Текст книги "Nicholas: Lord of Secrets"

Автор книги: Grace Burrowes

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Thirteen

When Nick knocked on her door, Leah was dressed, thank the gods, and sitting at a vanity, plaiting her long hair. He watched in silence as she wound the coil at the back of her neck, jabbed pins into it, then rose, a faint smile on her face, making her look tidy, capable, and self-contained.

Just as she’d looked when he’d first met her, when she’d been steeling herself for the prospect of marriage to Hellerington.

“Are you sorry you married me?” The question came out of Nick’s mouth without his willing it into words, and he saw Leah was as surprised by it as he was.

“I am not,” Leah said at length. “Not yet. I think in any marriage there are moments when husband or wife or both succumb to regrets, or second thoughts, but you were very clear on what you offered, Nicholas, and what you did not. I am not at all sorry to be free of my father.”

“That’s… good.” What had he expected her to say? Leah wasn’t vicious, and she’d had few real options. “May I escort you downstairs?”

“Of course.” Leah smiled at him, but her smile was tentative, and Nick’s silence as he led her through the house was wary, and their marriage had indeed begun the way Nick intended it to go.

He pushed that sour thought aside as he introduced Leah to each maid and footman, the senior staff, and the kitchen help. From there, they moved to the stable yard, where the stable boys, grooms, and gardeners presented themselves. When the staff had dispersed, Nick led Leah through the gardens, where the tulips were losing their petals, the daffodils were but a memory, and a single iris was heralding the next wave of color on the garden’s schedule.

On a hard bench in the spring sunshine, they decided to tarry for two weeks at Clover Down before presenting themselves at Belle Maison. The earl had sent felicitations on the occasion of Nick’s nuptials, and yet Nick felt an urgency to return to his father’s side.

“He has asked you to join him at Belle Maison?” Leah’s hand was still curled over Nick’s arm, though they sat side by side.

“He has not, and he has told me on several occasions not to lay about the place, long-faced and restless, waiting for him to die. He’s sent my sisters off to various friends and relatives, all except Nita, that is. George and Dolph are similarly entertained, and Beckman is off to Portsmouth to see to my grandmother’s neglected pile.”

“What does Nita say?”

“I hadn’t thought to ask her. I’ll send her a note today, but I think I should also consult with my wife. How do you feel about going to the family seat when death hangs over it?”

“I have no strong feelings one way or the other,” Leah said. “When your father dies, there will be a great deal to manage, and I suspect Nita will appreciate some help then. It might be easier to help if everything were not a case of first impression for me.”

“True,” Nick said, realizing he hadn’t thought matters through from the most practical angle—the angle the women would be left to deal with when Bellefonte went to his reward.

“Two weeks then,” Leah said, “and you’d best let Nita know that as well. We’ll likely leave here before the neighbors start to call, and that might be a good thing.”

Which meant what? Nick didn’t dwell on her comment, but instead drew her to her feet.

“I’ve something I want to show you.”

“I am at your disposal, Nicholas.”

As they made their way through the stables, the feed room, and the saddle room, to a space tucked against the back wall of the barn, Nick reflected that he liked it better when she called him Husband.

“This is a woodworking shop,” Leah said, scanning the tools hung neatly along the walls and the wood stored and organized by size along another. “This is yours?”

“It is. I have one in the mews in Town, and another at Belle Maison.”

“Your hands.” Leah picked up Nick’s bare hand and peered at it. “I’ve wondered what all the little nicks and scratches are from, and this is why you have them, isn’t it?”

“Mostly.” Nick eased his fingers from hers. “I like to make birdhouses.” He pulled a bound leather journal down from a high shelf. “I can show you some of my designs, if you like. You take the stool.” He pulled it up, and Leah had to scramble a little to take her seat. Everything in the room was scaled to Nick’s size—the stool, the workbench, the drafting table, even some of the tools were proportioned to fit Nick’s hands.

And yet, she looked as if she’d been made to fit in this room with him, on this fine mild morning, sharing a little of himself he hadn’t shown to anyone else.

“This is one I made for my stepmother,” Nick began, opening the book. He’d drawn sketches, and then colored illustrations all over the pages. She studied each one, asking questions as if birdhouses mattered.

“This is lovely.” She traced the lines of the birdhouse on the page. “It looks like a garden house, a little hanging gazebo, with trellises and flower boxes. How could you even see to make such things?”

