Given his lack of reply to Lady Derring’s invitation, it had been assumed Nick would not attend.

Butterflies danced in her belly. She had not seen him since he had stormed into her bedchamber and stopped Henrietta from dyeing her hair. Since that shattering kiss, she had vacillated between longing to see him again and apprehension that she might.

With Portia draped over his arm, the bright blues of her gown were a stark contrast to Nick’s black evening attire. The feminine whispers and tittering indicated that his arrival had been duly noted. The women drank in his arresting good looks with bright, feral eyes. Meredith felt strangely bothered by the lascivious nature of their gazes. The insane urge to stand upon a chair and announce his disinterest in Good Society and gently bred ladies seized her.

Portia and Nick drew alongside her and Lord Havernautt, at ease in each other’s company. Nick’s eyes raked her body with a thoroughness that made Meredith’s face flame. Her hand itched to cover the expanse of bosom the low-cut gown revealed, but she held her ground. Until that moment she had felt almost pretty. She resented that his arrival reduced her confidence to nothing.

His mouth twisted in a mocking smile. “That was atrocious singing, Meredith.”

Portia covered her lips with a gloved hand. Her girlish giggle escaped nonetheless. “She tried to beg off, but Grandmother would not hear of it,” Portia offered in Meredith’s defense, her blue eyes twinkling.

“Well, Lady Derring won’t make that mistake again,” Nick murmured.

Meredith flushed. Knowing Nick had witnessed her performance and suffered right along with the rest of the guests only heightened her mortification.

Lord Havernautt’s arm stiffened beneath her hand and he loftily demanded, “And who might you be, sir?” Meredith knew she should be pleased. His indignation was on her account, but she wished he didn’t feel the need to protect her.

Nick sliced Lord Havernautt with a glance before settling his eyes back on Meredith, or more specifically, on her chest. He answered the affronted young man absently. “I am Nick Caulfield… Lord Brookshire. Lady Brookshire’s brother-in-law.”

It startled her to hear him use his title, the very thing he claimed to repudiate. Did this mean he would take his place as a proper earl? Proper earls joined Society. Proper earls wed proper young debutantes. The idea churned her insides. He met her gaze. His expression turned rueful, and Meredith knew he understood the silent question running through her mind.

” A pleasure, my lord,” Lord Havernautt gushed obsequiously, releasing Meredith’s arm to execute a smart little bow. “Lady Brookshire has permitted me to escort her to dinner.”

Meredith bristled. He need not sound as though he were requesting Nick’s permission on top of her own. He did not need Nick’s permission on any matter concerning her. No man did. Nick was not her father, or even her guardian. No matter that he treated her like chattel.

“Come, Lord Havernautt.” Meredith tugged his arm. “Everyone has gone ahead.”

“Yes, of course.” He nodded his head deferentially to Nick. Meredith gnashed her teeth and pulled him away from his fawning. Nick and Portia followed at an easy stroll.

* * *

Meredith did not swallow a bite of food, despite the elegant fare placed on the great length of table. She snuck covert glances at Nick as he exchanged pleasantries with Portia on his right and the woman on his left—a baroness with rouged cheeks who slid her hand over his arm whilst her husband flirted with another woman at the far end of the dining table. Both spouses appeared indifferent to their bold flirtations. Meredith watched in disgust over the ornate silver candela-bras. Such moral laxity was never flaunted in Attingham. Practiced perhaps, but never flaunted.  “Do you not care for partridge?” Lord Havernautt asked solicitously.

“Yes. It’s lovely.” Meredith wrenched her gaze from Nick and forced a small bite, chewing mechanically, too troubled to even appreciate the partridge pie’s flaky crust.

“It’s quite acceptable if you don’t. Some ladies do not care for game. Mother says it’s commoners’

fare.”

Meredith sipped her wine and spoke thoughtlessly, her mind on the vulgar woman with her hands all over Nick. “And how is it you’ve escaped Mother for the evening, Lord Havernautt?”

His face reddened, and she chastised herself for being so uncharitable. She had not meant to embarrass him. “I’m sorry,” she quickly apologized, setting down her glass and covering his hand with hers. “That was rude of me.”

“I do talk of her too much. I can’t seem to help it. Mother has been a dominating figure in my life since Father died.”

“You’re a good son.” Meredith smiled consolingly. “No shame in that.”

“Perhaps not shame, but it’s a little off-setting for prospective wives.” He dabbed a linen napkin at the corners of mouth, “Experience has taught me that.”

“The right woman would not be deterred.”

“Truly?” He reminded her so much of a forlorn little boy, hope burning bright in his eyes, that she gave his hand a little squeeze.

“Of course. If a woman wants to know whether a man would be a kind husband to her, she need look no further than how he treats his mother.” Meredith gave his hand a final squeeze before releasing it.

The hairs on her nape tingled with awareness, as though someone watched her. Meredith looked up. Her eyes clashed with Nick’s across the table. The anger in his gaze blazed a hole right through her. Baffled, she raised a brow in silent inquiry. In a blink, his anger vanished, leaving nothing behind for her to detect.

