When the Marquess Met His Match (16 page)

“I know it is far too bold of me to approach you in this way, but ever since we met, I have been in agony that we are apart, and now that I have seen you again, I must confess my feelings.”

He rubbed his fingers over his forehead with an unhappy sigh. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

She ignored that, of course. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

He wondered if she’d uttered those words with conscious intent. He rather doubted it. Girls memorized Austen’s Darcy speech as a matter of course, and she’d been reading
Pride and Prejudice
that very afternoon. It was probably stuck in her head as the most romantic words anyone could say.

He stared into the pretty, adoring face before him, and he strove to let her down as gently as possible. “My dear girl, you don’t even know me. You can’t possibly love me.”

“I do love you, I do. I’m mad for you.”

“It’s a temporary insanity,” he assured her. “It will pass.”

“You think me transient in my affections? Oh, how can I prove otherwise?”

He once again moved forward, but even though they were almost touching, she still did not move back, and he knew there was no way other than force. He put his hands on her arms to push her back, but she was too quick for him. She pulled free and entwined her arms around his neck.

“This is the only way I can express what I feel,” she said, and kissed him.

He reached up at once, curled his fingers around her wrists, and pulled her arms down, but he made the mistake of letting go too soon, and before he could excuse himself and try to move past her, she seized the lapels of his dinner jacket in her fists and rose up on her toes to kiss him again. Perceiving her intent, he managed to evade the move by twisting his head sideways, and as Rosalie’s lips grazed his jaw, he saw Belinda standing by the entrance to the maze.

Her face seemed like smooth, polished alabaster in the moonlight, and he knew any minuscule chance he might have had with her had now vanished altogether.

He grasped Rosalie’s wrists and pulled, but she tightened her grip on his jacket and would not let go. Before he could begin prying her fingers loose, Sir William also appeared, demonstrating that Nicholas’s luck was deteriorating at an alarming rate. It had gone from bad to worse to absolutely hellish in three seconds flat.

“Lord Trubridge,” Sir William cried as he strode forward, “remove your hands from Miss Harlow this instant!”

Rosalie gasped and turned to look over her shoulder, loosening her grip, and Nicholas was able to free himself at last. He shoved her backward with as much force as a man could honorably employ against a woman, enabling him to extricate both of them from the prickly confines of the folly.

But he knew by the other man’s enraged countenance that he hadn’t a prayer of exiting from this situation entirely unscathed. An angry man in the throes of love and jealousy was a dangerous thing, and he wondered if there would be a challenge to his honor and a demand for pistols at dawn. That would be the perfect punctuation to the entire absurd episode, but having been shot once in his life already by a man who was enraged, jealous, and inebriated, he would prefer not to go through that sort of thing again.

“It’s not what you think, old chap,” he began, then stopped. Though the words were God’s truth, the lameness of them made even him grimace, and they certainly did not appease Sir William.

“You bastard.” The younger man’s left fist slammed into his right cheek before he could duck. The blow sent Nicholas staggering backward into one side of the folly, then his knees seemed to give out, and he felt as if he were sinking.

He heard the rend of fabric as rose canes ripped through the back of his dinner jacket, and he sucked in a sharp breath as thorns pierced the skin of his shoulder. Past the pain of being hit in the face and shredded by thorns, he realized he was still falling, and when his other shoulder hit the turf beside the folly, his last thought before everything went black was that if things kept on this way, finding a wife was going to kill him.

Chapter 13

W
hen Nicholas awoke, his first impression was pain—an ache on the right side of his face and a burning sting in his shoulder. He opened his eyes and overhead he saw the night sky and a carpet of blurry stars. In the air was the scent of grass and boxwood, and he remembered where he was and what had happened.

He wriggled his jaw experimentally, and winced, confirming that he had not been dreaming. Rosalie’s kiss, Sir William’s powerful left jab, and his own tangle with the rosebushes had all been nothing less than reality.

He sat up and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head throbbed, his jaw hurt, and his shoulder felt raw. Worst of all, Belinda was sitting on the grass right in front of him, looking to his dazed mind like Judith about to behead Holofernes. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to have a sword in her hands.

He would have lain back down, groaning in pain to perhaps gain a bit of sympathy, but knowing Belinda, he doubted it would do any good. No, he’d probably already been tried, condemned, and sentenced. All that remained was execution.

He looked at her luscious mouth, knowing that his chance of kissing it ever again lay somewhere between none and very, very slim, but he wasn’t going to give up on something like that without a fight. “I didn’t do it,” he said, chagrined at how idiotic that sounded—like a child caught stealing sweets. He tried again. “I came out here to be alone. It wasn’t—”

She cut him off by holding up her hand, palm toward him. “You don’t have to explain.”

“No, I do. I really think I do. I know what it looks like, but I didn’t break my promise to you. I didn’t kiss her. I mean, we were kissing, obviously, but . . .” His voice trailed off, for there was no way to tell her the truth without putting the blame squarely on the girl, and that was something he would not do. “Hell,” he muttered instead, propping his elbows on his bent knees and resting his head in his hands. “Hell.”

