A Passionate Endeavor (5 page)

For the hundredth time, Nicholas wondered
what had possessed him that morning. Since when had he started
pouring his heart out about his past and taking to flustering
innocents with unabashed lust? But she had tasted so sweet, and he
had been unable to deny himself, even though he had no right to
indulge.

He must return to the battlefield, a place
where it was easy to forget all about the pleasures of the flesh
amidst the horrors of war. She was everything he was not, and he
had made a promise he would not break—no matter how tempting. The
fever was, without doubt, to blame for his momentary lapse.

The ancient formality of this massive stone
dining chamber, whose coldness matched the mood of so many of those
who inhabited it, brought him back to the scene within it.

“Perhaps I could sit with Papa this evening
to give a rest to Miss Kittridge,” said his sister, Rosamunde.

“Whatever for? Miss Kittridge does not mind
her duties. And you are needed to entertain the other ladies.
Louisa and Lady Susan would be inconsolable without your company,”
Her Grace said. “And now that your brother is well enough to join
our evening circle, we will have quite the gathering of young
people,” she concluded without looking at him.

Seated next to him, Louisa Nichols,
Rosamunde’s dearest friend from Miss Polinaught’s School for Young
Ladies, looked ready to add to the meager conversation, but then
lost her nerve as she toyed with the spitchcocked eel and roasted
pigeon in front of her. She appeared much the same as when he had
accompanied the girls cub hunting, fifteen years ago. Except
Louisa’s freckles had disappeared and her carrot-colored hair had
mellowed.

The petite lady sitting on the other side of
him giggled, displaying very small teeth evenly spaced. Her curled
blond hair formed a picturesque halo around her dainty visage.
“Your lordship is very quiet tonight,” she said. “I am honored you
chose me to lead you in to dinner, and happy to find you are much
improved in health.”

Rosamunde’s assessment of Edwin’s rich
prospect had proved correct in every way. The vixen had been
unrelenting in her new pursuit during every visit. And he had felt
very much like prey, unable to move away from the miserable,
calculating girl.

“Yes, it seems several weeks under the care
of the Kittridgesdoes indeed produce miracles.” He turned and
winked at Miss Kittridge.

“Miracles, my lord? I think not,” said Miss
Kittridge. “We leave to God alone those tasks. However, my family
and I are much relieved to see you so quickly on the mend. You are
not the sort who enjoys the idleness of the sickbed.”

“I am sorry I was such a trial on your
patience, Miss Kittridge.”

“My dear, you were always a trial on the
patience,” inserted the duchess as she cut into the veal with
vigor.

A thick silence intruded. Nicholas resisted
the urge to fill it by turning the subject. It was a tried-and-true
method he had used doggedly throughout childhood. But, he would not
revert to his former ways.

Suddenly, he felt a slight tap on the tip of
his boot. He looked up to encounter Miss Kittridge’s clear gray
eyes searching his face. He knew then that it was her polite way of
disagreeing with Her Grace. He cleared his throat.

“Why, you are right, of course, madam. I was
put on this earth to plague all of the weaker sex,” he said, and
smiled at Miss Kittridge.

“Lord Huntington, Her Grace described the
portrait gallery to me and my grandmother earlier,” Lady Susan
said, redirecting the conversation. “She mentioned that I was the
Veriest Picture of the first Duchess of Cavendish, and I am most
curious to view her likeness.”

He toyed with the idea of resistance. This
lady was dispensing with as many stages of courtship as humanly
possible. He moved his gaze to Miss Kittridge, who signaled her
disapproval with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. The
triumvirate of the doctor, his daughter, and Charley had become
quite the gaol-keepers.

“Why, Lady Susan, I am sure
Edwin
would enjoy above all else giving you this small pleasure. He is
much more familiar with our family’s ancestors and very capable of
leading you about properly.” His stepmother’s dark eyes dared
Nicholas to interfere.

Little did the duchess know that it was the
first time their thoughts had ever coincided, albeit for opposite
reasons. She thought Nicholas would try to steal the silly heiress
away from Edwin. He would have smiled if it had not been such a
preposterous idea.

When the young lady’s pout appeared, Dr.
Kittridge cleared his throat. “Lady Susan, I am sure your tender
nature will comprehend the necessity of Lord Huntington returning
to his apartments at the conclusion of this repast. The gravity of
his injury forces me to insist.”

Oh, better and better. Nicholas did not have
to rack his brain for an excuse.

Lady Susan’s demure smile did not hide the
angry frustration evident in her eyes.

Nicholas turned to his sister to see if she
would chime in too, but instead saw, not for the first time,
Rosamunde’s timid glances toward the handsome young man seated
beside her.

“You are to enter the clergy, sir? A most
admirable profession,” Rosamunde said with a shy expression.

“There is not much choice in the matter. I’ve
not the head for science, and though I would vastly prefer to take
up arms with my countrymen—” Mr. Kittridge was stopped by the sound
of his father clearing his throat. “I have been convinced that the
clergy is the soundest profession for me,” he said with some
gloom.

The two grandmothers, seated opposite each
other, forgotten at the other end of the table, began to cackle and
preen their feathers in competition.

“I have always said that I prefer a vicar’s
blacks to the ostentatious gold braid of an officer,” said the
Dowager Countess of Elltrope, Lady Susan’s grandmother, as she
simpered and looked toward the debonair vicar.

Nicholas’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess
of Cavendish, pricked up her ears. “Good heavens, Hortense, then
why ever did you marry Elltrope? Was he not an officer in the 33rd
Foot before he was called home to carry on the title? His elder
brother had perished, no?”