“I wear magnifying spectacles,” Nick said. “The next one was for my papa, though a birdhouse is hardly a manly sort of present. I was eight, though, and had found my first personal passion.”

“Eight is a passionate age,” Leah murmured as she followed his castle with a finger. “Was this for your papa?”

“I only had illustrations in my storybooks to go by, but it was my version of Arthur’s castle. My father loomed in my awareness with all the power and mystery of the legendary king, of course.” And now his father lay dying, and Nick’s birdhouse had weathered to a uniform gray where it hung outside the earl’s bedroom window.

He would repaint Papa’s birdhouse when they repaired to Belle Maison.

They spent most of the morning in Nick’s shop, the time passing easily and pleasantly. Nick showed her sketches of the current work in progress, the birdhouse design intended for Ethan, then suggested they repair to the house for lunch.

As she slid off the high stool, Leah linked her arm through his. “Do you ever miss your mother, Nicholas?”

“I never knew her, but yes. I wish I’d known her. Do you miss your mother?” Nick posed it as a question, but any woman would miss her mother at the time of her own wedding.

“I did,” Leah said. “When I went to Italy, I missed her terribly, but it was her idea that I go. And as to that, she proved prescient. When I left England I didn’t realize I was carrying a child. I was twenty and figured my body was just upset, which it was. Darius guessed before I did, and thank God he was his usual blunt self about it, or I might have done something stupid.”

“Something stupid?” Nick stopped short in their progress past the single iris and stared down at her as her meaning sunk in. “You would have taken your own life?”

“Young people can be dramatic when they think they are in love.” Leah regarded the iris as she spoke.

“Irises symbolize messages,” Nick answered her unasked question. “You would really have taken your own life, but for your pregnancy?”

“I don’t know, Nicholas.” Leah watched the iris as if it might change from purple to white while she stood there. “My father had killed my husband, and there was to be no recourse. I could not prove we had married, because Aaron had taken charge of all the formalities. I was alone, disgraced, deflowered, and not even afforded the status of widow or access to such funds as a widow enjoys. Then too, my mother’s health had failed, and I foresaw the rest of my life, alone in that house, with Wilton’s criticisms and castigations my daily fare.”

Nick’s hands slid to either side of her neck, and he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. He showed her a few birdhouses, and she trusted him with her darkest memories.

“Promise me”—he gripped her gently but quite firmly—“promise me no matter what happens between us, Leah, you won’t let this marriage make you so miserable you think of taking your own life.”

She laid her hands on his and peeled his fingers away. “I was young, feeling sorry for myself, and grieving. I promise you, I will not contemplate such measures, not as a function of being married to you.”

“Not as a function of anything,” Nick shot back. “You are too… You just… It wouldn’t be right.”

“I agree,” Leah said, resuming their progress. “I saw that, when my son died. Life can be difficult, but death is difficult too. Had I taken my life, all of my brothers’ sacrifices and risks would have been for nothing. My mother’s heart would have been broken, my sister disgraced by my suicide. I had no right to hurt the people who loved me like that. Worse, at least at the time, taking my life would have proved Wilton’s assessment of my flawed nature all too true, and that, more than anything, dissuaded me.”

“And who raised this most convincing argument to you?” Nick asked, letting her draw him along beside her.

“Darius. Sometimes his ruthless streak is really a strength.”

“May I ask you something?” And, please God, change the subject?

“Of course.”

“Has your brother ever given you the impression that he has unusual personal tastes?”

A moment of considering silence followed, in which Nick congratulated himself for at least shifting the topic.

“Not exactly,” Leah said, “but it’s as if Darius associates with a fast set despite his own preferences.”

“A very fast set,” Nick concurred. “The question is, why?”

“To disgrace my father? Or because that’s all Darius feels he merits in this life? Because it’s a way to be different from Trent, who can be a dull boy indeed? I don’t know, and it’s not something a sister should know about her brother.”

“Maybe not in your family,” Nick said as they gained the back steps. “My sisters seem to know every lady to whom I’ve given a handkerchief.”

Leah fell silent, and just like that, they were surrounded once again by a marital bog, one enshrouded in a fog of hurt feelings and miscommunication.

And yet, Nick had to try. “I didn’t mean that I’d… I meant, literally, a clean handkerchief. I always carry at least two, you see, and… you don’t believe me.”

“I believe I have enjoyed spending time with you this morning, but it’s past noon. Luncheon probably awaits us as we speak.”

“Excellent point,” Nick said, wanting to kick himself. “Shall we go in?”

