“We have much to do in a short time. Next week I’m giving a dinner party, a small fete. The Season has not officially begun so the guest list is not overly large, fifty or so, but selective.
There will be plenty of gentlemen for you to meet.”
“She has not yet been presented,” Aunt Eleanor reminded.
“That will not matter for such a small affair. She will be presented at the end of the month with Portia. You both shall reside here, I trust. That would be much more convenient.”
Meredith looked desperately to her aunt. The idea of being under the dowager’s roof, where she would suffer her constant attentions, filled her with no small amount of dread. At least at the Brookshire townhouse she would have privacy. “We’ve already settled our things at the Brookshire townhouse in Grosvenor.”
“It will be easy enough to send a servant to fetch your things.”
Meredith tried to lodge another protest. “But—”
“That is very considerate of you, Your Grace. Thank you,” Aunt Eleanor accepted.
Meredith glared at her aunt.
Aunt Eleanor looked at her in mute apology.
“Think nothing of it. I’ve been charged with seeing you wed, Lady Brookshire. I shall put as much energy into sponsoring you as I shall with my own granddaughter.”
“Pity you” Portia mumbled under her breath.
Meredith offered up a wobbly smile and tried to look grateful, but she was convinced that every minute of her stay would be oppressive. The dowager was clearly a managing sort. Much like herself. And she was of the firm belief that two managing types could not coexist peaceably in the same house.
Perhaps she would take the first offer that came along just to get out from beneath the dowager’s roof.
Chapter 15
“When did this come?” Nick barked the question at Feebler, all the while fairly certain who sent the anonymous note.
“Late yesterday, sir.” The old sailor’s hands shook from age and years of too much drink. Nick had found the man starving and begging for coin in the streets. Out of pity, he had hired him. It had been simple enough to create a job that would demand very little. He used Feebler for small errands, such as sorting mail and delivering messages. Nick gazed down at the day old missive crumpled in his hands. Apparently even the prompt delivery of messages was too taxing for him.
“And why am I only now receiving it?”
“I left it here on the table for you, sir,” Feebler sputtered. “It was late, and I did not wish to bother you below…”
Nick did not hear the rest of his words. No time to waste, he took off for the stables behind the Lucky Lady, where he quickly saddled his own horse. A short while later he rapped on Lady Derring’s door. Finch opened the door, his expression as grave as ever.
“Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”
Nick wondered how the man managed to look down his nose at him when he was a full head taller. “You can stand aside and let me pass. And no, I still don’t have a bloody card, but you know who I am and you will let me inside if you have no wish to end up tossed in the street.”
Finch stepped aside and gestured to the drawing room. “The ladies are having tea, my lord.
Would you care to announce yourself?”
Nick was too bent on his present course to take offense at the butler’s sarcasm. He strode across the marble-floored foyer, his mind burning with the contents of that letter. The double doors stood open, and he halted in the threshold, his gaze sweeping the room’s inhabitants. His gut tightened when he found no sight of Meredith among them.
Lady Derring looked up in astonishment at his unceremonious arrival. Miss Eleanor looked only relieved, further convincing him that she was the one responsible for sending him the missive.
Lady Portia set her teacup down and relaxed back on the chaise as if settling in for a good performance.
“Lord Brookshire, this is an unexpected visit.” Lady Derring managed to inject just the right amount of disapproval in her voice. “A little early in the morning for a social call. We did not expect to see you until next week’s dinner party. I assume you plan to attend, though you failed to reply to the invitation? Very bad form that, my lord.”
“What is this rubbish about dyeing Meredith’s hair?” he demanded, ignoring her question. He had received the invitation and had vacillated on whether or not to attend, despite his agreement with the dowager. Nick had a longstanding agreement with himself never to join the ranks of the pompous elite whose very code of superiority destroyed lives… most notably his mother’s.
Lady Derring blinked and looked to each of her companions suspiciously. “How did you find—”
“That is unimportant,” he snapped, cutting one hand through the air impatiently. “Is it done, then?”
“Not yet,” she began, “but Henriette is working on Meredith as we speak—”
“I’ll have no more of you working on her without my approval. From now on I want to be consulted on any decisions regarding a change to her appearance,” he ordered, glaring at the dowager. “Dyeing her hair? What were you thinking, woman?”
The dowager stiffened in affront, “Have a care how you speak to me, sirrah. You charged me with getting her wed, and that red hair of hers is totally unsuitable.”
“So you would dye her hair like a common doxy.” Nick shook his head, unconcerned if his language offended her. “Take me to her so that I can put a stop to this madness.”
“I’ll show you the way,” Portia piped up, a wide grin on her gamine face.
Without waiting for her reply, he followed her out of the drawing room and up the winding rosewood staircase, his feet pounding out his irritation with each step. He could feel himself scowling. What was Meredith thinking to go along with such a thing anyway? Wouldn’t the daughter of a vicar be more conventional? Portia breezed into one of the upstairs bedrooms without knocking. Nick followed fast on her heels.
