Nick glanced at a stiff-lipped matron who was staring at him from across the room as if she’d like to flay him with her fan. She was as round as she was tall, with thin, wispy hair piled high and adorned with a variety of flowers and ribbons in an effort to make the scanty tresses look more substantial. She glared at him as if for a ha’pence, she’d have ordered the footmen to escort him to the closest door and slam it in his face. Eyelids twitching, she leaned over to her thin, angular companion and began talking rapidly.
He knew what the matron was saying. She was cataloging his every fault—telling tales about his mother, exaggerating his youthful escapades, repeating every story she’d ever heard.
He shrugged the thoughts aside, unbothered by memories. Despite his errors, he would not apologize for his past. It was his, and he was content that it should be so. Nick had never aspired to perfection, or even such a lamentable state as goodness. He was, and would always be, his mother’s son. The thought both pained and reassured him.
Nick waited until the matron again fixed him with her venomous gaze, then he lifted his brows and smiled—slowly, surely, letting his lashes lower just enough to cause her to stutter to a halt. Her eyes widened; her mouth gradually dropped open to hang in limp wonderment.
Satisfied, Nick turned away and murmured to the comte, “You exaggerate, as usual. Some of these women make me ill.”
“Well, there might be one or two exceptions,” Henri amended affably. “Perhaps you should find a mistress, mon ami. It will give you new energy. A new focus. And I, as your friend, will assist in the selection.” The comte rubbed his hands together and looked about the room with an appraising eye. “What shall it be? Tall or petite? Blond or brunette? Perhaps a tasty little redhead, non?”
“I don’t really care about hair color or height.”
“Then what? Perhaps you care if she is…” The comte made a rounded gesture at his chest.
“Just do not burden me with a woman who expects me to declare my love every time she sighs. Or one who attempts to weigh me down with the boring details of her daily activities. I have enough tedium in my own life without enduring someone else’s.”
“Already we have narrowed the field. You want a woman of character who neither talks nor complains nor expects declarations.” Henri frowned. “Voyons! You don’t look for a woman, but a saint.”
“I’ve always been selective.”
“You can afford to be. You have the face, the funds, the title. But that is the problem for you, no? Too many willing women.”
“I’ve never found it to be a difficulty.”
“But of course. It is a little like eating too rich of food. At the time, it is almost impossible to turn away. But later…then begin the regrets. You need a challenge, mon ami. Someone who will inflame your interest to new levels. Someone who will obsess your every waking moment. Someone who—”
“What I need is a drink. And of a quality I am unlikely to discover here.”
“Come, you must admit you would like to meet such a woman.”
For a brief instant, Nick wondered about the allure of true love. He’d never felt an all-consuming need to be with someone, to know what they were doing every minute of the day, to believe they were essential to his happiness. The thought was almost laughable. The ugly truths of his life had burnt away whatever tender sensibilities it took to fall in love. “Love is for fools, Henri. I am not a fool.”
The comte frowned, his bushy brows lowered over the bridge of his nose. “Do not tempt fate, Nicholas.”
“I tempt no one. However, you are right about one thing—I would like a mistress: someone who, after several months of mutual pleasure, I can leave without having to look back.”
So far, things were working out well. He’d managed to brazen his way into this gathering, and sometime tonight, he’d be sure to garner an invitation or two to other events. All he had to do was display a few social graces and his wealth, and his feet would be solidly on the path of social acceptance. Once Nick conquered Bath, he would move on to London, where his real detractors resided. By that time he would already be established, with a score of connections to hold him in good stead. All told, his reentrance into society was proving to be exceptionally easy.
“I believe I will retire to the cardroom,” Henri said thoughtfully, his gaze on a trim woman in puce who had just disappeared through the doors.
“I won’t be staying long,” Nick said.
“If I’m fortunate, neither will I,” murmured the comte. Flashing a grin, he left, a jaunty bounce to his step.
