Lord Nick's Folly (9 page)

"That I won't, for the view is beautiful." The blue of her eyes darkened as she defied him, tilting that determined chin just so.

Nick thought a moment, then pierced her with his dark gaze. "It would have to be from one of the greens. I would hazard a guess that it would be just beyond the seventh. Do I have the right of it?"

She clamped her lips shut, glaring at him.

Not for the first time Nick took notice of those delicate lips, beautifully shaped and looking as tender as a newly opened rosebud. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her, feel the softness, taste those charming lips. She smelled of lavender. He liked that. Most of the time her voice had an oddly seductive quality to it. It was strange he hadn't noticed that before—when they were at Lanstone Hall. Goodness knows they had sat beside each other at enough of his mother's tedious dinners.

"I shall be certain to study the view when we return home, you may be assured." He hoped to goad her into protest.

"Nicholas Stanhope, if you destroy the very fine view of your home, I shall . . . shall ... do you violence." She compressed her lips again.

Looking about him, Nick could see that not a soul in the shop was paying the slightest attention to them. The other customer was avidly watching Mrs. Coxmoor, to see what she bought. He turned back to Nympha. Lightly lifting her chin, he raised it just so, then laced an all-too-brief kiss on the most delectable lips he had touched in a long, long time.

"You . . . you . . . villain," she whispered, her ire losing something with the lack of volume he knew she longed to use.

"Oh, I do not think I am a villain. Perhaps an opportunist?" He smiled.

Nympha glared at him, hating the color she knew must stain her cheeks. "I was under the impression you were a gentleman, sirrah!"

"I am as human as the next chap. You know," he said in a conversational tone, "I had not realized what a charmer you are. There must be something in the air here. You do not seem the same."

"Nor do you." She tried to sound very indignant. The trouble was that she did not
feel
very indignant. Rather, she wished he would kiss her again! And was that not a fine thing for a rector's daughter to confess—even if only to herself.

How in the world could she have been interested in his lofty brother when the dashing Lord Nicholas was around? It was beyond comprehension.

"Nympha, dear, come," her great-aunt called. "The parcel will be delivered to the carriage by the time we are ready to depart." Assuming the two would follow in her wake, Mrs. Coxmoor set forth from Binch's shop like a ship in full sail.

"Hurry. I have no idea where she plans to go next." Nympha grabbed his hand, and Lord Nicholas trailed close behind her.

They caught up with the older lady as she turned onto Stockwell Gate. "First to Cursham's. I believe we need gloves. Plus scarves and a muff, and perhaps hose. Ah, I see he has a new shipment of bonnets. Perhaps we can find something there."

Feeling as though a whirlwind had swept her up, Nympha obediently followed. "Yes, ma'am."

Lord Nicholas took one look at the shop and said, "I shall meet you at the Mansfield Arms about noon, if that is agreeable? I fear Miss Herbert would never forgive me if I assisted in selecting her gloves, not to mention hose."

Sending him a scandalized glare, Nympha hastily opened the door to Cursham's shop, holding it for her great-aunt.

Mrs. Coxmoor paused. "There is a rather nice bookseller along this way. 'Tis a new shop—Langley. You will find books, not to mention sundries like medicines and lottery tickets."

Lord Nicholas smiled. Nympha could see he charmed her great-aunt—just as he charmed her, unfortunately.

Why had she thought it might please her great-aunt if Lord Nicholas stayed with her? Such complications as had arisen hadn't occurred to Nympha's innocent mind. Now that she thought on it, the journey north was probably scandalous as well, even though nothing had happened other than him having captivated her heart.

Her sister Drusilla would likely say it served her right for not remaining with the traveling coach sent to convey her north.

"Wake up girl. We still have things to buy. With the new shipment of goods, I'll warrant you find as nice a selection here as you might in London."

The shopkeeper assured Mrs. Coxmoor—the wealthy and influential Mrs. Coxmoor—of just that.

In shorter time than Nympha would have believed possible, she was the happy possessor of a dozen pairs of hose in fragile pink silk, a half-dozen of excellent white cotton, and a dozen pairs of gloves in a variety of colors made by Mansfield's own glover, Mr. Hinde. The crowning touch was an ermine muff. She was overwhelmed.

