“Are there no friendly faces to greet the girl?”
Pawly shook his head morosely.
Nicholas groaned. “Oh, Pawly, my man, what a fiasco this is. I still cannot believe my father had the audacity to promise me to some girl without consulting me. What was he thinking? Bloody hell, he didn’t even bother to meet the girl himself before he had the announcement sent off and a messenger dispatched to summon me to London.”
Pawly said nothing, but his expression was one of pained male commiseration.
“I really ought to greet Miss Fitzhenry this evening,” Nicholas muttered.
Pawly raised an eyebrow in question.
“With my father rushing the wedding, I have little time to persuade Miss Fitzhenry to cry off,” Nicholas explained, “and I cannot very well do that if I do not see the girl. But I cannot go to the main house. I cannot face my family in the state I am in. How could I explain this?” he queried, pointing to the scratches on his face.
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but no one will think much of you not socializing tonight. Everyone will assume you are being unforgivably rude, just like always. I cannot see that one transgression more or less on your part should make much of a difference.”
Nicholas barked with laughter at Pawly’s insightful assessment.
“And,” the younger man continued, his voice heavy with meaning, “I imagine your young miss will be tired from the road. She will probably retire soon.”
Now, it was Nicholas’s turn to quirk a brow. “Pawly, are you suggesting that I visit Miss Fitzhenry in her bedchamber? I hardly think that is appropriate.”
A sly smile crept across Pawly’s face. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but I have never known you to care much about what is and is not ‘appropriate.’”
…
Mira sat on the edge of the enormous tester bed, and stared at the bedchamber in stunned silence. She still could not believe this exquisite room was to be hers. It was certainly a far cry from her spartan room on the top floor of the shabby Fitzhenry townhouse, and it was a pleasant surprise after the misery of her first meeting with Nicholas’s family.
After Blackwell had made a cursory round of introductions, there had been a brief exchange of pleasantries. The Ellerbys were civil, but coolly so and there were many strained silences in the conversation. What’s more, the vicar was quite shamelessly staring at every bosom in the room, and George was swaying on his feet. As soon as etiquette would allow, Aunt Kitty had offered apologies and suggested they retire.
Mrs. Murrish had led Kitty, George, Bella, and Mira into the older portion of the house, up a sweeping stone staircase, to their bedchambers. She had been most insistent that Mira was to have this room, this incredible, magnificent room.
Mira struggled to take it all in. The thick, brilliantly colored carpets that festooned the floor. The lush velvet upholstery covering the graceful Queen Anne rosewood furniture. And, the most remarkable feature, the flock of exquisite painted birds that covered the walls, their plumage in every color imaginable.
A light knock at the door startled Mira. Assuming the maid Mrs. Murrish had promised had arrived, Mira dashed to the door and jerked it open. While the iron-banded door was heavy enough to require all Mira’s strength to open, once it started moving on its well-oiled hinges, it had a startling momentum. Still clasping the handle, the force of the door swinging wide caused her to stumble backward, and her efforts to maintain her balance sent her reeling in the opposite direction…right through the door.
She gasped as she fell against a hard male chest, her hands coming to rest on the slightly damp fabric of Nicholas’s waistcoat. His hands rose to her shoulders to steady her. She looked up into his face, took in the angry scratches on his cheek, the lock of jet-black hair falling across his forehead to mirror the stark white scar marking his face, the raw power reflected in his eyes. Some deep intuitive force recognized the danger he presented, even as she was enveloped in the brisk scent of sea spray and the warm spicy smell she was coming to associate with Nicholas himself.
“Oh, my lord,” she choked out, her face burning with mortification and something more unnerving, “I—I am so sorry. I thought you were the maid.”