The dry tone of his voice told her his reference to his heritage was self-deprecating, and she gave a small laugh, liking him for the lack of conceit. “I doubt most people would feel sorry for you because of an excess of wealth, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps not.” He took her elbow and urged her down the hallway. “But it is not without its pitfalls, like anything else. Mrs. Sims will show you to your room and when you are ready, please join me for some refreshment.”
The housekeeper was elderly, her soft-spoken voice carrying a hint of a Scottish brogue, and she escorted Caroline upstairs to a lovely room with a glorious view of the back gardens, with open windows that let in the sweet scent of blooming roses. For a country house the furnishings were certainly rich, if dated, and the large bed was hung with pale blue silk, the carpet luxuriant and patterned with ivory, rose, and indigo. The overall effect made her feel like an honored guest, but she could not help but wonder if the elegant suite wasn’t supposed to be that of the lady of the house. Especially when she noticed the door that obviously led to another suite of rooms.
Honored guest? Well, she supposed she was. Nicholas Manning wanted her to think he was a superb lover.
However, it would take more than a beautiful room to achieve that end. She stared at the adjoining door and felt yet another quiver of trepidation.
Chapter Seven
L
ong mellow shadows fell across the grass, a scented breeze moved across the gardens, rippling the glossy leaves, and it seemed every bird in England had gathered to twitter and sing. A rabbit hopped across one of the gravel paths, nibbled at a blade of grass, and cocked one floppy ear, unconcerned with their presence on the flagstone terrace just a few paces away. It was like one of those settings he remembered from childhood books, where the world was perpetual sunshine and cloudless skies.
Or maybe his jaded soul spent far too much time in the city.
The usual fairy tale was not complete without a beautiful maiden.
Nicholas, propped in a comfortable chair, drank brandy, not tea, and observed his beautiful guest with what he hoped seemed like casual attention and not the rapacious interest he truly felt.
The night he and Derek had gotten so far into their cups was blurry, and when he realized in the light of the next day they’d made the bet public by placing it in the book at White’s, he’d uttered an inward groan. The best way to handle the resulting furor of whispers and interest seemed to be with as much of a sense of humor as possible. However, sitting now across from the ravishing Lady Wynn, he wasn’t so sure it had been such a drunken blunder after all.
Even the way she sipped her tea, with a lift of her hands, her lips just barely touching the rim of the cup, was reserved and restrained. Her gaze seemed focused on some unidentifiable distant object, as if she was directly
not
looking at him.
Nicholas had met her in passing once or twice, but because of first her unmarried status, then her position as a young bride who had not yet produced an heir, and then the absence from society after her husband’s death, he hadn’t really paid much attention. Yes, he’d thought she was delectable in a lush, opulent way, her rich hair and flawless skin setting off those incredible silver eyes, but she simply wasn’t anyone he would pursue. It was more like admiring a painting in a museum—it drew the eye and pleased you in an aesthetic sense, but you knew you could never possess it, so you didn’t waste time thinking about it too much.
Except all of that had changed.
He
would
possess her in a very carnal way and he was looking forward to it to a degree that astonished him. Maybe it was the unusual situation, maybe it was that stupid arrogant bet, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such an intense interest in a woman in such a short amount of time.
“Tell me about yourself.” He held his brandy glass and watched her sip again from the dainty porcelain teacup. The sunlight showed the glorious reddish highlights in her auburn hair. She wore a fashionable dress of dove gray that exactly matched her eyes, and on any other woman the color might have seemed dowdy, but she carried it off perfectly because it emphasized both her vibrant coloring and the slender voluptuousness of her figure.
He couldn’t wait to get it off her, he decided with uncharacteristic impatience. The swell of her bosom under the modest neckline drew the eye, eliciting less-than-gentlemanly speculations on how it would feel to touch and taste those tempting breasts.
Caroline looked a little startled. “What is it you want to know, Your Grace?”
“Call me Nicholas.”
