Nicholas,
I’m writing this by candlelight, very late at night, doing my best to convince myself that something very important is keeping you from returning my letters. When I am feeling desolate or inconsolable, I remind myself of the day you declared your love…
Nicholas,
Mother told me I should not have been writing to you. She told me that five days ago…
Nicholas,
Mother has died. It is nearly Christmastide. I can’t begin to tell you how much it hurts that you’ve not responded to me at all. I will not send any more letters.
Most Sincerely,
Eve B.
Nick reread each letter multiple times, slowly drowning in regret and self-loathing with every pass. The onslaught of emotion was paralyzing and by the time a series of heavy thumps sounded on his chamber door, he was startled to realize he was sitting in near darkness.
“Open up, you bloody bastard.” Jack’s voice, along with another solid bout of pounding, forced Nick to move for the first time in what felt like hours.
Schooling his features, he opened the door, allowing light from the wall sconces to allow Tidemore’s shadow to flood his chamber.
“I’m beginning to think Dash might have taken a blow to the head after wandering into the blizzard last night—either that or the fair maidens across the square have all but robbed him of his manhood. If we’re to hold our heads up in London this spring, it’ll be up to you and me to stand firm.” He lifted a half-full tumbler into the air. “A toast to the Duke of Dashlington. May his loss of manhood be nothing more than a temporary affliction.”
Shaking his head, Nick opened the door wide for Jack to enter. With a bottle tucked under one arm, and a second glass wedged between his fingers, Nick could only assume that Jack did not intend to drink alone.
Swaying ever so slightly, the bastard dropped into the chair vacated by Eve earlier, spilling a splash of liquor onto the carpet.
“By all means, make yourself at home,” Nick commented sarcastically before lighting a flint from the remaining embers in the hearth and igniting several candles.
“We need to get the hell out of Maybridge Falls before this emasculating village castrates all three of us.” Jack handed a drink across the table. “Or makes us fat. Damned vanilla cakes.”
“Apple pie,” Nick corrected as he tipped back a healthy swallow of scotch.
Reclining, Jack eyed him and crossed one ankle over his knee. “Although.” A rather unsettling smile tugged at the corner of the blasted earl’s lips. “The maidens of Maybridge Falls are as sweet as their baked goods.”
As ridiculous of a statement as this was, Nick could not disagree outright. His gaze fell on the letters that had laid claim to his attention all afternoon and released a heavy sigh.
“What’s the most damning mistake you’ve made?” Perhaps Jack had done something that could make Nick feel less of a villain. Or less of an idiot.
If anyone had, it would have to be Jack.
“I don’t consider them mistakes, Nick old man.” Jack hiccupped and then leaned forward to pour himself another drink. “Perhaps a few miscalculations… better yet, regrets. Any particular reason why?”
Nick flicked a finger at his own empty glass and, hardly spilling any this time, Jack obligingly filled it.
“Because I am hoping mine would pale in comparison.” He tossed back the liquid, and it went down considerably easier this time. “Nicholas St. Hope, the Marquess of Miscalculation, at your service.”
Jack slapped his thigh and held up the bottle. “To Nick St. Blunder.”
“The Muddling Marquess.”
The bottle was empty in no time, and yet it wasn’t enough. Perhaps he had more in common with Jack after all. Because despite the copious drink he consumed that night, he wondered how many more miscalculations awaited him in the near future. Because he’d be damned if he was going to walk away from Eve so easily this time.
He might regret his decision in the long run, he might be sent away nursing yet another broken heart, spending another two years getting over her. But as he drifted off, one thought reminded him of the obvious.
Winning her back was worth the risk.
Chapter 5
Eve stomped along the path between her aunt’s home and the Crowing Cock, burning with a multitude of unfamiliar emotions.
He hadn’t opened them! He hadn’t bothered to consider that she would write him with some sort of explanation. He’d given up on her without even trying!
There seemed to be two very different Nicholas St. Hopes. One of them had once professed to love her and stared at her with tenderness in unguarded moments. And now there seemed to be this second one. This male person who would tell her that physical attraction was all that remained between them. Deep in her heart, she suspected the former was his true self, but what if she was wrong?
Eve nodded at Mr. Clark as he opened the door and then allowed him to assist her out of her coat.
“Lord Blitzencreek will be joining all of you for the evening meal,” he informed her casually. But Eve caught the butler’s meaning all too well.
“So, we need to keep an eye on Cook then.”
He nodded.
“I’ll tell my sisters.”
Once inside her room, Eve stared down at her slippers, wondering if they could be salvaged.
Nicholas was not wrong in that the sexual aspect between the two of them was powerful. Good heavens, just thinking about it sent an unexpected heat rushing through her entire body. She’d allowed him similar intimacies in London, and it had been part of why she’d felt so horrid when the jug-bitten, hair-brained, idiot of a marquess hadn’t cared enough to open even one of her letters—letters she’d poured her heart into.
She removed both slippers and her stockings and then went to stare out the window at the two-story building across the square. Was he reading them
