A Pledge of Passion (The Rules of Engagement) (9 page)

"Yes. He claims that Duke Charles Emmanuel is quite an Anglophile. He's become quite enamored of English country dancing and now Rochford has a mind to bring the great English sport of cricket to the Italians. Impress him with yours skills today, and I am certain he will find a place for you. I will certainly do all I can to encourage the idea."

"Very well," Nick replied. "Since
both
of our livelihoods depend on this afternoon's match, I suggest you begin by bowling for me."

***

Mariah left the cricket field with a hasty stride and cheeks aflame. She had left her room for a simple morning walk. How mortifying that it had ended by being caught in the middle of a torrid embrace. She couldn't help wondering what would have transpired had Lord Marcus not come upon them. Perhaps he'd saved her from herself? Every time Nick touched or kissed her, her desire only increased. Was this the same fiery passion that had brought Lydia and Lord Marcus back together? Appearances seemed to suggest it. Would he say anything to Lydia? She was dying to confide in someone, but she'd promised Nick not to reveal their relationship. Then again, she doubted Marcus would keep his lips sealed from his new bride.

She returned to her chamber to find her cousin waiting for her. "Mariah!" Lydia exclaimed "I have been looking all over for you."

Her pulse accelerated at the worry lines etching Lydia's face. "Is something wrong, Lyddie?"

"A coach and footman have arrived from Morehaven. Your mother bids you come home at once."

"Is it Papa?"

"Yes. The doctor says it's a lung fever. It began three days ago. He fears this may be the end."

"Poor Mama," Mariah said. "She is surely falling to pieces."

"Sally is already packing your things. Shall I come with you, dearest?"

"And leave your new husband?"

"Marcus will surely understand. Besides, he will be leaving soon anyway. I was planning to return to London with his mother until such time as he sends for me."

"Then you wouldn't mind coming with me instead?"

Lydia wrapped her arms around her. "Of course not! Besides, the coach trip will give us time to get caught up with one another. So much has transpired that I feel like years have passed between us instead of mere hours."

"Thank you, Lyddie. How much time do you need?"

"None at all. My arrival was so late that I haven't even unpacked yet. I only need to speak to Marcus, and then we can be on our way."

"He's with Nick. They are practicing for the duke's cricket match." Mariah realized her slip the moment Lydia lifted a brow.

"Nick?" Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "Do you perhaps refer to my husband's secretary,
Mr. Needham
?"

"Yes, Lyddie, I refer to Mr. Needham."

"I was unaware that you were on terms of intimacy. Has he asked for your hand, Mariah?"

Remembering her promise, Mariah licked her lips. "Not precisely."

"Then what . . . precisely?"

"Let us discuss it later, Lyddie. I must prepare to depart."

"Of course," Lydia said. "I'll send a footman at once to locate Marcus."

Mariah's thoughts and emotions collided in chaos. Only last night she'd fully intended on returning home, but one night had changed everything. Now, the idea of leaving Woburn Abbey, of leaving Nick, squeezed her chest, but Papa could be dying. There was no time even for good-bye. She was needed at home.

She went to the writing desk, where she sat and smoothed out a clean sheet of foolscap. Taking up a quill, her hand hovered over the ink pot as she composed her scattered thoughts.

My Dearest Nicolas,

It pains me beyond measure that we are deprived of a final farewell, but duty cannot wait. My father is gravely ill. I must be off at once to Morehaven. Know that I take with me the fondest remembrances to sustain me in the coming months. I pray for your safety and success at Aix-la-Chappelle and live in hope and faith that I will see you again well before the year is out.

Your most devoted,

Mariah

CHAPTER EIGHT

“
I am sore wounded but not slain. I will lay me down and bleed a while, and then rise up to fight again.
” -John Dryden

Derbyshire, England—Twelve Months Later

My Dearest Mariah,

Twelve long and agonizing months have passed since that fateful night I claimed a kiss and a promise from your sweet lips—the kiss meant to seal a pact that I have failed to uphold.

I strongly wish for what I faintly hope; like the daydreams of melancholy men, I think and think in things impossible, yet have now lost my way wandering in that golden maze.

That night was the loveliest dream, but the future we spoke of is naught but a fantasy that can never be. Thus, it is with a heart burdened with the greatest regret that I release you from your vow.

Please know that I will ever remain—

Your most faithful, humble, and obedient servant,

Nicolas

Choking back a sob, Mariah reread the letter through blurred and burning eyes. It had arrived days ago, and she'd already read it a dozen times, but knowledge of its contents did nothing to diminish the pain. Had he truly abandoned hope, or had he found another woman? It was impossible to know the truth. No further explanation had followed. She'd held on to her own hope as long as she could.

Until meeting
him
, she'd never expected to find love or passion. But now it was over. She slowly folded the foolscap, rose, and tossed it into the hearth, watching through blurred and burning eyes as the flames devoured the words that had shattered her dreams as well as her heart.

Clinging to a passionate promise made in the heat of the moment, she'd put her life on hold, but her father's passing had changed her circumstances. She'd come into her rightful title, but his will demanded that she wed or wait four more years to come into her fortune. She'd held off as long as she could, but now financial obligations compelled her to look to her security as well as that of her mother.

There was only one course of action. It was time to put away fantasies of love and find a suitable husband. She would write to the one person she was certain would help to guide her search—Philomena, Lady Russell.

***

Turin, Northern Italy

"Needham? Might I ask if you have a mistress?"

The earl's blunt question quite took him aback. Nick's head jerked up from the stack of official correspondence that had just arrived on the express packet from England. "No, I have not," he replied stiffly.

"Might I assume by your answer that you have recently parted with one?" Rochford suggested.

