Chapter 11

Nicholas stood in the foyer, unable to think, unable to move. Emily, standing there in the doorway, on the arm of her mother, was smiling at him.

Her words from two years ago played with his sanity. Without warning, he could hear her as she spoke so softly in the garden, telling him news that had shocked him.

" Nicholas, I am sorry if I ever gave false hope, but I have fallen quite desperately in love with your cousin."

"What?" Nicholas replied in his memory. Horror rooted him to the spot.

"Quintus. It is he who has stolen my heart."

Nicholas felt rage fill him anew. His cousin had been there so often when he had tried to court Emily. He'd not seen it then and even now, the pain of it cut through his heart. He'd believed Emily could see the true man behind the scars, that she could come to love him in spite of his flaws. She had said that, and he'd believed her.

I can look past your scars, she whispered sweetly to him. No flaw is so big that one cannot learn to ignore it.

"Lord Blackburne?" A voice at his elbow reminded him where he was, and he nodded to Miss Rowland briskly.

"Let's go outside. The coach should be there already."

He walked stiff-legged to the doorway, standing back for Miss Rowland and her chaperone. His mind was in turmoil.

How could I have believed Emily? he asked himself in the darkness as he climbed into the coach. She acknowledged my scars as flaws, just with those words that she said, and I should already have realized that they were something bad in her eyes.

He blinked in the uncertain darkness of the coach and made himself focus on the present moment. Opposite him, Miss Rowland was staring ahead, seeming to gaze raptly at the coach wall above him. The chaperone was looking out of the window, gazing with unashamed interest at the London nightlife as the coach moved down the street by the theater.

Nicholas straightened his back, feeling abruptly guilty. Miss Rowland must be confused. She had to wonder what happened to him to make him change from talkative to completely withdrawn. He cleared his throat.

"Miss Rowland? I..." He began, but the moment he started talking he felt silly. Why was he even trying? She would see the scars just like Emily did. She probably already wished she was elsewhere. Emily had seemed a sweet woman, and yet she couldn't look past his marred face and hands.

"What is it?" Her voice was soft.

Nicholas recalled another sweet, soft voice and bit his lip. He shouldn't have believed her words, and he likely shouldn't be believing this woman either.

"Nothing. Just wondering if you'd noticed the coach is going slowly," he said woodenly.

"No," Miss Rowland said, seeming confused by his sudden withdrawal into banal conversation again. Nicholas felt his cheeks burn. It was too dark for her to be able to see him clearly, and he was glad. He wished he could blend into the leather seat like an exotic lizard his uncle had told him about.

"I'm tired," she said in that soft, halting way. Nicholas looked out of the window uncomfortably.

She's scared, and no wonder , he thought sadly . I probably look monstrous to her. She likely wishes she could get out of this coach and run home.

The coach slowed down and Nicholas spotted the street corner near Miss Rowland's townhouse. When it stopped, he climbed out swiftly to help her down.

"Thank you," she said shyly.

Her hand in his traced fire up his veins, but he ignored it. Why let himself feel so much when she probably felt only mild revulsion?

The sight of Emily in the foyer had brought back all his self-doubt.

"I wish you a pleasant sleep," Nicholas murmured as she walked to the stairs with her chaperone.

"Good night, Lord Blackburne."

They reached the door and Nicholas waited for a moment, assuring himself that they were safe inside. Then he swung up into the coach.

"Blackburne House, please," he called up briskly.

"At once, my lord."

He leaned back, eyes closed. He was terribly tired. Stifling a yawn, he tried to remain awake until they reached the house, where he walked briskly indoors and marched up to his bedroom. He shut the door and sat down on the bed, exhausted.

Emily tormented him, her sweet smile reaching him across the foyer as though the two years meant nothing, and she'd never loved Quintus.

"Dash it all," he swore under his breath, rolling over and dragging the coverlet with him. "Go to sleep," he told himself crossly.

He lay there, his thoughts all blurring with weariness so that images of Emily's face mixed with those of Miss Rowland. It felt as though they were the same—Emily's judgments and coldness and Miss Rowland's timid silences were all ways of showing their disgust.

