Lord Nick's Folly (27 page)

"Good night, dear girl." His low voice sent tremors through her from end to end.

Her answering good night sounded a bit squeaky to her ears. She rushed up the stairs to her room, intent upon reaching it before she begged him to allow her to be his dear girl in all ways.

* * * *

Saturday morning was clear, with a somewhat watery sun beaming through the windows. Nympha checked the view below to note that more of the tulips were opening. Spring was most assuredly here. She could almost feel it.

How glad she was that Lord Nicholas decided to remain a little longer. How he could, when his new home was likely finished and awaiting his inspection, was beyond her. She wasn't likely to quibble about it, though.

With a light heart and a smile, she jauntily marched down to the breakfast room to find Lord Nicholas seated with the
Nottingham Review
and his cup of coffee in hand. He rose, bowed to her, and resumed his seat when she waved her hand at him.

After selecting a plate of nourishment from the sideboard, she seated herself not too close to him. He drew her like a magnet, and she decided she had best use prudence.

"You have the tennis match with Mr. Milburn today? Did he suggest a time?" She didn't gaze at him, studiously examining her roll as though it held great secrets. She applied butter with a judicious hand.

Nick put the newspaper aside and set down his coffee cup with a gesture to Foley to refill it. "Late this morning, I should imagine. Somehow I doubt the castle encourages early risers."

"So, he will truly marry Lady Anne?" Nympha seemed skeptical, as well she ought.

"Unless one of them calls it off, or the duchess finds a gentleman she prefers who is willing to accept Lady Anne. I suspect she will be a handful for any man." Nick grinned at his table companion, who plunked her teacup down at his words.

Nympha's eyes grew round. "You think that might happen? That she might fix her attention elsewhere? Mercy me."

"It has happened before in other cases. You are not married until the knot is tied, all official, and the register signed." He watched her with amusement.

"No bride wants to leave the church until that is done," Nympha stated. "The wedding certainly wouldn't be legal." She looked adorably prim.

"What does your father do about special licenses?" Nick had toyed with the idea of obtaining a special license, but suspected Nympha—if she agreed to marry him—would want her father to perform the wedding ceremony.

"The couple still has to have the information entered in the register of the home parish. I suppose you well know that if two parishes are involved, both must be notified. Why are we discussing this boring topic?"

"You find the subject of marriage boring?"

She blushed. He so enjoyed provoking her.

"Not really," she replied. "It is just that it is not
normally
a matter for discussion at the breakfast table."

"I will remember that, and never discuss it other than at lunch or dinner." He grinned at her, watching her blush deepen to a tantalizing rose.

"You, sir, are utterly impossible!" She nibbled at her roll. A bit of butter clung to her upper lip.

Nick wished he might have the right to lick it off.

"Do you mind if I watch your tennis match with Mr. Milburn?"

"I thought you were not eager to see him again," Nick replied with a frown at the thought that Nympha might again be hit with a tennis ball.

"Well, I am not, of course. But I admire your playing and thought it would be fun to see you play once more."

Was there a hint of "before you are gone" in her voice and manner? he wondered, for the first time in his life, unsure of how his advances were being accepted. "What if I suggested you might see me play tennis more often?" He couched his query in a casual manner. He would like to be more direct, but still hesitated to put her to the test. She had considered his previous mention of marriage a joke! No man likes to be rejected.

"You intend to build a tennis court at your new home? In addition to your golfing links?"

"If you are here, you wouldn't be able to see it." He imagined she seemed a mite dejected at that thought.

"True. Perhaps when I come to visit my family. I do not intend to break all contact with them, you know. How could I be so unfeeling?"

"I could never believe it of you."

Mrs. Coxmoor swept into the room at that moment. She glanced at Nick, then her grandniece. "Lovely morning, is it not? Perhaps you would like to hit a few tennis balls before
Mr. Milburn comes? I daresay Nympha could partner you in a pinch?"

Nick had risen when Mrs. Coxmoor entered. He glanced to where Nympha sat, her eyes shining with delight at the thought of hitting a tennis ball with him. Hmm. She had been very good at the battledore, hitting the shuttlecocks with wild abandon. "Would you like a try? I could use a bit of practice, you know. Milburn has a vicious serve."

