Thunder and Roses (35 page)

“Next time Lucien needs to be taken down a peg or two, I’ll tell him how unimpressed you were with his skill.”

“Surely you wouldn’t …” She looked at him uncertainly. “Oh, you’re joking.”

“Of course—whimsy is my strong suit.” Nicholas stepped away and rolled his shoulders, testing to see how much they hurt. “Why did you say that Lucien has a ruthless streak? You’re right, but it’s surprising that you deduced that after meeting him only a handful of times, and when he was on his best behavior.”

She began stacking her medical supplies on the tray. “It’s just something I feel about him. Though he plays the dilettante very well, there is something inside him that makes me think of polished steel.” She smiled a little. “I startled him by guessing that his Whitehall post involves gathering intelligence, and that you worked for him.”

“Good Lord, you figured that out? You should be in intelligence work yourself.” Nicholas finished the last of his brandy, then looked
consideringly
at the decanter.

“Take some laudanum,” she suggested. “The effects will be milder than trying to numb the pain with brandy.”

“I don’t need either.” His mouth tightened and he set his empty glass by the decanter. “T
hank
you for patching me up. I’m sorry that your first ball ended like this.”

“Well, it was certainly an unforgettable experience.” She lifted the tray and walked toward the door.

“Clare. Don’t go yet,” Nicholas said, a strained note in his voice.

She turned back to the room. “Yes?”

He was staring out the window into the quiet street, his breathing too quick and his right hand clenching and unclenching on the edge of the drapery. When he didn’t reply, she said, “Was there something else?”

Speaking as if each word was being wrenched out of him with hot irons, he said, “Clare, will you … stay with me for the rest of the night?”

“You want me to sleep with you?” she said stupidly, more surprised than when he had asked her about Lucien’s kiss.

He turned from the window, and the sound of his harsh breathing filled the room. She realized that it was the first time he had looked directly at her since they met Lord Michael, and she was shocked by the stark anguish in his eyes.

It was suddenly, blindingly obvious that his detachment had been a charade. She felt like kicking herself. Though she was supposed to be perceptive, she had utterly failed to understand his uncharacteristic restlessness and refusal to meet her eyes.

Now his carefully constructed facade had shattered, revealing what lay beneath. Her heart ached for him; though she had guessed that it must be bitterly painful for a man who believed in friendship to be repudiated by a close friend, the reality was far worse than she had imagined.

Misinterpreting her expression, he said haltingly, “Not as a mistress, but … as a friend.” His hand clenched again and the tendons stood out like iron cords. “Please.”

She wanted to weep for his vulnerability. Instead she set down the tray and said quietly,

“Of course, if you wish it.”
          

He crossed the room and enfolded her in a fierce embrace. She protested, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” he said tightly.

She didn’t believe him, but it was clear that his need for closeness far outweighed the physical pain. His yearning was almost palpable—for warmth, for friendship, for anything that could ease the betrayal he had suffered tonight.

Carefully to avoid his injuries, she linked her arms around his waist and rested her head against his cheek. They stood that way for a long time. When his breathing had returned to a more normal rate, he released her and said, “You’re shivering. Climb into bed where it’s warm and I’ll join you in a minute.” He went into his dressing room while she dowsed the lamps, took off her robe, and laid it over a chair. Illuminated only by the glowing coals in the fireplace, she slipped into his bed. Though she felt shy, she did not for a moment doubt that she was doing the right thing, for compassion mattered more than propriety.

A minute later he returned wearing a nightshirt. She smiled a little, guessing that the garment was in deference to her maidenly sensibilities, since it looked as if it had never been worn. With the bandages covered he looked normal, except for the desolation on his face.

He slipped into bed on her left so that she was on his less-injured side. After kissing her lightly on the lips, he drew her head onto his shoulder and laced his fingers into her hair. “I didn’t want to be alone,” he whispered.

“I’m also glad not to be alone tonight,” she said honestly as she fitted herself against his side. Though she was aware of his pain, both physical and emotional, she also knew that her presence eased him as nothing else could have.

The reverse was also true.

He spoke only once more, saying bleakly, “He always called me Nicholas.”

And now Michael used only the impersonal “Aberdare.” She made a silent vow: no matter what the future held, she would not become one of the people who had betrayed Nicholas’s friendship.

19
             

 
Though Nicholas hadn’t expected to sleep, Clare’s soft warmth overcame his grief and pain. He awoke with the dawn and lay very still, not wanting to disturb the woman slumbering in his arms. The worst was over; he had survived other betrayals, and he would survive this time. But it would have been much harder without Clare beside him.

The night before, he had thought he was dissembling rather well, right up until the moment when she started to leave. Then a crippling wave of despair had engulfed him. In that moment he would have gone down on his knees and begged if that would have persuaded her to stay.

It would have been better if he had managed to restrain himself until she was safely gone, for it was always a mistake to reveal weakness. But he had never made a practice of regretting what couldn’t be changed, and he didn’t now.