“If you wish.” But she looked uncertain, hurriedly taking another sip of tea. The cup trembled just a little—but enough that he noticed—against her mouth.
And an inviting mouth it was too. Pink soft lips, the lower one a little fuller with a perfect sensual curve. Nice.
“Where are you from?” he prodded a little.
“York.” She answered readily enough, though her expression held that detached, solemn look that made her seem so distant. “My mother died when I was a child, and my father was a busy man, so I actually spent a great deal of time in London with my aunt. She was the one who arranged my coming-out and my marriage.”
Two sentences did not exactly sum up anyone’s life. “No brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
Prying conversation out of a woman wasn’t usually such a chore. He quirked a brow and tried again. “What are your interests? Theater, opera, fashion?”
She hesitated, and then said simply, “I love to read. Anything and everything. Novels, the newspaper from front page to last, even scientific works if I can find them. It has always been a passion of mine. My governess was progressive. She encouraged my curiosity and loaned me books I am sure my aunt would have disapproved of my reading. Miss Dunsworth’s father was a famous antiquarian and had collected works from all over the world. He left her impoverished in some ways when he died, but rich in others if you value knowledge. Everything had to be sold, but she kept his library.”
Females with intellect did not bother him like they did some of the other males of his acquaintance. He also liked the word
passion
when she said it.
“Tell me your favorite author.”
“Voltaire, if you force me to choose one.” Her expression was animated, lighting up her lovely face.
“Who else?”
She liked the ancient Greeks, Shakespeare, Pope, the more modern works of some of the popular authors of the day—some of which he hadn’t read yet.
The sun warmed him, the brandy was mellow and luscious, and he was . . .
charmed.
By bluestocking tendencies? It was a revelation. Women usually served only one casual purpose in his life, but there was a spark in Caroline’s eyes that drew him in. Since he learned her identity back at the inn, he’d been fascinated.
It wasn’t until he steered the conversation back to her family that the enthusiasm faded from her expression and she studiously paid more attention to looking at her teacup. “As I said before, I lived with my aunt. She died only a month or so after Edward.”
He waited. There didn’t seem to be more information forthcoming, but after her note, he really was quite curious about her marriage. “I knew your husband, but only vaguely.”
“Be grateful.”
He couldn’t help it; his brows went up at her clipped tone. “I see.”
She regarded him over the rim of her cup, and then set it aside with what looked like deliberate care. Those luminous gray eyes, so lovely in the framing of thick, lacy lashes, were very direct. “Forgive me, but no, you don’t. You have never been married off to a man you don’t really care for. You have never been subservient to the whims of someone else, and please admit you realize the difference between the genders in our society that allows titled gentlemen to make extravagant wagers over their
lack
of virtue, while women are judged most severely on keeping theirs.”
For a moment Nicholas had no idea what to say. Lady Wynn did not flirt—he’d already discerned that—and apparently she had the ability to get right to the point and be refreshingly honest. After a small pause, he inclined his head. “Point taken. I will refrain henceforth from making presumptuous assumptions.”
His easy acquiescence seemed to disconcert her. She pursed her mouth, drawing his wayward attention to her soft lips again. “I—I’m sorry,” she said with a small sigh after a moment. “I am a bit sensitive on the subject of my marriage. That’s why I have no intention of ever entering into such an arrangement again.”
“There is no need to apologize, I assure you, for voicing your opinion.”
A wry look flickered across her face. “I think I just scolded the Duke of Rothay.”
“Who no doubt deserves it now and again.” He grinned. “Maybe even more often than that.”
“You’re very”—she seemed to search for a word and finally found it—“gracious. Most men want a woman to agree with everything they say. I find it tiresome.”
“Hence the discouraging attitude toward all those eager gentlemen gathered around you at every event?” Nicholas lounged in his chair, enjoying not only the warm, lovely late-afternoon breeze but also her unique lack of coquetry. He was used to women fawning all over him, not reprimanding his poor understanding of their position in the world.
