Letty squealed, throwing open the lid with a hurried delight. ‘Rubies, Nicholas,’ she whispered, ‘and such beautiful ones.’ With infinite care she drew the chain of gold and red from its soft bed and, unbuttoning her bodice, presented her back to him. ‘Will you fasten them?’
Nodding, he moved behind her, assailed instantly by the expensive perfume that enveloped her in a cloud wherever she went, his hands competent at her back while she waited for him to finish.
‘Nicholas, you do know I love you, don’t you?’
He turned, caught by the seriousness in her voice, swallowing at her admission and feeling guilty, as he did each time she had said it, for he knew, in truth, that he could not say back what it was she longed to hear from him. A tight smile played around his mouth as he perceived her disappointment. Why did women always want what he could never give them? Why could he not relish the commitment to relationships other men made without recourse to a safer distance? He knew the answer even as he voiced the question.
Johanna. His mother.
His father had married for love and look where that had got him. Widowed at twenty-six with two young boys and a heart as broken as he was, Gerald had finally drunk himself into the oblivion he functioned best in.
At eight Nicholas had tried his hardest to comfort both his father and five-year-old brother Charles, but without Johanna the family centre was gone, dissolved into a strange mix of long silences and unfathomable anger, the remnants of a family who had loved too much and lost everything because of it. And when, thirteen years later, Gerald’s liver had finally succumbed to the abuse of a decade and he had died, predicting that his sons would follow the same path as he had, Nicholas had vowed that this prophesy would never come to pass and had spent his life either in the arms of experienced widows or hardened show girls, neither pushing for the state of matrimony that he was determined to escape.
Bending down, Nicholas collected some papers lying in a bundle at the top of his desk. Aye, to him survival marched hand in hand with distance, mere affection containing no real power to hurt. And if sometimes he recognised the flaws in his reasonings, he was also quick to remember the lonely years of his childhood. Never again would he let himself be so vulnerable.
Breaking the awkward silence of the moment with the merely mundane, he turned back to her and said, ‘I’ll see you out then.’ His words came harshly across Letitia’s admission and he was pleased when she followed his directive without argument and walked before him, the clutter of servants in the corridor precluding any other more personal talk.
The party after the opera was crowded with people thronging out into the open halls, and it seemed every second one was calling to Nicholas on an urgent and important purpose, invitations offered and congratulations given for some new and successful business venture of his.
They all knew of his Midas touch, the way he made thousands from every concept he believed in and the way his holdings multiplied each year: land, horses, ships and women.
Nicholas Pencarrow, Duke of Westbourne, never went anywhere without every female eye in every room fastened upon him, young and old, and all with the same thought in their minds—how they longed to be the one to tame the lion who stalked in their midst, with copper hair and tawny eyes, the most handsome man in court and the richest to boot.
Tonight, dressed entirely in black, he seemed to prowl the confines of the small room in an unspoken need to be free, though as he stood, glass in hand, a name mentioned behind Nicholas made him turn.
‘Michael De Lancey.’ A woman was introducing an older man to a couple directly to his left and the name on Brenna Stanhope’s file leapt to mind. Her uncle? His eyes raked across this man and Nicholas smiled as he heard the accent, cultured and quiet like his niece’s. With care he beckoned a footman stationed across the room, the servant hurrying through the crowd at the summons and waiting as the Duke pulled out a card from his jacket pocket.
‘Please inform Sir Michael De Lancey that I would like to meet with him when he finds himself free,’ he said politely, returning to his own conversation as the man hurried off.
It was only a few minutes later when he felt the small man’s presence at his shoulder. Nicholas held out his hand to the other’s uncertainly offered bow, taking Sir Michael’s hand firmly in his own and saying with feeling, ‘I am very pleased to meet you, sir. Your niece, Brenna Stanhope, has no doubt told you of her part in my lucky escape near Worsley!’
Michael De Lancey started, a frown deep in his eyes as he shook his head. ‘No, your Grace, she has told me nothing.’
The admission floored Nicholas. ‘You have not seen her in the past three weeks?’ he asked in amazement.
‘Oh, indeed, yes, Brenna lives with me.’
‘And yet she has mentioned nothing?’
‘No, I am afraid not!’ Grey eyes came up to his own, honest eyes with all the look of a gentleman, and Nicholas, surmising this man not to be lying, changed tack instantly.
‘Would you permit me to call on your niece, Sir Michael?’
‘No!’
One word and so unexpected Nicholas could hardly credit the answer. Did he not know to whom he was speaking? Did he not understand the social etiquette due to such a title as his own? He sized up the situation and tried again.
‘You won’t let me call on your niece?’ The query was phrased more in incredulity than anger.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘And you have my card?’
‘I do, your Grace.’
Perplexed, Nicholas ran a hand through his hair. ‘Is she married already?’ he said suddenly.
‘No, your Grace.’
‘Betrothed?’
‘No, your Grace.’
‘Then you would agree that she’s free to make up her own mind about whether or not to see me?’
Sir Michael shifted uncomfortably, giving the impression of a man who was backing himself into a quickly approaching corner. ‘Yes.’
‘Then please give her this.’ Taking out another card, Nicholas wrote on it in haste. ‘I would very much like a reply.’
Nodding, Michael De Lancey clutched the paper in his fist and Nicholas watched him call for his coat and hat and take his leave.
Brenna rose the next morning early, dressing in one of her customary dark-blue velvet gowns, then hurried downstairs to the breakfast room, coming to a halt as she saw her uncle already seated and looking very perturbed.
‘Good morning,’ she said, favouring him with a smile as she took the seat opposite and poured herself some tea.
He cleared his throat. ‘Brenna, I need to talk to you.’
‘Mmm, what about?’ She glanced up as he took a card from the table in front of him, and placed it before her.
‘That!’ he stammered as she raised the gilt-edged card to her eyes.
NICHOLAS PENCARROW
DUKE OF WESTBOURNE
‘Who is he?’ she returned quietly, a premonition of disaster seeming to emanate from the words themselves.
‘Read the back.’ With dread she flipped it over, her heart beating faster as she placed the context of the message: Would you permit me to say thank you in person for your help at Worsley?
Unsure eyes surveyed her uncle. ‘I didn’t tell you. I thought it might make you worried.’
‘But you’ll tell me now?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes,’ she answered, giving him a blow-by-blow description of the whole episode.
Her