Great-Aunt Letitia consulted the watch pinned to her pelisse before instructing Mr. Cursham to deliver the parcels to the carriage. "Come, Nympha, we are to meet Lord Nicholas for our nuncheon."

Nympha suspected that her great-aunt enjoyed tossing out the title. She knew how impressed all shopkeepers were by that. Never mind that Mansfield occasionally saw the Duke of Portland and Earl Manvers, this was one of their own people having a guest related to the Marquess of Lanstone and Earl of Stanhope. There were few shopkeepers who catered to the upper classes who did not study a copy of some peerage. They knew.

They walked across the street and along to the Mansfield Arms where they found Lord Nicholas waiting for them. He carried a small package under his arm.

"I trust we have not kept you waiting long?" Mrs. Coxmoor asked politely.

"Not at all. I picked up a few things, then came here. Langley's carries some interesting books as well as fine drawing paper."

Nympha wondered at the look he gave her great-aunt. For strangers, they had achieved a rapid rapport.

"Quite so. I should have thought of that. Come, they will have a meal ready for us." She led the way to a neat parlor where a table was set for them.

Never once was Nympha allowed to wonder what might be in that mysterious cream package now resting on a chair nearby. Excellent food was set before her, tempting her appetite. Lord Nicholas demanded she give an account of her shopping, particularly the ermine muff.

Great-Aunt Letitia said she'd sent word to Mrs. Rankin to come to Coxmoor Hall two days hence. Nympha wondered what the good lady did if she had other, quite as important, customers to serve.

Lost in her musings, she contemplated the package and its contents. Drawing paper? What, pray tell, did his lordship want with drawing paper? If she recalled correctly, Lord Nicholas had always turned to his brother if he wanted a sketch of his links. Since his brother was absent, what use would drawing paper be to Lord Nicholas? Unless he did portraits, not landscapes? If so, of whom?

"Miss Herbert, you are not attending. Where, I wonder, is your mind?" Lord Nicholas sent her a quizzing look. His eyes seemed to dance with mischief. Did he guess that she longed to know what was in that package?

Alas, it was not to be. Following their nuncheon they took the carriage to the lace factory where Great-Aunt Letitia invited them to see the new machines that produced the lace. Two colors were available, white and blonde, which was the color of raw silk.

They entered the weaving room, a noisy place that had Nympha putting her hands over her ears. Along the brick floor stood a great many machines close together, each spinning forth an array of fine silk or cotton lace.

"These are the looms using the new Jacquard method of weaving. Once we leave here I can show you what it is like. Come." As usual, she led the way.

They obediently followed—Nympha most thankfully. Lord Nicholas guided her down the steps. He was merely being helpful, but she found his closeness disturbing to her hard-won composure. Did he guess how he affected her?

When they reached a tiny office, Great-Aunt Letitia pulled out a chain of cards from a drawer, each one with holes punched in it, evidently creating a pattern of sorts. "This is one of the Jacquard patterns we use to create the lace here. The cards make an endless chain so the design keeps repeating over and over. I will not bother you with details, but you, Lord Nicholas, may come to look again if you so please. I fancy that Nympha has her heart set on lace for her own use."

By some mysterious means, a young man had been summoned. He entered the room with many cards of lace and a fine white lace shawl, very long and embroidered with an exquisite design.

It didn't take long to select what she wished. The edging, her great-aunt explained, came from another factory, brought here especially for Nympha.

When they left. Nick had nothing but the greatest admiration for the woman who appeared to direct the factory. That she knew every in and out of the business was evident. This was not a woman who merely sat back to allow her manager to administer it for her. Well, she certainly must keep the fellow on his toes.

The landau awaited them at the edge of the pavement. Within a short time they had left the cobbled streets of Mansfield behind them. The seat next to Nick was piled high with parcels, most of which he could readily identify.

They were nearing Coxmoor Hall when he spotted Milburn dashing through the woods on his borrowed horse. That he was also headed the same direction as they were was obvious. Where had he been for so long? And with whom?

They met in the stable yard.