They ate companionably enough, the conversation turning to which neighbors lived where in proximity to Clover Down.

“What will you find to occupy you this afternoon?” Nick asked as he topped off Leah’s teacup.

“The rest of my things have arrived,” Leah said. “I’ll see them situated and start exploring the house.”

“Sounds productive. I’m going for a ride. The trusty steeds in yonder stable are getting fat on spring grass, and this I cannot allow. I’ll be back by teatime, and look forward to seeing you then.” He rose, brushed his lips across her forehead, then took his leave.

Leah would notice that her new husband hadn’t invited her to join him on his ride. Nick knew that, hated it, and headed off to the stables at the most decorous pace he could manage. Once there, only a gentleman’s unwillingness to spook the horses stopped him from slamming both fists into the wall, repeatedly.

* * *

So that’s her.

Leah had taken herself out walking in the afternoon sunshine as soon as her meager wardrobe had been set to rights. The weather was lovely, and Leah had had little opportunity to move around the previous few days, so she’d struck off through the gardens and aimed for the hill behind the estate.

The acclivity was crowned with trees at the top, a pretty copse that was leafing out nicely, the occasional patch of lavender-blue wildflowers dancing at the foot of the trees, as if laughing in the dappled sunlight.

Leah took a seat among flowers nearly the color of her husband’s eyes, intent on enjoying the view of the surrounding neighborhood. Clover Down, neat and tidy, its back gardens awash in color, spread before her to the left. On the right, another estate, just as tidy and even more generously dressed in flowers, graced the view. Whoever lived there was also unwilling to waste the lovely afternoon, and was moving into their garden. Leah made out a man and a woman, both blond, their arms linked while they looked for a spot to make use of the sketch pad the man carried under his arm.

She was struck first by the companionability of the couple. Though the lady was tall, the man’s head was bent to catch her every word, and when he seated his companion, he settled in right beside her, still listening intently. Even seated, though, the man was quite a bit…

Taller—Leah’s heart lurched in her chest, a painful, aching dislocation that did not ease as her eyes confirmed what her mind had already deduced: That was Nick, that tall, blond, so-considerate escort down there in the distance. That was her husband, kissing the woman’s temple, hugging her… Oh, God.

As Leah sat in abject misery amid the flowers and the dancing sunlight, Nick made his companion laugh frequently, and each time the lady laughed, Nick smiled down at her.

Leah was too far away to see details of Nick’s expression, and the breeze blew in the wrong direction to carry their words to her, but she knew from the angle of his head and the worshipful way the young woman beamed back at him, that he loved her and she loved him. Still, Leah could not bring herself to leave until Nick had escorted his hostess back inside.

He’s going to ride home and take tea with me, asking about my afternoon and pretending to care. He won’t be honest, but he’ll be as kind as he can be.

And sitting alone on the hill, Leah hated him for it.

For all of about three minutes. Sustained ill will toward him would have been quite handy, except Nick had been honest when it counted. He’d never lied to Leah about his availability as a husband, never tried to convince her she held his heart or he wanted to hold her heart. Nick was as much a victim of circumstance as she was, and there was nothing to be gained by dramatics.

There never had been.

Leah had no recollection of returning to Clover Down, but as she made her way down the aisle in the stables, petting velvety equine noses and carrying a fat yellow tomcat purring against her middle, she heard Nick’s voice in the yard.

“Hullo, Wife.” Nick handed the reins off to a groom and strode over to Leah’s side. He bent down to kiss her, but Leah shifted to let the cat go at the last instant, so Nick’s lips landed on her cheek rather than her lips.

* * *

“Hullo, Husband.” They were prosaic words, and Nick’s wife uttered them in the most unremarkable tones, but still, Husband… He was a husband, and being labeled as such left an odd ache in Nick’s chest. And he wasn’t just any husband, he was her husband. Leah Haddonfield’s husband.

“Did you have a pleasant afternoon?” his wifeasked.

“It’s a pretty day, but I ran into some neighbors,” Nick said. The warmth in his chest died as he eyed her profile. He knew women, and his instincts were warning him something about her was off. Then again, he’d also just told a half-truth, and the guilt was no doubt making him jumpy.

A quarter-truth, he corrected himself, then sighed.

He’d misrepresented entirely.

“What did you find to do in my absence?” Nick asked, wishing his conscience would just shut the hell up.

