Page 43 of More or Less a Countess
“Good.” Iris squeezed her hand in return.
Violet drew in a breath. It was the right thing to do—the only thing—and once she did it, surely she’d feel relieved. But right now…
An image of his playful silver-gray eyes framed by those long, dark lashes flashed in her mind, and all she felt was emptiness.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Nick awoke to find Gibbs standing over his bed, peering down into his face like some sort of demented gargoyle.
“Goodmorning, Lord Dare.”
Nick snorted at the emphasis Gibbs placed on the wordmorning. “Your impertinence knows no bounds, Gibbs.”
But Nick’s voice lacked heat. He couldn’t blame Gibbs for expecting to find him asleep. It wasn’t even noon yet, but after Nick left Miss Somerset at Bedford Square yesterday evening he hadn’t been in the mood for any of his usual debaucheries. Even a foray into Lady Uplands’s spectacular bosom held no appeal, and he’d ended up retiring far earlier than any self-respecting rogue should.
Still, his slumber had proved far more satisfying than a wearisome romp with Lady Uplands, because he’d had another dream, and this one was most pleasant, indeed. He could only recall snatches of it now, but there’d been a pair of wide blue eyes, and delicate white fingers wrapped around a drawing pencil, and plump pink lips curving into a smile so open and sweet it still made his chest ache hours after he’d woken.
In his dream they’d been arguing, but it wasn’t the irritating sort of arguing that put a man into a temper. No, this was a different kind of arguing altogether—the kind that felt more like teasing, or flirting. The kind that made a man’s heart beat faster, his breath come shorter, and his mind wander to all manner of illicit things, like brushing his thumb over the lower curve of that lip, to see if it was as soft as it looked, and then tasting it…
He’d lain awake with his eyes tightly closed for hours after he woke, trying to hold onto that dream, but eventually it faded away as all dreams did, and once it had Nick’s thoughts drifted to that strange encounter with Lady Huntington last night.
A cold feeling settled in his gut.
Something wasn’t right, but damned if he knew what it was.
Hyacinth Somerset wasn’t mad, but something was afoot. Lady Huntington had stopped short of accusing her sister of any wrongdoing last night, but she’d been angry, and Miss Somerset had been in such a hurry to get rid of him she’d nearly shoved him out the door.
“Have you ever courted a lady, Gibbs?” Nick dragged himself upright against the pillows and accepted the cup of chocolate Gibbs handed him.
Gibbs’s long face creased with distaste. “No, my lord.”
“Well, why not? Haven’t you ever been in love?” Nick didn’t expect to gain much insight into courtship from Gibbs. His valet wasn’t the kind of man who’d succumb to a heated passion—at least, not a passion for a woman. There was no telling how heated Gibbs might become over a flawlessly tailored Weston coat.
Gibbs looked horrified at the very idea. “No, my lord. I beg your pardon for my ignorance, my lord, but I don’t care for messy entanglements of that sort.”
“Not for love, then, but for fortune? Or companionship? Comfort in your old age?” Well, it was a bit too late for that last one now, and in any case he doubted Gibbs found comfort in anything other than a perfectly pressed cravat.
Gibbs draped Nick’s coat over his arm, then stooped to pick up his waistcoat from the floor. “No, my lord.”
“Well, you’re no bloody help, are you?”
“No, my lord.” Gibbs looked vastly relieved that Nick had finally caught on. “Will you have breakfast in bed, my lord?”
“Yes, all right. In an hour.” Nick waved him off. “Until then, some privacy, if you would.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Once Gibbs was gone, Nick set aside his cup then flopped onto his back in his bed with a sigh. This business with Miss Somerset had to come to an end.
Today.
The thought left a hollow knot of emptiness in Nick’s chest. Not only because he’d have to wait until the start of the London season to find another prospective bride, but also because, well—Miss Somerset was diverting, and it wasn’t just the gibbets and ghosts that made her so.
She was different, and when Nick was with her, he felt different, too. After two years of running from himself, feeling different was like filling his lungs with fresh air after he’d long since reconciled himself to a slow suffocation.
He’d grown so weary of London, so tired of the dirt and grime and disease, so tired of the haunting memories, but when he viewed the city through her eyes, the shadows didn’t leap out at him from behind every corner. He’d never once visited Wapping Old Stairs in the entire time he’d lived in England, yet yesterday he’d been one stiff wind away from tumbling into the Thames, just so she could get her sketch.
Tumbling into the Thames, and happy enough to do so, too.