"You are quite mistaken, my lord. I have
never
kept a woman for my pleasure."

"Then perhaps it's time you did! Have you bedded an Italian woman, Needham? I tell you there is absolutely no comparison between English and Italian quim. It's the difference between fire and ice. If money is an object, I will even raise your salary—anything to improve this wretched aura of woe that you seem to be carrying about."

"Aura of woe?"
Nick repeated incredulously. "I was unaware. I apologize if I have been preoccupied of late."

"It's far more than that, Needham. For weeks now, I have remarked a distinct melancholy about you. It is almost as if you were in mourning. Indeed, I'm half inclined to call you Dismal Nick. Have you perhaps suffered a loss you have not informed me of?"

Yes. And it's almost more than I can bear.

"No, my lord. Are you dissatisfied with my work? Am I being sacked?"

"No, man! It's nothing like that." Rochford waved his hand in the air. "Your work is above reproach. It's just your absence of
joie de vivre
is rather . . . depressing."

Nick forced a smile to his stiff lips. "I will endeavor to improve."

"Needham, the Foreign Service is not for everyone. Have you ever considered seeking a domestic post?"

"That has not been a viable option to me, my lord. Indeed, I count myself most fortunate to be in your employ." Eager to divert the discussion away from his personal life, Nick began sorting through the official letters that had just arrived in the post. "You have a letter from His Majesty, my lord."

The earl sighed. "Then I suppose I must put off my hunt with the duke to answer him."

Nick crossed the expanse of pink-veined marble tiles to offer the elaborately sealed parchment to his employer. He then returned to his own desk in preparation to pen the earl's response, waiting patiently with quill poised as Rochford broke the seal and scanned the missive. After a moment, he threw it down with a curse. "Damnation! How the hell did the Duchess of Bedford get wind of La Bella Banti?"

The earl referred to his latest mistress, a flamboyant Italian opera dancer. Nick didn't answer that Rochford's lack of discretion was a constant source of court gossip in Turin. His latest mistress was particular trouble. She thrived on notoriety and may well have encouraged the spread of rumors. Nick refrained from comment, knowing his silence would prompt the earl to elaborate.

"It seems the Duchess of Bedford has expressed her disapproval of my keeping an Italian mistress," he continued in disgust, "and has convinced the king that I should wed. Why in infernal blazes must they concern themselves with my personal affairs? Just look at this Needham!" Rochford took to his feet and strode across the room. He slammed the parchment down on Needham's desk and stabbed it with a be-ringed index finger.

"She has even
generously
provided His Majesty with a list of vetted candidates!"

"Shall I congratulate you on your pending nuptials?" Nick asked.

Rochford returned a glare. "Now is
not
the time to regain your humor, Needham!" Rochford exhaled a martyr's sigh. "I suppose you are right though. There's naught to do now but accept my fate, given that his Majesty has all but commanded it."

"How do you intend to proceed?" Nick asked. "Will you return to London?"

"No. I cannot leave here," Rochford replied. "With the peace so newly minted, relations are still in a state of utter turmoil. I have no time to waste in wooing a bride. 'Tis a pointless pursuit anyway. They need husbands, and I need heirs. Now that I think upon it, this situation couldn't suit me better. I will remain here and attend to affairs of state and send my agent to England to attend to affairs matrimonial. Needham, it seems you may get your wish after all."

"What do you mean?"

"Given your impeccable manners and unimpeachable sense of discretion, I cannot think of a man better suited for this mission. I will send you to attend to this business in my stead."

"You wish
me
to negotiate your marriage?"

"Indeed I do. I will make it quite worth your while. Should you accept this commission and succeed in bringing the matter to a swift and mutually satisfactory conclusion, I will personally secure you a post in London in the department of your choosing."

Nick's heart raced. Could it be that he had his chance after all? Rochford had just promised him precisely what he needed to claim Mariah's hand. The earl's offer was everything he'd wished and hoped for, but had it come too late? He'd posted the letter weeks ago. Surely she'd already received it.

"I would need some direction on how you wish to proceed."

"Of course." The earl smiled. "I already eliminated seven of the ten names at a glance. I refuse to take a wife I would have to bed under cover of darkness. As to those remaining, I would have you discover their temperaments, whether there is madness or disfigurement amongst their respective families, and of course the extent of property and dowry that would be transferred upon marriage. You will then choose the best amongst them and negotiate the settlements."

"You don't wish to meet your prospective bride?"

"It is unnecessary that I do so," Rochford replied. "I only desire that she be biddable and beddable. I won't suffer a shrew or a hag. Other than that, I care little." Rochford picked up a quill, dipped it into the ink pot, and began striking names from the list. He then handed it to Nick.

Nick glanced down at the three remaining names—Lady Albinia Albright, eldest daughter of the eponymous marquess; Lady Georgiana Throckmorton, youngest daughter of the Earl of Westmoreland; and . . . the last made his pulse come to life with a deafening roar: Lady Mariah Morehaven, Baroness of Morehaven in her own right.

Nick stared dumbly at her name, his pulse hammering. "Is this the order of preference, my lord?" he asked carefully.

"Not precisely. I seem to recall we have a mutual acquaintance in Lady Mariah," Rochford said. "I am informed that her father has recently passed on, which compels her to wed. I briefly considered making her an offer once before, but her conversation was so lackluster that I lost interest. Nevertheless, she was passable in every other capacity. You may begin with her, Needham. She has inherited extensive properties in addition to a large fortune, which makes her the obvious choice. Unless you discover some other defect in her, you may move forward on my behalf."

His chest seized at the realization that Rochford had already set his sights on Mariah.

Dear God in heaven, did ever a man suffer such a wretched conundrum?