Lovers Forever (14 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Lovers Forever
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“I'll have to see that you have some new clothes,” he said abruptly, changing the subject. “There is a seamstress in the village—I'm sure that she can come up with something suitable until I can make other arrangements for your wardrobe.”
Tess gaped at him. He was ignoring her! Pretending that she had not spoken! He thought she was a liar and a conniver, and when she tried to defend herself, he simply closed his mind to her words. Frustration welled up inside of her. So angry she could barely speak, she snapped, “Fine! Buy me clothes! Give me jewels and servants!” Her small bosom heaving, she glared at him. “I only hope you find that I'm worth it, because I promise you—you're going to rue the day you ever set eyes on me!”
Nicolas smiled faintly, his black eyes moving possessively over her slender form. “As long as you're in my bed, I don't give a damn what sort of mischief you get up to, sweetheart!”
Sheer rage billowed up through Tess. The unmitigated arrogance of the man! Recklessly she shot back, “Well! At least we understand each other!”
Chapter Nine
S
leep came hard to Tess that night. Alone in that big bed, she stared sightlessly at the leaping shadows created by the low fire burning on the hearth, her thoughts going round and round in her head.
How could she have spoken so rashly? The minute the words had left her mouth, she'd known that her unruly tongue had gotten her into trouble once more—the satisfied smile on Sherbourne's face had only confirmed it.
But rage had ruled her, and though she had longed to call the words back, had sought frantically in her mind for some way to undo the damage her hot temper had done, plain old stubbornness and pride would not let her. She was not going to humiliate herself further!
Perhaps if Nicolas had attempted to consummate their relationship then and there, she might have been compelled to retreat, but almost as if he knew what she was going through, he had ushered her gently from the room and had spent the next several hours being utterly charming to her. Damn him!
He had been the perfect host. Making cleverly soothing conversation, he had escorted her down the stairs and given her a tour of the remainder of the house and the grounds—such as they were. The meeting with Sara in the kitchen had gone smoothly, and any concerns Tess might have had about being faced with a disapproving martinet faded the moment she laid eyes on Sara Laidlaw's plump little figure and pleasant face.
As the afternoon progressed, one thing had been made very clear to Tess—the Laidlaws adored the earl of Sherbourne, and it was depressingly obvious that they considered his word law. Whatever he wanted they would obtain. Period. And she wasn't quite positive how he had done it, but the point was subtly made that if she tried to escape . . . the Laidlaws would swiftly put an end to that sort of nonsense!
More than once that afternoon, as he had shown her about, she had wished passionately that he would drop his polite mask and do something that she could take issue with. Unfortunately, he did not. Nicolas either blandly ignored or simply changed the subject whenever she made any leading comments, and he played the solicitous host and guide to perfection.
In spite of the turmoil within her, she found the tour of the house and grounds fascinating. Ever solicitous, he had walked her through the remainder of the building, showing her the empty dining room, with its rich mahogany wainscoting; a delightful morning room; and the small room at the rear of the house that had probably been used as an office. The kitchen, the pantry, and the surprisingly spacious rooms where Thomas and Rose and Sara would be living were viewed last, and Tess had to admit—privately, of course—that once the place had been thoroughly cleaned and appropriately furnished, it would be quite comfortable and charming. A perfect love-nest, she thought with a bitter twist to her mouth.
A few roses were still blooming in the garden behind the house. Tess had been pleased to discover the remains of a once extensive herb garden, straggly lavender and pungent thyme and rosemary spilling over the half-buried stone walkways. There were other outbuildings, but by then the day was growing chilly and neither she nor Nicolas had seen the point of her viewing them.
They had eaten a light repast together in the main room of the house, propping their plates on their knees as they were served by Thomas. Then, as daylight had begun to fade, Nicolas had risen from his seat by the fire and bade her good-bye. Puzzlement apparent in her lovely eyes, Tess had watched him as he had called for Lovejoy and driven away.
She didn't understand him, she finally decided. He had abducted her and had made no bones about her position in his life, and yet . . . and yet, in his own fashion, even believing that she was determined to wring a marriage proposal out of him by any means possible, he had been kind to her.
But what was she to do? she thought despairingly for the tenth time since she had come to bed. Snuggling deeper into the soft, lavender-scented covers, listening to the mournful hoot of an owl, she admitted wryly that all things considered, she would much rather be here than at the Black Pig! But that aside, she also knew that Nicolas wasn't going to allow her to sleep in solitary splendor every night, that soon, mayhap even tomorrow, he would appear and make demands upon her, demands she wasn't sure she could resist....
Tess twisted restlessly in the bed, closing her mind to the vividly erotic images that suddenly danced before her eyes. If only she knew who she was! And why she was so fearful of the man identified as Baron Mandeville.... Perhaps if she had those answers, she might be able to come to some conclusions about her relationship with the infuriatingly attractive earl of Sherbourne. And so it went: one moment chafing at the situation between herself and the earl; the next, wondering about her lost memory; and then once again back to the relationship between herself and the man with flashing dark eyes who seemed to have so effortlessly mesmerized her.
Nicolas found sleep equally elusive, but not for the same reasons that bedeviled Tess. He at least knew who he was, but after the evening he had just spent with his eldest sister, Athena, he wasn't so positive that family was such a great thing. He and Athena had never gotten along well, and now that he'd had the temerity to outlive her adored Randal and dared to inherit the title, well, it didn't help matters.
