Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord
Page 49
Nick nodded once before making a point of lifting a shaving pot that had been left beside the basin and soaping his face. He turned to the looking glass in the corner of the room, aware that the boy was watching his movements, fascinated. “How old are you? ”
“Ten.”
The age he had been when everything had changed.
Lifting a straight razor from the table, Nick pretended not to notice the boy’s intent stare. He set the blade to his cheek carefully and said, “My brother is a marquess, you know.”
It took a moment for the words to reach James, so focused was the boy on the movement of the steel blade across Nick’s skin. When they did, the young earl’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really.” Nick focused on his task for a few seconds before adding, “And he learned most of the things he knows about being a marquess at school.”
Silence fell between them, with only the sound of water on Nick’s razor in the room as James considered the words. “Did you go to school?”
“I did.”
“Did you like it?”
“Sometimes.”
“And the others?”
Nick paused, using the delicate task of shaving his chin to buy time to consider his answers. He had much in common with this boy—a strange history that set him apart from his peers, an uncertain future, an unfortunate past. Nick considered his mother’s desertion, the maelstrom of gossip that began soon after her leaving, the way his father had shut down and packed Nick and Gabriel off to school without preparing them for the way others would talk … the way they would tease. As the second son, without a title, Nick had received the brunt of the teasing; and on those days he had thrown himself into his schoolwork.
That was before he’d learned to retaliate with his fists. Before he’d realized that his size and stature and physical power could open the door to a life that was more than the one he’d expected to live as second son of the Marquess of Ralston.
No, he had not liked school much. But it would be different for James. He was not the son of a weak marquess and his marchioness of questionable morals. He was an earl, and due the respect of the title.
“Sometimes men must do things they do not enjoy. It is what makes us men.”
James considered the words. Nick watched him closely in the mirror, wondering what the young earl was thinking. Finally, the boy lifted his head. “I should like to be thought a man.”
“Then I am afraid school is a must.”
“But what about …” Nick did not press the boy, instead drying his now clean-shaven face and waiting out the long silence. “What about the girls?”
Something burst high in Nick’s chest then—a warm tightness that spread at the plaintive question. The boy was worried about his sister. And, considering the woman’s recklessness over the past two days, Nick did not blame him for it.
Not that he would say that.
“Your sister seems to do quite well on her own, don’t you think?”
James shook his head. “Isabel hates being alone. She would be sad if I left.”
Nick resisted the image that flashed of Isabel sad and lonely. He did not like it.
“I think she would understand your duty.”
The boy was back to chewing on his lip—an endearing habit of which Eton would break him immediately, Nick thought, a pang of disappointment flaring at the thought.
“What of my duty here? To the girls?” James asked.
“Isabel and Lara shall be here when you return, James. And they shall be better for all you will have learned of being an earl.”
James shook his head vehemently. “They are not—” He stopped, collected his thoughts, and began again. “I cannot protect them when I am away at school.”
Warning flared in Nick at the words. “Protect them?” he repeated, keeping his voice casual even as he moved closer to James. “Protect them from what? ”
The boy looked away, out the window of the bedchamber at the acres of green land beyond. “From … everything.”
Nick knew immediately that James was not referring to a general, overarching worry, but to a specific concern. He also knew the boy would not share it easily. “James,” he said, not wanting to scare him away, “if there is something worrying you—I am able to help.”
James looked back and his gaze fell to Nick’s scar, surprising him—not because the boy was looking, but because he was looking for the first time. James’s attention shifted away almost as quickly as it had landed there, this time to Nick’s shoulders, where they strained the fabric of the too-small, borrowed dressing gown. “I think you might be able to help,” the boy said softly, finally. “I think you are big enough to help.”
If he weren’t so disturbed by James’s words, Nick would have smiled at the words. He knew his size—knew it was overwhelming to those who were unused to it. “I have never met a danger I could not overcome.”
The arrogant words were only a half-truth, but the child need not know that.
James nodded once. “They will need someone to protect them. Especially …”
Isabel.
The name whispered through Nick’s mind as he registered the obvious worry on James’s face.
Was it possible that she was in serious danger? Was it possible that someone was after her? That she was in hiding? Nick gritted his teeth, a flash of protectiveness overwhelming him. He wanted to rush from the room, to find her and shake the information out of her. What the hell had the girl gotten herself into?
