Lady Gone Wicked (Wicked Secrets)(22)
No, he was not himself today. He had not been since he saw Adelaide with her book. He felt unsettled and itchy. He took another gulp of his whiskey, allowing the burn to soothe the itch.
“You still have not answered my question,” Nathaniel reminded him. “What difference is it who sends Adelaide flowers?”
“None at all,” Nick said.
“Liar,” Wessex said succinctly.
Nick glowered. “Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be at White’s?”
“I am welcome everywhere.” Wessex gave a wide sweep of his arm, as if to indicate the entire world. “Since I was deprived of my usual entertainments, I joined Abingdon here.”
“Ah. So Miss Benton was otherwise occupied?” Nick asked with a smirk. At the ball, he’d seen which way the wind blew.
Wessex bared his teeth in the semblance of a grin. “Not in the same manner as Miss Bursnell, no.”
“If you think—” Nick began.
Nathaniel groaned. “Enough! I did not come here for a cockfight. Nick, finish your whiskey. Wessex, don’t be an ass.” He signaled the servant. “A round of brandies, my man.”
Nick drained his glass, accepted the tumbler of brandy, and took a swig, glaring at Wessex as he did so.
The duke just smiled. “As it happens, I know for a fact that Miss Bursnell received a bouquet of roses from at least one lord. I sent them myself.”
It was then that Nick remembered he knew how to kill a man and make it look like an accident. Wessex was no more suitable for Adelaide than Hayworth.
“You will not do so again,” Nick stated. “Miss Bursnell is not to be trifled with.”
The duke’s smile instantly dissolved. He leaned forward. “Who says I am trifling with her?” he asked quietly.
But of course he was. And if he was not, well…that was rather worse, actually.
“Your relationship with Miss Benton speaks volumes,” Nick said.
“My relationship with Miss Benton is none of your affair.”
They stared at one another, each daring the other to go too far.
Nathaniel cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would both be interested to hear that Hayworth also sent roses.” He looked at Nick. “I thought you were friendly with the man. You seemed so at the ball the other night.”
“I am friendly with everyone. That does not mean I am their friend.” And again came the unpleasant image of a dead man’s face, his eyes wide open in surprise. Would it be burned in Nick’s brain forever? He slugged the brandy. “Do you want Hayworth for a brother-in-law?”
“Not particularly,” Nathaniel admitted. He paused. “Montrose sent flowers, as well.”
Nick turned slowly. “Montrose?”
“Surely you find him more agreeable than Hayworth.”
“Quite frankly, yes. We have a business arrangement. In fact, we are meeting tomorrow to discuss it.” Had Nathaniel heard rumors of it yet? His father must have, after spending so much time in Parliament. “I like the man greatly, but I fear they would make an ill match.”
Wessex shrugged. “All accounts of Montrose are favorable. Although…” He swirled his glass, making the amber liquid glow as it caught the light. “Wasn’t there something to do with his daughter? Some kind of scandal? It was years ago, and I don’t recall the details.”
“Likely the details weren’t worth remembering,” Nathaniel said. “Anyway, it is a good match. He is a duke.”
“He is old,” Nick said.
“And still in need of an heir. You can’t expect him to find a lady of his own age to marry. What would be the point?”
The pleasure of her company.
The thought came unbidden, and Nick immediately sent it away again with a hasty gulp of brandy. One did not marry for pleasure. One married for security. And duty.
But he wanted Adelaide to have it all, damn it.
Could Montrose provide that? He was a kind man, generous with praise and affection. He had shown a gentleness with Adelaide that Nick was sorely lacking.
And what of his age? Nick had never met an unhappy widow.
In any case, Montrose wasn’t Hayworth. Or, God forbid, Wessex. Out of the three of them, surely Adelaide would make the correct choice.
Only, she had chosen him once. That did not bode well.
The brandy was making his tongue feel thick and slow. His tolerance for spirits had never been high, as he imbibed so infrequently. His profession had required an agile body and sharp mind, both of which were quickly impaired by drink.
He must speak with her. Tomorrow.
He reached for his glass. Another swallow, two, then three.
No. It had to be tonight.
Chapter Eighteen
And this is in the night: Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight—
Adelaide closed the leather volume with a sigh. How magnificent it would be to see nothing but the rocking waves below, and above the starry sky. Still dreaming of Childe Harold, she went to her window and opened it. The air was cool, and perhaps there were a thousand fewer stars twinkling over London than the Adriatic, but, oh! Byron was right. The night was too glorious for sleep. She stretched her arms, welcoming it.
And the face of Nicholas Eastwood popped right between them.