Chapter Ten
Nicolas lay down on his bed, folded his hands behind his head, and stared at the partially illuminated ceiling.
How pleasant not to have to fret over waste and let a candle burn as he settled in for the evening.
Even so, relaxation did not come easy as he relived every moment of his befuddling day.
He couldn’t say it had been unpleasant. In fact, there had been many enjoyable moments.
Breakfast had been entertaining, and the afternoon meal had been delightful.
Lady Davenport’s lessons on appropriate conversations were not nearly as mundane as he’d anticipated.
Maybe because he could listen to Josie talk about snowstorms and sunshine forever.
And watching her dance had filled him with joy.
When she waltzed, she exhibited the grace she’d benefit from in the boxing ring. He’d point this out to her, but she’d probably threaten to punch him. Although, he might not mind her hitting him because at least it was physical contact, and he craved her touch.
But then the afternoon had deteriorated when Davenport had placed his hand on Josie’s back and, in the guise of a dance lesson, flirted with her.
Nicolas had been so angry he’d wanted to call his best mate out for everything.
For being a rake of the worst sort. For having to do Davenport’s school work to keep him from being booted from Cambridge since he had not known a b from a d or a q from a g.
And truthfully, sometimes it was bloody infuriating that the wealthy bloke never took anything seriously.
“Hell and damnation,” Nicolas growled to the ceiling.
What was wrong with him? He’d never do anything to embarrass or hurt Davenport. He adored the bloke, and he couldn’t ask for a better mate.
He needed to face the truth. He was jealous. Jealous that Josie seemed to favor Davenport. Jealous that Davenport had been the one waltzing with her. Jealous that the viscount was so at ease with her.
And the real kick in his arse? His attraction to the pugilist did not matter one iota. Even an impoverished, disgraced heir to an earldom couldn’t court an orphaned boxer from the East End.
Loathsome self-pity be damned. Even though there was no way he could win this wager, he would not feel sorry for himself.
He would find something to take his mind off his woes.
But what could he do in the middle of the night?
He wasn’t in the mood to journal or read, he didn’t imbibe, and he did not favor cheroots.
Sometimes though, when he couldn’t sleep, he drank a cup of warm milk. Afterwards, upon returning to his chamber, his head hit the pillow, and he was instantly sound asleep.
He grabbed a candle from his nightstand and checked his timepiece. Although it felt as if he’d tossed and turned for hours, it was barely past midnight.
He’d forgotten to pack his banyan, so he slid into his trousers and shirt.
Leaving his shirt untucked, he strolled to the kitchen.
He opened the door and barged head-first into a figure wearing a white dressing gown.
Items crashed to the floor, and cold liquid pooled around his bare feet.
He pulled the candle back so he didn’t catch the night walker on fire.
“Bloody friggin’ hell, Meddlesome.”
His candle illuminated a fuming Josie. He peered down to find they stood in a puddle of milk. A hunk of cheese, slices of ham, a roll, and biscuits littered the floor around them.
“Do ye follow me around trying to ruin me life?” she asked, resorting to her East End accent.
“Bollocks,” he said as he stared at the mess.
She put her hands on her shapely hips. “I didn’t know Lord Sour Puss said such unseemly things.”
As if Meddlesome wasn’t enough of an insult, now she was calling him Lord Sour Puss. She might be beautiful, but he was tired of her cuts.
“You seem to have a preconceived notion of me, Josephine. Which, if I am being truthful, is chipping away at my patience. When I practically knock a woman over in the middle of the night and almost catch her hair on fire with my candle, it tends to rattle me. I am unsure why you believe I am an insufferable bluenose. I am simply a man trying to save my family. Will you punish me forever for trying to protect you from an unruly mob? Fine, I made a mistake. But what if you had needed my help, and I’d stood there like a clueless fool, watching the scene, too jaded by life to get involved?
Would you like me more if I was just some aristocrat who was too selfish to lend a helping hand to his fellow humans? ”
She opened her mouth, probably preparing to lambaste him for walking and breathing, but instead clamped her lips together. It seemed he’d rendered the loquacious Jabbing Josie speechless.
Together, they stared at the disaster on the floor, giving him time to admire her delicate toes and decide he would give her the benefit of the doubt.
Maybe she was irritable because she was starving to death.
He could be a right arse when he was hungry.
And he must not forget that her dream had been wrenched from her grasp.
“Still, I feel dashed terrible about the entire thing,” he confessed. “Especially since I’m convinced Ruth the Jewel’s opponent was paid to take a dive.”
Josie stomped her pretty little foot, and milk splashed, coating his ankle.
“I knew it.” She clenched her fists. “I just knew that no-good rat cheated.”
“You are the superior pugilist,” he said.
She dropped her hands to her sides. Her voice became as soft as an unconfident child’s as she asked, “You think so?”
“I know so. I boxed at Bedford and Cambridge. I was actually quite good. Now, make yourself comfortable and dry your feet. I will clean up the mess and fix you something to eat.”
“I… I…” She blinked.
“I know. You are very hungry. I find it utterly archaic that a woman cannot eat until she is full when in the presence of others.”
“I am so very hungry, and I am surrounded by so much food and wealth.” She sighed. “And I’m lonely. I miss Franny and Coach.”
Dare he tell her he was also overwhelmed and somewhat lonely?
“Sit.” He pointed at the small worktable in the corner, which was much more intimate and cozier than the large table in the center of the room. “I was going to heat myself a cup of milk. Would you like yours warmed?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I favor warm milk, I do.”