Nick tried to shake off a sense of heaviness. His three years on the Continent had spoiled him. Three years of wild living, drinking to excess, and gambling ’til dawn. But that time was over—now he had Hibberton Hall, and soon he would take his rightful place in society.
He looked around the room, feeling an overwhelming desire to escape the heat and stifling respectability of the silk-swathed ballroom. He hated to be around so many people. The sights and sounds inevitably irritated his head and made it ache worse than usual.
You’ve been alone far too long, he told himself firmly. How else was he to find a suitable mistress for his last few months of sanity, if not at this parade of feminine charms? A whirl of bronze silk caught his eye, and he watched a plump beauty dance by on the arm of a young lord. Just beyond them stood a pale lady in pink, smiling up at a foppish gentleman whose shirt points forced his chin to a ridiculous angle.
They were all here for the same reason—searching for a dalliance. Of course his case was different, for his mistress would have to be something out of the ordinary, someone with character and intelligence. He’d had his chance at wealth and beauty and had found them both lacking.
At the thought, he lifted a hand to his brow, the familiar ache tightening like a band around his head. The monsters were restless tonight, but not dangerous. They teased and tormented, but he remained amazingly sober, his thoughts lucid, his eyesight clear. It was a relief, and he could only pray that the headaches stayed at bay. Perhaps all he’d needed was the fresh air of England.
The music changed to a slow waltz, and Nick watched as a sea of colored gowns swirled across the gleaming floor. Tall and short, plump and thin, dark and fair, the room was packed to the walls with eligible women.
A pair of dark eyes caught his gaze. Hmmm…Lucilla Kettering, the infamous Lady Knowles, stood in the corner by a potted fern, conversing with a dashing blade who looked a good five years her junior. Nick knew the young widow from his travels on the Continent. He’d met her in Paris and had enjoyed her perfumed skin and wild abandon between the sheets. Tall and shapely, she was the picture of cool composure and feminine strength—precisely the type of woman he was looking for. That she possessed a lascivious nature that exactly matched his own would only make their partnership the sweeter.
Nick bowed to her, his gaze lingering on her rounded bosom. Her mouth curved in pleasure, one hand lifting to where the pulse beat at her throat as if she remembered his mouth seeking that very spot. Her eyes flared in excitement as Nick made his way toward her through the crowd.
He had not taken more than a few steps when someone bumped into him.
“I beg your pardon,” said a velvety feminine voice.
Nick glanced down and came to an abrupt halt. He was staring into the face of a schoolroom miss who was surely no more than seventeen years of age. But seventeen or not, he was rooted to the spot. He forgot about Lucilla, forgot the heat of the room, forgot his boredom. Forgot everything but the most damnable dimple in the woman’s right cheek.
She stared back, but not with the admiration he usually stirred. There was a hint of calm evaluation behind the polite smile that curved her rosebud mouth. Inexplicably amused, Nick could not help admiring the startlingly white skin and full, red mouth. Like a cloud of black silk, her hair sprang from a wide forehead and curled charmingly in a profusion of ringlets on either side of a heart-shaped face.
Young, d
elicate, and blessed with an ethereal air, she escaped being a true beauty by the shortness of her lower lip and the suggestion of willfulness in her stubborn little chin.
For three years, Nick had traveled the Continent and tasted what each country had to offer—the dark beauties of Italy, the pale sophistication of the Parisian ladies. What he’d missed the most was embodied in the vision before him—the seductive scent of lavender, creamy skin hidden beneath tantalizing layers of clothing, and the direct, wide-eyed gaze of a true innocent.
There were no innocents among the demimonde of Paris or the dirty streets of Rome. Which was why every diminutive inch of this little charmer spoke to his soul, lifted his spirits, and lessened the ache in his head.
Somehow, he found himself capturing her slim hand, his gaze irrefutably drawn by her tender lower lip, which begged to be tasted.