“I hung up my dresses and poked around the house,” Leah said, letting Nick take her arm and steer her down the barn aisle. “I also established menus for the next week with your housekeeper and put my seal of approval on the organization of the pantries. Very impressive staff you have, Lord Reston.”

Her voice had taken on a brittle quality, not quite ironic, but not… Not his usual Leah.

“Lovey?” Nick peered over at her. “Are you feeling all right?”

“No, actually.” She paused in her progress toward the house. “I did not sleep as well as I would have liked last night, Nicholas, and think I might be developing a headache.”

“Understandable,” Nick said, wanting to be relieved, though she’d slept like a new recruit after a forced march. “Della pulled me aside at one point yesterday morning and told me surviving the wedding is harder than surviving the marriage. Shall I escort you up to bed?”

“That might be for the best,” Leah said, relief lacing her tone even to Nick’s ears.

“I want you to feel comfortable here, to consider any residence of ours your home,” he said as he held the back door for her. “You needn’t soldier on for my sake when you’re in pain, and I certainly won’t be putting on airs before you, of all people.”

Lying though his teeth, frequently, but never putting on airs.

“I’ll…” Leah paused, and while he watched, swallowed and looked away. “I’ll try to recall that, Nicholas.”

“I can have a tray sent up later, and I’ll check on you before I turn in.” He brushed a kiss to her forehead, wanting to touch her, though he didn’t deserve to.

“You might consider getting to bed early tonight yourself, Nicholas.”

Nick lifted a hand to her shoulder, contemplating adding an embrace to that prosaic, stolen kiss. An embrace intended to comfort a new wife in a new house—and to comfort a new husband too.

But Leah whirled before he could get his arms around her and left Nick standing alone in the corridor.

* * *

Leah found over the next few days that the ache did not abate. It got worse as Nick insisted on showing her his progress with Ethan’s birdhouse, and walking with her in their garden, and asking her to help him with French correspondence. Leah tried to think of Nick as some benign, charming cousin or brother-in-law. A man she might know fairly well, and whose company she could enjoy, but not like that.

And her self-deception worked adequately, until Nick would touch his thumb to her lower lip and ask her, “Why so grave, Wife?”—his expression likely the same worried, tender gaze he’d turned on their blond neighbor.

Or until he’d bring Leah breakfast on a tray, then sit on her bed and feed her as he asked her about her plans for the day or her correspondence from her siblings.

Or take her hand and lead her to the kitchen, there to share a cup of tea and a scone pilfered from the pantry. Leah bit into her scone then watched as Nick brought it to his mouth and nibbled off a bite from the same spot.

Nick put the scone down. “You look so forlorn I am about to cry. What can I do to please you?”

“You are a good man, Nicholas,” she said, “but it is harder to be married to you on the terms you’ve set than I ever imagined. Much, much harder.”

Nick regarded the single bite of scone left on his plate. “How is it difficult?”

“I am falling in love with you,” Leah said, “and I don’t want to.”

The kitchen clock ticked softly, the kettle on the hob gave off a low, simmering hiss, and the last of the kindling used to heat the burner shifted in the stove.

“I don’t know what to say,” Nick replied, coming around the table to sit beside her. He reached for her hand, and she closed her eyes, but made no move to withdraw her fingers. Nick was a toucher. He would not understand that what he sought to give as comfort couldn’t always be appreciated as such.

“You don’t have to say anything, Nicholas. You can’t help that you are so naturally affectionate, or that you are charming and kind and considerate. You can’t help that you are handsome and so gloriously well made. You’ve been honest with me, as honorable as circumstances allow. I’m just…”

“I’ve been trying not to hover,” Nick said, stroking the back of her hand with his fingers. “I am somewhat at a loss as well.”

Leah opened her eyes to frown at him. “Please be as blunt as you know how to be, Nicholas. I am not good at reading subtleties from a member of the opposite sex.”

“It’s hard to keep my distance from you,” Nick said on a bewildered sigh, “but I think I should. I’m not sure why I think that, when you’ve never been anything other than welcoming and accommodating, but the feeling is there, that if I’m going to be a husband only by half measures, I should leave you entirely in peace.”

Leah remained silent, and then, perhaps because he was possessed of a certain recklessness, Nick spelled it out for her. “I should leave you in peace, but I don’t want to.”

“This is a dilemma,” Leah said, closing her fingers around Nick’s hand. “How long do you think we can endure it, Nicholas, before we begin to hate each other?”

