Chapter 1 #2
But after learning of Lady Foxburgh’s death, the impending funeral, and the reading of her will, Nicholas had known it was far more important for him to be here in Surrey right now. That his future happiness depended upon it.
He had not been so stupid as to travel by carriage after those two recent attacks and had instead chosen to travel on horseback, giving him the freedom to stand and fight or flee if there should be a third attempt to abduct him.
The second reason for Julia’s animosity toward him was because there had once been three Harding brothers. Arthur, the eldest, Nicholas, the middle son, and Freddie, the baby of the family. Their mother had sadly died shortly after giving birth to Freddie.
As Julia had already pointed out, the eldest son inherited the title and ran the estates, the middle son was expected to join the army, and the youngest was to enter the church.
Except Arthur had died of pneumonia when he was aged five and twenty, and Nicholas, aged twenty at the time, had, until then, intended to finish his education before joining the army.
His father, having lost one heir, had instructed that Nicholas would not go into military service after all. Instead, he insisted Nicholas would remain in England and be trained to take on the title of the Earl of Wolfingham when the time came.
In the meantime, Nicholas had become embroiled in matters important to the Prince Regent, a role he was able to keep secret from others in Society by acting the rake and a flirt.
It was amazing how much information people gave away, mostly unwittingly, when they thought themselves in company that had no interest in anything other than enjoying themselves.
When Freddie went to Oxford, both Nicholas and his father had questioned his suitability for joining the church when he had finished with his education.
But they had all been horrified by his decision, at the age of nineteen, to join the army in Nicholas’s stead.
By the time they learned of Freddie’s absence from Oxford, he had already joined Wellington’s army and was on his way to France.
From there, he had traveled into the Netherlands and eventually to the final battle at Waterloo.
His life had tragically ended there, at the end of a French bayonet, shortly before Wellington claimed victory over Napoleon.
The shock of learning of his youngest son’s death had brought on a seizure of the heart for the Earl of Wolfingham, bringing his life to a sudden end just days later.
A family originally of five had then been reduced to just one.
Nicholas had been devastated by the loss of both his father and younger brother.
Lady Roxburgh had been a constant support in his life throughout all that heartache. A bastion of female compassion Nicholas might otherwise not have had access to.
Her granddaughter, this one, at least, made no secret of the contempt she felt toward him. Mainly because, Nicholas knew, she held him solely responsible for Freddie, her beloved childhood friend, having joined the army, only to meet his death just weeks later.
Nicholas’s rakish reputation was another bone of contention between them, Julia making her disgust toward him obvious whenever they chanced to meet at any Society event.
A misapprehension regarding his true nature he was not at liberty to share with her.
At least, he had not been. The reading of Lady Roxburgh’s will meant that would no longer be the case.
But, no matter what Julia’s—he refused to call her anything else, inside his head, at least—feelings were toward him, Nicholas had no intention of allowing it to prevent him from paying his respects to Lady Roxburgh.
Or to her daughters and their husbands, the Earl of Ipswich and the Marquis of Broom, and her cousin Lady Amanda Styles.
He also had every intention to attend the older woman’s funeral in two days’ time, no matter what Julia had to say on the matter.
“I only arrived at my estate late last night, and I was just on my way to pay my respects to your parents and the rest of the family,” he now informed Julia.
She gave him what was obviously an insincere smile. “And I am sure they will all be very pleased to bid you welcome.”
But not her, Nicholas noted. Lady Amanda Styles, Lady Roxburgh’s other granddaughter, had not been quite so quick in the past to pass judgment on him, neither in Society nor regarding Freddie’s premature death. Hopefully, that also meant she would be more polite to him than her cousin ever was.
Nicholas was still inwardly devastated by Freddie having set off to fight against the army amassed by Napoleon after the emperor had escaped the island of Elba.
At that time, Lady Julia Chalmers had been just two years younger than Freddie.
Seventeen was perhaps the worst of ages to have believed herself in love with someone who had then been so tragically slain.
It also demanded that she find someone to blame for that heartbreak, and Nicholas, dealing with his own emotions at the time, had been an easy target on whom she could turn her anger and disgust.
This brief conversation had shown Nicholas that Julia had not even begun to forgive him for what she perceived as his part in Freddie’s untimely death. That perhaps she never would.
Unless she was told the truth.
But that was something Nicholas did not feel he would ever be willing to share with her. No, it was far better that she continue to hold him responsible for Freddie’s impulsive actions and subsequent demise.
She had not even been presented in Society when Freddie died. But Nicholas had certainly noticed her when she Came Out sixteen months ago.
And, if her sharp dig about his rakish behavior was any indication, she had also observed him and the hedonistic friends with whom he often surrounded himself.
He felt her disapproval of him keenly. More so than she could possibly ever imagine.
He had long ago realized how singularly beautiful Julia was.
He’d admired her for at least a year before she attended her first ball, at which she was immediately surrounded by a group of young men eager to make her acquaintance. Young men whom Nicholas had felt jealous of then and still did now.
She was not wearing a bonnet today, allowing Nicholas to clearly see her honey-gold hair swept up and secured at her crown, although several loose tendrils had escaped at her temples and nape, no doubt from her exertion while climbing the wall.
Her skin was as pale and smooth as alabaster. Her nose straight and pert. But it was her eyes, the deepest blue Nicholas had ever seen, indigo, he believed that particular shade was called, that he found so totally arresting.
For all that she made no secret of her dislike of him, there was heat and mischief lurking in the dark depths of those eyes. A heat that was also echoed in the natural uptilt of her luscious lips. The way that her purple gown outlined and clung to her voluptuous breasts was—
“Why are you not wearing black, as is befitting immediately after the loss of a close relative?” Nicholas broke off his arousing thoughts to admonish.
Honey-gold brows rose. “My late grandmother stated in a letter she left for my mother and aunt to read that she did not wish any of us to wear black either before, during, or after her funeral. Not that it is any of your business what I choose to wear,” she added scathingly.
Ah. There she was. The little wasp. But no amount of her stings against his flesh was going to deter Nicholas from achieving his goals.
Interestingly, the most important of those was to make this little harridan his future countess.