Once Upon a Wedding Night
Page 6
“Oh,” she replied, her expression uncertain. She ceased hugging the book so tightly and lowered it in her hands.
“I had a nurse. Connie. Does she by chance still work here?”
“I have never heard of her. Perhaps you could ask in the village. She may still be in the area.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, shaking off his strange mood. “I suppose it’s time the room sees some use again.”
She gave a slight nod, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Your father would be pleased. He did not live very long after I came here, but he desperately wished to have this nursery full of children again.”
How ironic that his father had craved a nursery full of children when he banished his own son from its confines. “Yes, a shame he did not live to see this,” Nick said dryly. “I am certain his view does not extend this far from hell.”
He waited for her shock, her denunciation, perhaps even a fainting spell—the hallmark of all women of breeding, especially from such a starchy little package like herself.
Instead, she angled her head and studied him curiously. “I take it you and your father parted on bad terms?”
Nick eyed her closely. She blinked back at him, eyes wide and guileless. She posed the question sincerely, without the faintest amount of censure in her voice.
“No gossip has reached your ears?” Nick lifted a brow. “How surprising. I thought you would surely be apprised of all the sordid details. Edmund never spoke of me, then?”
Her gaze dropped and she plucked at the spine of her book, making him feel as though he’d asked a tactless question.
“No, he never mentioned you.”
Was she so grieved by her loss that the mention of Edmund gave her such discomfort? Had she loved him that much? A sour taste filled his mouth. He looked her over again. The flyaway tendrils of hair haloing her face made her look young, fresh. Undeniably pretty. His blood stirred with both desire and envy. What had Edmund done to deserve her devotion? The brother he remembered hardly seemed the type to evoke loyalty.
“Yes, well, I don’t suppose I mattered overmuch to him. But you’ve heard nothing of me from others?”
“No, and I certainly made my inquiries, my lord.” She lifted her eyes, as if daring him to disapprove. “I learned that your mother was a performer of some kind before she married your father—that she took you and left years ago.”
Nick smiled at her intrepid mien, so at odds with the solemn little girl she appeared in her prim robe. “There’s a little more to it than that. The truth is my father cast both of us aside. Divorce.
That ugly little word that is only whispered about in drawing rooms. I was eight years old, but he divorced himself from me just as much as from my mother.” Bitterness washed over him, belying the calm tone of his voice.
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully and she pursed her lips, evidently considering his words. The lighted sconces on the wall lent shadows that obscured the exact emotion of her eyes, but he sensed her reproach—or perhaps expected it.
“I suppose you’re wondering what we did to deserve it?”
“Not at all. I don’t think a father is ever justified in banishing his own child. It is reprehensible.”
“Is it only reprehensible to banish one’s child? What of wives?” Nick challenged.
At this, she stammered, “I—I cannot presume to know the circumstances—”
“Very politic of you. However, I wonder if you would say the same thing had my mother not been an opera singer. Tell me, do you really think that my mother was on equal footing with my father? Did he not possess the wealth and status? Does the law not grant a man more rights than a woman? Are you not right now beholden to me just as you were to Edmund?”
Her body noticeably stiffened, and he knew he had made his point. A point she clearly did not like but nonetheless recognized.
“What’s wrong? Do you find it difficult to hear the truth, my lady?”
“I don’t like it,” she admitted. “I don’t like to think of myself as subject to anyone.”
“Your circumstances are not so different from my mother’s. You’ve both been left with nothing.”
Nick shrugged and injected a measure of calm he didn’t feel. “He accused my mother of infidelity. If the allegation was true, perhaps she deserved the miserable end she suffered.”
“But what of you?” she asked. “You could not have done anything to deserve such treatment.