"Ah, Mr. Milburn." Mrs. Coxmoor stepped down from the landau to greet her guest. "Did you have luck in finding the gentleman you wanted to see? Your uncle, was it not?"

Nick almost laughed at the expression on Milburn's face. It was a cross between astonishment and vexation.

"Actually, I did, ma'am. I hope to see him again before too many days pass."

"Fine." Mrs. Coxmoor revealed no curiosity about the person Milburn had gone to see. Nick resolved to find out more if he could. He hadn't known Milburn all that well, but of a sudden he was curious and wanted to know more about this mysterious uncle.

While Mrs. Coxmoor was directing the servants who had come out to fetch the parcels, Milburn was making up to Miss Herbert. Nick noted Milburn didn't cause Miss Herbert to blush. How curiously interesting. He smiled.

Why did Nick find his compliments so odious and overblown? It wasn't mere jealousy—not that Nick could be jealous of a fellow like Milburn. The man was a bit too ingratiating. He'd like to see the last of him.

Then awareness that Milburn likely believed Miss Herbert might inherit all the Coxmoor fortune occurred to Nick. Would she? She could, given Mrs. Coxmoor's obvious fondness for the girl. The thought put a different complexion on Milburn's fascination with Miss Herbert.

There was no way that Nick would allow that fellow to entice Miss Herbert. Nympha deserved far better than Milburn. Dash it all, she was a good sort. She had tramped all over his links with him in the early days of planning. No matter that she had hoped to interest his brother; she had offered sensible suggestions and carried supplies for him without complaint. And now he was discovering she had other, more fetching qualities.

"Suppose we go into the house, Nympha? Mr. Milburn and Lord Nicholas are doubtless wishing for a drink, and I will perish if I do not have a cup of tea."

Nympha hurried after her great-aunt, darting a look at Lord Nicholas as she went. It was to be tea ... then what? She soon found out.

Following a generous tea, complete with cakes, biscuits, and wine for the men, she was told.

"I wish to watch Lord Nicholas and Mr. Milburn play a game of tennis. Foley will bring along the rackets and balls. Come! We will go now."

There were no excuses allowed, no requests for digesting the large tea, or a respite from the activity of the day to this point permitted.

The men meekly rose to accompany their hostess. Nympha followed in their wake. Goodness, what would her rather eccentric relative think of next!

* * * *

The tennis court her great-aunt brought them to was in a neat building with narrow high-set windows. Inside, a net was strung across the center of the court that had been marked off with white paint on what appeared to be slate. A bench sat to one side where the ladies could observe.

Her great-aunt must have left instructions for this to be arranged before they drove to Mansfield!

Lord Nicholas looked around with obvious approval while he stripped off his coat and neckcloth. Mr. Milburn seemed uneasy, but then Nympha noted an almost calculating expression flicker across his face. It disappeared so fast she was not quite sure what she had seen, as he seemed his usual self soon enough. He joined Lord Nicholas in removing his coat and cravat.

Lord Nicholas took off his boots with a look at her great-aunt. "Better to play in stocking feet than boots. In the future I shall find a pair of tennis shoes."

Foley offered the men a choice of rackets; then after they decided Nick would serve first, he handed him a dull gray tennis ball.

Nympha had watched a game once before, but it hadn't captured her attention like this one. She admired the fine muscles Lord Nicholas displayed in his thin linen shirt. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, slim hips—she ought to be blushing at the direction of her thoughts. She scarce noticed Mr. Milburn. Her focus remained with Lord Nicholas, the movement of his body.

Nick won the first serve and sent the ball soaring across the net with his usual verve. Milburn returned it with better skill than Nick had expected. The volley continued until Milburn was in the far end of the hazard side. Milburn then hit the ball with a stroke that appeared to take every bit of strength he possessed.

The report of the racket hitting that ball sounded much like a shot. But instead of the ball coming anywhere within the confines of the court, it zoomed straight to where Nympha sat, hitting her square on her forehead!

Nick dropped his racket and dashed across to where she had toppled. He gathered her up, looking at the swelling lump with more than a little dismay. "Nympha!" He glanced up at her great-aunt, then back to the woman now in his arms. "Ice would help, I believe." Somehow he knew this formidable woman could conjure up something as unusual as ice.