Nicholas: Lord of Secrets

sir.”

Nick suffered that hit, as it hid a genuine plea for haste and for understanding.

“So how fare you, Father?” Nick asked, all hint of posturing gone.

Bellefonte smiled thinly. “I do not suffer, particularly, except that indignities bring a pain all their own. I am not bedridden yet, though, so you have some time. I truly do wish only to see you happy.”

“One would never accuse you of having any other motivation,” Nick drawled, returning the smile.

“And as to that brother of yours…” Bellefonte shoved the momentary sentimentality aside with another dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m going to formally acknowledge him.”

Nick went still, not having seen this pronouncement coming.

“You haven’t told Ethan,” Nick surmised. “Don’t expect me to tell him. This is between the two of you.”

“Don’t preach to me, Nicholas. I know how to deal with my own children.”

“By sending them all away,” Nick said. “You wanted to spare them the ordeal of watching your decline.” A final, poignant display of patriarchal kindness.

“And spare myself the pleasure of being watched as I decline,” the earl added. “I’ve unfinished business with you and your brother.”

Your brother, Nick noted, meant Ethan, as if those other three young men were something else.

“So finish it.” Nick fell silent, waiting and wondering what in the world his father had to say to him. In recent years, they’d gotten better at bickering, taunting, and insulting their way through difficult matters, such that what needed discussion was in some-wise discussed. So what did that leave?

“I owe you and Ethan an apology,” the earl said, spearing Nick with a glare. “I was wrong to separate you all those years ago, and more wrong for how I went about it.”

“Apology accepted,” Nick heard himself say, though inside, in his chest, his vitals, his brain, a shivery feeling came over him. “Will you be joining us for dinner? I’ve brought one of Moreland’s sons with me from Town.”

“Bother that.” Bellefonte rummaged in a drawer of the desk. “My hands shake so badly, eating is no longer pretty, if it ever was.”

“You had exquisite manners,” Nick said softly, knowing his own delicacy at table was gained by following his father’s example. “Is this why you’re turning into a shadow?”

The old man banged the drawer shut. “Assuredly not. It’s because I’m fretting over the succession, you insolent, thoughtless, self-centered puppy.”

Only his father had ever called him a puppy and managed to make him feel like one.

“Of course.” Nick rose, his smile genuine. “Then you won’t mind if I have a word with Nita and the cooks regarding your menus.”

“Listen, pup.” The earl struggled to rise, and Nick let him. Pure cussedness got the old man to his feet, and love of a good scrap had him leaning over the desk, bracing himself on gnarled knuckles. “You will not go telling Cookie to feed me beef tea through a damned straw. The day I can’t chew my own food is the day I stop eating.”

Nick’s smile broadened, knowing his father’s display of temper had been for his benefit. He sidled around the desk and bent to kiss his father’s cheek.

“I love you too, Papa,” he said before sauntering off, knowing the earl was grinning like a lunatic at his retreating back. Over his shoulder, Nick called, “And see that you finish your pudding. I have my spies too, and locating a worthy countess may yet take some time.”

* * *

“You sent for me?” Leah joined Nick in his study at the back of the Clover Down manor house, trying not to let her anxiety show. She’d left the door open, of course, but when Nick silently padded across the room and closed it, the anxiety she’d carried with her everywhere of late congealed low in her belly.

Since his arrival the previous night, he’d been distracted and distant, though never rude. As much as she studied him, as carefully as she’d tried to pry details from Mr. Grey or Lord Valentine, Nick’s present mood was a mystery to her.

“Sit down, Leah,” Nick said, his eyes on her with an unnerving intensity. “We have things to discuss. You have enjoyed your stay here?”

“Very much.” She took a seat on the couch rather than one of the huge reading chairs. She’d sat in one for much of the previous morning, reading and enjoying its subtle hint of Nick’s scent—and feeling utterly dwarfed by its dimensions.

“Ethan has behaved?”

“Your brother was slow to warm up,” Leah said, watching Nick as he paced the room, “but he has proven to be charming company.”

“Good.” Nick stalked over and seated himself beside her, taking her hand in his. His hands were warm and callused across the palms and pads of his fingers. Not exactly a gentleman’s hands, but capable of tenderness.

“I want you to hear me out,” he said, glancing at her then at their hands. “I have a proposition for you—a proposal, really—but it won’t be what you want or what you deserve.”

She wanted to pace as he’d been pacing. “I’m listening.”

“I know.” Nick ran his free hand through his hair. “Christ’s blessed, hairy…” He dropped her hand and rose again, tramping the length of the room like a stall-bound horse.

Leah rose and stood in front of him where he’d paused at the window. “Whatever it is, just say it. I know you have many responsibilities, and I am just a passing obligation you’ve taken on out of the goodness of your heart. I will always be grateful to you.”

“Grateful. God’s holy… drawers.”

Leah raised herself up on her toes and brushed her lips over his. “Grateful,” she repeated with soft insistence.

“Oh, hell and the devil,” Nick muttered, his arms going around her, pulling her snugly into his body. Leah felt something in him ease, or possibly give up as his chin came to rest on her crown. “Lovey—Leah, Lady Leah—we need to have a somewhat awkward discussion.”

What she needed was to remain right where she was, wrapped in his embrace, breathing in the scent of him, reveling in his warmth and the way their bodies fit so wonderfully together. Nick’s physical power was only part of what made him attractive, she thought, as his hand stroked down her back. He also exuded a sense of masculine competence that revived Leah’s flagging spirits like all of her brothers’ long-suffering devotion had not.

And yet, they were to discuss something awkward. Leah burrowed closer. “I’m listening.”

She felt his lips brush against her temple. “I’ll have you know, my lady, I had no intention of worrying about you. You were safe, I knew that, and yet—”

Another soft brush of lips and nose, this time against her brow.

And yet, he’d appeared at Clover Down a day earlier than planned. Leah began to hope that in Nicholas Haddonfield’s lexicon, a proposal of marriage was an awkward topic.

“I missed you too, Nicholas.” She kissed him for emphasis, right on the mouth. He’d consumed a quantity of ginger cake at breakfast, and Leah could taste the spice and sweetness on him. “And that wasn’t in my plans either.”

He growled and wrapped her closer. “We should not—”

Leah arched into him, finding evidence of his arousal rising against her belly. Rather than listen to his infernal, misguided, male should-nots, she resumed kissing him.

She had been the object of a passionate young man’s fancy and had concluded with some puzzlement that while marital intimacies had the potential to be pleasant, the poets (being male) were given to exaggerations and flights regarding the whole business.

Nick Haddonfield in a kissing mood was not pleasant. Whereas Leah’s earlier experiences had been accompanied by hesitance, shyness, and a quality of reverence, Nick’s approach to intimate matters approximated the arrival of a gale-force wind, knocking Leah’s sensibilities end over end. His tongue swept over her lips, bringing heat and spice, and igniting a conflagration of wanting beneath the pit of Leah’s stomach.

She got a hand wrapped in his hair and drew her slippered foot up the back of his riding boot, as if she’d climb straight up him. “Nicholas, I want—” You. She could not quite say that, not yet.

“I want you too, lovey, but we mustn’t—”