You were a helpless child. It must have been frightening to lose everything safe and familiar. I can understand that.” Her last words were uttered with such feeling, as if she truly knew how it felt to lose one’s sense of security. Perhaps she experienced a bit of that right now, with her future still so much unsettled. That her future rested on the outcome of her child’s gender was indeed a vagary of fate. A vicar’s daughter would more than likely subscribe it to God’s will, he thought wryly. Not him. If God existed, He had abandoned him long ago. Whether she gave birth to a boy or girl, it was just a roll of the die.
“I survived.”
“Your father lost too, even if he did not realize it. He died a lonely man. I’m sure he regretted—”
“No,” Nick interrupted harshly, slicing a hand through the air. “That bastard doesn’t deserve your pity, and you’ll rouse none from me. If you must pity, pity my mother who had to whore herself just to put food in our mouths and died coughing her guts up in a rat-infested hellhole.”
Her face blanched. Now he had shocked her. And it felt good. Rage—that old familiar friend that got him through the hardest of times—resurfaced. It felt gratifying to lash out at someone.
Everyone else he could blame was dead. She was the closest substitute. The chit had married Edmund, after all, sharing her bed and life with the very brother who had stood silent as he was banished. Edmund had been fifteen, old enough to possess a voice, to have at least spoken out on their behalf. The woman before him had married that gutless man, even mourned him. He would feel no softness for her. No matter how sweetly she listened as he bared his soul.
She dropped her gaze to the carpet, reminding him of a mouse trying to go unseen in the face of its predator. “My apologies. I spoke unthinkingly.”
“Now you know.”
“I’m sorry for all you suffered. I only wish others had known, so they could have helped you.”
Nick felt a flash of irritation. Did she honestly think no one knew? Just because no one had stepped forward to tell her his family’s sordid history did not mean no one knew.
“People knew, don’t doubt it. If the same thing were to happen today, Good Society would not deign to lift a finger.”
“I think you will find a good many people in Attingham that would not stand idle for such an injustice today.”
Her total naïveté maddened him. “If your child is female and I decided to cast you to the wolves, the good Christians of Attingham would look the other way, of that you may be certain.”
She shook her head slowly, murmuring in a voice that lacked conviction, “No.”
He studied her closely, hypnotized by the way the candlelight brought out the red highlights in her auburn hair. “What an innocent you are. I can say with absolute faith that my former neighbors did not grow a conscience in the last twenty years. But have no fear, I’ll keep my word. You’ll not have to test the extent of their charity.”
“I can only say that the good Christians I sit beside in church—”
His scornful laugh cut short her stalwart defense.
“What is so amusing, my lord?” Disapproval rang high in her voice.
Nick sobered and answered mildly, “I’m not much for church or God.” God had been his mother’s crutch. Not his.
Her sharp intake of breath indicated he had either offended or surprised her. That stubborn little chin of hers went up, and he knew she was not going to let his declaration slide past unrefuted. “I don’t believe that.”
“What exactly don’t you believe?”
“That you are faithless. I don’t believe it.”
He could tell her any number of stories to prove just how blackhearted he was. He could regale her with how he grew into a predator on the streets of London: stealing, assaulting, and even killing a man at the tender age of thirteen when the man insisted on becoming his special friend.
How scandalized would she be to learn that he had broken into the mansions of Mayfair’s most eminent? Perhaps then she would believe him.
“You don’t believe it because you don’t wish to.
It’s more comfortable for you to believe that everyone is like you.” He waved his hand at her.
“That I am like you.”
“But you must believe in God.” The quaver of hesitation in her voice made him smile. She feared for his soul. Charming. She probably feared he was going to be swallowed in flames right in front of her.
Nick answered with a vague, “I believe God exists.” For her sake, because she was so obviously perturbed, he would leave it at that and refrain from telling her of the years he had prayed for his mother’s precious God to intervene as he endured the beatings and deprivations of the streets.
The boy that had whispered desperate prayers over his mother’s corpse was dead.
“But you reject Him,” she finished for him.
Nick clenched his jaw, her judgment angering him. Or was it disappointment he heard in her voice? Either way, it bothered him more than it should. He didn’t need her good opinion. In fact, he would much rather have her disgust. It would keep things in perspective.