"I will be ready when you are," she declared, jumping up from the table to plant a kiss on her relative's creamy cheek.

Blue eyes only a little lighter than her grandniece's gazed up at Nick with what he would swear was mischief in them. He bowed slightly, joining Nympha as they left the room in favor of the tennis court.

Neither of them took long to change to suitable clothing. Nympha found one of her old gowns, the skirt of which was shorter than her others.

Nick waited at the bottom of the stairs. His patience was rewarded with the sight that greeted him when Nympha lightly scampered down to join him.

"That appears to be an excellent choice for an active game," he said, taking note of the shorter skirt and the loose fit of the garment. It didn't hide much of her figure, he decided with thanks.

The efficient Foley had the racquets and balls set out for them, a light cloak for her as well.

"I trust you will have a good game, sir, miss," he said when ushering them from the house.

"Would you say Foley is a romantic?" Nick queried.

"Never!" Nympha said with an endearing little chuckle.

"I might be wrong, but I think him happy to see us off on our own."

A shadow crossed her face, making Nick wonder what it was that saddened her at the mention of them together. Was she so set against him? She had apologized for implying he was a fortune hunter. That didn't mean she did not think it, however. Yet she had called him a man of integrity. So why was she so against his suit?

"Now, I want you to play the best game you can. Do not spare me!" Nick laughed at her grimace.

"If you think I can compete while wearing these skirts and you in breeches, think again." She swatted him lightly on his behind with her racquet.

"Madam! You are the most shocking flirt." Nick swatted her back—just as lightly.

"Never say so! Ah, well, I will do my best to make you a worthy opponent. I must say, I think I could do better at archery. My skirts would not hamper me nearly as much."

"Pity you cannot play in breeches." At her scandalized expression, he added, "I didn't say you ought; I said merely that it was a pity." But with her slim legs and slender shape, she would appear very enticing in a pair of his breeches. Perhaps? . . .

They settled down to a lively session of tennis once in the tennis court. However Nympha might have felt hampered by her skirts, she did a creditable job of returning his shots. Of course, he more or less directed them to her, but still, she did well, hitting the ball square and hard.

Nympha was fatigued by the time Mr. Milburn was supposed to appear. She suggested they take a break and enjoy the lemonade brought for them by James.

"Pour me a tall glass. I could drink the pitcher dry, I do believe." Nick sank down on the bench, closing his eyes a moment while he waited.

She poured out for both of them, before taking a seat in an area she thought safe from harm, yet where she could see well. "You are to play at the other end of the court?"

"You think to sit behind Milburn, and thus be safe from one of his bullet balls?" Lord Nicholas frowned. He nodded. "It might be a good notion." He downed the contents of his glass, then poured another.

Whatever Nympha might have said in reply was not to be known. The door opened and Mr. Milburn entered, attired in a coat that he promptly removed to expose a loose-fitting shirt of fine linen such as Lord Nicholas wore. He exchanged a few comments on the weather, living at the castle, and their tennis game.

She suspected that it was not to be a tame match.

It wasn't.

It was not a game, but more like a battle! Nick served the ball so it went just over the net. Mr. Milburn raced up to hit it back, dropping it equally close just over the net. With a beginning like this, it was easy to see that not only were the two men well matched, but Mr. Milburn for some reason wanted to beat Lord Nicholas into the ground, so to speak.

The ball flew back and forth at great speed. Nympha thought her neck would wear out with swiveling to and fro as she watched so intently. The score mounted up, seesawing just as the ball had gone back and forth.

At last the first set was done. The two men, both of whom had been sweating profusely, wiped off with the towels James had brought out along with another pitcher of lemonade.

"You are tied," Nympha observed.

Mr. Milburn shot her a glance of surprise, as though he had forgotten she was there. He accepted the drink she poured for him and retired to study Lord Nicholas. He said nothing, as though he saved energy that way.

Pleased that she had been so unobtrusive, Nympha poured out the last of the lemonade for them. She found a place to sit that would be well out of any direction that Mr. Milburn might send the ball. He might forget she was there, but she did not trust him in the least— not after that last time.

