says we don’t belong together. It’s dangerous, moving outside your class like that…wanting something—or someone—you can never have.”
“But who is to say that you can’t have it?” Nicola protested.
At her words, something sparked deep in his eyes, something hot and primitive. He crooked his finger and put it under her chin, tilting up her face to his. Nicola’s breath caught in her throat. She knew that she ought to flee, but nothing could have made her leave this spot at that moment. His face loomed closer, and then his lips were touching hers, soft at first, then harder and deeper. His hands settled on her shoulders, steadying her more than holding her, but it was Nicola who moved closer, curling her fingers into his jacket, pressing up into him, astounded by the pleasure of his mouth.
At her response, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him, and his mouth claimed hers. They clung together, lost in the moonlit night, heat mingling with heat, bodies alive with sensations, hearts pounding so loudly they could not distinguish one from the other. It was a moment that seemed to hang in eternity, endlessly breathtaking.
At last Gil raised his head and looked into her eyes, his own dark orbs flaming. And Nicola knew at that moment that none of the conventions mattered—nor their stations in life or their families’ wishes or Society’s shocked exclamations. There was only one man in the world for her.
“I love you,” Nicola breathed.
CHAPTER THREE
1815
TEARS GLITTERED IN NICOLA’S EYES, turning the coals of the fire into a red, wavering curtain. She would never love like that again.
She sat up, wiping the tears from her eyes in quick, almost angry gestures. It seemed unfair that that old pain should come sweeping in on her like this, slashing through her chest, reminding her of her loss as if it were a fresh wound, as if Gil had died only last week instead of ten years ago.
After all, she was content with her life now. She had accepted the fact that for her there would be no wedding day, no children, no growing old together. That part of her life was over, even if she was only twenty-seven years old. She had moved on. She had developed things in her life that were pleasing to her. She helped women in the East End; she gave them some hope, she thought. She matched wits with others at her eccentric aunt’s salon. She danced at parties and went to the opera and flirted when she felt like it with certain men to whom she knew it meant no more than it did to her.
Her life was full—or full enough, she reasoned. There were other women who had less than she, aristocratic women who had married as they were expected to and lived in loveless unions with nothing to interest them except clothes and gossip. There was her own sister, for instance, tied to a man like the Earl of Exmoor, miserably childless and panicked by fear that she would once again miscarry.
Better by far the life she had. Nicola swallowed hard and stood up from the bed, straightening her dress. She was foolish to wallow in her old grief, she told herself sternly, going to the dresser and pulling open drawers until she found where the maid had stowed her nightdress. She laid the gown out on the bed and began to undo the buttons of her dress.
No more thinking about her lost love. No more feeling sorry for herself. It was an isolated instance, she reasoned, brought on by being back here at the place where it had all happened. But she had grieved for Gil for ten years; she had long ago gone through the dark pit of despair and come out without losing her sanity or her life. She had learned to live the life that had been given to her. And she was not going to let herself be overwhelmed by old grief just because she was at Tidings.
On that firm note, she slipped out of her clothes, neatly laying them aside over the chair, and pulled on her nightgown. Extinguishing the oil lamp on the small bedside table, she climbed into bed and settled under the covers. But even though she determinedly shut her eyes, it was a long time before sleep crept over her, and when it did, tear tracks stained her cheeks.
“ISN’T IT A LOVELY MORNING?” DEBORAH asked, setting down her teacup and gazing happily around her at the small garden. “I am so glad that you suggested taking tea out here.”
It was midmorning, and she and her sister were sitting in the little garden beside the house, sheltered on one side by the looming house and on two others by an outside wall. It was a mild winter’s day and pleasantly warm in the small area. Winds did not reach here, and though in the afternoon it was cast deep in shadows, in the morning, the sun shone brightly in it. Two stone benches had been placed here long ago for enjoyment of the sheltered location, and a small fountain and delicate green bushes enlivened the area.
Nicola smiled at her sister. Deborah looked much better this morning. Obviously she had had a good night’s rest—more than Nicola herself could say—and just being out of the house had brought a little bloom to her cheeks. Nicola was glad that she had suggested coming out here to have their cup of tea while they chatted.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It is pleasant. I am so happy to see you looking well.”
Deborah grinned. “Not as happy as I. It is wonderful having you here. Now…” She leaned forward, eyes alight with curiosity. “You must tell me all the gossip from the City. Mama wrote me that that plain little Penelope Castlereigh has caught our cousin Bucky. Is that true? And is Lord Lambeth really marrying an adventuress?”
Nicola made a face. “That certainly sounds like Mother’s version of events.”
After Gil’s death, ten years ago, Nicola had left the area, unable to bear the constant heartbreak of living where she and Gil had loved. She had moved to London to live with her aunt, and her mother, angry with her at the time for having turned down Lord Exmoor’s offer, had been happy to let her go. But after Deborah had married the Earl, Lady Falcourt had relocated to the City herself, where she had insisted that Nicola come to live with her. Anything else “looked odd,” she explained. Nicola suspected that it was simply that she wanted someone to listen to her recitals of her many illnesses and their symptoms, and to offer her the appropriate sympathy and errand-running. She had resisted for some time, much preferring life with her forward-thinking aunt, but at last she had given in to her mother’s tears and whinings, as was usually the case, and had moved into her mother’s house.
While Nicola ran the household, her mother rested, kept up a voluminous amount of correspondence with people all over the country, and received the calls of her numerous middle-aged female acquaintances. As a result, though her mother rarely left the house, she knew all the gossip about everyone in Society—not only in London but in the whole of England.
“The truth is, Bucky simply woke up to Penelope’s wonderful qualities.” Nicola grinned, adding, “However, Marianne and I helped to lay a little trap.”
“Marianne? Oh! The beautiful red-haired woman at Bucky’s party?”
About a month earlier, Nicola had come with a number of other guests to her cousin’s estate for a house party. Among them had been Penelope Castlereigh, a distant cousin of the Earl of Exmoor, as well as Nicola, Lord Lambeth, and a beautiful woman named Marianne Cotterwood, whom Bucky at that time had been pursuing. Deborah had attended the ball Lord Buckminster had given during the weeklong house party and had met the guests, even though she had left early due to her “delicate condition.” She had, therefore, missed the tumultuous conclusion to the party, which had included a kidnapping and shooting.
Nicola looked at her sister, wondering how much of the story she had heard from Richard. Nicola suspected that Deborah’s husband did not tell her everything, especially any events that might reflect badly on him.
“Yes. That is Marianne.”
“Isn’t she the one whom Lambeth is marrying?”
Nicola nodded. “Yes, but she is not an adventuress, as Mother said.”
“Then who is she? Tell me about her. I had never seen her before—or even heard of her.”
“No one had, until Bucky tumbled knee-deep