“I am in danger of being late,” he said, shamelessly stretching the truth. With a bow, he headed for the door. “Ladies, please excuse me.”
“As Nicholas has another matter to see to, which apparently can’t wait,” his sister said before he reached it, giving up less than graciously, “I shall discuss the etiquette required of a young lady at a ball.”
Gwen’s voice followed him as he strode away down the corridor as if the hounds of hell were after him. “Ladies who dance a country dance shall not quit their places until the set is finished. Otherwise, they cannot dance again that evening.”
What had he done now? From the looks she gave him, he feared Carrie had again taken him in dislike. He was not used to having quite that effect on a young woman. In fact, it had never happened to him before. Reaching the sanctuary of his library, he dealt with his correspondence until Crumpton arrived. When the grateful fellow left with the promise of a re-thatching of his roof, Nicholas sat and ate a feather-light, fresh-baked scone, warm from Mrs. Crumpton’s oven. After which, he drank a glass of the newly acquired cognac from France, savoring the superior blend of spicy, sweet, and bitter flavors. To make up for the hours lost after his ride and the infernal dance his sister had thrust on him unawares, he attempted to read a new and likely interesting account of the Battle of Waterloo, but oddly unsettled, couldn’t concentrate and gave up, putting the book down.
What had he said or done to make Carrie disapprove of him? He could think of nothing. He had been dismayed to be in charge of two young people and an advisor to Carrie but took pains not to reveal it. Hadn’t he made a point of warmly welcoming them? It shouldn’t matter what she thought of him, for she would be married before the year was out. But somehow, it mattered. He couldn’t dismiss it from his mind, and it annoyed him excessively.
He almost welcomed an interruption to his thoughts when the door opened, and Gwen peeked in. “Ah, I see you aren’t busy,” she said, slipping in uninvited. There was a look of purpose in her eyes. He sighed. Had he forgotten how his sister could be relied upon to stir things up? It was good of her and Winston, he reminded himself, to agree to her chaperoning Carrie, for which Nicholas’s gratitude knew no bounds, but still!
He smiled and rose from the chair. “Sherry?”
“Thank you.”
He went to the drinks tray and, after pouring a glass of the deep red-gold wine, returned to her. “I trust you’re not still determined to have me waltz with Carrie.”
She took the glass and thanked him from where she curled up on a leather armchair at one side of the fireplace. The day was cool, and a small fire burned in the grate, sending darts of golden light over the rug. “You have decided to remain a confirmed bachelor then, Nick.”
He had just sat down and raised his head to stare at her, alarmed at the childhood shortening of his name. It rang a warning bell. Another unsettling debate on the advantages of marriage would follow. He wasn’t about to make any emphatic statements about his future married state. It would put the cat among the pigeons, and he didn’t feel up to a fiery discussion right now. “I have not met a lady I wish to wed.”
She put her glass on an occasional table at her elbow. “I can’t imagine why not when all the unmarried ladies at London balls throw themselves at you? And some married ones,” she added with a wry smile.
He cocked an eyebrow at that. “Surely you exaggerate.”
“Perhaps because you choose women who are unavailable or unsuitable for marriage?”
Nicholas held up a hand. “Stop, please, Gwen, this sort of talk is beyond the pale.”
“If I have offended your sensibilities, I apologize.” She looked entirely unrepentant. “You need a wife, Nick. A man cannot manage an estate like this without one. You don’t even have a housekeeper.”
“An unfortunate occurrence. Abercrombie has seen to it. A new housekeeper will arrive next week.”
“But why let matters such as this concern you? A wife would take many concerns from your shoulders.”
“They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake,” he said, quoting Pope.
Gwen laughed. “I refuse to believe you are such a hopeless case. Is it because of your experiences in the war?”
“No. The war leaves its mark on every soldier’s soul, but I’ve come to terms with that.”
She turned the glass and studied it as it sparkled in the firelight. “You have had such a sad life, losing Father and then Emory, so early in his life. And poor Sylvia, such a tragedy. I am sure you loved her dearly, but it was a youthful passion, was it not? And so long ago.”
He couldn’t expect her to understand his sense of failure. Gwen was so practical; she would tell him to put it behind him. But the thought of losing another he loved threatened to bring it all back. He swallowed and pushed the thought away. He glanced at her, half amused, half alarmed. “What are you up to, Gwen?”
She widened her eyes. “Why, nothing. But I wondered why you refused to waltz with Carrie.”
“I thought it unfitting.”
“Was it because you find her attractive? She is lovely.”
“No. You are reading more into it than there is.”
“Am I? I saw how you looked at her.”
“And how was that?” Gwen looked at life through rose-colored glasses.
“When you took Carrie’s hand and led her through the dance. A woman knows these things.”
He wondered uncomfortably if Carrie did. “I