“Nicholas, I saw what happened.”

“You did?” He lifted his head, hope rekindling inside him. Perhaps all was not quite lost.

“Yes, I did. I know Rosalie followed you, because I followed her when she left the drawing room. Over the top of the hedge as I came through the maze, I heard you tell her to leave and her confession of her feelings, and I arrived upon the scene just in time to see her kiss you.”

“So you don’t blame me?”

“No. Although,” she added with a sniff, “I do think you might have pulled her arms down a little bit faster than you did.”

“What?” He made a scoffing sound. “That’s absurd. I disentangled myself from her as quickly as I could, but it wasn’t as easy as it might seem. Belinda, that girl was like an octopus.”

Her lips twitched, just a little. He felt another glimmer of hope.

“My lady?”

Both of them turned to find a footman standing in the opening between the boxwood hedges, a glowing lamp in his hand and a tray in the crook of his other arm. “You sent for ice and bandages?” he asked.

“Yes, Henry. Bring them here, if you would.”

He came forward, giving Nicholas a nod and glancing with concern at his torn clothing. “I hope you’re not seriously injured, my lord. Sir William said you fell into the rosebushes?”

“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose,” he acknowledged.

The footman turned to Belinda. “Shall I tend His Lordship’s wounds, my lady, so that you may return to the party?”

“Thank you, Henry, but that won’t be necessary. With fifty people to wait on, you’re needed inside more than I am.” She gestured to the grass. “Put the tray there,” she added as she began pulling off her long evening gloves. “Then you may go.”

“Yes, Your Ladyship.” The young man obeyed, gave a bow, and departed, leaving them alone once again.

Belinda tossed her gloves aside, rose up on her knees, and lifted the lamp. “Turn a bit,” she ordered. “So I can have a better look at your injuries.”

He complied, watching her over his shoulder as she held the lamp high and carefully pulled back part of his torn jacket and shirt with her fingers. “It’s not too bad,” she said after a moment. “The thorns did tear through your jacket and shirt, but for the most part, I think your clothing protected you. Still, there are some punctures as well as scratches, and the wounds will definitely have to be cleaned.”

She set the lamp beside her, then picked up a dark brown bottle from the tray, pulled out the cork that capped it, and reached for one of the bandages. “You’ll have to remove your shirt.”

He grinned at that, sending pain shooting through his jaw, but teasing her was worth it. “Why, Belinda,” he murmured, “you naughty girl.”

Her answering glance was wry. “Only in your dreams, Trubridge.”

“It doesn’t happen quite this way in my dreams,” he corrected, still watching her face as he shrugged out of his dinner jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “The way I always envision it, I’m taking off
your
clothes first.”

In the lamplight, he could see a rosy tint suffuse her cheeks, but she began saturating the bandage with whatever unguent was in the bottle and didn’t reply.

He pulled off his waistcoat and white bow tie, then removed his studs and links and dropped them onto the tray. As he pulled off his shirt and the undershirt beneath, he knew the thorns must have drawn blood, for the linen and silk stuck to his skin as he pulled them off, and when he tossed them aside, he could see the dark red stains on the tattered fabric. “I fear my valet will be very displeased with me over this.”

“He isn’t the only one. Sir William is none too fond of you either.” Belinda rose on her knees behind him and pressed the wet cloth against the bare skin of his shoulder.

He sucked in air between clenched teeth. “God, woman,” he said, looking at her over his shoulder. “what’s on that cloth? Lemon juice?”

“An antiseptic.”

“It stings.”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby.”

“I’m not,” he protested, and as if to prove it, he uttered a very manly curse when she pressed the cloth to another part of his shoulder. As she worked, he concentrated on the feel of her bare hands against his skin, and that dissipated any pain.

“How’s your face?” she asked.

“Aches a bit.”

“There’s an ice poultice on the tray.”

“I didn’t realize Sir William was such an excellent pugilist,” he said as he picked up the cloth bag filled with ice chips, but he stopped before applying it to his face. “Speaking of Sir William,” he said, and turned to look at her again, “why in heaven’s name did you bring him out here with you?”

“I didn’t. He must have come outside, seen Rosalie crossing the lawn with me behind her, and followed both of us. That’s all I can think. I had no idea he was even there until he strode past me and accosted you.”

“Ah,” he said, enlightened, and gingerly pressed the poultice to the side of his face. “That does make the most sense, I suppose.”

She chuckled suddenly. “I fear your season isn’t going too well so far.”

“Really?” he countered, but he couldn’t help laughing, too, for it was all so terribly absurd. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He paused, considering, then he said, “I think I should leave tomorrow.”

“I hardly think that’s necessary. It was embarrassing for all of us, I daresay, but the four of us are the only ones who know what happened. Sir William is discreet and a gentlemen, and speaking of it to anyone would hurt Rosalie’s reputation, which he would never do. Rosalie’s too embarrassed, I suspect, to reveal any of what happened, and has every reason not to do so. You and I won’t discuss it with anyone. So why should you go? You do—” She paused, her hands stilled against his shoulder. “You do still want to find a wife, don’t you?”