“How did Edmund ever end up with such a sweet innocent like you?” he mocked, stepping closer to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. “Shocking that such a prim little thing let him into your life, much less your bed.”
Gasping, she tried to step back, but his hand slid behind her neck, holding her fast. The nape of her neck felt soft as silk. He inhaled the scent of her. Mint and honey. Delicious. Her eyes dilated and her lips parted as she gazed up at him. A primal growl welled up in him and he inched closer, his eyes fixed on her lush mouth. Then the thought came, unbidden, unwanted. This woman could have been his. She could be his now. Nick stepped back, dropping his hands to his sides. Had he sunk so low he craved the woman carrying his brother’s child? Could he be that perverse?
Her trembling voice rolled through him like warm brandy. “This has been a trying day.
Especially for you. I’m sure old ghosts abound tonight. We best retire.”
“I remember little of my life here. It was long ago,” he lied, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could rid the silken feel of her from his hand.
“The downstairs library boasts a large selection. Sometimes I read when my mind is overwhelmed.” She waved her book in a nervous little circle, watching him warily.
“A worthy suggestion. Tell me, what overwhelms you?” He reached for the book, unable to stop himself from stroking the soft inside of her wrist. As if burned, she quickly released the book.
Reading the title, he asked, “You think Gulliver’s Travels will provide distraction from your worries?”
“I’m not worried, my lord.” Her voice lifted a notch as she worked to rub his touch from her skin.
“You’re a poor liar, my lady.”
Her eyes widened into luminous pools of green. “Of course I’m not.”
He chuckled. “Indeed?”
Shaking her head, she quickly corrected, “Not a liar, I mean—poor or otherwise.”
“It’s not a crime to confess that my arrival has discomfited you.”
“Your arrival has not discomfited me. Why should it?” she asked, fidgeting and looking nervous again.
Nick observed her curiously. Most women would have been glad to have a man step in and take charge. Not this one. From the moment he arrived, it was evident she wanted him gone. He handed the book back.
“I had a nurse. Connie. Does she by chance still work here?”
“I have never heard of her. Perhaps you could ask in the village. She may still be in the area.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, shaking off his strange mood. “I suppose it’s time the room sees some use again.”
She gave a slight nod, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Your father would be pleased. He did not live very long after I came here, but he desperately wished to have this nursery full of children again.”
How ironic that his father had craved a nursery full of children when he banished his own son from its confines. “Yes, a shame he did not live to see this,” Nick said dryly. “I am certain his view does not extend this far from hell.”
He waited for her shock, her denunciation, perhaps even a fainting spell—the hallmark of all women of breeding, especially from such a starchy little package like herself.
Instead, she angled her head and studied him curiously. “I take it you and your father parted on bad terms?”
Nick eyed her closely. She blinked back at him, eyes wide and guileless. She posed the question sincerely, without the faintest amount of censure in her voice.
“No gossip has reached your ears?” Nick lifted a brow. “How surprising. I thought you would surely be apprised of all the sordid details. Edmund never spoke of me, then?”
Her gaze dropped and she plucked at the spine of her book, making him feel as though he’d asked a tactless question.
“No, he never mentioned you.”
Was she so grieved by her loss that the mention of Edmund gave her such discomfort? Had she loved him that much? A sour taste filled his mouth. He looked her over again. The flyaway tendrils of hair haloing her face made her look young, fresh. Undeniably pretty. His blood stirred with both desire and envy. What had Edmund done to deserve her devotion? The brother he remembered hardly seemed the type to evoke loyalty.
“Yes, well, I don’t suppose I mattered overmuch to him. But you’ve heard nothing of me from others?”
“No, and I certainly made my inquiries, my lord.” She lifted her eyes, as if daring him to disapprove. “I learned that your mother was a performer of some kind before she married your father—that she took you and left years ago.”
