Ducal Encounters 03 - Portrait of a Duke (3 page)

“You are as bad as they are?”

His smile widened. “Very possibly.”

Their conversation stalled and Nia became tellingly aware that she was now entirely alone with this compelling stranger. She felt unsettled beneath the full force of his lazy scrutiny, resenting the fact that he probably found all manner of things to criticise in her looks, her manners, her appearance in general. She wanted to call the boys back on some fabricated pretence. Their chatter would have broken the razor sharp tension that was definitely not a product of her imagination. But if Lord Vincent felt it also, it didn’t appear to worry him. She glanced up at him and noticed a teasing smile playing about his lips, as though he sensed her discomfiture and found it amusing. She thought of the many occasions upon which she had craved solitude in her busy, unpredictable, and disorganised life. It had chosen a most inconvenient time to oblige her. There again, if any of the residents of Stoneleigh Manor decided to show themselves, she would be mortified.

But if that did happen it would rid her of him in record time. Which is what she wanted, was it not?

His smile turned positively lethal as she continued to look at him. Unsure what it implied, she hastily lowered her gaze, only for it to collide with strong thighs encased in tight-fitting inexpressibles. Heat invaded her cheeks as a firestorm of alien emotions filled her senses and a tremor of awareness rocked her entire body. Perdition, things were going from bad to worse! Nia made a monumental effort to control herself. Glancing lower, she took comfort from the fact that his hessians, which she was sure must usually be polished to a glossy shine, were now caked in mud, also thanks to the part he had played in rescuing her troublesome nephews.

“Art’s right, you know, it really wasn’t their fault.” Lord Vincent’s deep, arresting voice snapped her out of her reverie. “Well, not entirely. Boys are simply made to behave in such a fashion. I know my mother despaired of the four of us. I am surprised we didn’t manage to turn her hair grey.”

Now that the conversation had returned to safer ground, Nia risked chancing a glance at his face. “You got up to the same sort of things?”

Lord Vincent shrugged. “Worse, I would imagine. Boyish pursuits don’t recognise social boundaries.”

“No, I suppose not.” She bent to scoop up Ruff, who had been dogging her footsteps. “And you have a lot of explaining to do,” she told him severely. “I asked you to remain in the grounds for a reason. It’s not as though there are not enough rabbits and squirrels here for you to chase without the need to turn thief. Those boys don’t need an excuse to find mischief.”

Ruff sat in her arms, cocked his head to one side and adopted an appealingly innocent expression that made it impossible for Nia to remain angry with him.

“He’s incorrigible,” Lord Vincent said, tugging one of the dog’s ears, which sent him into a state of near delirium.

Nia rolled her eyes. “On a good day.”

She returned the dog to the ground and he shot off somewhere, presumably in search of his partners in crime.

“Am I to assume you are related to Patrick Trafford?” Lord Vincent asked after a moment’s silence. “Lady St. John mentioned he might be taking this house.”

“I am his granddaughter. The boys are my brother’s children. He is away on business at the present.”

“And their mother?”

“Is dead.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

Lord Vincent smiled at her, and she heartily wished he had not done so. All the time they were making polite conversation she could play her part, but that smile of his was her undoing. She looked away, again trying not to see the dilapidated house and grounds through his eyes. She felt the need to explain, but stubbornness held her back. It really was none of his business. She was grateful to him for rescuing the twins, but she didn’t owe him explanations of any sort.

“They appear to look upon you as their mother,” he remarked.

Nia mentally shook herself. She had drifted off into a daydream again—one that featured arresting eyes, a charming disposition and flowing masculine power—and had not even thanked him for his condolences.

“They have, through necessity, spent more time in my care than their father’s recently.”

Lord Vincent sent her a curious glance. Dear God, she had been indiscreet. She had not meant to let her true feelings show. There was just something about this handsome stranger that loosened her tongue.

“You love them very much,” he suggested softly.

“How could I not?” She flashed a genuine smile. “But they need their father. They need proper schooling—”

“Excuse me, they do not go to school?”

“Not since we arrived here. At the moment I teach them myself, but that is hardly a satisfactory arrangement.”

