week. He would ignore the fact that the stone wall was progressing just fine—he had seen it yesterday. He also ignored the fact that he would have to ride from one end of Drag-more to the other—in all likelihood passing Lindley and Jane on their morning ride.
“Are you smitten?” Lindley had asked.
Am I? he asked himself.
The question was disturbing. The earl had to shove it from his mind. His responsibility was to find Jane a husband. Every passing day made him more aware of this, and how urgent it was. He knew he could not leave her here while he went to London alone, as he had thought to do. No, he must get her married, the sooner the better. And this meant he must take her to London.
The earl hated London. Truthfully, he wasn’t fond of cities in general, for he was a man of the outdoors, a man who preferred physical labor to sitting behind a desk. But he was a strong man, a man of honor and duty. He had never shirked his duty before, he would not now. Most of the nobility had left London for their country estates, but in a month, in September, London would be a whirlwind of parties, balls, masks, and fetes as the Season began. They would have to arrive before then. In order to launch Jane, the earl would have to costume her properly. He would also have to figure out a way to reinstate himself in Society.
And he would not feel dread.
Nick had never been comfortable among the realm’s peers. Not even as a boy, when he had come to visit his grandfather three times and become acquainted with Dragmore and the life he would one day assume. Even then, at twelve, fourteen, and sixteen, he had felt dreadfully out of place, as awkward as a gangling Great Dane puppy in a china shop. The old earl had gently corrected his manners and deportment, but Nick had not been interested in learning. Even as a boy, he had no use for such airs—they seemed silly and a waste of time. He had been enthralled with Dragmore, however. It was a ranch just as his parents’ home was a ranch, only here the cattle were tame, not wild Texas longhorns.
Outdoors, riding across the 25,000-acre estate, inspecting the fields under cultivation, the herds of cattle, the dairy barns, the lambing pens, the blooded Thoroughbreds, here the earl was at home.
In a drawing room he was as likely to crush a china teacup merely by lifting it in his large hand or, worse, stumble when he tried to make a proper bow. Nick had long since foregone bows. He merely nodded his head.
As a boy he had suffered the usual teasing and taunting from the sons of the peers whom his grandfather introduced to him. They called him a barbarian to his face. When Nick efficiently dispatched one such name-caller by wielding a nine-inch knife, apparently from nowhere, to the youth’s throat, his grandfather confiscated the weapon and told him he must never carry one again. Nick had never gone without a blade before. He had purchased another, but learned its usage must be discreet. To this day, the earl carried a blade in his boot, strapped to his calf.
And so the boys had only called him names when his back was turned.
Patricia had had no such compunctions.
It was an arranged marriage. Nick had stayed with the Union army until the winter of ′65. He made one brief, last stop home, which was completely unsatisfying. There was a wall between him and his father now, due to his knowledge of his own tainted origins and his anger that Derek had lied. Yet Derek, always so open, had not mentioned the change in Nick’s attitude. Nick knew both his parents thought that the long war had changed him.
He arrived in England the following spring, and one year later married the Clarendon heiress. Nick had been smitten at first sight. Patricia had rich, dark-gold hair, almond-shaped green eyes, and a voluptuous figure a man would kill to possess. She was a stunning beauty—and she knew it.
They spent very little time together before their marriage. He was disappointed with her coolness
“Are you smitten?” Lindley had asked.
Am I? he asked himself.
The question was disturbing. The earl had to shove it from his mind. His responsibility was to find Jane a husband. Every passing day made him more aware of this, and how urgent it was. He knew he could not leave her here while he went to London alone, as he had thought to do. No, he must get her married, the sooner the better. And this meant he must take her to London.
The earl hated London. Truthfully, he wasn’t fond of cities in general, for he was a man of the outdoors, a man who preferred physical labor to sitting behind a desk. But he was a strong man, a man of honor and duty. He had never shirked his duty before, he would not now. Most of the nobility had left London for their country estates, but in a month, in September, London would be a whirlwind of parties, balls, masks, and fetes as the Season began. They would have to arrive before then. In order to launch Jane, the earl would have to costume her properly. He would also have to figure out a way to reinstate himself in Society.
And he would not feel dread.
Nick had never been comfortable among the realm’s peers. Not even as a boy, when he had come to visit his grandfather three times and become acquainted with Dragmore and the life he would one day assume. Even then, at twelve, fourteen, and sixteen, he had felt dreadfully out of place, as awkward as a gangling Great Dane puppy in a china shop. The old earl had gently corrected his manners and deportment, but Nick had not been interested in learning. Even as a boy, he had no use for such airs—they seemed silly and a waste of time. He had been enthralled with Dragmore, however. It was a ranch just as his parents’ home was a ranch, only here the cattle were tame, not wild Texas longhorns.
Outdoors, riding across the 25,000-acre estate, inspecting the fields under cultivation, the herds of cattle, the dairy barns, the lambing pens, the blooded Thoroughbreds, here the earl was at home.
In a drawing room he was as likely to crush a china teacup merely by lifting it in his large hand or, worse, stumble when he tried to make a proper bow. Nick had long since foregone bows. He merely nodded his head.
As a boy he had suffered the usual teasing and taunting from the sons of the peers whom his grandfather introduced to him. They called him a barbarian to his face. When Nick efficiently dispatched one such name-caller by wielding a nine-inch knife, apparently from nowhere, to the youth’s throat, his grandfather confiscated the weapon and told him he must never carry one again. Nick had never gone without a blade before. He had purchased another, but learned its usage must be discreet. To this day, the earl carried a blade in his boot, strapped to his calf.
And so the boys had only called him names when his back was turned.
Patricia had had no such compunctions.
It was an arranged marriage. Nick had stayed with the Union army until the winter of ′65. He made one brief, last stop home, which was completely unsatisfying. There was a wall between him and his father now, due to his knowledge of his own tainted origins and his anger that Derek had lied. Yet Derek, always so open, had not mentioned the change in Nick’s attitude. Nick knew both his parents thought that the long war had changed him.
He arrived in England the following spring, and one year later married the Clarendon heiress. Nick had been smitten at first sight. Patricia had rich, dark-gold hair, almond-shaped green eyes, and a voluptuous figure a man would kill to possess. She was a stunning beauty—and she knew it.
They spent very little time together before their marriage. He was disappointed with her coolness
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