Pretty Poison (4 page)

Chapter Four

“So Father, when do I meet this paragon of virtue you have acquired for me?” Nicholas Avery sank into an overstuffed chair that had seen better days, wincing as an errant spring poked him in the backside.

“I cannot in good conscious vouch for her
paragonism
,” Andrew Avery, Viscount Talbot replied with a chuckle. “Or should one say
paragonny
?
Paragonity
? Never mind, I’m sure she is the very definition of a paragon, though I have yet to meet the girl myself.”

Nick smiled at his father’s butchering of the King’s English. “And her virtue? Can you vouch for that?”

“I’m quite certain she’s a good girl, although I suppose at four and twenty she’s no longer a girl,” his father replied. “Margaret would hardly attempt to foist a ruined lady on my son, would she?”

“Tell me again how it is that the lady reached the ripe old age of four and twenty unwed?” Nick didn’t really care about the hows and whys of the thing, or the whens for that matter. He’d resigned himself to the marriage and unless the lady had two heads and a hunchback he’d see it done.

“It seems that her father spoiled her, allowed her to reject a number of suitors, until there were no more suitors to reject.”

“Perfect,” Nick grumbled. “A spoiled spinster. Why has she agreed to marry now after refusing so many offers?” Why to him? A man she did not know.

“Huh, good question. I never thought to inquire,” his father admitted with a shrug. “I’m certain the lady has her reasons. Perhaps she likes the idea of marrying a gentleman. Nothing but barbarians in the colonies I’ve heard. Maybe she desires to marry a man who bathes regularly.”

“They are no longer the colonies,” Nick pointed out. “The Americans I’ve met take offense at the term.”

“Bah,” his father replied, waving his hand in the air.

“Back to my original question, Father. When will I have the pleasure of making my future wife’s acquaintance?” Nick asked again. “What’s the lady’s name? Eleanor? Esme?”

“Huh, I’ll be damned,” his father mumbled.

“You don’t remember her name?” Nick demanded.

“Hell, Nicholas, she’s your betrothed and you don’t remember her name either.”

“We’re not betrothed yet, Father.”

“All but, son.”

Nick watched as his father sauntered out of the library on wobbly legs. They’d been drinking steadily all night, starting at dinner with a toast to Nick’s future bride. Why couldn’t he remember her name? Emma? Evangeline? It started with an E…he was almost certain it started with an E.

Nick had clearly seen the relief on Oliver’s face when he’d announced that he would marry the girl. The lady. Four and twenty, on the shelf. Oliver’s wife Joan had joined the family at eighteen. Now six years later she was an old married lady, the same age as Ellen the Spinster. Esmerelda?

Oliver may have looked at his brother with relief, but Joan had looked at him with sorrow. They all knew, the entire Avery clan, what the Viscount’s insistence and Nick’s acquiescence truly meant. Never mind the much needed fortune the American heiress would bring to the family. The reality that they all silently acknowledged was that Joan would never produce an heir. The responsibility of begetting the next heir to the title herewith fell to Nicholas, the second son. Nick and Edith. Eve?

All but betrothed
.

It sounded so final. So permanent.

Nick was not opposed to marriage. He had always known he would marry eventually. He’d thought that someday he would find a young lady of good family, one with a sense of humor and a ready smile.

Edwina needn’t be beautiful, although it would be a boon. Passably pretty would do, even moderately plain.

Nick didn’t need to love his wife, though it would certainly be nice. He would settle for liking his wife. She would of course like him in return. Well hell, Edna would love him as any good wife should.

It would be beyond nice if Evelyn turned out to be a passionate woman, warm and welcoming at the least. He couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life with a woman who cringed every time she was forced to perform her wifely duty. The whole point was to produce an heir, after all.

She must be fertile. It wouldn’t do to end up with a barren wife. Like Oliver.

Poor Oliver. Worse yet, poor Joan.

Intelligent. Nick sincerely hoped Eugenia wasn’t dim-witted. He could tolerate many things in a wife, but stupidity was not one of those things.

Nick was interrupted from his musing when Oliver sat down in the chair across from him.

He watched as his brother stretched out his long legs, the toes of their boots almost touching.