That's not true, he thought sleepily. We talked. She was interesting. She was unusual.

"Stop it and go to sleep," he told himself again.

He shivered. Springtime in London was always cold, even though a fire burned in the room, casting a warm glow and shedding a red light on the mat.

He rolled over again and tried to stop thinking, and slowly the images in his head became confused and stretched out and he fell into a deep sleep.

***

The next morning, he rushed and rinsed his face and mouth, hurrying to summon his valet. He'd promised Grandmother and Grandfather he'd meet them for breakfast at their townhouse in the morning. And he was going to be late.

The coach was ready in ten minutes, and Nicholas, hastily dressed in a navy-blue jacket and white trousers, leaned back, watching London move slowly past as they crossed past Hyde Park on their way to his grandparents' home.

Grandmother greeted him in refined tones as he walked into the breakfast room. He bowed.

"Good morning, Grandmother. Good morning, Grandfather," he added, inclining his head towards his grandfather, who was sitting at the table across from her, buttering toast and barely looking up at his grandson.

"Mm," he grunted. "Morning, Nicholas. Play went well?"

"Well enough," Nicholas said tightly. Annoyance at the intrusive question was sour in his stomach. He drew out a seat at the table.

"Was the principal actor on good form?" Grandmother asked him politely.

Nicholas nodded. "It was a good performance, yes," he agreed. He couldn't help recalling Miss Rowland discussing the play, an intent, intense expression on her face as she discussed Ophelia and her role in it. Grandmother would do better discussing the merit of the play with Miss Rowland, he thought wryly.

"I trust it was a good evening?" she inquired.

"Um. Yes. Good enough," Nicholas said carefully. He knew she was trying, indirectly, to glean information about how it had been to talk with Miss Rowland, but he didn't want to discuss her. He lifted some toast from the toast-rack. Then he reached for the butter, keeping his gaze on the table.

His grandmother cleared her throat. "Um, Nicholas..."

She didn't complete the sentence, so he looked inquiringly across at her to find her gazing at the table as though she was indicating something to him. Nicholas' eyes widened. She was looking at the paper on the table, still folded. He caught sight of a name that made his skin prickle. The scandal sheets were talking about him!

"Oh, what in..." He caught himself before he swore. He was about to pick them up, but his grandmother cleared her throat again.

"It's quite all right, Nicholas. They're merely speculating about why your choice would have fallen on someone so obscure. I'll step in. I'll take her shopping. Nobody can doubt the truth when this Rowland girl is seen in my company. That'll make sure everyone knows this is a respectable venture." She smiled thinly.

"Grandmother..." Nicholas began tightly. He appreciated her offer, but he didn't like the way she spoke so dismissively.

"Who cares what they say about it?" Grandfather blustered. "So long as they're talking. If Society knows our news, that is good, even if they have to spread it around as mindless gossip now."

"Rowell..." Grandmother began. Nicholas shifted uncomfortably on his chair. He didn't want to make trouble.

"Well, whatever they say," Grandfather blustered again. "News is news."

Nicholas looked at the table. He was still recovering from the previous day. It was difficult enough to face people's judgements, to feel many pairs of eyes watching as he walked to the family box in the theater. It would have been difficult enough without Miss Rowland's shyness or Emily's unwelcome presence in the foyer to confuse him even more.

"You'll take Miss Rowland out again, tomorrow."

" What ?" Nicholas demanded, gazing at his grandfather disbelievingly. "What about the papers, the gossip?"

His grandfather shrugged. "You'll take Miss Rowland out tomorrow. It seems like it will be a good day to go to the park."

Nicholas just stared. He didn't have the energy to object anymore.

"Your grandfather is right. The only way to stop this gossip is to be seen in public. It can only be positive." Grandmother fixed him with a firm gray-eyed gaze.

Nicholas looked down at his tea. He was surprised that, in spite of his initial anger, his mind was not set against it. Part of him still wanted to see Miss Rowland and see if, just maybe, he could make a better impression on her than he had on anyone else so far.