“Presumably you could you engage a tutor if your plans are not settled and you don’t wish to send them off to school.”

Tutors cost money
. “It’s one possibility, but without my brother’s approbation, I cannot make any long-term decisions.”

“That must be very frustrating for you.”

“Hmm.”

His mouth. It fascinated Nia, constantly making her lose the thread of their conversation. Her artistic eye was drawn to the shadows between his nose and the tantalising shape of his lush lips. She noticed that deep vertical clefts appeared on either side of his mouth whenever he laughed. She imagined those same lines would become tight with irritation if he was annoyed and thought how challenging it would be to paint such a mouth. Almost impossible to get it exactly right. It was too expressive. A dangerous weapon he undoubtedly employed with considerable success, even if he was not conscious of doing so. She wondered how it would feel to be kissed by those full lips. Lord Vincent would know how to kiss with conviction, she suspected, just as he most likely did everything he set his mind to with skill and precision.

“I take it your grandfather decided to come to the district for peace and quiet. He undoubtedly has commissions to finish.”

“Yes, that is why we are not receiving guests,” she said emphatically, crossing her fingers behind her back. “Grandpapa can only do his best work if he is not interrupted.”

The blast of a hunting horn from an upstairs window made her start violently, and stumble. Lord Vincent’s strong arm caught her before she fell. His horse whinnied and tugged at his reins which Lord Vincent had tied to one of the stouter pillars skirting the terrace. It did not crumble which, she supposed, was something.

“Good lord, what the devil is that?” Lord Vincent asked, glancing at the window in question.

Nia closed her eyes for an expressive moment, not needing to follow the direction of his gaze to know precisely what it was.
Oh, Grandpapa!

“What-ho, Nia my dear,” her grandfather cried cheerfully, before sounding the horn again. “Are we to have some sport today?”

Unable to avoid looking up for fear of what her grandfather might do if she did not, at least it gave Nia an excuse not to look at Lord Vincent and be subjected to his derision.

“It’s not the hunting season yet, Grandpapa,” she said softly, sighing inwardly when she noticed he was still wearing his nightcap, wisps of white hair sticking out at angles from beneath its frayed hem. He had on his favourite, stained satin jacket but since she couldn’t see the rest of his body she was spared knowing what other garments had caught his eye that morning. “Go back inside and I shall be there directly.”

“I say, is that another travelling artist there with you, Nia? Do bring him inside. There’s always room for another beneath this roof.”

“Where is Sophia, Grandpapa?”

Tears pricked at Nia’s eyes when, even from a distance, she noticed her grandfather’s blank expression. “Who?” he asked, sounding as bewildered as Leo or Art did when they had nightmares.

“I’m here,” Sophia said from behind her grandfather. “Sorry about that, I only left him for a moment. Come along, Patrick,” she added gently. “Let’s get you settled.”

Nia was unsure if she was grateful or sorry when Sophia coaxed her grandfather inside and closed the window. She was now alone with Lord Vincent again and she supposed he would expect an explanation for the embarrassing incident. If she did not offer one, he would draw his own conclusions and tell the world what she had been desperately trying to keep confidential. Her beloved grandfather had lost his mind and barely knew his own name. But if she asked him to keep her confidence, would he agree?

She chanced a sideways glance at him, still trying to decide how much or little to tell him about her circumstances. If she saw pity in his expression then he could go to the devil. She could cope with anything but that. To her intense surprise, she merely observed understanding and compassion in the set to his features.

“You cope remarkably well, all things considered,” he said softly.

Before she could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps caused her to glance up and inwardly groan. Mr. Drake had, as always, chosen a most inconvenient time to impose himself upon her. She suspected the irritating young man had observed her in conversation with his lordship from within the house and had come to impose himself upon her, just as he always seemed to at the most inconvenient times. His ill-fitting black coat billowed behind him, giving him the appearance of a scrawny crow, but his ever-present air of superiority fit him like a second skin.

