Nick’s hands paused in their ministrations, and he cocked his head to peer into the dark corner. “So are you a staked goat as well?”
“I am on my way to slaughter, I fear.” For the first time, her voice had a careful, controlled quality.
She’d been crying. Nick knew it like any man with four sisters knows such things, like any man who adored women—most women, most of the time—could sense female upset.
“Your intended is not to your liking?” Nick asked, trying not to let himself care. He couldn’t even see the woman, for pity’s sake, though Nick had the sense she was as weary of the ballroom battleground as he.
“My intended is more than twice my age, and while that alone would not matter, he’s spent more years being dissolute than I have breathing.”
“Gads.” Nick switched feet. “At least I get to do the asking.”
“At least.”
“Who is this reprobate?” Nick inquired after a moment, stretching out his stockinged feet toward the fire. “Shall I call him out for you? Buy up his markers?”
“I really ought not to be so sensitive,” the lady said with a touch of asperity, “but I do not appreciate the levity, my lord.”
“Who’s joking? Tell me who he is.”
“Hellerington,” the woman said, a wealth of resignation in her voice.
“And you’ve accepted him?” Nick asked, leaning back and closing his eyes.
“I have not, but he told me at supper he would be speaking to my father, and once they come to terms, my refusal or consent won’t mean anything.”
Nick opened his eyes and frowned. The man’s name wasn’t ringing any particular bells, but then, Nick had spent much of the past few years in the country, dodging his responsibilities and larking about with friends—to hear his father tell it.
He thought of his father, now growing increasingly frail, and wanted to howl at the moon with the weight of his grief and guilt. Rising, he crossed the room to a decanter on a sideboard and poured two glasses.
“Dutch courage.” He passed one drink to the lady. “Sip it carefully, though Winterthur will have only decent libation on hand.” A graceful bare hand emerged from the shadows and took the drink. No gloves. The lady was making herself quite at home here in the dark little parlor.
“Good lord,” the woman gasped, “that is… potent.”
“Warms the innards,” Nick said, sipping his own drink. “Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not.” She tucked her skirts closer to her side and scooted more deeply into her corner.
Nick lowered himself beside her, making the padded bench creak. “Have you no other prospects?”
He leaned back against the wall, savoring the moment. The fire hissed and popped softly beside them, and the lady herself gave off a subtle fragrant heat, such that even sitting beside her was an odd comfort.
“I am barely received,” she said. “My debut was eight years ago. I should feel lucky to have any offer at all.”
“A fossil then, though not as prehistoric as my handsome self.” And no wonder she didn’t quail at sharing the parlor with him for a few moments.
Or a drink.
Or a bench in a quiet corner.
“Men do not become fossils. They become distinguished.”
Nick sipped his drink. “Good to know.”
“How is your father?”
The question surprised him, but if she knew who he was and that he was hunting a bride, she’d likely know why as well.
“Failing,” Nick said, surprising himself with his honesty. “He’s a tough old boot but hasn’t lived an easy life, and seeing me married is all he’s asked of me.” And Nick had given his promise that before the Season was out, he’d have not just a fiancée, but a bride. The already depressing evening threatened to become downright morose.
“Parents. They excel at the gentle art of unspoken guilt.”
Understanding like that was balm to a tired bachelor’s soul. “Is that why you’re on your way to slaughter?”
“Not parental guilt. Sororal guilt.”
“I am one of eight,” Nick said, citing the legitimate total because he was in polite company. “Sibling guilt can be powerful.”
The guilt of a grown, unmarried son and heir more powerful yet.
“My younger sister will make her come out next year, and I must be safely away from the social scene. One wouldn’t want to queer her chances by association with me.”
“You are truly so wicked?” He couldn’t credit that, because he knew—in every sense—the truly wicked and fast ladies of the polite world, and he did not know this shadowy creature beside him. He could not place her slightly husky