Nick smiled at her intrepid mien, so at odds with the solemn little girl she appeared in her prim robe. “There’s a little more to it than that. The truth is my father cast both of us aside. Divorce.
That ugly little word that is only whispered about in drawing rooms. I was eight years old, but he divorced himself from me just as much as from my mother.” Bitterness washed over him, belying the calm tone of his voice.
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully and she pursed her lips, evidently considering his words. The lighted sconces on the wall lent shadows that obscured the exact emotion of her eyes, but he sensed her reproach—or perhaps expected it.
“I suppose you’re wondering what we did to deserve it?”
“Not at all. I don’t think a father is ever justified in banishing his own child. It is reprehensible.”
“Is it only reprehensible to banish one’s child? What of wives?” Nick challenged.
At this, she stammered, “I—I cannot presume to know the circumstances—”
“Very politic of you. However, I wonder if you would say the same thing had my mother not been an opera singer. Tell me, do you really think that my mother was on equal footing with my father? Did he not possess the wealth and status? Does the law not grant a man more rights than a woman? Are you not right now beholden to me just as you were to Edmund?”
Her body noticeably stiffened, and he knew he had made his point. A point she clearly did not like but nonetheless recognized.
“What’s wrong? Do you find it difficult to hear the truth, my lady?”
“I don’t like it,” she admitted. “I don’t like to think of myself as subject to anyone.”
“Your circumstances are not so different from my mother’s. You’ve both been left with nothing.”
Nick shrugged and injected a measure of calm he didn’t feel. “He accused my mother of infidelity. If the allegation was true, perhaps she deserved the miserable end she suffered.”
“But what of you?” she asked. “You could not have done anything to deserve such treatment.
You were a helpless child. It must have been frightening to lose everything safe and familiar. I can understand that.” Her last words were uttered with such feeling, as if she truly knew how it felt to lose one’s sense of security. Perhaps she experienced a bit of that right now, with her future still so much unsettled. That her future rested on the outcome of her child’s gender was indeed a vagary of fate. A vicar’s daughter would more than likely subscribe it to God’s will, he thought wryly. Not him. If God existed, He had abandoned him long ago. Whether she gave birth to a boy or girl, it was just a roll of the die.
“I survived.”
“Your father lost too, even if he did not realize it. He died a lonely man. I’m sure he regretted—”
“No,” Nick interrupted harshly, slicing a hand through the air. “That bastard doesn’t deserve your pity, and you’ll rouse none from me. If you must pity, pity my mother who had to whore herself just to put food in our mouths and died coughing her guts up in a rat-infested hellhole.”
Her face blanched. Now he had shocked her. And it felt good. Rage—that old familiar friend that got him through the hardest of times—resurfaced. It felt gratifying to lash out at someone.
Everyone else he could blame was dead. She was the closest substitute. The chit had married Edmund, after all, sharing her bed and life with the very brother who had stood silent as he was banished. Edmund had been fifteen, old enough to possess a voice, to have at least spoken out on their behalf. The woman before him had married that gutless man, even mourned him. He would feel no softness for her. No matter how sweetly she listened as he bared his soul.
She dropped her gaze to the carpet, reminding him of a mouse trying to go unseen in the face of its predator. “My apologies. I spoke unthinkingly.”
“Now you know.”
“I’m sorry for all you suffered. I only wish others had known, so they could have helped you.”
Nick felt a flash of irritation. Did she honestly think no one knew? Just because no one had stepped forward to tell her his family’s sordid history did not mean no one knew.
“People knew, don’t doubt it. If the same thing were to happen today, Good Society would not deign to lift a finger.”
“I think you will find a good many people in Attingham that would not stand idle for such an injustice today.”
Her total naïveté maddened him. “If your child is female and I decided to cast you to the wolves, the good Christians of Attingham would look the other way, of that you may be certain.”
She shook her head slowly, murmuring in a voice that lacked conviction, “No.”