“I cannot hate you.” The words held relief, topped with a dollop of sadness. “I can hate the part of me that has no conscience and wants to pleasure itself in your body regardless of consequences, but I cannot hate the lady who consented to spend the rest of her life with me, knowing how little I can offer her.”

Heat flooded Leah’s face.

“That is impressively blunt,” she allowed, eyes straight ahead. “But, Nick, where do we go from here? We’re tied together at the ankle by this marriage and will have to spend some time together at least for the short term. I do not like feeling I’m mooning after a man who doesn’t want me, and you cannot enjoy my longing glances and girlish sighs.”

He did not smile. “Of course I can. I am a man, Leah, and all the practical considerations in the world won’t change that. Glance and sigh, and I’ll strut and paw. It’s the way the animal is made.”

Leah heard herself ask, “Do you think we would be better off apart, Nicholas?”

Panic or something like it flared in his blue eyes. Whatever it was, Leah assured herself it wasn’t relief.

“Leah, I haven’t been with another woman since I met you.”

* * *

In the biblical sense, Nick could tell his wife he’d not strayed. Marriage was turning him into a barrister, though, because he’d spent the entire afternoon in company with a female he never intended for Leah to meet.

And maybe Leah sensed the prevarication, because she would not meet Nick’s gaze.

He wasn’t ready to let her go. Worse, he could not envision the day when he would be ready.

Booted steps sounded swiftly above, and then on the kitchen stairs. Nick exchanged a puzzled look with his wife—his sad, cranky wife—but admitted relief that the conversation had been interrupted. Leah’s courage had towed their discussion out to deep, dangerous waters, and shoals lay all around them.

“Nick?” Ethan’s voice rang with anxiety. “Where the hell are you?”

“Down here,” Nick bellowed, rising from Leah’s side, “and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when in the presence of my lady wife.” Nick kept his tone teasing and his face arranged in a glad smile until Ethan gained the bottom of the stairs. One look at Ethan’s expression, and Nick’s good cheer evaporated.

“Papa’s gone?”

Ethan gave one tight nod, and for a long moment, Nick stood there in the kitchen, the reality of the moment imprinting itself on his mind: the ticking clock, the low song of the simmering kettle, the lovely spring sunshine pouring in the open kitchen windows, the breeze bringing with it the scent of garden flowers, turned earth, and the stables.

This is the moment when I become an orphan. When my brother and all my siblings and I become orphans.A chasm opened up in his chest, bottomless and yet filled with pain, sorrow, and bewilderment. Wordlessly he held out an arm to his wife, who was beside him in an instant. The other arm went out to Ethan, who joined them in an odd, strangely comforting three-way embrace.

“Let’s sit,” Leah suggested a few minutes later. “Ethan, your horse?”

“The lads are walking him out,” Ethan said as he led Nick to the table and slid onto the bench next to him.

“You probably haven’t eaten today,” Leah said, frowning at Ethan. “You will eat, Ethan Grey, and no sass. Nicholas?”

He turned to her, trying to fathom her meaning, as though plain English had suddenly become a foreign language at which he had little proficiency.

“I’m going to feed your brother and have some provisions packed for us.” Leah spoke slowly. “I’m also going to have some clothes packed and send word to my brother I’ll be leaving with you today for Belle Maison.”

Nick nodded, unable to get his voice to work. If he said something, anything, he’d… lose his composure, and he could not allow Leah to see that.

Leah knelt beside his chair. “I’m coming with you to Belle Maison—if that’s what you want?”

He managed a terse nod and barely resisted the compulsion to drag her against his chest. Leah rose and moved off. Nick was aware of her bustling around the kitchen, aware of his brother looking haggard and road weary, and aware that Papa—the earl, his lordship, the only person standing between Nick and a miserable damned title—was gone.

When Leah put a tray of sliced beef, cheddar, sliced bread, and a peeled orange before Ethan, she kissed Nick’s cheek—even her scent helped Nick breathe—then took her leave.

Nick started on the sad, predictable questions. “When?”

“Late last night,” Ethan said, making no move to eat. “He just slipped away, Nick. He was breathing one minute, and then he did not breathe again. Nita and I were there, and he was asleep.”

“You rode here from Belle Maison,” Nick observed, stupidly. Of course Ethan had ridden from Belle Maison.

Ethan’s arm circled Nick’s shoulders. “I’ll go back there with you. I promised you I would.”

“I’ll need to send word to the others,” Nick said, lowering his forehead to his folded arms. “The funeral can’t wait.”

The practicalities, Nick thought vaguely. Leah had foreseen a need to deal with the practicalities.