“You know the story very well, Margarita. We
have known each other this age,” the Dowager Countess replied
stiffly.

“I am honored by your sentiments, Lady
Elltrope,” said the vicar. “It is not often a vicar’s craven dress
is prized over colorful regimentals,” he said, his faded blue eyes
twinkling.

The Dowager Duchess harrumphed in
disgust.

Nicholas was amused. Some things never
changed. His grandmother still fancied the vicar—the handsome old
devil. A man whose sermons had always been mercifully short, and
his kindnesses within the parish correspondingly generous. It
gladdened the heart.

It was too bad he would not find much
amusement the rest of the evening. Miss Kittridge, still mortally
embarrassed by his chaste kiss, would tend to his father.
Obviously, she was innocent of a man’s kisses despite her intimate
knowledge of a male’s anatomy. He looked at the serene expression
on the lady opposite him. She was plain, it was true, but she had
an intelligent mind and a kind heart. And he had a notion that if
she were allowed more gaiety in her life and pretty gowns instead
of the prim gray frock she wore at every occasion, she would
blossom into a beautiful woman.

If he were not the sort of man he was, he
would enjoy deepening the acquaintance and giving her these things.
But ladies of her ilk, or of any ilk, for that matter, were not
part of the future allotted to him. He looked down at the heavy
almond cheesecake Her Grace prized. One bite later, he placed the
heavy silverware on the plate.

Charlotte was mortified. She had never found
herself so tongue-tied in all her life. She was behaving like a
milksop debutante incapable of muttering the most insignificant of
trivialities. It was absurd.

It was those mysterious green eyes of his. Or
the combination of the somber green uniform and his eyes. She
gripped her hands beneath the table and tried to take hold of
herself. She would not be one of those young ladies whose heads
were turned at the sight of a uniform.

At first, he had been like any other patient,
although more distrustful than most, to be sure. Then when the
fever had lifted, his humor and generosity of spirit had filled
every hour of the time spent in his chambers—all culminating in
that kiss. It was insane. It was as though she was a love-struck
schoolgirl.

And how had she dared to tap his foot? She
almost thought her threadbare slipper had moved on its own
volition… if she had not known better.

She’d felt her appetite flee as the meal
progressed, and the young ladies of the
ton
flanking either
side of him flirted and charmed him throughout each passing course
and remove.

And just as she’d chosen a topic to engage
his views, she looked up to see his gaze resting on her. Her
thoughts died, and she was sure she looked like a beached fish,
mouth agape. She snapped it shut and returned her attention to the
revolting dessert. Yes, she decided, it most certainly had
something to do with those all-knowing eyes.

She was going to have to give up reading
those poems of Byron. They were worse still than that novel she
blamed for her embarrassing feminine feelings, which had heretofore
remained blissfully dormant. She had put all romantical nonsense
behind her years ago.
Yes, she was going to have to leave off
all reading of Byron and the mysterious “Lady” now
.

“
She had been forced into prudence in her
youth, she learned romance as she grew older—the natural sequence
of an unnatural beginning
.”

—Persuasion

BEGGING your pardon, your lordship, but I
canna read.” The stocky, red-haired stable hand held a thick tome
in his weather-beaten mitts. Nicholas glanced, unseeing, at the man
who stood in front of a small group in a large box stall. He tried
to move his leg to a less painful position as he lay half sitting,
half sprawled next to a dark horse on a thick bed of straw. Her
extended belly was streaked with sweat.

“Hand the book to Stevens, will you?”
Nicholas asked, not bothering to lift his gaze from the mare. She
was struggling less now, which worried him greatly. Her eyes were
half-closed, and she flailed weakly at the air from time to time
with her forelegs. He knew what was happening, and he knew what he
would have to do. But he was willing to grab at any other recourse.
Where was the damn stable master? Even Stevens, who usually knew
where every blasted servant was at any time of day, had not been
able to locate him.

“My lord, it says that ‘a maiden mare whose
known foaling time exceeds two hours and who exhibits diminished
strength and heartbeat should be considered beyond salvation. All
efforts should be performed to save the foal. Extended time in the
birthing canal may lead to suffocation. Preferred methods involve
forcibly removing the fetus from the… ‘ “

“Enough, Stevens,” said Nicholas, resting his
head on the mare’s flanks, “I know the conclusion.” His large hands
stroked the mare’s muzzle as he whispered calming words to her now
and again. He pondered if he should ask for the pistol now, and
then he wondered for just the merest fraction of a second who would
benefit from it more—he or the mare. The sound of someone coming
distracted him.

Miss Kittridge poked her head around the
stall door. “Pardon me, sir,” she said, as she kept her eyes
trained on the straw just inside the stall. “This is the mare, I
assume then, that is experiencing a difficult foaling, is it?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?” He lifted his head to
get a better view of her.

“Our maid mentioned there was a great to-do
going on here. I thought I would offer my help before relieving my
father this afternoon.” She looked at the semicircle of rugged men.
“Would you prefer… that is, do you want me to go away, Lord
Huntington?”

Nicholas arched an eyebrow and considered the
awkwardness of the situation. He was uncomfortable inviting Miss
Kittridge into this crude, dark stall filled with men. He noticed a
slight blush had reached the roots of the knot of wavy brown hair
that threatened to become dislodged.

She was so delicate and little, almost
birdlike in her dove-gray gown. Her arms were thin; he was sure
they would snap in two with the merest yank. She ought to be more
familiar with vinaigrettes than the two tons of prime breeding
stock before her. But she had displayed her mettle in the sickroom.
The least he could do, if she was indeed going to try to help his
sister’s favorite horse, was to save her the embarrassment of a
rough-and-tumble audience.