He studied her closely, hypnotized by the way the candlelight brought out the red highlights in her auburn hair. “What an innocent you are. I can say with absolute faith that my former neighbors did not grow a conscience in the last twenty years. But have no fear, I’ll keep my word. You’ll not have to test the extent of their charity.”
“I can only say that the good Christians I sit beside in church—”
His scornful laugh cut short her stalwart defense.
“What is so amusing, my lord?” Disapproval rang high in her voice.
Nick sobered and answered mildly, “I’m not much for church or God.” God had been his mother’s crutch. Not his.
Her sharp intake of breath indicated he had either offended or surprised her. That stubborn little chin of hers went up, and he knew she was not going to let his declaration slide past unrefuted. “I don’t believe that.”
“What exactly don’t you believe?”
“That you are faithless. I don’t believe it.”
He could tell her any number of stories to prove just how blackhearted he was. He could regale her with how he grew into a predator on the streets of London: stealing, assaulting, and even killing a man at the tender age of thirteen when the man insisted on becoming his special friend.
How scandalized would she be to learn that he had broken into the mansions of Mayfair’s most eminent? Perhaps then she would believe him.
“You don’t believe it because you don’t wish to.
It’s more comfortable for you to believe that everyone is like you.” He waved his hand at her.
“That I am like you.”
“But you must believe in God.” The quaver of hesitation in her voice made him smile. She feared for his soul. Charming. She probably feared he was going to be swallowed in flames right in front of her.
Nick answered with a vague, “I believe God exists.” For her sake, because she was so obviously perturbed, he would leave it at that and refrain from telling her of the years he had prayed for his mother’s precious God to intervene as he endured the beatings and deprivations of the streets.
The boy that had whispered desperate prayers over his mother’s corpse was dead.
“But you reject Him,” she finished for him.
Nick clenched his jaw, her judgment angering him. Or was it disappointment he heard in her voice? Either way, it bothered him more than it should. He didn’t need her good opinion. In fact, he would much rather have her disgust. It would keep things in perspective.
“How did Edmund ever end up with such a sweet innocent like you?” he mocked, stepping closer to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. “Shocking that such a prim little thing let him into your life, much less your bed.”
Gasping, she tried to step back, but his hand slid behind her neck, holding her fast. The nape of her neck felt soft as silk. He inhaled the scent of her. Mint and honey. Delicious. Her eyes dilated and her lips parted as she gazed up at him. A primal growl welled up in him and he inched closer, his eyes fixed on her lush mouth. Then the thought came, unbidden, unwanted. This woman could have been his. She could be his now. Nick stepped back, dropping his hands to his sides. Had he sunk so low he craved the woman carrying his brother’s child? Could he be that perverse?
Her trembling voice rolled through him like warm brandy. “This has been a trying day.
Especially for you. I’m sure old ghosts abound tonight. We best retire.”
“I remember little of my life here. It was long ago,” he lied, rubbing the back of his neck as if he could rid the silken feel of her from his hand.
“The downstairs library boasts a large selection. Sometimes I read when my mind is overwhelmed.” She waved her book in a nervous little circle, watching him warily.
“A worthy suggestion. Tell me, what overwhelms you?” He reached for the book, unable to stop himself from stroking the soft inside of her wrist. As if burned, she quickly released the book.
Reading the title, he asked, “You think Gulliver’s Travels will provide distraction from your worries?”
“I’m not worried, my lord.” Her voice lifted a notch as she worked to rub his touch from her skin.
“You’re a poor liar, my lady.”
Her eyes widened into luminous pools of green. “Of course I’m not.”
He chuckled. “Indeed?”
Shaking her head, she quickly corrected, “Not a liar, I mean—poor or otherwise.”
“It’s not a crime to confess that my arrival has discomfited you.”
“Your arrival has not discomfited me. Why should it?” she asked, fidgeting and looking nervous again.
Nick observed her curiously. Most women would have been glad to have a man step in and take charge. Not this one. From the moment he arrived, it was evident she wanted him gone. He handed the book back.
