Once Upon a Wallflower (6 page)

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.”

Nicholas chuckled, and Mira felt the vibration beneath her fingers. “I confess I am rarely mistaken for a maid.” Nicholas’s voice dropped to a mesmerizing caress as he continued, “and I had no idea you were on such intimate terms with the house servants.”

She was suddenly acutely aware that she was still leaning against Nicholas, pressed against him in a most improper fashion. But when she attempted to right herself, his hands tightened on her shoulders, holding her still as his smoke-and-shadow eyes gazed deeply into hers, searching for something.

Mira held her breath as Nicholas’s grasp softened, and he began brushing his thumbs over the skin of her arms, his touch slipping just beneath the edge of her sleeves to stroke her tender skin. Fear and excitement coursed through her, turning her knees to jelly, and she let out the tiniest little moan as he bent his head ever so slightly.

A thought flashed through her mind, clear and sharp and certain.
Nicholas is going to kiss me.

“Ahem.”

Nicholas’s head jerked up, Mira jumped away from him as though she had been burned, and they both turned to see who had interrupted them. Not three feet away stood a tiny, reed-thin woman, certainly no older than Mira herself, her head encircled by a wild halo of blond curls that defied gravity. Her face was tilted downward in an aspect of respect, but Mira noticed the woman studying Nicholas through her lashes, her small body tense and her gaze wary.

The small woman bobbed a quick curtsy. “My lord, my lady, Mrs. Murrish sent me up. I am Nan Collins, your lady’s maid.”

Mira stared mutely at the woman. She had never had a lady’s maid, saw no reason she needed one now—after all, she had been dressing herself for years—and this particular lady’s maid had just caught her in an illicit embrace. She did not have the faintest idea what to say.

Finally, Nicholas broke the tense silence. “Very good, Nan. Mira, I am pleased that your journey was comfortable.” Mira’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. Had she mentioned her trip? She had no recollection. “I shall bid you goodnight, then,” he added, before turning on his heel and disappearing down the darkened hallway, his shadow bobbing wildly along the wall as his left leg dragged along the carpet.

Mira stared at Nan.

Nan stared at Mira.

“Oh, dear,” Mira said, “you must… I mean, I… We…”

Suddenly, Nan smiled, timidly at first, but it quickly bloomed into a genuine grin that put dimples in her cheeks and an impish glint in her eye. “Never you mind, miss. You must be right weary. Perhaps we should get you ready for your bed.” Nan slipped past Mira and hurried across the bedchamber to the dressing table.

Mira followed. “To be honest, I’ve never had a lady’s maid before. I…don’t know that I particularly need any help.”

Nan’s smile widened. “Well, aren’t we a pair? To be honest, myself, I’ve never been a lady’s maid. I was hoping
you
could tell
me
what to do.” Both women began to laugh, the absurdity of the situation dissipating what little tension remained.

A relieved smile still playing on her lips, Mira plopped down on the bench before the dressing table. “Nan Collins, I must say I am pleased to meet you. While I haven’t a clue what to do with a lady’s maid, I find I am in dire need of a friend. After all, it seems I am to marry soon, and I am quite out of my depth.”

Nan’s smile vanished as quickly as it had come. A worried frown creased Mira’s brow. “Nan, you seemed…guarded, anxious even, when Lord Ashfield was here.” No sooner were the words out, than Mira remembered something her friend Delia had once said—about Delia’s brother and the maids—and a horrible thought crossed her mind. The blush returning to her cheeks, she choked out, “Oh heavens, are you and Lord Ashfield… You are not…”

Nan, too, colored at the suggestion. “Oh, no, my lady, I would never.”

Sighing with relief, Mira interjected, “Please call me Mira.” Seeing Nan’s skeptical expression, Mira rushed on. “I do not believe friends should use titles, and, besides, I am still just a ‘miss.’”

“All right, then. If you are certain.”

“Absolutely. As I said, I truly need a friend just now. I do not have a single one of my friends here to help me through my wedding.”

Nan’s smile returned, though it seemed strained now. “Well, Miss Mira, I may not know much about being a lady’s maid, but I know plenty about being a friend. And I have seen a few of them through weddings, too. So we’ll get through this one together, Miss Mira. That we will.”

