Nick.
Chapter Three
“Damnation…”
Nick slumped against the sink, braced his arm on the cold porcelain and squinted into the mirror.
He looked like hell.
He felt like hell.
But what did he expect after consuming his share of a bottle of Scotch last night?
Pushing away from the sink, he saw that Jackson, his valet, had already filled the claw-footed tub for him, as he did every morning. Nick stripped off his flannel drawers and eased into the water. He dunked his head and threaded his fingers through his dark hair, slicking it off his face.
During his morning bath Nick usually reviewed his day ahead—people he planned to meet, appointments scheduled at his office downtown, things that required his attention. But this morning all he could think about was Ethan and that damn bottle of Scotch. Nick seldom drank to excess. Now he remembered why.
A discreet knock sounded on the bathroom door, and Jackson, a slight man with graying hair, slipped into the room bearing a tray with a cup of coffee, then disappeared just as silently. Nick wasn’t sure how the man always knew his needs so instinctively, but he appreciated it.
Sipping the coffee, Nick washed, dried and dressed in fresh underdrawers and the white sleeveless undershirt Jackson had left for him. When he moved to the mirror once more, he thought he looked a little better. He felt a little better, too.
Yet something nagged at him. Something from last night. What was it?
Dragging the razor across his lathered jaw, he thought back to yesterday. The Whitney project came to mind, but he could recall nothing out of the ordinary with it. Just the usual worry that he stood to lose a large fortune if the deal fell apart.
No, it wasn’t the Whitney project. Nick rinsed the razor under the tap, mentally reviewing the previous day. Finally, he recalled last night in the study. Cecilia had come in. Ethan and he had been left with the bottle of Scotch to finish off. Then Ethan suggested—
“Hellfire.” Nick’s head came up quickly.
He’d made a wager to find a wife in thirty days.
“Damn…!” Nick eyed his reflection sharply. What had he been thinking? He’d bet Ethan a case of Scotch that he would be married by midnight in thirty days—twenty-nine days, now. What the hell was wrong with him?
Grumbling, Nick finished shaving and went into his adjoining bedchamber. Jackson had disappeared, but he’d laid out Nick’s suit for the day. Nick yanked on his white shirt, mentally berating himself for drinking so much, for agreeing to that ridiculous bet.
He stopped in the middle of his room as another thought occurred to him.
Even before last night he’d considered getting married. Having a wife wasn’t such a bad idea. In fact, it would ease his burden in life considerably.
No more young eligible women being pushed in front of him at social events. No more mothers, grandmothers and aunts looking him over, sizing him up as husband material.
Maybe Ethan’s idea had some merit. Nick fastened the button on his left sleeve. Getting the whole wedding thing over and done with quickly had its advantages.
He exhaled heavily. No, it wasn’t right—not for his future wife, anyway. Women lived for that sort of thing. Parties, receptions. Certainly her wedding. He couldn’t rob her of that once-in-a-lifetime event.
He fiddled with the button on his right sleeve. Of course, finding a wife in a month’s time would be a challenge to any man, but who was more up to it than he? He could sweep a woman off her feet as well as anyone.
Finding the right sort of woman would be imperative. Nick had no intention of falling desperately in love. He’d known that for some time now. He’d known, too, that what he wanted was a wife who was compatible.
He’d learned the hard way what “love” could do to a man.
Nick paused. Compatible. Yes, that’s what he wanted. It was what he would look for. Compatibility. If he found that, everything else would fall into place.
The door to his bedchamber burst open. Nick swung around as Cecilia swept into his room, her dressing gown billowing behind her, her hair a mass of tangles.
While never in a thousand years would Nick consider walking into his sister’s or mother’s room unannounced, the women in the house thought nothing of bursting in on him when it suited them. Such as now, when he wore only his drawers and shirt, with one cuff buttoned.
Cecilia stopped, flung out both hands and cried, “It’s over! The wedding is off!” She burst into tears.
“What?” Nick went to her.
Constance dashed into his room, hot on her daughter’s heels. She, too, wore her dressing gown. Her graying hair, woven into a braid, hung down her back.
“Cecilia,” Constance said, “please, calm down.”
“What happened?” Nick asked.
“It’s off! The wedding! Aaron—Aaron never really loved me at all!” Cecilia collapsed into racking sobs against Nick.
He gathered her into his arms and turned to their mother. “What the hell happened?”
“I have no idea. I found her this way in her room a few minutes ago,” Constance said, her eyes wide. She touched her daughter’s shoulder. “Cecilia, dear, you must tell us what happened. Why do you think Aaron doesn’t love you?”
“Because he doesn’t,” Cecilia wailed, lifting her head from Nick’s shoulder. “Cancel the wedding. The flowers, the food, the reception—cancel it all!”
Nick saw his mother sway as over a year’s worth of planning and preparing evaporated before their eyes. He reached out and steadied her. She clamped her hand onto his arm.
“Let’s just all calm down,” Nick said. “First—”
“No, there’s nothing to discuss!” Cecilia said.
“Cecilia, you don’t mean that,” Constance insisted.
“Yes, I do!”
“Nick, do something!”
“Look, both of you—”
“Stop!” Aunt Winnie blasted into the room wearing a ruby-red dressing gown, her hair so neatly styled it looked as if she’d sat up in a chair all night. “I could have predicted this would happen! Cecilia, what did you dream last night?”
Cecilia wailed anew and buried her face in Nick’s shoulder. Constance clutched him tighter.
Winnifred marched over to them. “Someone’s dream predicted this. Nick, what did you dream last night?”
“I—I dreamed I was flying,” he said.
Winnifred’s eyes squinted together. “Were you flying over broken objects?”
“No.” He peered down at his sister, trying to see her face. “Cecilia, you have to tell us what happened.”
“Were you flying with black wings?” Winnifred persisted.
“No.”
“White wings?”
“No. Listen, Cecilia, Aaron loves you. Just last night—”
“He doesn’t!” she insisted.
“Were you shot at while flying?” Winnifred asked.
“No.”
“Were you flying naked?”
“Aunt Winnie!” Nick eased Cecilia away from him and tilted her face up. “Tell me what happened.”