“We can have a memorial service next month if we can’t all be at the funeral,” Ethan suggested.

With a sigh, Nick nodded and pushed to his feet. “Eat, or Leah will know the reason why. Your horse can stay here, and you’ll travel with us in the coach.”

“If you wish,” Ethan said, regarding Nick.

“Leah did say she’d come with me?” Nick ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed to have to ask but needing the reassurance. Needing his wife.

“She did. You told her it was what you wanted.”

“I do want that,” Nick said. “Give me an hour to jot off some notes and confer with Leah and…” His voice trailed off, and Ethan waited. Eventually, Nick figured out something to say to his brother. “Thank you for bringing me this news, Ethan. I would not have wanted to hear it from anyone else.”

“Not that you wanted to hear it at all, and not that I wanted to bring it. I’ll meet you in an hour.”

What Nick wanted was to find his wife, bury his face against her neck, and let his sorrow overtake him. Instead, he went to the library and penned notes to his solicitors, to his siblings, and, after an attempt at deliberation that ended up being a spate of staring at a blank page, to Leonie.

* * *

Leah’s husband was being stubborn, in what she suspected was tradition for the earls of Bellefonte.

“Leah, I do not want to put you through this.”

What he clearly did not want was to burden his wife with further evidence of his grief.

“Nonsense.” Leah kept her voice down, though the corridor outside the small parlor housing the old earl’s remains was deserted. “I’ve seen bodies before, Nicholas, and I’ve also not seen bodies.”

He looked haunted, glancing up and down the carpeted hallway. “What does that mean?”

“My Charles wasn’t buried until I’d had a chance to hold him one last time,” Leah said, “though Aaron was taken back to his father’s house after the duel. I was not permitted to see him before they buried him. Both are equally dead, and I felt equal sorrow to lose them.”

Nick grimaced and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I have unpleasant associations with this sort of thing. When Ethan’s mother died, and my stepmother, and…”

He was not only stubborn and grieving, Leah suspected he was also… intimidated by the role he expected himself to fulfill. The idea that Nicholas, the most singularly self-possessed man she’d ever met, should face such a moment alone was untenable.

“What lies in the parlor is not your father, Nicholas. It’s a body that houses no life. You need not go in there.”

He searched her gaze, probably looking for tacit judgments. He would find none, not about this. He shoved away from the wall. “I’m his son. His heir.”

She took his hand, as he’d so often taken hers, and willed him all the reassurance and support within her. When Nick escorted her through the door, she saw that the parlor was rife with lilies, though thank God somebody had also opened the windows.

Nick’s grip on her hand was tight, probably tighter than he knew.

“He’s… dead,” Nick observed softly after a few silent moments. “There is no mistaking that pallor and that stillness.”

“He’s at peace,” Leah countered. “His body is dead.”

Nick’s grip eased, but she did not allow him to drop her hand.

While Nick made his final farewells to his father, Leah stood beside him and took courage from sharing the moment with him. For all their problems, they were man and wife. If Nick allowed her to remain by his side now, perhaps it boded well for their future.

“He would not want to be seen like this,” Nick said. He sounded so sad, so lost.

“He is disporting with his wives and mistresses, or so you told me.”

A ghost of a smile passed over Nick’s mouth. “Come, else I shall weep like a small boy missing the only person who could ever make me feel like a small boy, regardless of evidence to the contrary.” And yet he didn’t move and he didn’t give up Leah’s hand. “I don’t want to be Bellefonte,” Nick said softly. “I never wanted to be the earl.”

And maybe there was guilt here, for not wanting what his father would bequeath to him. That would be utter male nonsense, of course, but because it was Nick’s male nonsense, Leah shifted to embrace him.

“No loving son wants his father’s title, Nicholas, unless it’s to spare his father a greater sentence to a painful existence.”

Nick’s arms came around her slowly, maybe reluctantly. “Papa didn’t want the title either, and yet he was a fine earl, all things considered. A very fine earl.”

That was not nonsense. That was something Nick could hold close, as Leah held her husband close.

He shifted, so his arm was draped over her shoulders. “Come upstairs with me?”

As if she’d drift away from him now? “Of course.”

And yet, “upstairs” held a curious development. Being newly wed, Leah and her husband had been housed in Nick’s bedroom. Both of their trunks were empty and sitting open at the foot of Nick’s enormous bed. Well, they were married—and the earl’s chambers would require airing and possible redecoration.