Miss Mira
, indeed. Mira supposed it was the best she could hope for. And Nan seemed even
better
than she had hoped for, a warm and generous young woman to stand by her side during the trying week to come.

Chapter Six

Despite her fatigue from the trip and the exquisite comfort of the thick down mattress, Mira tossed and turned most of the night. A nagging idea was teasing at the edge of her mind. Something was amiss, some element of the equation did not add up, but she just could not place her finger on exactly what it was.

As she lay awake in the luxurious warmth of the bed, she tried to puzzle it all out, but to no avail. Of course, she realized that her powers of logic were not at their peak. Every time she would try to review what little she knew about Olivia Linworth’s death, memories of Nicholas’s embrace would intrude.

She was certain that, if Nan had not arrived when she did, Nicholas would have kissed her. Kissed
her
, Mira Fitzhenry. And despite the impropriety of it all, she discovered that she was deeply disappointed they had been interrupted. Perhaps she had more of a taste for adventure than she thought.

When the morning light began streaming through the gaps between the curtains, Mira gave up on sleep and rose to dress. She chose her gown carefully, with the hopes of making a better impression on her hosts. After much consideration, she settled on a pale blue sprigged muslin with long sleeves that flared from a point just above her wrist into soft folds of lace with a modest neck edged with darker blue ribbon. Madame Dupree had said the color set off her eyes.

Nan was nowhere in sight, so Mira pinned a lace-edged cap to her hair herself and ventured out to attempt to find the dining room. After one dead-end and three wrong turns, she succeeded.

Lady Blackwell, Lady Marleston, and Lady Phoebe were clustered at one end of the long cherry table. Lady Blackwell’s rigid posture and pinched expression suggested that her disposition had not improved overnight. She really was a beautiful woman, though she looked as though life had taken a toll on her. Her blond hair, showing only a few threads of silver, was scraped back from her face, and the fine white powder she used on her complexion made her look brittle, as though she were made of porcelain. And even her careful cosmetics could not conceal the dark circles beneath her eyes and the lines of tension around her mouth.

Lady Blackwell’s elegant austerity stood in sharp contrast to Lady Marleston’s overblown exuberance. Lady Marleston was a plump woman, the soft flesh of her breasts and arms swelling from the confines of her startling green dress like warm yeast dough. She was leaning forward over her plate of baked eggs and kidneys, gesticulating grandly as she recounted some story to Lady Blackwell.

As quietly as she could, Mira crept to the sideboard, where a bored looking maid held her plate while she chose her breakfast. The Ellerbys apparently preferred fortifying foods. In addition to the eggs and kidneys, the breakfast consisted of sardines with mustard sauce, cold veal pies, and beef tongue with horseradish sauce.

As exhausted and nervous as she was, Mira could not trust her stomach with such rich and spicy foods, so she selected two rolls and a dollop of strawberry preserves. She took a seat next to Lady Phoebe, who was sullenly pushing slices of tongue around her plate.

Lady Blackwell greeted her with reserved civility. “Good morning, Miss Fitzhenry. I trust you were comfortable last night?”

“Oh, yes, my lady, I was quite comfortable. And the room is beautiful.”

A cat-in-the-cream smile spread across Lady Blackwell’s face. “Ah yes. ‘The Aviary.’ You must thank Nicholas. He is the one who insisted that you should have that room. It belonged to his
mother
.” She uttered the word like a curse. “She was an artist, like her son. Painted the birds herself. Quite spectacular, wouldn’t you say?” She cast a sly, sidelong glance at Lady Marleston before adding, “I have often heard that madness and artistic genius frequently go hand-in-hand.”

Mira blanched. Nicholas’s mother had been mad?

“Madam, I will not tolerate you slandering my mother.” Nicholas had not raised his voice, but all of the women at the table started when he spoke. He stood in the doorway, his stance tense and faintly menacing, a faint beard shadow on his face lending his countenance a sinister quality. Even in the cheery morning sunlight, he appeared a creature of the night.

No one spoke. Lady Marleston, Lady Phoebe, and Mira sat perfectly still, only their eyes moving back and forth between Nicholas and Lady Blackwell, who stared intently at one another, the animosity between them palpable.