He returned his attention to the baroness pawing his arm. To her horror, he fed the woman a berry from his fruit bowl. Heat rushed over her. Meredith snapped her attention to the next course set before her, confusion knitting her brow. The flash of anger in his eyes had not been imagined, but now he appeared totally enamored with his dinner companion and oblivious to her.

She watched his flirtation with the baroness with mounting disgust… and a tightening in her chest that could only be jealousy.

After dinner a small orchestra set up and began to play at one end of the ballroom. Lady Derring prodded several couples into dancing—Meredith and Lord Havernautt not to be spared. She danced with other gentlemen as well, hoping to expand her search for suitable candidates. After one dance with a portly gentleman who trod all over her toes and leered down her bodice, and two other dances with gentlemen who plied her with questions on the likelihood of their marriage prospects to this Season’s fresh-faced debutantes—in whose ranks she was not included—she desperately craved a respite.

A dull headache throbbed at the backs of her eyes. It had been a long day. A long week, for that matter. Every waking moment had been spent preparing her. Her hair had only been the start.

New gowns were needed. As were gloves, reticules, slippers, jewelry, all manner of intimate apparel, and more gowns. A consuming endeavor, by all accounts. Greater preparation could not have gone into planning the military stratagems at Waterloo.

She managed to slip out to the terrace and down into the gardens for a much needed moment of privacy while Lord Havernautt danced with Portia. The scent of lilac hung thick in the air, and she inhaled the sweet aroma. She caught a thick, waxy leaf in her hand from a low hanging branch. Rubbing it between her fingers, she strolled down the pebbled path, staring at the night sky and wondering where the stars had gone. Stars littered the sky in Attingham. Here she could see nothing save murky night.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

She spun around, crushing the leaf in her hand.

Nick leaned against an ivied wall, one hand in his jacket pocket. Her traitorous heart jumped at the sight of him, and she didn’t know which of her impulses the strongest. The one urging her to flee? Or the one urging her to close the distance separating them and continue where they had last left off?

Chapter 17

Meredith settled for conversation. By far the safest impulse. “Taken to skulking about gardens, have you?” Her voice spilled out fast and breathless.

He smiled that wolf smile of his—the white flash of his teeth clearly visible in the garden’s gloom.

She didn’t bother to wait for his response, instead forged ahead with the one question that had nagged her all evening, ever since she first laid eyes on him. “What are you doing here? I thought you left me in Lady Derring’s care so you did not have to endure such tiresome functions as this. Have you come to verify that I in fact did not dye my hair?”

“I was invited.”

Several lamps dotted the path, but their glow did not reach his eyes. Meredith wished she could see them to better gauge his thoughts.

“I thought you had no intention of playing the noble earl.” She stepped closer, but the memory of the last time they were alone flashed in her mind and she halted, moistening her lips nervously, both frightened and strangely stirred.

“Lady Derring insisted I attend.”

“So you’re here for Lady Derring’s sake?” She found that difficult to believe.

“She claims the hovering presence of a wealthy, titled relation will help you land a husband.

Make you more appealing.”

Meredith snorted, recalling how Lady Derring partnered him with her granddaughter at dinner.

“You think that’s her true motive?”

“I suspect she has her own agenda. And a granddaughter of marriageable age.”

“What are your intentions on that score? The Derrings are prestigious. Marriage to a duke’s daughter would be quite a coup.”

“For some.” He shrugged one broad shoulder. “I have no such ambition. And no intention of marrying. Especially to a girl barely out of the schoolroom.”

“You don’t plan to ever marry?” She could not hide her curiosity.

“I would not make a very good husband,” he uttered with a decided lack of remorse.

“No, you would not,” she agreed.

His deep chuckle sent a warm ripple of pleasure coursing through her. “For once we are in agreement.”

Meredith smiled and contemplated the enigma standing before her. He had been particularly brutish to her since learning of her deceit, but the memory of him comforting her after Sally Finney’s death, of his concern for her welfare when he thought her pregnant, lingered. There was depth to him. Compassion. A heart beat beneath that stony exterior.

Shaking off such thoughts, she said, “You are a strange man. Most men would give their soul for what you don’t even want.”

His rejoinder was fast and brutal. “Or scheme, lie, and cheat, as in your case.”

Her smile slipped, replaced with bleak frustration. “You’ll never understand why. Have you never done anything wrong in order to protect yourself and others? Never committed a sin or a crime because you felt you had to?”

He didn’t answer for some time. She heard his soft exhalation. It was the sigh of a man burdened with the past, and she had her answer. His continued silence confirmed her suspicions as no words could. “I thought so,” she answered for him. “Was it a very terrible thing?”

He turned in the direction of the house. The hum of voices played on the air, blending with the distant music. A sudden shaft of light shined down on them from an upstairs window, allowing Meredith to study the strong line of his profile.

One look at his pensive expression and she knew he no longer stood with her in Lady Derring’s gardens but at some distant place in his past.

It struck her that she knew very little about him. The whole of his life before they met was a murky chasm. What befell him after his mother died? How had he survived? She had the sneaking suspicion it was an ugly tale.

“For me, it was steal or starve. Beat or be beaten. You have not come close to facing the threats I have.”