“Miss Trafford,” he said, raising a hand in greeting. “Your grandfather is asking for you.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Drake.” It was one thing to have her grandfather’s lame ducks foisted upon her, but quite another to have them tell her what she should or should not be doing.

“Excuse me,” he replied. “I did not realise you had company.”

Of course you did not
. With no other choice available to her, Nia reluctantly made the introduction. “Lord Vincent Sheridan, may I present Mr. Drake. Mr. Drake is a poet who enjoys my grandfather’s patronage.”

Mr. Drake bowed, for once struck speechless, which was a blessing. Lord Vincent merely inclined his head as he summed up Mr. Drake and clearly didn’t see much to impress. Well, at least there was one area in which they were in complete agreement. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with your work, Drake,” he said, turning towards Nia and offering her the ghost of a wink.

He understands
. Nia felt overwhelming gratitude. How long had it been since anyone had stopped to consider her feelings?

“Well, I…er, that is, my opus has not yet seen publication, but I have every expectation of it very soon being read in all the best salons.”

“How very optimistic of you.”

“Can I escort you inside, Miss Trafford?” Mr. Drake proffered his arm in a proprietary manner that irked Nia. “It is time for luncheon.”

“No thank you, Mr. Drake.”

Her incivility had no discernible effect and he continued to hover. At that moment the boys burst onto the terrace again, along with Miss Tilling, and Nia’s humiliation was complete.

“Hannah says I shall have a scar on my knee, most likely,” Leo said triumphantly.

“And I shall have a black eye.”

Nia smiled her approval at their clean hands and faces, well aware that situation would not stand the test of time.

“Shall we walk Forrester up and down for you?”

“It doesn’t do to keep fine horses standing around, you know.”

“Did you know that Forrester was bred on our stud here at Winchester Park?”

Nia stifled a smile when, wonder of wonders, Lord Vincent’s comment rendered the boys round-eyed and speechless. But not for long.

“Gosh, that must be jolly,” Leo said.

“I should love to see it.”

“Then perhaps it can be arranged,” Lord Vincent replied. “With your aunt’s permission.”

“Can we, Aunt Nia?” The turned identically appealing expressions upon her: expressions that almost always got them what they wanted.

“We shall have to see.”

Annoyed with Lord Vincent for placing the idea in their head, she shot him a look of disapproval. It bounced harmlessly off his indolent expression. Determined not to be bullied into a situation that would create more problems than she was ready to handle, Nia introduced Miss Tilling to his lordship as an aspiring artist. That much was true but it seemed indelicate to add that she was a hopelessly inept one, living off her grandfather’s goodwill and dwindling resources.

“How lovely to have such a distinguished neighbour,” Miss Tilling trilled, making it sound as though
she
was the mistress of this house, infuriating woman! “I hope we shall see a lot of you.”

Nia choked on her indignation. “Boys, take everyone back inside for luncheon,” she said, saving Lord Vincent the trouble of formulating a response. “I shall be there directly, once I have seen Lord Vincent on his way.”

Mr. Drake looked as though he wished to argue the point. Nia fixed him with a steady gaze and he turned back towards the house, taking a reluctant-seeming Miss Tilling with him. The girl was exquisitely pretty, very dainty, flirtatious by nature, and used to engaging the attention of men from all walks of life. In short, she was everything that Nia was not, and never wished to be. Emily Tilling looked back over her shoulder and batted her lashes at Lord Vincent. If he noticed, he gave no sign, and Nia was hard-pressed to hold back a smile.

“I hope I did not speak out of turn by putting the idea of a visit to Winchester Park into the boys’ head,” Lord Vincent said when they were alone again. “I ought to have sought your permission first.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“I can see that you already have too many responsibilities, what with your grandfather—”

“He paints at night,” she said quickly. “Which is why he sleeps half the day.”

“I see.” Nia very much hoped that he did not. “Leaving you to run his household?”

“My grandfather collects people in the same way that others might collect stamps,” she replied, unable to keep a note of ill-usage out of her tone.

“So I just saw for myself.”

“He means well.” She shrugged as they strolled the length of the crumbling terrace. “He likes to encourage talent, but is sometimes too soft-hearted for his own good.”