The decade between Athena's birth and his created a natural chasm between them, but their personalities were so different that it was unlikely, even had they been closer in age, that there would have been anything more than simmering conflict between them. Randal, the middle child, had acted as a much needed buffer between the two combative siblings. These days, however, without Randal's leavening influence, there were constant clashes between Nicolas and Athena. She had always resented not having been born a male, thinking it unfair that first Randal and now Nick had inherited all the Sherbourne wealth. While she had been resigned to Randal's assumption of their father's estates, it galled her that Nick now stood in that same position. And she wasn't quiet about it.
Thinking of her arrogant manners, Nicolas shook his head, not at all surprised that Athena had never married. What man alive would want to listen to that shrewish tongue for the rest of his life? He sighed. Unless something drastic happened, it looked as though he'd be the one who would have to put up with her for the rest of
his
life!
It wasn't a pleasant thought. Having dismissed Lovejoy earlier, when he had retired to his suite of rooms for the night, Nicolas slowly stripped off his cravat and absently tossed his jacket onto a chair. Perhaps he could find a husband for her, he mused. She'd be forty-two in less than a month and had long been considered on the shelf, but if he settled enough money on her . . . ?
She was still an attractive woman, he conceded reluctantly at the memory of how she had looked earlier when she had come sweeping regally down the stairs to greet him upon his arrival at Sherbourne Court, her low-cut, high-waisted apple green gown billowing out behind her. As tall as the average man, Athena was built on queenly lines—and had, as Nicolas would be the first to admit, all the imperiousness to go with it. “Handsome” better described her than “beautiful,” and she had the thick black hair and large lustrous black eyes of the Talmages, as well as a slightly softened version of Nicolas's own nose and chin.
Not for the first time, Nicolas wondered why she had never married—in youth she would have been stunning, and that sharp tongue of hers, he thought acidly, wouldn't have been so razor honed. Certainly if she had married, she wouldn't now be
his
problem and the clashes between them wouldn't occur so frequently—clashes not even the normally calming presence of their grandmother could avert.
Thinking of his grandmother Pallas, Nick's hard face softened. She was, he decided fondly, probably the only member of his family whom he really loved—which was probably because she was the only member of the family who had ever expressed any deep affection for him. Not that his parents hadn't loved him; it was just that they had been busy with their own lives, and as the youngest son and not the heir, Nicolas had been viewed almost as an afterthought—or insurance, should something happen to Randal. . . .
His mouth twisted. Well, something
had
happened to Randal, and he wished to hell that Athena would just accept that fact and stop acting as if he had somehow planned Randal's untimely death. He shook his head. Randal would soon be dead almost a year, yet she still hadn't been able to bring herself to acknowledge that
he
was the earl of Sherbourne.
And if she doesn't stop sniping at me in front of Pallas, I am going to insist that she remove herself to the Dower House! A mirthless smile crossed Nicolas's face. Oh, and wouldn't she berate me unmercifully if I dared. For just a moment he let himself dwell on Athena's probable rage, but eventually he pushed it from his mind. It was his grandmother he wanted to think about—and the fact that he had not progressed very far in his quest for a bride.
After pouring himself a snifter of brandy from a crystal decanter, he settled himself on an overstuffed chair of red Cordovan leather. His booted feet stretched out before him, he sipped the amber-colored liquor, his thoughts drifting irresistibly back to last night and the sharing of a different decanter of brandy with a certain flame-haired little witch....
With a jerk, he stopped his erotic wanderings and brought himself back to the matter at hand: his grandmother Pallas and her urgent desire to see him married before much more time elapsed.
His grandmother, he admitted slowly, was a most admirable woman. An arranged marriage at fifteen. Motherhood at sixteen. And left alone to face the thundering scandal that her husband and his grandfather Benedict had created when he had disappeared, along with the Sherbourne diamonds and the wife of their nearest neighbor!
But if Pallas was an admirable woman, she was also eighty-three years old and to him, at least, looking very frail and fragile. A knot formed in his chest. He didn't want his grandmother to die, and he especially didn't want to disappoint her by not providing her with the one thing she had ever asked of him—a wife and, in due course, an heir. And if she wanted him married and busy fathering another generation of Talmages, then by God, he was going to do it!
A rueful expression crossed his handsome face. Just as soon as he found
precisely
the right bride. To his intense annoyance, a piquant face with great lavender eyes and glinting red curls flashed before him, but he deliberately pushed aside the errant thought. The Dollys of the world made excellent mistresses, not wives!
But his grandmother wanted him married, and while not enthusiastic about it, he was committed to obliging her. He understood the need for an heir. He was the last of his line—if something unforeseen were to happen to him, there would be no more earls of Sherbourne Court. His dark head resting against the fine leather of his chair, he sipped his brandy and considered the future.
Since inheriting the title, Nicolas couldn't deny that he looked at his home differently, took a deeper pride in it, and was very aware that the weight of responsibility for everyone within its environs rested upon his shoulders. Not only the court itself, but the farms and village also looked to him for their well-being, and he had discovered within himself a strong desire to see that his lands were prosperous and his people comfortable, and that they knew they had nothing to fear from him—that he had only their good at heart.
He grimaced. This was one of the reasons he concurred with his grandmother's desire for an heir. Everyone needed to know that the line would continue, that their futures were secure. Lord knew, he thought sardonically, if things were left in Athena's hands, which could happen if something untoward were to happen to him, she would depart gleefully for London and proceed to bleed the estate dry until the day she died. She and Randal both had had a decided penchant for the gaming tables and all manner of games of chance, and while the Sherbourne fortune was immense, it wasn't inexhaustible. If the pair of them had continued their costly ways, the next generation might have found themselves with little to inherit—beyond debts.
It was Athena's gambling debts that had precipitated an argument between them tonight. Dinner had just been finished, and not particularly inclined to drink his port in solitary pomp, Nicolas had immediately joined the two ladies in the blue salon—his grandmother's favorite room.

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