Nick lifted her hand and placed a warm kiss to her delicately gloved fingers. “I beg your pardon for not watching where I was stepping. Allow me to introduce myself; I am Nicholas Montrose, the Earl of Bridgeton.”
She dipped a curtsey, her hand tightening over his. “How do you do? I was hoping to have a word with you, my lord.”
The calm, self-assured voice was at odds with her youthful appearance. Nick was intrigued; which was she—a blasé creature of society or a country innocent attempting to hide her inexperience behind a mask of composure? His gaze lingered on her eyes. They were the pale blue of a morning sky, fringed with ridiculously long lashes that tangled at the corners. “Have we met before, Miss…”
“We’ve never met, but I’ve heard of you from many people.”
He moved his thumb over the back of her hand in a brief, tantalizing movement. “Perhaps I can dispel some of the rumors.”
“I doubt it.” She freed her hand as her tongue slipped nervously across her lower lip, and her gaze darted toward the cardroom before settling back on him. “I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve heard it said that you are a known rake.”
Amusement banished the last vestige of his boredom. “At times.” He would have agreed to anything after witnessing the tantalizing trail of moisture left by her pink tongue.
She nodded once, then said in a well-rehearsed manner, “It is quite stuffy in here. It would be pleasant to take a turn about the terrace.”
His attention jerked from her mouth to her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, ‘It is quite stuffy in here, and it would be pleasant to take a turn about the terrace.’” Her brows lowered. “Perchance you don’t hear well?”
“No, indeed. I just didn’t expect such a…munificent offer so early in the evening.” He raked a gaze across her petite form, taking in the generous swell of her breasts and the graceful slope of her white shoulders. Munificent, hell. A dull ache lifted in his groin and swelled.
The heat intensified when she gave an impatient sigh, the movement pressing her bosom against the thin fabric of her gown. Small, embroidered roses rested at the cleft of her breasts, and they rose and fell with her every breath. Nick’s cravat tightened a notch.
It was a dilemma. The old Nick would have taken her up on her offer and swept her onto the terrace, pleasuring her until she cried out with ecstasy. The new Nick realized that such an action would cause the pudgy matrons of Bath to slam shut many of the doors just now opening for him.
With true regret, he looked down at his fascinating companion and shook his head. “It wouldn’t be wise for us to leave the safety of this room.”
She could not have appeared more astounded if he’d announced he was the pope. “But I have asked a friend to serve as chaperone.”
Nick followed her gaze to where a tall, auburn-haired woman stood by the terrace door. It was tempting. Tempting, but…“Another time, perhaps.”
After a moment of stunned silence, she cleared her throat and then spoke in a slow, careful voice, as if she suspected him of limited understanding. “You won’t even join me for one moment?”
Nick wondered if she was one of those silly females who viewed his appearance and title as a challenge—a trophy to be won and then displayed. Yet she did not appear enamored of his appearance or title. Indeed, she looked…annoyed. Almost as if she thought him guilty of wasting her time.
Of the many reactions Nick had engendered in women—fascination, attraction, admiration, excitement, fear—none had ever looked so obviously unimpressed. In fact, the little vixen had begun to look past him, her gaze assessing a man just to his right.
Nick’s interest fanned to a roaring flame. The dreary confines of the ballroom brightened, warmed, and gleamed. “I don’t even know your name.”
She hesitated the briefest instant. “Lady Carrington. My husband died not long ago.”
Ah. This is becoming more interesting by the moment. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
She said the words simply, without rancor or emotion, but so surely that he knew her heart was free. This was no grieving widow, but a woman in search of passion.
Nick was a sensual man, and he would take great pleasure in sharing his bed with the fascinating Lady Carrington. But if they were to embark on a delightful flirtation, they would have to carefully mask their interest in one another whenever they were in public. For Nick, who had never had a truly clandestine relationship, the thought was unexpectedly provocative.