“What I want has little to do with it,” he said, savoring the feel of her touch, even as he reminded himself of why he ought to leave. “Besides, it doesn’t matter if none of us speak of it because by tomorrow night, I will probably have a second black eye to match the first, and people are bound to know there’s been some sort of scuffle.”

“I believe Sir William’s version of events is that the two of you had a bit too much to drink and made the mistake of engaging in a discussion of politics. Things became quite heated and resulted in a most unfortunate round of fisticuffs.”

“A credible story, I suppose, although anyone who knows me would laugh at it. I would never fight over politics. Still, it’s best if I go. It avoids further questions on the subject.”

“True,” she said and resumed her task. The matter seemed settled, and yet, he didn’t want to leave. As intolerable as this situation was, it gave him the chance to be near her, and he wanted that, but he didn’t want to find a wife. He wanted Belinda.

He was becoming acutely aware of that fact as she placed a bandage on his shoulder and began wrapping gauze around the pit of his arm to secure it in place. As her warm hands brushed his bare skin, desire began stirring inside him, blotting out the pain of his bruised face and scratched skin as effectively as any anesthetic, and he could only conclude he was hopelessly skirt smitten.

“There,” she said at last, and her hands fell away. “Be sure to have your valet look at the wounds in the morning, but the scratches aren’t deep, so by tomorrow, I don’t believe a replacement bandage will even be necessary.”

“I’ll tell him.” Nicholas moved onto his knees and turned around, facing her.

She spoke again, quickly, before he could. “I should advise you not to wear any wool next to your skin for the next several days. It might be too irritating.”

He didn’t want to talk about his scratches or his underclothes. He tossed aside the ice poultice. “So you agree I should leave?”

“It’s probably for the best,” she said, but he thought there might have been a hint of reluctance in her voice. Was that because she was trying to marry him off as quickly as possible or because she might, just might, miss him if he left? He decided to find out.

“But do you
want
me to go?” He leaned a bit closer. “Or do you want me to stay?”

“It hardly matters what I want. Go if you like. Stay if you like. It doesn’t affect me.”

“I think it does.” He reached for her hand, and held it fast when she tried to pull it away. “If I stay, do you think you’ll still be able to advise me about which of the women here might make me a suitable wife?”

“I . . .” She paused, and her tongue flicked over her lips, and he found the notion that she was nervous encouraging. “I don’t see why not.”

“Hard-hearted Belinda.” He paused to lift her hand in his. Turning it, he pressed a kiss to her palm, and her shiver in response raised his hopes another notch.

“Don’t,” she said, and, again, she tried to pull back. Again, he wouldn’t let her.

“Don’t what?” he asked, brushing his lips along her wrist. “Don’t want you? Don’t hope that you want me, too?”

“You can’t possibly want me,” she said, determined to argue even though she had stopped trying to pull free. “You’ve been injured.”

He laughed, blowing warm air against the soft skin of her wrist. “I’d have to be dead not to want this.” He pressed kisses along the inside of her forearm.

“But I don’t want it.” There was a breathless quality to her voice that told him that was a lie.

“Perhaps I’m deluding myself, but I don’t believe you.” He let her hand go, but before she could move away, he wrapped his arm around her waist and leaned closer. “I think we both feel the same thing. I say, why fight it?”

“You’re making advances,” she said, sounding truly desperate now, but she made no struggle to get away. “You’re breaking your promise.”

“I know, but I can’t help myself.” His free hand cupped the back of her neck. “I’m such a cad.”

He kissed her, keeping his eyes open, watching hers close. But her mouth did not open under his, and he ran his tongue back and forth over the closed seam of her lips, coaxing her to part them.

After a moment, she relented, opening her mouth with a soft moan of surrender. His body responded at once. He tightened one arm around her waist, his free hand raking upward into the silken strands of her hair. His mouth opened wide over hers, and though it hurt his jaw, he didn’t care. She tasted of the raspberries they’d had for dessert, warm and sweet, like summer itself.

Time seemed suspended as he explored her mouth—the lush fullness of her lips, the straight line of her teeth, the excitement that flared in his body when her tongue met his. But a kiss wasn’t enough.

He broke the contact of their mouths long enough for a breath of air, then tilted his head the other way and kissed her again, and as he did so, his arm tightened around her waist and his other hand slid down from her hair, along the column of her throat, and across the bare skin along the base of her neck. As he tasted deeply of her mouth, his fingertips grazed her skin, moving over the hard bump of her clavicle and down the soft, warm expanse of her bosom.

He cupped his hand over her breast and groaned with pleasure at the lush, round fullness of it against his palm. But he also felt her stiffen in his embrace, and as she broke the kiss, turning away with a gasp, he was forced to pause.

He knew with all the layers of clothing she wore, the thud of her heart against the heel of his hand was only his imagination, but she did not push him away, and as he waited in an agony of suspense, their harsh, mingled breathing was the only sound in the stillness of night.