The game continued just as hard fought. Nympha wondered if it had been a good idea for Nick to "warm up" as he had put it. She couldn't call him Nick to his face, but she noticed he didn't object when Mr. Milburn used it.

Of a sudden, the ball burst! Possibly it wasn't made to withstand such vehement pounding. Nympha saw there was another ball near where the tray sat. She nimbly hopped down, tossing it to Nick, to whom Mr. Milburn had shot the ball. She signaled she would retrieve the remains of the battered ball, lest she be caught in the crossfire and be hurt again.

The leather had split, the firm wool packing oozing out of the ruptured ball. She set it aside, retreating to watch again.

Mr. Milburn attacked Nick with as fervent a return as she had ever seen. Nick wasn't prepared, and the ball hit him on the shoulder, much as it had hit her head.

Nympha had been watching Mr. Milburn. She was horrified to see he seemed disgusted rather than shaken or sorry when Nick dropped his racket to clutch his shoulder.

"I think that ends this game," Nympha insisted. She ran over to where Nick still had his hand against his wounded shoulder.

"That was one wicked shot, Milburn."

"It was, wasn't it?" He sneered at Nick, ignoring Nympha completely. "I fancy you have done with this game— at least for today?"

"Not quite," Nick replied quietly. He massaged his right shoulder before bending to pick up his racquet. "I believe we have a final game to play in this set."

Nympha was as disbelieving as Mr. Milburn appeared to be. Surely he couldn't play with that shoulder so injured? And his right shoulder at that!

It seemed he not only could, but he obviously intended to whip Mr. Milburn within an inch of his life—tennis wise, that is.

Nick delivered a shot as wicked as the one Mr. Milburn had aimed at his shoulder. It went deep into the backcourt. Mr. Milburn almost fell trying to return it.

Nick's next stroke was amazingly powerful, and went just inside the baseline on the far side of where the last shot had gone. Mr. Milburn apparently hadn't expected the ball to go so deep again. This time he did fall, his breeches ripping as he tumbled to the floor.

He crouched, still, unmoving. Then he massaged his shoulder, wincing as he did. There was a spot of blood on his breeches where his knee stuck through the ripped fabric. He really appeared done in.

Nympha hoped he was hurt as badly as she sensed Nick had been. Mr. Milburn made a Gothic villain seem like a milksop.

"Pity," Nick said, breathing hard as he walked around the side of the court to where Mr. Milburn remained. "I thought we might have been able to complete that game. It shows you must never underestimate your opponent. Isn't that right?"

Mr. Milburn slowly rose to his feet, gave Nick a glare of pure loathing, then without saying a word limped to where he had tossed his coat and shrugged into it. He left the court in silence, slamming the door behind him.

Nympha dashed up to where Nick now leaned against the wall. Pale and appearing drained, he looked as though he might collapse.

"I insist you lean on me while we go back to the house. You look utterly dreadful!"

"My thanks, dear girl. That is such a comfort to know." His voice sounded strained. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, breathing shallowly but even.

"Sarcasm does not become you, particularly when you are in pain—I can see it in your eyes. Now, do you come peacefully?"

He half-smiled, nodding at her. "Take me away. I can see you will whether I want it or not."

James met them at the door, taking over from Nympha, who was very glad. Nick might be light on his feet, but at the moment he felt like a ton of wet bricks.

Mrs. Coxmoor was horrified when the trio entered the house. She insisted upon examining the injured shoulder at once.

Nympha gulped as James eased the shirt over Nick's head, revealing a decidedly well-muscled chest and a rapidly purpling shoulder. She ought not stare, but wild horses couldn't tear her eyes from his form at this moment.

"I gather this was not an ordinary game of tennis?" her great-aunt inquired.

"No, ma'am. If you don't mind, I should like to get to my room. Simpson has a magic salve he puts on injuries that cuts pain and helps heal. I could use that about now."

Nympha suspected Nick hated to have others see him feeling so weak. She also suspected that he had better get flat on his back before he really did collapse.