He looked down at the little charmer. He imagined her naked and in his bed, her skin flushed by passion, her hair unbound and flowing over her shoulders. He imagined her breasts, full and lush, dewy from his kisses, the crests pink and thrusting. He pictured himself lowering himself between her damp thighs as he rode her until she cried out with passion. He saw himself bending over her, tasting her core, ecstasy nestled among her tight curls….
Her gaze widened and she took an unsteady step backward. “I-I have changed my mind about the terrace, my lord. You won’t do at all.” She spun away, but her slippered foot tangled in her skirts and she tilted unsteadily.
Nick caught her just before she fell. He let his hands linger possessively on her arms, his temper sparked. What does she mean, I won’t “do”? The little chit needs to be taught the cost of playing with fire. Especially the kind of fire that raged through him at this very moment, heating his blood, burning away his thin grasp on civility.
She jerked free and fled for the safety of her tall friend.
Swallowing the bitter taste of unfulfilled desire, Nick tried to still the blood that pounded through his body. Across the room, Lucilla attempted to gain his attention, her brows drawn in irritation, a petulant thrust to her lips. But Nick had no use for Lucilla at the moment. He remained rooted where he stood, watching the much-too-tempting Lady Carrington whispering to her friend, who stared at him with a mixture of horror and fascination.
He tried to ignore the relentless ache in his groin. How had he allowed something as simple as thickly lashed eyes and a dimpled cheek to get past his defenses?
Then Nick became aware of the avid gazes of two matrons who looked as if they’d like nothing better than to see him strung from the closest lamppost. Tonight of all nights, he did not need to make a spectacle of himself. One misstep, and he would find himself once again on the outside, looking in. He forced himself to remain in the ballroom, and allowed himself to be introduced to faceless woman after faceless woman. Word of his fortune soon spread and Bath society cracked open its door for the former prodigal son.
But all evening, Nick was much too aware of Lady Carrington as she flitted about the room, smiling at anyone who caught her eye. Grimly irritated, he watched her progression. The ton loved scandal almost as much as it loved money and gorged itself on whatever tidbits were available. If she didn’t have a care, Lady Carrington would become the next main course—and if she became a social pariah, he would have to give her up. Society loved to declare guilt by association. Still…his gaze wandered toward her as she stood talking animatedly to her companion. She was a conundrum, a flash of fire, une
xpected and unknown.
Perhaps Henri had been right—he needed a challenge. But not one that could destroy his chance to reenter society. The evening suddenly seemed flat. Taking one last look at Lady Carrington, Nick turned on his heel and left.
Chapter 3
Hibberton Hall had gone too long without a master. The roof leaked in a dozen places, fallen bricks blocked five of the twelve chimneys, and black mold splotched the once elegantly decorated walls in almost every room. All told, the rundown manor was a rotten board away from collapsing.
An ordinary man would have balked at the idea of attempting to return the manor to its former beauty. Fortunately for all concerned, the Earl of Bridgeton was not an ordinary man. Hibberton Hall belonged to Nick and he would see it restored, regardless of the cost, personal or otherwise.
The way Parkington had allowed the Hall to fall into such disrepair was revolting, Nick thought as he stood in the center of the library. This room was in better condition than most of the others, though far from perfect. The floor needed staining, the heavy oak paneling had warped from the constant dampness that pervaded the house, and the fine plasterwork was threaded with tiny cracks. Nick stifled an impatient sigh and crossed to look out the window. “Pratt, we will need some men skilled in plaster work.”
“Yes, my lord,” his longtime solicitor said from where he sat at the desk, making a list of needed repairs. His fine, tiny writing already covered three entire sheets.
Nick lifted the latch and swung the window open, the hinges protesting loudly. Cold winter air invaded the room, dispelling the moldy odor and clearing his head. Despite almost a century of neglect, Hibberton Hall remained an impressive site. The main part of the house, built during Tudor times, contained a large banquet hall that had been converted to a ballroom almost a hundred years ago by one enterprising owner.