His Duty, Her Destiny. Juliet Landon
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churl!’ she hissed. ‘Still as full of himself as ever. I should have worn my dirk and stabbed him with it. That would’ve wiped the smug look off his face. Ouch!’ She grabbed at Rosemary’s hand. ‘Stop now.’
‘And didn’t ye notice his fine figure, then?’ said Lavender, rinsing out a pink-stained cloth in a bowl of rosewater. ‘There’s many a maid would like a wee while in the dark with such a one, mistress. I didn’t see any in York with a face as comely as that. Nowhere near.’
‘Nor in London, either,’ said Rosemary.
‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ said Nicola, pulling the fine linen chemise over her head and sucking in her breath at the touch of it upon her skin. ‘There’s nobody you’ve seen who’d have done this to me, either, and then walked away.’ The part in between was too shameful to speak of.
Yet she remembered only too well his eyes and the flood of excitement and heat that had suffused her face and neck at his shameful scrutiny, and that almost imperceptible moment when she saw him struggling to stop himself from touching, when his voice had thickened like deep velvet even while saying something stupid about a scar. It was not only her wound his eyes had examined. She knew. She had been watching them. She had seen them widen, and his lips part.
Slowly, carefully, she eased her chemise into place and then sat so still and quiet that Rosemary had to look hard to see if there were tears again. She was not weeping, but in answer to the gentle enquiry, Nicola kept her hands close against her breast while a frown deepened in the centre of her lovely brow. ‘He meant it,’ she whispered. ‘He meant to hurt me. Again. Nothing’s changed, has it? Except that now he’s bigger and stronger than ever.’
Lavender and Rosemary, their partnership being one of life’s coincidences, had been with Nicola for ten years since they were fifteen and eighteen respectively. Now they came to sit upon the soft coverlet at the end of her large curtained bed to offer their mistress some advice.
‘Of course things have changed,’ said Lavender, settling her large open blue eyes solemnly upon Nicola’s hands. ‘You’re obviously not the scruffy little lass you were when he last saw you, eleven…twelve years ago, are you?’ She reached behind her for the burnished steel mirror and passed it to Nicola. ‘Take a look. That’s a woman he’ll not have seen the like of in all his…what…thirty years, is it?’ It was twenty-nine, but addition was not Lavender’s strongest subject.
Nicola grimaced, pushing the mirror away. ‘Oh, you’re prejudiced,’ she said. ‘But it’s made no difference, has it? And if my brother has invited him here to revive all that marriage nonsense, he can think again. He knows perfectly well what I feel about it. There was no formal betrothal and I’ll not be bound to him. Nor will I ever be. Not for his father’s sake, or mine.’
‘So now,’ said Rosemary, smoothing her white apron seductively over her thighs, ‘you have to show him how you’ve changed, even if he hasn’t.’ Privately, she doubted that Sir Fergus had cut such a dash at the age of sixteen, but there was no way of knowing. ‘You have fine manners now, and you know how to give a man the cold shoulder when he doesn’t please you. And if you were to wear your finest kirtle when you go down to meet them, he’s going to get the message, isn’t he? Perhaps it was the lad’s clothing that made him behave so badly. So what will it be, the grey satin? The red? The green silk with ribbons?’
‘Not green. That’s the colour of hope. Sanguine, I think.’
Lavender’s wide blue eyes met Rosemary’s hazel ones long enough to transmit a shadow of alarm. Blood-red might be appropriate, but it was hardly the colour of compromise, was it? ‘Sanguine it is, then,’ she said.
‘And may the best man win,’ murmured Rosemary to herself.
As both Nicola and her two maids had intended, the preparations of the last hour stopped the two men’s conversation in mid-sentence, though George might have predicted the sheer amazement that Fergus betrayed before managing to marshall his features once more into the customary inscrutable mask.
The plaited hair was now quite hidden beneath an extravagant confection of floating veils that fluttered like a massive butterfly around Nicola’s head, kept in place by dagger-long pins and scattered with seed-pearls. The tomboy clothes had been replaced by a blood-red damask gown with wide floor-length sleeves and fur linings that touched the hem, sweeping the ground behind her. Beneath her breasts, a wide velvet sash revealed the contours of her lovely body and, because she had something to conceal, a richly jewelled collar covered her bosom, winking with diamonds and rubies. And for the second time, Nicola could feel Fergus Melrose looking at her without the usual disdain.
She smiled at George, holding out her arms for his greeting. ‘Lovely to see you,’ she said. ‘How are Lotti and the children?’ With a graceful arc of her body she put up her face to be kissed, touching her brother’s mulberry-brocaded arm and approving his cote-hardie with an up-and-down glance. ‘This is nice. Is it new?’
George understood the snub to their guest, exerting a gentle reproof. ‘Nick,’ he said, ‘you know why Sir Fergus has come today at my invitation. I believe you’ve already met this morning.’
She had not greeted him then, and she would not do so now. ‘Oh, I know what this is all about, George dear,’ she said, ‘though you should have given me some warning. I could have been out.’ Purposely ambiguous, she left it to them to decide on her meaning. ‘As it is, I have no intention of discussing plans for my betrothal before strangers. I’m sorry you’ve spent your valuable time for so little reward, Sir Fergus, but perhaps you’ll take a glass of malmsey before you go, and tell us all about your adventures. You must find London so very dull.’
‘Nicola,’ said George, firmly, ‘Sir Fergus is hardly a stranger to either of us and I think he deserves your consideration, now he’s taken the trouble to appear. Surely we can discuss this like adults?’
Until then, she had avoided looking at Sir Fergus, though she could have described his fashionable attire from the peacock-feathered hat down to the soft kid boots decorated with bone toggles, the jewelled dagger and the tasselled pouch at his belt. He disturbed her now as much as he had ever done, and though she had been rehearsing what to say for the past hour, the tightness in her lungs robbed them of the power she had intended. Now, she was aware that she had provoked him, for he pulled back his shoulders, frowning.
‘I can reply to that,’ he said, ignoring Nicola’s expression of bored resignation. ‘You have every right to be vexed by my long absence, my lady, but the reasons are simple enough. My life has not been exactly to do with as I pleased these last few years. I was at sea with my father until recently, putting me out of touch with almost everyone, then attending to my family since my return. You’ve not been in London long either, so I understand, and before that you were some years in York. Hardly the best circumstances to pursue that duty to our fathers, was it? No one regrets more than I that I was not able to visit my friends in the last few years, believe me.’
‘I am not in the least vexed by your lengthy absence, Sir Fergus. I only wish it could have been longer still. And it makes little difference whether I believe you or not.’ Nicola raised her eyes no further than the pea-sized buttons on his doublet. ‘The plain truth is that after years of total silence, during which you could presumably have married several times over, your sudden appearance here suggests desperation rather than commitment. You can hardly expect me to be flattered that you have been struck by a sudden call to duty. Were there no other ancient families to whom you could attach yourself, or did your so-called duty to your father suddenly acquire a deeper meaning for you? Do tell me what I’ve done to deserve this unexpected burst of attention.’
‘Nicola!’ warned George.
But now she had the man’s full heed and, while it lasted, there was yet more she could say on the subject. ‘Let us not waste any more time on such a lovely day,’ she said, bunching her long skirts into a pregnant pile before her. ‘We all have more interesting things to do than talk about duty. When I choose a man to marry, he will be a nobleman with blood the same colour as my own, not a newly knighted provincial