Lady Lilias and the Devil in Plaid - Julie Johnstone Page 0,21
to look away from Nash, who turned toward the window as if there were something fascinating in his garden. Lilias checked—nothing there, just flowers. They certainly were pretty, but not fascinating.
He was uncomfortable. He was avoiding looking at her. Fear pricked her that what had kept her in knots for years, the memories that had made her unable to properly give attention to any other man, had been a fantasy of her overactive imagination. But she could have sworn he’d been glad to see her, even if only for a moment. Or maybe she’d only seen what she wanted? That prick of fear became more of a stab with an annoyingly sharp invisible knife.
“Don’t mind Greybourne,” Lady Adaline said, and Lilias, who realized she was staring at Nash, jerked her gaze away from him and back to his sister. Lady Adaline waved a dismissive hand. “He’s practically a hermit.”
“Adaline.” Nash spoke but a single word, but it was forceful, as was everything about him.
Lady Adaline turned scarlet but notched her chin, and Lilias recognized the seeds of a determined woman in the younger girl. “It’s true,” Lady Adaline muttered and leaned close to Lilias as if to tell her a secret. “Do you know, in all of his years at school and living in Scotland, he only ever came home once a year? And only to the Cotswolds, never to London.”
Lilias’s eyes flew toward Nash and crashed into his stormy gaze. His look was easy enough to read now—barely controlled irritation. His fists were clenched, his jaw was tense, and his gaze was narrowed.
“Adaline, cease talking,” he warned.
“I shall not,” the young girl said in a mutinous tone. “I daresay you never even knew your childhood friend came to the Cotswolds once a year, did you, Lady Lilias?”
“Adaline, Lady Lilias does not care about my comings and goings.”
But she did. Oh, how she did. And he knew it. She saw it on his face, which for one flash of a second, held embarrassment and remorse.
Nash had been to the Cotswolds. Seven times.
Heat flooded her face. She was possibly the biggest fool to ever live. An expansive hole appeared in her chest.
“I can see you didn’t know,” Lady Adaline continued. “He practically hid in the house every time he came, as if he were avoiding someone.”
Dear God. It could not get worse!
Lilias wished the ground would open and swallow her up.
“Adaline!” Nash thundered and started toward them.
But Adaline continued. “He only ventured out to see his friend Owen, and even then only at night. It’s all so very—”
“Mother is calling you,” Nash interrupted.
Lady Adaline frowned. “No, she’s not. She—”
“Is calling you,” he ground out. “So go to the parlor.”
The girl bit her lip but nodded. She released Lilias’s hands, offered an apologetic smile, and departed.
Lilias stood before Nash, trembling. Her emotions swung wildly between embarrassment, anger, and agony. She knew she ought to keep her mouth closed, but she didn’t care about what she ought to do.
“You came back to the Cotswolds, and you avoided me. And Owen knew.” She sounded pathetic, but she would not let that stop her. There was no room for pride when true love was involved. She wanted to pummel his chest, but she at least had enough self-restraint not to do so.
“Do not blame Owen.”
The four words held no hint of remorse or apology. But they did hold impatience, as if he wanted this to be over—or more precisely, wanted her to be gone. For one moment, she considered holding her tongue, doing as practically any other woman would do and simply take her leave and give him a reprieve, despite how he had treated her, how he had made her think he was worthy of being a hero when he was really the villain of the worst book she’d never read because it did not exist. The errant thought to write a book and make him the villain came to her mind. It would serve him right.
“I will deal with Owen later.” She wanted to weep with relief when her voice came out sounding strong. She wouldn’t weep, of course. Not in front of Nash. She was used to having to be strong even when all she wanted was, for once, for someone to protect her, to watch over her. But not just any someone…
Foolish. Her head was filled with stuffing and nonsense. There was no one to watch over her but herself. Nash was not her Gothic hero.