“Let’s just say I value my independence.”
They might not know each other very well, but they had that in common. “As do I.”
“So rumor has it.” Her lips curved in a full, bewitching smile that made his body, already on full alert, take notice.
The change was remarkable. It turned her from a marble, distant figure into a soft and appealing woman.
Nicholas shifted in his chair, swelling a little in arousal so the material of his breeches felt tight. How odd. The lady didn’t dissemble, she didn’t even make a pretense of it, and he found he liked her directness. He said softly, “Don’t believe every rumor about me, but that one is correct.”
“There are plenty enough. Your celebrity is as infamous as any in London society.”
“I can’t think why.”
“Can’t you? The stories abound.”
“So I understand. But truth and gossip rarely go hand in hand, my lady.”
She regarded him gravely. “Are you trying to tell me that you—and I want to remind you that recently you made a very presumptuous wager about your supposed talents in the very area we are discussing—are more virtuous than the rumors imply?”
Was he virtuous? Nicholas was sure the term had never been applied to him, but in an abstract way, maybe he was. As a point of honor he didn’t involve himself with anyone who might take the game of seduction in a serious manner. He smiled with deliberate lazy insouciance. “Perhaps. I admit I stopped defending myself years ago.”
“But you
do
want your companions without strings?”
“Absolutely.” Since Helena, he’d found amorous affairs were best kept simple and purely for physical pleasure.
Once upon a time—before he understood that romantic dreams were just that—he’d made a mistake of colossal proportions. One he was unlikely to ever make again. The lesson had been a harsh one, but he’d been young and foolish, and had idealistic expectations. Experience could be a bitter pill and left an aftertaste one didn’t easily forget.
Apparently Caroline correctly interpreted his expression. “Well, no one knows I’m here, Your Grace. We’re alone, anonymous, and free to do as we please.”
“Nicholas,” he reminded her with a slow smile, watching the way the light played across the fragile features of her face, along the slender curves of her shoulders, giving a delightful shadow to the tantalizing cleft between her full breasts, just hinted at by the neckline of her gown. “Do you want to go inside?”
She didn’t misunderstand the suggestion, and her cheeks took on a rosy tint. “Now? It’s the afternoon.”
He stifled a laugh at her naive insinuation people made love only after the sun set. For a widow she was certainly sheltered. He murmured, “Why wait? We could talk more comfortably.”
“Talk?”
“Among other things.”
Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink.
In bed, he meant. Though he usually didn’t particularly want to talk in that environment, he was willing to do so if it made her more at ease. He didn’t train virgins—not ever. Raised as a ducal heir, he’d been taught about the pitfalls of lost innocence from the time he was old enough to understand the concept—but he was getting the feeling she was as close to one as he might ever come until he married. It was evident that despite her composure she was very nervous, yet also aware of him as a man. It heightened his interest to a surprising degree.
Nicholas stood and moved to take her hand, pulling her gently to her feet. He gazed down at her upturned face and focused on her mouth. “I think you’re very beautiful, Lady Wynn.”
Gray eyes glimmered, her tone hushed as she replied, “You would say that, of course.”
“Not if I don’t mean it.” He was sincere. Charming women into his bed did not include false compliments. He didn’t need coercion, and if she thought he did, she was more innocent than he imagined. Surely someone of her exquisite beauty had been given enough poetic tributes to her looks to last a lifetime. “Since it isn’t the first time you’ve heard it, why not trust my sincerity?”
Very lightly, he touched her hair, just a brush of the backs of his fingers over those vibrant silky strands. The color reminded him of fall, rich brown with glints of red. A few loose tendrils framed her oval face and teased the slender ivory column of her neck. The warm color suited her, despite her reputation for being chilly and distant.
He’d be willing to place another reckless wager that she wasn’t actually cold in any way. Her husband had obviously been an oaf in the bedroom, but it was going to be Nicholas’s pleasure to show her the benefits of mutual physical joy between a man and a woman.