Page 72 of Dare to be Wicked

―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Elizabeth Adolphus to her mother’s cousin, Mrs Minerva de Beauvoir.

22nd September 1838, Holbrook House, Sussex.

Nic stared up at the vast building that was Holbrook House. He half-expected the earl, if not the duke himself, to come storming out of the front door and throw him bodily from the premises. Not that they ought to know Nic was here. He’d kept out of sight, allowing Louis César to go in alone. It was his part to play, after all. He was supposed to be the respectable brother, the one courting Eliza, if the duke let Louis within a mile of her again after Madame Lafitte had done her best to ruin everything. Nic ought have known she was determined enough to follow him here, not that it would do her any good.

He kept to the shadows, something he was used to and adept at. It was still remarkably hot, even under the trees, though there was the scent of autumn in the air already, and a tinge of gold creeping over the countryside and burnishing the trees. It was something he was not entirely accustomed to, having spent most of his life in one filthy, stinking city or another. The countryside, especially this pleasantly manicured, green, English countryside, was a foreign land for him. He moved towards the garden, drawn by the sound of water splashing and the scent of roses. That scent would always make him think of her, of that day on the terrace when he’d seen her for the first time. Well, outside of a little pencil sketch Cassius had shown him, and his too vivid imagination, at least. She’d been all too real, surrounded by pretty china and crystal bowls of perfumed sweet peas and roses, and she’d turned his life inside out and upside down without even knowing it. Why, and for what? For some silly chit of an English girl, when society believed him not fit to kiss her hem, let alone any other part of her.

A girl destined to marry his brother.

Bloody fool.

Yet he could not bear to keep away. He had been beside himself when he’d heard of her accident. His fault. His damned fault. Why had he done it? Performing tricks he’d learned in his youth, like a trained dog, like some idiot boy, showing off to the girl he was besotted with. He’d barely been in her company yet, somehow, he’d influenced her enough to climb those bloody walls, and she… and she….

His throat tightened.

Don’t think of it.

All the reports said she was well, and getting stronger. Yet he’d needed to be certain, to see, if not with his own eyes, then through Louis César’s. Louis had not wanted to come. He had written to her and her family, and sent flowers every week, as a concerned and respectful beau ought to, but he had not wished to visit. Neither of them understood why the family were still here and had not returned to their own home. Nic worried that Eliza was not as well as they were making out and could not yet travel. Louis had shrugged and just reminded him the two families were close, but Nic refused to be reassured. Louis had protested, certain he would be met with cool civility at best. His brother would be furious with him now, as it had become clear that they were intruding on some family event and their visit was ill-timed. Louis had believed it better to wait until the next season, when tempers would have cooled, and he could ease his way back into the family’s good graces. Nic had persevered, though, wearing down each argument but never giving himself away, never letting Louis know why they must go back, why he must go back. Just to be near her, just for a moment, just until he knew….

“Monsieur Demarteau?”

He stilled. That voice. That familiar cool English voice pronounced his name, clipping the syllables and making them sound so different, odd to his ear, and yet strangely charming. His heart skittered about in his chest and he told himself not to be such a stupid bastard. He was no schoolboy infatuated with his first girl, yet he might as well have been. He’d been infatuated with her before he’d even met her, beguiled by the description Cassius had given of her, and by that little sketch he had shown of the lovely Elizabeth.

Nic’s ideal.

His perfect English rose.

No. Not his. Never that.

“Lady Elizabeth.”

He bowed, aware that his manner was stiff and awkward but unable to do a thing about it. No matter how he had learned to ape the manners of a gentleman, he felt clumsy and brutish before her, unrefined. Unworthy.

“I did not expect to see you here,” she said, and Nic hardly heard the words for he was drinking in the sight of her.

His heart clenched, worry making his chest tight as he noted how pale she was, how fragile she looked. She had lost weight, far too much, and those green eyes—which had promised him he was in far over his head—were too large in a face as delicate as that of a china doll. A protective instinct rose in him, so overwhelming he had to clench his fists to stop himself from picking her up and carrying her off. He wanted to care for her, to keep her safe, to wrap her up in tissue paper and ensure the world could never harm her again. Mon Dieu, that was a great joke, was it not? It was likely his fault she’d been hurt, and being anywhere near him would cause her more harm than anything else.

“Monsieur?”

He realised he’d not answered her question. He had only stood looming over her, glowering at her, though she did not back away.

“My brother was worried for you,” he said gruffly. “He came to see how you fared.”

Those green eyes studied his face, assessing him. He fought to hold her gaze, when he wanted to turn away in case she saw too much.

“You were not worried for me, then?” she asked, still scrutinising him, too perceptive.

His jaw tightened.

I haven’t been able to breathe, have not had a moment’s peace since I heard of your accident, he didn’t say. My heart hurts. I have been living in a nightmare, an agony of suspense, unable to do anything for you, unable to come to you, to take care of you. I have been so unspeakably miserable it defies description.

“Of course,” he said. “My brother would have been devastated if you had not recovered.”

“Yes, your brother. Of course,” she said, a tight smile at her lips. She turned her head away from him, her profile so lovely to him it was like an arrow shaft piercing his heart.

She looked unhappy. Was she unhappy? Did she want him to care?

“Are you well, Eliza, truly?”