“So, when do you meet the fair Miss Calvert?” Oliver asked, raking back a wayward curl that had slipped across his brow. Nick looked into the face so like his own, so like their father’s. The three Avery men had wavy golden hair with matching unruly cowlicks and the same blue eyes.

“Do you remember her given name?” Nick asked.

“Eloise?” Oliver replied.

“Elsa?” Nick offered.

“Emmanuelle?”

“Maybe it doesn’t start with an E at all,” Nick ventured.

“I’m almost certain it does,” his brother disagreed.

“Me, too.”

“Do you mind?” Oliver asked after a lengthy silence during which Nick racked his brain for other names beginning with the letter E.

“Not terribly,” Nick replied. “Surely I’ll discover her name before we marry.”

Oliver laughed before saying, “Not the fact that you can’t remember her name, the fact that you have to marry her.”

Nick thought about his brother’s question, thought about the concern in his eyes. “Not especially, though I might like to have met her before we became betrothed.”

“You’re not betrothed yet,” Oliver said. “You can refuse. Find another lady to marry, one of your own choosing.”

“And spoil Father’s plans? And Margaret’s?” Nick asked.

“Margaret’s?”

“Come brother, surely you see her wily hand in this match. Evaline has a fortune to bestow upon her husband. Margaret could marry her to any number of gentlemen. Why see all those gorgeous sovereigns go into a stranger’s hands when she can keep them in the family, so to speak?” Nick had seen the sense in the scheme as soon as his father had broached the subject with him. He’d have to congratulate Margaret the next time he saw her. There was nothing Nick appreciated more than a clever lady.

“Ah,” Oliver acknowledged the brilliant plan with a nod. “Even so, London is full of marriageable ladies of good fortune. I would hate knowing you were trapped in a marriage not to your liking.”

Nick knew his brother spoke the truth. Oliver would hate knowing that Nick was miserable. But Nick’s happiness or lack thereof was no longer a priority in the Avery family. Oliver had married a penniless earl’s daughter for love. Nick did not have that luxury. Nick must marry a fertile fortune.

“Yes, well, it’s a bit too late to worry about that now. I understand Father and Margaret are planning an August wedding, to top off the Season as it were.”

“Nick, listen to me.” Oliver suddenly leaned forward and grasped Nick’s hands, holding them tightly in his own. “You do not have to marry this girl. The banns have not been read. The announcement has not been run in the Times. You have not set eyes upon Edith.”

“It’s not Edith.”

“No one would blame you if you cried off, no one would even know.”

“I would know. Our creditors would know. Soon all of London would know we are bankrupt.”

“There is still time. We can economize and manage for another six months, perhaps a year. You can take that time to find a bride who suits you.”

“Esther suits me just fine,” Nick insisted.

“Promise me that if she doesn’t, you will not marry her.” Oliver squeezed his brother’s hands and waited.

“I promise,” Nick finally replied quietly. “If Erma doesn’t suit me I promise I won’t marry her.”

Oliver released Nick’s hands and leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh. “So, when do you meet Etheldreda?”

Nicholas Avery, much loved second son, soon to be married man, threw back his head and roared with laughter. Oliver joined him in his merriment.

“Bloody hell,” Nick mumbled as he wiped tears from his eyes. “I let the old man escape without telling me when I would meet my
All But Betrothed
.”

As it turned out, Nick did not have long to wait to meet his future bride.

Lady Margaret Morris and her niece arrived at the theater late and settled into a box across the crowded pit with only minutes to spare before the play began.

Jesus, Ellen was a tiny little thing.

Nick was a large man, tall and broad, and accustomed to standing a good head taller than most ladies. Even so, Elissa looked as if she would barely reach his breast bone. He knew some men of larger proportions liked dainty little women. Nick wasn’t one of them. He didn’t like feeling as if he towered over a lady, dominated her.

He would certainly dominate this one. Good Lord, he would crush her. In bed. He would smother her, squash her flat. Her delicate bones would break beneath his weight.

With a growing sense of unease, Nick raised his opera glasses and watched as the dark haired girl fell into a chair and peered over the balcony. Her gaze swept across the crowd before her eyes snapped shut and she swayed in her chair, finally leaning back to rest her head on the cushion.

