'Only because I am safe, and familiar.' Smiling affectionately, Gemma leaned over to kiss his cheek. 'Don't be a coward, dear. It is time for you to find someone else.'
'No one could follow you,' he said gruffly.
That earned a tender laugh and another kiss. 'That shows you still have much to learn.' A wicked smile gleamed in her clear brown eyes. 'Go find a woman who is deserving of your talents. Take her to bed. Make her fall in love with you. A love affair is something everyone should experience at least once.'
Nick gave her a sullen glance. 'That is thelast damn thing I need,' he informed her, making her laugh.
Drawing back, Gemma casually unfastened her hair and shook it free. 'No good-byes,' she said, depositing the hairpins onto the table by the chaise. 'I much preferau revoir . Now if you'll excuse me, my pupil is waiting. Have a drink before you leave, if you like.'
Stunned, Nick stood immobile as she drifted into the bedroom and closed it with a firm click. 'Jesus,' he muttered. An incredulous laugh escaped him at having been so lightly dispensed with after all they had done together. Yet he couldn't summon any anger. Gemma had been too generous, too kind, for him to feel anything but gratitude.
Go find another woman, he thought numbly. It seemed an impossible task. Oh, there were women everywhere, cultured, common, plump, lean, dark, fair, tall, short, and he found something to appreciate in all of them. But Gemma had been the only one with whom he had ever dared to unleash his sexuality. He could not imagine how it would be with someone else.
Make someone love him? Nick smiled bitterly, thinking for the first time that Gemma didn't know what the hell she was talking about. No woman could love him...and if one ever did, she would be the greatest fool alive.
CHAPTER 2
She was here. He was certain of it.
Nick surveyed the party guests intently as they milled in the gardens behind Stony Cross Park. His hand slid into the pocket of his coat, finding the miniature case that contained Charlotte Howard's portrait. Slowly his thumb caressed the glossy enameled side of the case while he continued to gaze at the crowd.
His two-month search for Charlotte had led him to Hampshire, a place of heather-carpeted hills, ancient hunting forests, and treacherous valley bogs. The western county was prosperous, its twenty market towns abundantly filled with wool, timber, dairy products, honey, and bacon. Among the Hampshire's renowned estates, Stony Cross Park was considered to be the finest. The manor house and private lake were situated in the fertile Itchen River valley. Not a bad place to hide, Nick thought wryly. If his suspicions proved to be correct, Charlotte had found employment in the earl of Westcliff's household, serving as a companion to his mother.
In his pursuit of Charlotte, Nick had learned everything he could about her, trying to understand how she thought and felt, how others perceived her. Interestingly, the accounts of Charlotte had been so contradictory that Nick had wondered if her friends and family were describing the same girl.
To her parents, Charlotte had been an obedient daughter, eager to please, fearful of disapproval. Her disappearance had been a staggering surprise, as they had believed that she was resigned to the fate of becoming Lord Radnor's bride. Charlotte had known since early childhood that the well-being of her family depended on it. The Howards had made a bargain with the devil, trading their daughter's future for the financial benefits Radnor could provide. They had enjoyed his patronage for over a decade. But just as it had come time to give the devil his due, Charlotte had fled. The Howards had made it clear to Nick that they wanted Charlotte found and given to Radnor without delay. They did not understand what had prompted her to run, as they believed she would be well served as Lady Radnor.
Apparently Charlotte had not shared their views. Her friends at Maidstone's, the upper-crust boarding school Charlotte had attended, most of them now married, had reluctantly described a girl who had become increasingly resentful of the way Radnor supervised every aspect of her existence. Apparently the school staff, desirous of the generous financial endowments Radnor provided, had been happy to enforce his wishes. Charlotte's curriculum had differed from everyone else's; Radnor had chosen the subjects for her to study. He had mandated that she was to retire to bed an hour earlier than the other students. He had even determined how much food she should be allotted, after observing during one of her visits home that she had gained weight and needed slimming.
Although Nick understood Charlotte's rebellion, he felt no sympathy. He had no sympathy for anyone. Long ago he had accepted the unfairness of life, the cruel twists of fate that no one could avoid forever. The tribulations of a schoolgirl were nothing compared to the ugliness that he had seen and experienced. He would have no compunction about bringing Charlotte to Radnor, collecting the remainder of his fee, then putting all thought of the luckless bride-to-be completely out of his mind.
His gaze chased restlessly over the scene, but so far there had been no sign of Charlotte. The great house was filled with at least three dozen families, all of whom were attending what amounted to a month-long house party. The annual event was hosted by Lord Westcliff. The daytime hours were devoted to hunting, shooting, and field sports. Each evening had entertainment, such as soirees musicales, and dances.
Although it was nearly impossible to gain one of the sought-after invitations to Stony Cross Park, Nick had managed to with the help of his brother-in-law, Sir Ross Cannon. Nick had decided to pose as a bored aristocrat who needed to refresh himself with a few weeks in the country. At the request of Sir Ross, the earl of Westcliff had extended an invitation, having no idea that Nick was a Bow Street runner on the hunt for a runaway bride.
The myriad of lights hung from the oak branches caused the women's jewels to glitter madly. A wry smile tugged at one side of Nick's mouth as he reflected how easy it would be to strip these pigeons of their finery. Not long ago he would have done exactly that. He was an even better thief than he was a thief-taker. But now he was a runner, and he was supposed to be honorable.
'Lord Sydney.' A man's voice interrupted his thoughts, and Nick turned away from the terrace to face Marcus, Lord Westcliff. The earl possessed a formidable presence. Although he was of only average height, his form was broad and exceedingly muscular, almost bullish in its heavily developed power. His features were bold and decisively formed, his shrewd black eyes set deep in his swarthy face.
Westcliff looked nothing like the slender, fair peers who occupied the first circles of society. Were he not dressed in elegant evening clothes, one would assume he was a dock-worker or journeyman. However, Westcliff's blood was unquestionably blue. He had inherited one of the most ancient earldoms of the peerage, a coronet that had been won by his ancestors in the late 1300s. Ironically, it was rumored that the earl was not an ardent supporter of the Monarchy, nor even of hereditary peerage, as he believed that no man should be insulated from the toils and concerns of ordinary life.
Westcliff continued in his distinctive gravel-scored voice. 'Welcome to Stony Cross, Sydney.'
Nick executed a shallow bow. 'Thank you, my lord.'
The earl regarded him with an openly skeptical glance. 'Your sponsor, Sir Ross, mentioned in his letter that you suffer from ennui.' His tone made it clear that he had little tolerance for a wealthy man's complaint of excessive boredom.
Neither did Nick. He chafed inwardly at the necessity of affecting ennui, but it was part of his ruse. 'Yes,' he said with a world-weary smile. 'A debilitating condition. I have become decidedly melancholy. I was advised that a change of scene might help.'
A surly grunt came from the earl's throat. 'I can recommend an excellent cure for boredom-simply apply yourself to some useful activity.'
'Are you suggesting that Iwork ?' Nick summoned an expression of distaste. 'Perhaps that would do for someone else.My kind of ennui, however, requires a careful balance of rest and entertainment.'
Contempt flickered in Westcliff's black eyes. 'We shall endeavor to provide you with satisfactory amounts of both.'
'I look forward to it,' Nick murmured, taking care to keep his accent clean. Although he had been born a viscount's son, too many years spent in the London underworld had given him a lower-class cadence and woefully soft consonants. 'Westcliff, at the moment what would please me most is to have a drink, and to find company with some delightful temptress.'
'I have an exceptional Longueville Armagnac,' the earl muttered, clearly eager to escape Nick's company.
