Page 76 of More or Less a Countess
“I’m telling your bride about your childhood, Nicholas. Nothing more.” Lady Westcott gazed steadily at him for a long moment, then turned back to Violet. “Nicholas wasn’t above five years old before it became clear he would become an avid sportsman. Does your family hunt, Lady Dare? Perhaps we’ll host a fox hunt this fall—”
Nicholas slammed his fist against the roof of the carriage, making both ladies jump.
Lady Westcott braced herself against the seat as the driver drew hard on the ribbons and the carriage came to a sudden, crashing halt. “Nicholas! What are you—”
Nick wrenched open the carriage door and leapt to the ground. The manor house was an easy walk from where they’d stopped, and he couldn’t bear to sit in the carriage for another minute. “I’ll walk from here.” His face felt numb as he met his aunt’s eyes. “I wish you ladies a pleasant afternoon.”
* * * *
He should have wished his bride a pleasant evening, or perhaps bid her goodnight, because the sun had set and the house was shrouded in darkness long before Nick saw her again.
He spent the day prowling the grounds of the estate, and by that evening he’d locked himself alone in his father’s study with a bottle of whiskey, his hands shaking as he raised glass after glass to his lips.
But the drunken stupor he wished for eluded him.
Ashdown Park, his memories of Graham and his father, his aunt, hiswife—Jesus, how had he ended up back here, and how long would it be before he was buried so deep there was no longer any hope of escape?
Damn it, he had to dosomething…
He staggered to the desk and fumbled through the papers he’d brought from London. The servants had stacked them neatly on top of the desk, but he tossed them aside one by one until the desk and floor were littered with them.
Then, at last, crumpled beneath a stack of old ledgers, he found what he was looking for.
Nick rummaged through the drawers until he found a quill, then he quickly signed and dated the document. He stared at his signature scrawled across the bottom of the page for a long time, but the relief he’d hoped for didn’t come.
He threw the document down and tore through the desk again, snatched out a blank piece of paper, and began to write a letter, but he only managed to scratch out a dozen words before the quill fell from his hand.
Catalina’s face…he could no longer recall it. Her dark eyes insisted on turning blue in his mind’s eye, and the sleek black hair kept giving way to a memory of fair curls, so soft and heavy against his fingers…
He shoved the papers into the desk drawer and let his head fall into his hands.
The fire had died by the time Nick grabbed his whiskey bottle and made his way up to his bedchamber. He stripped down to his breeches, but instead of climbing into his bed he found himself with his ear pressed to the door that connected his apartments and his new countess’s bedchamber.
All was silent on the other side.
He hadn’t intended to pay his wife a midnight visit, but what if she was weeping again?
Damn it, she was his wife, and he had a duty to see she was comfortably situated in her bedchamber and not on the verge of hysterics over that ugly scene she’d witnessed in the carriage this morning, or the dilapidated state of Ashdown Park.
He had another duty, as well—consummate his marriage, and get a child on his bride. The sooner he undertook the business, the sooner he could crawl free of the weight of his wife and aunt’s smothering expectations and leave England behind.
It wasn’t as if he had to linger over it. A quick, efficient consummation was all that was required. Surely he could manage that much.
He winced at the creak the door made as he eased it open. Aside from the dying fire the room was dark, but he could just make out a small, still shape huddled in the middle of the enormous bed.
A quiet breath left Nick’s lungs as he crept across the room and paused beside the bed. She was asleep, her fair curls spread out across her pillow. There was no trace of tears tonight, and yet even in sleep, she looked…sad.
Before he could stop himself, he reached out to stroke a stray tendril of hair away from her forehead. The muted orange light from the fire played over her, and he’d never seen anything as beautiful as her face, with her mouth so soft in repose, and her long eyelashes resting against her pale cheeks.
She stirred but didn’t wake, and Nick eased onto the bed beside her, his palm moving over the silky strands of her hair again and again, his chest tight. She looked far too young, too lovely and innocent, to be doomed to such a hopeless marriage.
Her chest rose and fell in a soft sigh, and she shifted closer to him, instinctually seeking more of his soft touches against her hair, the stroke of his fingertips across her cheek.
And he…he was weak and debauched, because as soon as she settled on her back beside him with her warm hip pressed against his thigh, his gaze was drawn to her curves, the dark pink of her nipples peeking through the sheer white nightdress, the shadows between her legs.
But this was what he’d come for, wasn’t it? She was his wife, and a husband was obligated to take his wife’s innocence. He needed an heir, and he wouldn’t get one by gazing stupidly at her while she slept.
He watched her face as he traced the tip of his finger around one of her nipples, the softest touch only, just enough to make the tender bud rise so he could lean down and dart his tongue over it. She let out a soft sigh, still half asleep, but when he dragged his tongue over her nipple again, her eyes fluttered open.