At last, Nicholas relaxed slightly and moved to the sideboard. Ignoring the cowering maid and foregoing the nicety of a plate, he selected a scone from the tray of breads. He sat at the end of the table directly opposite Lady Blackwell, the entire expanse of the dining table separating them. Mira had the distinct impression that battle lines were being drawn—and she had an almost overwhelming urge to move to the other end of the table to sit by Nicholas.

Propping the ankle of his bad leg on the knee of his good one, Nicholas began lazily breaking off bits of scone and popping them in his mouth. When he finished, he brushed the crumbs from his fingers, leaned back, and raised one eyebrow in silent challenge.

Lady Blackwell finally spoke, her voice calm but clipped. “There was no slander intended, Ashfield. Your mother was only, well, a bit fragile. Which,” she rushed on when he would have interrupted, “is perfectly understandable under the circumstances.” Some of the starch seemed to go out of her posture, and her voice took on a wistful tone. “Spending so many years here in the wild, far from her family, with no one to talk to, no one to keep her company.”

Nicholas’s expression softened a bit. “Yes,” he murmured, “the role of my father’s wife is a difficult one to play.”

Lady Blackwell inclined her head slightly in recognition of the olive branch Nicholas had offered. It appeared a truce had been called.

“Well,” she said crisply, signaling that the entire episode was over, “I promised Mrs. Thomas that I would visit today to discuss some charitable endeavor she has in mind.” She rose from the table with dignified grace. “Elizabeth? Phoebe? I assume you are coming?” Lady Marleston practically jumped out of her chair, the nervous glances she directed at Nicholas indicating that she would go just about anywhere, so long as it was away from him. Lady Phoebe heaved an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes, but at her mother’s stern look she, too, rose to leave.

“Miss Fitzhenry,” Lady Blackwell said “Would you care to join us?”

Mira knew she should go with Lady Blackwell, that showing an interest in good works might raise her a notch in the woman’s estimation. But she had barely slept at all the night before, and she sorely wanted a nap before taking up her investigation in earnest. “Thank you, Lady Blackwell, but I find I am still fatigued from the journey, so I believe I will beg off.”

“Very well, then. Ashfield?”

Nicholas smiled.

“No, I suppose not,” Lady Blackwell muttered. “Miss Fitzhenry, I trust you and your family can keep yourselves occupied in my absence?”

“Of course, Lady Blackwell,” Mira responded, but Lady Blackwell had already stepped into the hallway and was donning her pelisse.

Mira turned to find Nicholas watching her, amusement glinting in his eyes. She blushed under his scrutiny.

“Do not take it personally,” he finally said, all traces of anger now gone from his tone. “My stepmother has little patience for anyone, and your association with me is hardly a mark in your favor.”

“She said you were an artist, like your mother,” Mira prompted.

“It was not really her place to inform you of my pursuits. But, yes, I dabble in the arts.”

He seemed disinclined to pursue the subject further, so she returned to the issue of Lady Beatrix’s animosity. “Do you always get on like that?” she asked.

He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Alas, yes.”

She knew she was prying, but she pushed on. “She seems to resent your mother. Is that because Lord Blackwell loved your mother first?”

That elicited a short, bitter laugh. “Good God, no! She harbors no affection for my father. No, poor Beatrix resents my mother for dying. And she resents me simply for being. You see, my father is not a sentimental man, and he has little concern for hearth and home. But the one exception is his firm belief that a child needs a mother. If my mother had not died, or if she had not left me behind, my father would not have sought out another wife, at least not so quickly. He might have waited until Beatrix herself was safely married off to some kinder, more considerate husband.

“As it was, my father decided he needed a wife right away, and Beatrix happened to catch his eye. Her parents could hardly turn down an offer from the Earl of Blackwell. It was a far better match than they had hoped for. So poor Beatrix married Blackwell at the tender age of eighteen and was promptly deposited in Cornwall. Miles from her friends and family, miles from parties and balls, miles from anything at all. Stranded in Cornwall, with the charge of another woman’s child and quite soon one of her own, while her husband, my father, continued his life of debauchery in London—which was a tremendous blow to her pride. Under the circumstances, I believe she is entitled to resent someone.”