Earline’s neck was impossibly long, or perhaps her shoulders were impossibly thin, either way her neck didn’t appear strong enough to hold her head. As evidenced when said head tilted to the right as the lights dimmed.

Nick lowered his opera glasses and stared at his hands holding them. Large hands. Rough hands. Lusty hands. How could he possibly put them on that frail creature?

After a few minutes, he convinced himself that he had been wrong. She couldn’t possibly be so tiny. He raised his glasses once more and looked across the theater again. Eliza was slipping down, her bones apparently liquefying, until she was hunched on the seat, her chin resting on her chest.

“Is Evette asleep?” Oliver leaned forward to whisper the words in Nick’s ear.

“It certainly appears so,” Nick replied, his gaze fixed upon the box across the way. “Yes, brother, my bride-to-be has fallen asleep in the first act of
King Lear
.”

Forty minutes later Nicholas followed his father into Lady Margaret’s box, shuffled around the pair as they greeted one another. He found his future wife sitting in the corner, her tiny frame slumped down in the padded chair. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, her hands resting in her lap.

Lady Margaret bent down to whisper in her niece’s ear and the lady came awake with a soft cry, blinking at her aunt in obvious confusion.

In the shadowy confines of the luxurious box, Nick could make out little of her features beyond the same large eyes and pale skin he’d seen from across the pit.

She pulled herself to sitting, her movements stilted and clumsy. Then she laughed, the sound weak and rather hoarse, before she looked down at her fingers. As Nick made his way toward her, he saw that her lips were moving and her gloved fingers tapping against her thighs, one by one until she had all ten pressed into her vibrant green skirts. He halted before her just as two tiny feet in silver slippers emerged from her hem, her toes wiggling beneath the thin silk.

“Seventeen,” she whispered to herself before her head slowly began to rise on her impossibly slender neck.

If Nicholas wasn’t very much mistaken, Estella’s gaze slowly traveled up his legs, pausing somewhere in the vicinity of his crotch. With a soft huff that might have been laughter but he suspected was weariness, she lifted her chin and continued her perusal up his chest to his neck where she seemed to linger once more, one tiny hand smoothing her gown against her belly. He waited, and waited, until with a soft sigh, she raised her head and blinked up at him.

Good God, her eyes were large and luminous, as green as emeralds, the pupils no more than tiny black pinpricks.

“Emerald,” he murmured.

“Whiffles,” she replied so softly he had to lean down to hear her, and still he thought he must have misunderstood what she said.

“Pardon me?” Up close he could see a dusting of freckles across her perfectly straight nose.

“Seventeen whiffles,” she whispered, raising one long, terribly thin arm to rest her hand at her temple. Her long, dark lashes fluttered and lowered, momentarily shielding her bright eyes. Nick took the opportunity to study the rest of her face. Impossibly sharp cheekbones, skin as pale as the finest parchment, thin blue-tinged lips puckered in what he assumed to be concentration.

His gaze raced over her form, over collarbones so pronounced they created deep shadows at the base of her neck, over the swell of her breasts rising and falling like the beating heart of a trapped bird he’d once rescued from the eaves beneath the attic. As he’d carried that tiny, delicate creature from the house, he’d marveled that its furiously beating heart didn’t burst from its chest.

Emerald’s eyes popped open so suddenly Nick reared back, stumbling into his father who stood just behind him.

“Lady Morris,” Viscount Talbot boomed. “Would you kindly do the honors?”

“Viscount Talbot, Mr. Avery, allow me to present my niece, Miss Calvert.” Margaret’s voice was sharp, her eyes shooting sparks.

Nick waited while his father attempted to charm the listless lady, receiving a blank stare for his troubles.

“Miss Calvert.” Nick carefully lifted her limp hand and bowed over it when his turn came to formally greet the lady.

“Hullo, Mr. Avenue,” she replied with a giggle. “No, not Avenue. What is your name?”

“Nicholas Avery,” he replied, unsure whether to laugh or cry. This tiny, odd, fairy-like creature was either tipsy or just plain dim-witted. He hoped she was tipsy. Tipsy he could blame on nerves. Tipsy might be a rare occurrence. Tipsy was temporary. Stupid was permanent.

“Avery,” she repeated softly, her eyelids fluttering once more. “Lovely.”

“How are you finding London?” he asked.