Certainly he didn’t regret having Clare in his bed. A trace of exotic perfume still lingered, triggering a vivid memory of how dazzling she had looked. This morning, in her relentlessly plain nightgown and with her hair escaping her braid, she was adorable, more enticing than the most expensive courtesan.

He indulged himself in the fantasy that they were already lovers, and that soon he would wake her with a kiss that would be the first step toward fulfillment. His gaze went to her mouth. Even when she pursed her lips into her best schoolmistress glare, she could not suppress the natural fullness. In the muted morning light, her lips were so luscious he could barely restrain himself from sampling them.

Mentally he reviewed the most memorable kisses they had shared. The list was lengthy, for Clare had proved to be an apt pupil in the arts of sensuality. The fact did not surprise him; he had learned early that intelligent women made the best bedmates. When they became lovers, she would be without peer.

But since that hadn’t happened yet, he must control his desire. He didn’t think that restraint would be a problem—until he realized that he was already stroking her slim body.

When he ordered himself to stop, his hand drifted to a halt on her breast, but refused to be lifted away. Through the no-nonsense flannel, he felt her heart beating against his palm.

It was time to remove his hand. He told himself that, forcefully, and managed to raise his hand a couple of inches—far enough for his fingertips to begin teasing her nipple to tantalizing hardness.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or swear. His body’s refusal to obey would be amusing, if it wasn’t so dangerous.

She gave a sigh of contentment and snuggled closer, her hand sliding lower on his torso. For an instant desire gained the upper hand, and he leaned forward. He would give her a deep kiss so that she would be aroused by the time she was fully awake. He looked forward to removing the flannel nightgown and uncovering her silken skin. When he kissed her breasts she would make that delicious choked sound deep in her throat. Then her eyes would drift shut as her yearning body conquered her overactive mind. The fantasy was so vivid that it almost overwhelmed him.

But of course he couldn’t do any of that. For a moment he felt paralyzed, caught between lust and conscience. To break the deadlock, he thought back to the worst moment of his life, an event so stomach-turning that it dampened his desire. Not entirely, but enough so that he could move.

After gently working his right arm out from under her head, he slid from the bed, wincing as all his dormant cuts and bruises flared to painful life. But in spite of his care, Clare awoke.

Her long dark lashes swept up and she regarded him gravely. In her deep blue eyes he saw shyness, but no regret. “Were you able to sleep?”

“Better than I expected.”

She sat up cross-legged, blankets tangled around her, and regarded him with drowsy curiosity. “You keep saying that you’re going to seduce me, yet you’re passing up a perfect opportunity. Mind you, I appreciate your restraint, but it does seem odd.”

He smiled wryly. “I asked you to stay as a friend, the kind of request you would find very hard to refuse. To take advantage of that would be
dishonorable
.”

She gave a soft, throaty chuckle. “Male codes of honor are very strange and inconsistent.”

“Undoubtedly true.” His gaze went to the throat of her nightgown, where a small triangle of bare skin showed. Since it was the only visible part of her, it became amazingly erotic. Lucky he was wearing the voluminous nightshirt, which concealed his simmering state of arousal. Trying to move his mind to higher things, he explained, “Honor, like Methodist faith, is a highly individual commodity. I have no qualms about seducing you and ruining your reputation, but I can’t do it by deception.”

“What kind of Gypsy are you?” she said teasingly. “I thought guile was a way of life among your mother’s people.”

He smiled. “It is, but I’ve been corrupted by conventional British morality.”

She nibbled at her lower lip, which made him want to do the same. The idea was so appealing that he almost missed her remark when she said, “Will we be going home soon? London has been delightful, but there is much to be done in Penreith.”

“Trying to get me out of the line of fire?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I can’t imagine that Lord Michael will be pleased by the outcome of last night’s encounter.”

“No, but he’s not going to shoot me in the back,” Nicholas said reassuringly. “Nor will

I allow myself to be goaded into another fight of any kind.”

Clare looked unconvinced. “I hope you’re right, but I’d still like to return to Wales soon. I’ve seen about as much of London as I can absorb.”

“Most of my business should be settled within the next few days,” he said. “Then we can go.”

“Good.” Looking happier, she scooted off the bed. “Time I was getting back to my own room. It’s early enough that none of the servants need know where I spent the night.”

“Does it matter what they think?”

She smiled ruefully as she donned her velvet robe. “Perhaps not, but since I wasn’t raised as an aristocrat, I haven’t your sublime indifference to other people’s opinions.”

As she put one hand on the doorknob, he felt the same tearing sensation that he had experienced the night before when she had started to leave. It was much milder this morning, but quite unmistakable. Knowing that he was being a damned fool, he said, “I think I’ll collect my kiss for the day.”

She turned back to the room, looking a little wary. “Shouldn’t it be saved for later?”
   

“You can always have more if you wish.” He closed the distance between them in two strides and drew her into his arms. Though she caught her breath when she felt his erection through their nightclothes, she didn’t pull away.