Nicolas cleaned the floor and laid out a feast of new rolls, cheese, ham, and biscuits.
He’d also found honey to stir into their milk.
After lighting the oil lamp and placing it in the center of the kitchen table beside his candle, he sat across from Josie, the crackling fire in the Rumford stove warming his back.
Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled in the light. She truly was a vision in the borrowed white dressing gown.
“I didn’t know aristocrats knew how to scrub floors.” Josie grinned.
He snorted. “An impoverished aristocrat knows how to do a lot of things you wouldn’t expect.”
“You don’t have servants?” she asked.
“We still have a few, but we lost most of them a couple of years ago.”
Josie bit into an almond biscuit and moaned before she popped the rest of the sweet into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and licked her fingers clean.
Nicolas couldn’t help himself; he smiled at her. Miracle of miracles, she smiled back, and the loneliness that had consumed him of late eased.
“I thought ladies were not to be alone with a man without a chaperone,” she said.
“Yes…well…” Damn, he didn’t want to return to his chamber just yet. He was having a lovely time. But alas, she was correct. He prepared to stand.
“I’m teasing you.” She picked up another biscuit and broke off a piece. “Remember I ain’t…I am not a real lady.”
“In some ways, you are more a lady than any woman I’ve ever met,” he said.
The piece of biscuit hovered halfway to her mouth. Those plump, pink lips. “Are you making fun of me?”
He shook his head vehemently. “No. I find many society women superficial and shallow. You are refreshingly genuine.”
Her eyes widened.
“You don’t believe me?” he asked.
“The opposite. I think you are telling me the truth.”
“Splendid,” he said. “Because I am.”
And just like that, the tension between them lifted.
She placed the uneaten biscuit on her plate and stared into his eyes, gifting him with a compassionate look that touched his soul. “What happened that you lost all of your servants, and why does the Widow of Whitehall wield this power over you?”
Perhaps he desperately desired to unburden his misfortunes to someone because her question was all the encouragement he required to let his story pour forth.
He told her about having to sell the London Townhouse.
He fought tears as he repeated the story about his brother over-imbibing, falling off his horse, suffering a brain injury, and dying within one week.
He explained that his father had used their family seat as collateral to pay his gambling debts to Bessie Dove-Lyon.
He described Bridget’s eccentric humor and how she’d scared off every suitor because of her views on female equality.
He mentioned that he intended to marry Lydia, travel the world, and write about his experiences.
But then he’d received a letter from his sister that broke his heart and he had to return to Blue Cliff Manor.
And Josephine Martin listened to every word of his story.
“You were engaged?” she asked.
He didn’t want to talk about another woman, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, he needed Josie to know everything.
“I thought I loved her. We were to marry when we returned from our time abroad. But, when I informed her that I needed to return to my family, she told me if I left her alone on the continent our relationship was over. She was not alone though because her parents traveled with us. Still, I begged her to come with me, but she wanted nothing to do with my family. Not that I blame her. My family is a handful.”
Josie wrinkled her nose. “Lydia sounds terrible. But I believe I would favor your sister.”
Lydia was not terrible; however, she was a bit spoiled. But he didn’t want to talk about her anymore. “Bridget would adore you.”
“I am sorry about your brother’s death,” she whispered. “How terribly tragic.”
He swallowed his grief and stoically met her empathetic gaze.
“Is that why you don’t imbibe?” she asked.
“Mostly.” His words stuck in his throat for a moment before words cascaded forth like an out-of-control waterfall.
“Every Earl of Shiredale has succumbed to the familial madness. Many say we are cursed.” He tapped the table with his index finger.
“But I believe my forefathers have all been prisoners to excessive drink.”
She gasped.
Had he told her too much?
“How old are you, Nicolas?” she asked.
“Four and twenty.”
She frowned. “Four and twenty with the weight of the world on your shoulders. ’Tis so unfair.”
But he didn’t want her pity. Which begged the question, what did he want from Josephine Martin?
The answer came to him easily enough. He wanted her respect, her body, and her heart. What would she say if he asked her to be his mistress?
But you have nothing to offer her, his inner voice chided.
Although he didn’t believe in curses, he had inherited his ancestor’s ill luck. Hell, he couldn’t even care for his earldom and his family unless Josie saved him by marrying someone who would never marry her.
“Have you had enough to eat?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Why don’t you return to your chamber, and I will clean up,” he said.
“I can help you.”
“No!” It wasn’t that he didn’t want her company, but he needed time to think. Besides, if he was in her presence much longer, he might take her into his arms and kiss those tantalizing lips. “You have etiquette and dance lessons again tomorrow. You rest. I will take care of this.”
She stood and walked to the door. Fighting his urge to watch her stroll away, he focused on putting the leftover biscuits in their tin.
“Nicolas,” she said.
He looked up from his task.
“Thank you. ’Twas the best midnight meal I’ve ever eaten.”
It was definitely the best company he’d had during one of his late-night warm-milk escapades. “My pleasure.”
“And thank you for sharing your story with me. I’m sorry I have been such a termagant. You did not deserve my wrath. I’ll see you tomorrow when we break our fast. Well, while you and Jonathon break your fasts, and Agatha and I take a few nibbles and play with our food.”
The door closed behind her.
Damnations. She was remarkable. It was not lost on him that as she’d warmed to him, that her speech became more proper—almost as if she was working extra hard to please him. If she continued to be this kind to him, he’d give her the world.
He sighed. If only he had even a small piece—of anything—to offer her.