“Ten.”
The age he had been when everything had changed.
Lifting a straight razor from the table, Nick pretended not to notice the boy’s intent stare. He set the blade to his cheek carefully and said, “My brother is a marquess, you know.”
It took a moment for the words to reach James, so focused was the boy on the movement of the steel blade across Nick’s skin. When they did, the young earl’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really.” Nick focused on his task for a few seconds before adding, “And he learned most of the things he knows about being a marquess at school.”
Silence fell between them, with only the sound of water on Nick’s razor in the room as James considered the words. “Did you go to school?”
“I did.”
“Did you like it?”
“Sometimes.”
“And the others?”
Nick paused, using the delicate task of shaving his chin to buy time to consider his answers. He had much in common with this boy—a strange history that set him apart from his peers, an uncertain future, an unfortunate past. Nick considered his mother’s desertion, the maelstrom of gossip that began soon after her leaving, the way his father had shut down and packed Nick and Gabriel off to school without preparing them for the way others would talk … the way they would tease. As the second son, without a title, Nick had received the brunt of the teasing; and on those days he had thrown himself into his schoolwork.
That was before he’d learned to retaliate with his fists. Before he’d realized that his size and stature and physical power could open the door to a life that was more than the one he’d expected to live as second son of the Marquess of Ralston.
No, he had not liked school much. But it would be different for James. He was not the son of a weak marquess and his marchioness of questionable morals. He was an earl, and due the respect of the title.
“Sometimes men must do things they do not enjoy. It is what makes us men.”
James considered the words. Nick watched him closely in the mirror, wondering what the young earl was thinking. Finally, the boy lifted his head. “I should like to be thought a man.”
“Then I am afraid school is a must.”
“But what about …” Nick did not press the boy, instead drying his now clean-shaven face and waiting out the long silence. “What about the girls?”
Something burst high in Nick’s chest then—a warm tightness that spread at the plaintive question. The boy was worried about his sister. And, considering the woman’s recklessness over the past two days, Nick did not blame him for it.
Not that he would say that.
“Your sister seems to do quite well on her own, don’t you think?”
James shook his head. “Isabel hates being alone. She would be sad if I left.”
Nick resisted the image that flashed of Isabel sad and lonely. He did not like it.
“I think she would understand your duty.”
The boy was back to chewing on his lip—an endearing habit of which Eton would break him immediately, Nick thought, a pang of disappointment flaring at the thought.
“What of my duty here? To the girls?” James asked.
“Isabel and Lara shall be here when you return, James. And they shall be better for all you will have learned of being an earl.”
James shook his head vehemently. “They are not—” He stopped, collected his thoughts, and began again. “I cannot protect them when I am away at school.”
Warning flared in Nick at the words. “Protect them?” he repeated, keeping his voice casual even as he moved closer to James. “Protect them from what? ”
The boy looked away, out the window of the bedchamber at the acres of green land beyond. “From … everything.”
Nick knew immediately that James was not referring to a general, overarching worry, but to a specific concern. He also knew the boy would not share it easily. “James,” he said, not wanting to scare him away, “if there is something worrying you—I am able to help.”
James looked back and his gaze fell to Nick’s scar, surprising him—not because the boy was looking, but because he was looking for the first time. James’s attention shifted away almost as quickly as it had landed there, this time to Nick’s shoulders, where they strained the fabric of the too-small, borrowed dressing gown. “I think you might be able to help,” the boy said softly, finally. “I think you are big enough to help.”
If he weren’t so disturbed by James’s words, Nick would have smiled at the words. He knew his size—knew it was overwhelming to those who were unused to it. “I have never met a danger I could not overcome.”
The arrogant words were only a half-truth, but the child need not know that.
James nodded once. “They will need someone to protect them. Especially …”
Isabel.
The name whispered through Nick’s mind as he registered the obvious worry on James’s face.
Was it possible that she was in serious danger? Was it possible that someone was after her? That she was in hiding? Nick gritted his teeth, a flash of protectiveness overwhelming him. He wanted to rush from the room, to find her and shake the information out of her. What the hell had the girl gotten herself into?
