Worth Any Price (Bow Street Runners #3)(77)

The carriage stopped before the entranceway. Nick was expressionless as he descended from the vehicle and helped Lottie down. They climbed the steps to the double doors, and Mrs. Trench welcomed them into a large, oval-shaped hall floored with gleaming rose-colored marble.

"Mrs. Trench," Lottie said warmly, "how are you?"

"Very well, my lady. And you?"

"Tired, but relieved to be here at last. Have you encountered any difficulties with the house so far?"

"No, my lady, but there is much to be done. A single day was scarcely sufficient to prepare things..."

"That is all right," Lottie said with a smile. "After the long journey, Lord Sydney and I will require nothing more than a clean place to sleep."

"The bedrooms are in order, my lady. Shall I show you upstairs at once, or will you want some supper..." The housekeeper's voice trailed away as she glanced at Nick.

Following her gaze, Lottie saw that her husband was staring at the main hall of the house as if transfixed. He seemed to be watching a play that no one else could see, his gaze following invisible actors as they crossed the stage to speak their lines. His face was flushed, as if from fever. Wordlessly he wandered through the hall as if he were alone, exploring with the hesitancy of a lost young boy.

Lottie did not know how to help him. One of the hardest things she'd ever have to do was to summon a casual tone as she replied to the housekeeper, but somehow she managed it.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Trench. I don't believe that we will require supper. Perhaps you will have some water and a bottle of wine sent to our room. And have the maids take out just a few things for tonight. They can unpack the rest of it tomorrow. In the meanwhile, Lord Sydney and I will have a look around."

"Yes, my lady. I will see that your personal articles are set out immediately." The housekeeper strode away, calling out instructions to a pair of maids, who rushed quickly through the hall.

As the overhead chandelier had been left unlit, the shadowy atmosphere was relieved by only two lamps. Following her husband, Lottie approached the archway at one end of the hall, which opened to a portrait gallery. The air was laced with the crisp scents of new wool carpeting and fresh paint.

Lottie studied Nick's profile as he gazed at the conspicuously bare walls of the gallery. She guessed that he was remembering the paintings that had once occupied the empty spaces. "It seems we'll have to acquire some artwork," she remarked.

"They were all sold to pay off my father's debts."

Moving closer, Lottie pressed her cheek against the broadcloth of his coat, where the edge of his shoulder flowed into the hard swell of his muscular arm. "Will you show me the house?"

Nick was silent for a long moment. When he glanced into her upturned face, his eyes were bleak with the knowledge that there was nothing left of the boy who had once lived here. "Not tonight. I need to see it alone."

"I understand," Lottie said, slipping her hand into his. "I am quite fatigued. Certainly I would prefer to tour the house tomorrow morning, in the daylight."

His fingers returned the pressure with a barely discernable squeeze, and then he let go. "I'll take you upstairs."

She pressed her lips into the shape of a smile. "No need. I'll have Mrs. Trench or one of the servants accompany me."

A clock from somewhere in the house chimed half past midnight by the time Nick finally entered the bedroom. Unable to sleep despite her exhaustion, Lottie had retrieved a novel from one of her valises and had stayed up reading until the book was half finished. The bedroom was a cozy haven, the bed richly appareled with an embroidered silk counterpane and matching hangings, the walls painted in a soft shade of green. Becoming absorbed in the story, Lottie read until she heard the creak of a floorboard.

Seeing Nick in the doorway, Lottie set the novel on the bedside table. Patiently she waited for him to speak, wondering how many memories had been stirred by his walk through the house, how many silent ghosts had traversed his path.

"You should sleep," he said eventually.

"So should you." Lottie turned back the covers. After an extended pause, she asked, "Will you come to bed with me?"

His gaze slid over her, lingering on the ruffled front of her nightrail, the kind of prim, high-necked gown that never failed to arouse him. He looked so alone, so disenchanted...very much the way he had appeared when they had first met.

"Not tonight," he said for the second time that evening.

Their gazes caught and held. Lottie knew that she would be wise to maintain a facade of relaxed unconcern. To be patient with him. Her demands, her frustrations, would only drive him away.

But to her horror, she heard herself say baldly, "Stay."

They both knew that she was not asking for a few minutes, or a few hours. She wanted the entire night.

"You know I can't do that," came his soft reply.

"You won't harm me. I'm not afraid of your nightmares." Lottie sat up, staring at his still face. Suddenly she could not stem a flood of reckless words, her voice becoming raw with emotion. "I want you to stay with me. I want to be close to you. Tell me what I should do or say to make that happen. Tell me, please, because I can't seem to stop myself from wanting more than you're willing to give."

"You don't know what you're asking for."