His Duty, Her Destiny. Juliet Landon
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Coldyngham, you can be so crass when you try, can’t you?’ Charlotte snapped, trying to push past him to her side of the bed. ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous, and if I were Nicola I’d—’
She was caught up by George’s arms and thrown sideways on to the bed like a skittle with him on top of her, and the tussle that ensued was too short to be anything like equal. ‘But you’re not her, are you?’ George whispered, taking a handful of her moonbeam hair. ‘You’re the woman I’ve had my eye on all evening, and now I’ve got you here, all to myself, and I’m not sharing you a moment longer with anyone. Now, do you give yourself, or do I have to take you?’
‘Mm…m, a bit of both?’ she said, showing him her lovely white teeth.
While Lotti and George saw Fergus as a solution to the problem of Nicola’s safety, Nicola herself saw things rather differently. Her brother and sister-in-law had not, after all, experienced what she had experienced of the man’s youthful callousness and now his grave discourtesy when he had taken advantage of her right under their noses. The memory of the kiss had kept her awake half the night as she alternately ascribed it to a kind of revenge, then to curiosity, then to a manly thing, then to some misguided idea that it might help to persuade her. None of them rang true.
Convinced that she must be the one to hold the reins in this matter, she set to work as never before to put as much distance between them as it was possible to do in a place the size of London, a device not so very difficult with the help of friends and fair weather. The first day she spent at the Tower of London, where the Yorkist king Edward IV kept his menagerie of lions and an elephant, a camel and a black-and-white striped horse. She went hawking outside the city walls and returned home to discover that Sir Fergus Melrose had called and left her a white rabbit. It was a very satisfying day, and she called the rabbit after him, being unsure of its gender.
The next day she devoted to visiting several of the convents near Bishops-gate. To her delight, she discovered that Sir Fergus had called again while she was out, but no one could tell him exactly where she would be. The gardener grumbled that Melrose had chewed through four of his lettuces.
The next two days were taken up from morn till night with another endless round of activities designed especially to keep her from home; a day spent mostly on the river as far as Richmond, another day shopping on Cheapside, returning home by suppertime to find that Melrose had demolished more lettuces and was imprisoned in an empty coldframe. It was all going very well, for Sir Fergus had called yet again. She had begun to hope that he would soon take the hint, but she had forgotten how Fergus thrived on challenges.
Jonathan Carey, Earl of Rufford, thrived on challenges of a different kind that Nicola, in her innocence, had not fully understood until last night, when Lotti had pointed out with alarming frankness that Lord John had not mentioned matrimony and that it would probably be bedlock he had in mind rather than wedlock. He had never approached George for formal permission to court her and, though Nicola felt that perhaps the handsome earl’s thinly veiled suggestions were putting the cart before the horse, so to speak, a hint of marriage would have been more in keeping with her declaration to Lotti that her friends wanted her for her own sake. That had been a monumental piece of wishful thinking, for she had no way of knowing what they wanted her for.
As for Fergus Melrose, he was the exception. He wanted her for the Coldyngham name and for his personal promise to his father. Believing himself to be her favourite, Jonathan Carey wanted her for her companionship, and presumably if George had thought her reputation to be in danger because of it, he would have told her so.
The day was bright and warm as Nicola and Lord John rode side by side through Bishops-gate past the Bethlehem Hospital and the Priory of St Mary’s Spital, both of which she had recently visited. Beyond the fine houses and gardens was the Shoreditch, open fields and windmills where they and their friends could freely show off their horses, eagerly placing bets on the outcome of their races.
He was a pleasant companion, one of the first to come a-calling when she had first moved to Bishops-gate; although there were a few little weaknesses in his character, none of them had been serious enough to disturb Nicola. He was apparently wealthy, so George’s fears that she would be a target for bounty-hunters was not applicable there. He was pleasantly good-looking rather than striking, graceful and willowy rather than robust, well mannered but sometimes embarrassingly flirtatious, chatty, good fun and ever ready to entertain her, and if she found herself lending him money for expenses while they were out, that was because he forgot to carry any with him. He also forgot, dear man, to pay her back, but no matter.
His trim sandy hair hardly moved in the breeze as he turned to look over his hugely padded shoulder at the troupe of friends riding behind them. A high embroidered collar embraced all but the front of his neck where an ornate tassel held his short cloak together. Nicola liked his style.
‘Well, my lady,’ he said, turning his twinkling blue eyes towards her. ‘There’ll be a few bets laid on your new nag, but I think I may well go home with funds in my purse today.’ He patted the blue leather pouch that hung from his belt over a blue pourpoint. Everything matched, even his sapphire ring. ‘What’s the prize for the winner to be?’ he whispered, leaning towards her. ‘A night with the chaste Nicola?’
Nicola looked straight ahead, ignoring his teasing look. ‘The winner may take me back home by all means,’ she said lightly, ‘but that’s all. Anyway, I shall win on my Janus, then I get to choose my own escort.’
‘Ah…’ he laughed ‘…then I cannot lose, can I?’
‘Don’t be too sure, my lord,’ she said, patting the smooth neck of her mount. ‘My choice will not always fall on you, you know.’
The merry smile left his face, though his eyes watched hers to assure her of his intentions. ‘I shall take it very ill, Nicola, if it does not. You know how I feel about you.’
Privately, she wished he would not. She had no objection to mild flirting, but this kind of talk was difficult to handle, coming from him, too restricting, too uncomfortable. What was the matter with men these days? Fortunately, the usually well-mannered Janus threw up his head and danced sideways as a hedgehog scuttled away from the track before them, claiming her attention until he was settled.
She had bought Janus only a few weeks ago, and still only suspected the kind of speed of which he was capable with those long delicate legs and deep chest. He was a three-year-old gelding with dappled-grey shading and charcoal socks, like a silver ghost in a leafy-shadowed forest. He was exquisite and showy, full of energy, and he had cost her forty guineas, and she was sure that none of her friends, including Lord John, knew that she had been used to racing her brothers in the past.
Being unmarried and free, she had chosen to wear her hair in one thick plait braided with ribbons and a gold circlet that sat well on her forehead. A broad green sash supported her breasts, pushing them high beneath a tiny bodice of patterned green brocade, its wide neckline showing off an expanse of peachy skin upon which she felt Lord John’s purposeful attention.
Just as purposefully, she laughed and chatted to all the young men in the party with equal gaiety, laying small bets on their challenges and cheering as they jumped the stream, leapt over logs, and raced from one windmill to the next.
‘Your turn, Lady Nicola,’ called Lord John. ‘Let’s see the pace of that mule you’ve bought. I swear two circuits of the common will see him winded or you tumbled in the stream. One or the other.’
‘I’ll take you all on, then,’ she replied.
‘What’s your prize?’ called a man’s voice from the crowd.
She had been thinking. ‘I get to ride home pillion behind the winner.’
There was laughter at that. That, they said, was her prize, surely?
‘Take it or leave it,’ she called.
‘We’ll take it!’ said the deep voice. ‘Ready, lads?’
That voice! ‘Ready, lads?’ The words he had always used to