“Oh, excuse us, Meredith.” Portia’s cheery voice lacked true apology as she strode dauntlessly into the middle of the room. “I should have knocked. I did not realize you were in dishabille. I’ve brought Lord Brookshire with me, but then you’re practically family. No harm, I’m sure.”
Meredith stood atop a pile of linens, barefoot and clad only in her chemise. Her hair was wet, at least he hoped it was only wet and that was not dye soaking the long strands. Water sluiced down her neck and collarbone in fascinating rivulets. The thin cotton of her chemise clung to her body.
She was shapely, curved as a woman ought to be, a fact her hideous black gowns had disguised.
He admired the well-rounded cheeks of her derriere reflected in the mirror behind her and felt the blood thicken in his veins.
Portia’s words penetrated his head. Family? Nick looked on Meredith with anything but brotherly love. She stood as still as a frightened doe, her mouth a small o as she gazed up at him.
“My lord?” She clasped her hands in front of her br**sts, drawing his attention to that part of her anatomy. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to stop you from dyeing your hair.”
She touched one of the long wet strands absently. “Henriette is just preparing the mixture.”
The grinning maid stirred a mixture reminiscent of something mucked out of the horses’ stall every morning.
“You’re not putting that on your hair.” He nodded at the maid. “You can take that foul mixture from the room at once. We won’t be needing it.”
The maid did not bother even to look at Meredith for confirmation, simply obeyed. ” Oui, monsieur.” With a quick curtsy, she departed.
“What are you doing here?” Meredith’s brow puckered in bewilderment. “You wish to stop me from coloring my hair?”
For the first time, he allowed himself to question why he should care whether she dyed her hair—why he had allowed himself to storm upstairs like an outraged husband. He shouldn’t care if she went so far as to shave herself bald.
“If it is your wish to find a husband, I suggest you present yourself as you are… not as something else.” He paused. “But perhaps that is too honest an approach for you.”
She sucked in her breath. Fire lit her green eyes.
Portia, whose presence he had forgotten, made a whistling noise with her teeth, her head turning back and forth between the two of them with keen interest.
He reminded himself that he had not come here to insult Meredith, only to stop her from making a horrible mistake, but now that she stood in front of him he could not refrain from antagonizing her.
“Portia.” Meredith spoke evenly. “Would you leave us, please?”
“Alone?” Portia looked pointedly at Meredith’s lack of attire.
“Yes,” Meredith continued in that cool, even tone, her blistering stare never leaving his. “And close the door behind you, please.”
Portia turned to leave, a definite pout to her lips. The soft click of the door ignited Meredith.
“How dare you come into this house, into my chamber, and order me about! How dare you insult me in front of Portia.”
She was an amazing sight, trembling with rage, only a scant chemise covering her. Her wet hair hung over her shoulders, and he caught tantalizing glimpses of her br**sts through the transparent fabric. Her temper must have made her forget her state of undress, a point he did not know whether to give thanks for or not.
“If you acted in a sensible manner, then I wouldn’t have to rush over here in order to stop another one of your foolish schemes.”
Bright color flooded her face and neck—all the way to the tops of her creamy br**sts. Nick could not help wondering how far her blushing extended. Such speculation sent a bolt of desire through him. God, he wanted to strip away that flimsy chemise and find out.
“What I do in order to catch a husband is of no concern to you. I was only following the advice of the woman you appointed my sponsor.” She stepped closer to jab a finger into his chest, bringing with her a familiar waft of mint and honey. “If you don’t like me dyeing my hair, perhaps you should take it up with Lady Derring.”
“And you can’t exercise a little common sense?” He grabbed her wrist to cease the annoying, incessant jabbing of her finger. “Harlots and doxies dye their hair, and they are not the kind of women any gentleman I know would marry.”
“Perhaps I have no wish to marry any gentleman with which you would acquaint yourself. I would not want to run the risk of him being anything like you.”
He laughed coldly, his hand a vise around her wrist, tightening as he said, “Yes, you would not want a gentleman with a modicum of good judgment. He might be too difficult to dupe.”
His hold on her wrist had her dancing on her tiptoes. “A gentleman at all would be quite a welcome change from you,” she hissed.
“In our short association, I have been more the gentleman than you have been the lady.”
Her free hand moved quickly, a flashing arc on the air. He had no time to stop the stinging slap she delivered to his cheek that jerked his face to the side.
Turning his head slowly, he looked down at her in wonder. Her eyes rounded and she appeared as shocked as he by her outburst of violence.
His fingers flexed at his side and he realized with horror that his hand itched to strike back. Of all his crimes, he had never committed violence against a woman. She must have read something of his need to retaliate in his eyes for she panicked and began to struggle like a wild thing in his arms, panting and wheezing in a way that made his blood grow hotter. And not with anger.
As he hauled her damp, wiggling body against him, Nick acknowledged that it was either strike her or kiss her. He much preferred kissing her. His mouth covered hers, drinking the pitiable sounds rising from deep in her throat. The instant their mouths collided, he realized he chose the greater evil. He should have struck her.