‘Worshipped him, more like. I would have been happy for him just to smile at me, speak kindly to me, but he rarely looked my way. All he came to Coldyngham Park for was to be with you and the others. I suppose I should have had a sister, then I wouldn’t have pretended to be one of you, would I?’ She sniffed and wiped her eyes with her knuckles, trying to laugh it off. ‘But then, I was a silly child. I knew no better. Now, I don’t care for anyone’s approval. I don’t need anything he has to offer.’
‘Still hurting after all these years, love?’
Unconsciously, one hand moved upwards to press a palm upon her breast where a nagging sting lay just beneath her chemise. ‘No,’ she said, so softly that George had to look to see the word. ‘No, I don’t care a fig who he marries as long as it’s not me. I know what he’s like, George. I can do better than that.’
‘You know that you insulted him.’
‘Yes. And he’ll not expect me to apologise.’
‘Oh? Why do you say that?’
‘Just take my word for it.’
George’s silence did not mean that he had nothing to say. This time, he was thinking that for both Fergus and Nicola to deny the need for an apology, Fergus must have done some insulting of his own. And the only thing George could add to the picture was a stolen kiss. That might explain their very obvious silence regarding that earlier meeting. ‘You’ll be with us for supper later on?’ he said. ‘Charlotte’s birthday. A few friends, that’s all.’
‘Yes, I’d not forgotten. You’ll allow the children to be there?’
He smiled. ‘I shall get into the gravest trouble if they miss you.’
Whether Nicola suspected that one of the ‘few friends’ might include Sir Fergus, she made no further mention of him until George asked if she would come and say farewell. ‘Excuse me this once,’ she said, placing her hand over his. ‘You invited him here, you show him the way home.’
He picked up her hand and kissed the knuckles, levering himself up from the fountain wall. ‘Until this evening then, love.’
‘George…’ she said, holding him back by a finger.
He stopped and waited.
‘George, you’re not going to insist on this…this promise thing, are you? I know it’s what Father wanted and I suppose he must have had a good reason, but I don’t think he’d have insisted, would he?’
Gently, he shook her hand, though there was no smile to make light of it. ‘Of course I shall not insist. Whatever gave you that idea and, in any case, what good would it do? I don’t have any power to hold back your inheritance because you’ve got it already. Anyway, you know what my thoughts are about women being allowed to choose their own husbands.’ He came to sit by her side again, closer this time. ‘Nobody’s going to insist,’ he said, looking into her darkly troubled eyes. ‘But…’
‘But what?’
‘Well, all Father ever wanted was for you to be safely married. For your own protection, you know. You have a large income, property, a house here in London with a large household…you know…plenty of fortune-hunters on the lookout for more. You can’t call Fergus a fortune-hunter, whatever else you might call him. Perhaps that’s what Father had in mind. Some men have ways of making themselves very agreeable until they’ve got what they want. I’d hate to see you taken along that road.’
‘Well, no one could accuse Fergus Melrose of making himself too agreeable, could they? Far from it. But the road up to Scotland is a very long one, George, and I don’t see my future up there as a breeder of Melroses while he careers off round the world. He may have stallions and mares in mind, but I want more from life than ritual mating once a year.’
Making no attempt this time to hide his amusement at her picturesque speech, George shook his head, laughing. ‘Nick,’ he said at last, ‘all I ask is that you don’t dismiss him quite so soon. People do change. You have. Give him a chance, love. Why not talk to Charlotte about it? She’s quite anxious about you.’
‘George, I’m twenty-four, not twelve. Why should she be anxious?’
‘Vultures, love,’ he said, rising again. ‘Too many vultures.’
‘What are they…something legal, is it?’
‘No, vultures are nasty big birds that the king keeps in his menagerie at the tower. They tear juicy bodies to pieces with their greedy beaks, bone, fur and all. Some men are like that, and some will protect you from vultures. Fergus is one of those. I know him better than you, and if he says he wants you it’s not because he wants your wealth or ancestral links. Why else d’ye think he came round here early if not for a sneak preview after all these years? Eh?’
‘Curiosity, I expect.’
‘Yes, and now he’s seen you, not even your insults have put him off. He still wants you, love. I told you.’
She stared at him, stuck for words. ‘I…I thought…he…’
‘He’d go off with his tail between his legs? Hah! You should know him better than that, lass. He’s got more between his legs than a tail.’
‘George!’ Her heart lurched uncomfortably, making her aware of the sharp pain of her wound.
‘Sorry. I’ll go before I say any more. See you this evening.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t look like that. You’ve got four brothers, remember. You must have seen.’
‘I didn’t look,’ she called after him.
‘Little liar.’ He laughed. ‘Swimming in the river? You too?’
Yes, she remembered that, and the time she’d followed them and got out of her depth and was rescued by Ramond long before the others even noticed, so intent were they on watching Fergus. He had always been graceful and strong, excelling at everything, leading them into risky situations, yet always emerging first, triumphant. She recalled how he had ridden bareback the stallion that none of them would go near, how the maids would giggle and ogle him, how shamefully excited and angry she had felt when she discovered he had kissed one of them. How she had longed to be the one instead of a nobleman’s chit for whom he had no time. Whatever she had done, there had always been time to dream and then to weep with forlorn childish tears. How she had hated and adored him.
Nicola had known that Fergus Melrose would be there—Sir Fergus, as she was now supposed to call him—and while she tried to convince herself that she didn’t care, that she would not dress to impress anyone, least of all him, the end result would have done justice to a Botticelli goddess floating in from the sea. Blue silk, very full, very sheer and diaphanous, very low-cut and high-waisted, very suitable for the kind of open-air feast that Charlotte enjoyed most.
Her hair, severely pulled back into a long sleek plait that reached her waist, was crowned with a garland of blue flowers echoed by a tiny nosegay tucked into the vee of her bodice to hide the top edge of an unsightly red line. Pendant pearls from her ears were the only other adornment and, if she did not quite believe the mirror that told her she looked ravishing, then she had to take account of her maids and the stares of the guests. Especially from two of them.
‘Since no one has yet offered to introduce us, my lady,’ said a personable young man to Nicola, ‘then I must needs do it myself. I asked my brother to, but he has declined.’
‘And who is your brother, sir?’ As if she couldn’t have guessed.
‘Over there,’ he said, glancing with a certain relish across to where his elder brother lounged against a marble table laden with food. ‘Sir Fergus Melrose.’
Nicola followed his glance, relieved to have a genuine excuse to look at him so soon after her arrival. Then, seeing the message that awaited her, she wished she had not done. The business