any sense, I’d be holding a pamphlet rather than a novel.”
“But Camilla would have a happier fate.”
“She got what she wanted in the end. What’s happier than that?”
“Getting it without the theatrics.”
Her smile widened. “I trust you slept well, my lord?”
