Chapter 13

"Nicholas...stop it. You're over-exerting yourself." Andrew shouted. Nicholas barely heard him through the din in the cellar and the fog in his brain.

The leather bag swung, and Nicholas thumped it hard, his fists—wrapped in linen to protect the finger-bones—thwacking into it again and again. He swore aloud at the sudden sharp pain and shook his right hand as he unwound the bandage, the ache in his knuckles making him convinced he'd done permanent damage. He flexed the fingers. They all still worked, if painfully.

"You're right," he whispered. He was unsteady on his feet. Sweat poured down his face and adhered his shirt to his back. He shook himself, feeling uncomfortable for the first time as his awareness slowly returned.

"I'm sure I am!" Andrew laughed with some amusement. "You've been fighting that damned thing for the best part of half an hour. You need some water and some rest." He chuckled again.

"Oh." Nicholas blinked wearily. He had no idea how much time had passed. He blinked again, looking around the cellar at the Northbrook Club. The day had clearly progressed, the sunshine that had slanted in from the level of the street was now replaced with crisp shadow. "What's the time?"

"It's past midday," Andrew informed him.

"What?" Nicholas swore. "I need to hurry. I have to be across town in an hour and a half. I need to go home first, too." He glanced down at his shirt, which was stuck to him with perspiration. He had agreed to escort Miss Rowland to the park at two o' clock. He certainly didn't think Grandfather intended him to show up sweat-caked and dirty.

And, he thought with a frown, I wouldn't want to.

He wanted her to like him.

"Come on, old fellow." Andrew thumped him playfully, making him wince. His arms were sore after so long spent in boxing with the leather bag in the club's cellar space. "You need food first."

"I do," Nicholas agreed, wincing as he flexed his hand. He looked down at his sweat-soaked shirt. "But first, I need to do something about this."

"No trouble, old chap. My lodgings are just here," Andrew gestured vaguely towards his London home. "Come and borrow a shirt. And then we'll come back and take lunch here."

"Yes," Nicholas agreed, grinning. "Better here."

"Indeed," Andrew replied warmly. Andrew employed a truly terrible cook. Nicholas had eaten there once and decided he'd rather meet at the Northbrook Club than eat at Andrew's house ever again. Andrew, whose father had lost his fortune to bad investment and worse debts, lived in rented lodgings near the shopping street. He had a cook and a maid to clean the house, but otherwise lived rather more unencumbered than Nicholas; a state that Nicholas sometimes envied. Andrew might have no fortune, but he likewise had no burden and nobody to tell him what to do.

They went to Andrew's house to fetch a shirt, and then returned to the club.

"So," Andrew commented as they settled down at a table, a plate of the day's stew and bread before them. "I take it the evening at the theater was rather taxing?"

Nicholas had told him everything about Grandfather's tiresome manipulations, but nothing, as yet, about having met Bernadette and what she was really like.

"No," Nicholas said carefully. "What makes you think that?"

Andrew chuckled. "That?" he asked, indicating Nicholas' hand, which was swollen and sore, resting by his plate because he was struggling to do so much as lift a spoon with it. "I don't think you spend an hour boxing when there is nothing troubling your thoughts."

"Oh. Mayhap yes."

Andrew looked at him, brow raised. "Well, that's more like it."

Nicholas sighed. "You know, you wear on a person's nerves."

"Because I'm right so often." Andrew grinned.

Nicholas laughed. He was grateful for Andrew, who took nothing seriously and always seemed to be laughing.

"Mayhap."

"That, my dear friend, is undeniable," Andrew assured him.

Nicholas chuckled. He reached for his spoon, doing his best to eat. He needed to dine hastily as he still wanted to return home to dress properly. Andrew's shirt fitted well enough, but he would prefer clean trousers and a jacket that didn't smell of sweat. As he ate, he recalled the events at the theater.

"It was hard," he admitted.

"The lady was shy?" Andrew made a guess.

"Not really," Nicholas murmured thoughtfully. "Mayhap at first. But she was quite talkative later."

"She was?" Andrew raised a brow. "Well! Look at that, eh?"

Nicholas made a disgruntled face. "Is that so surprising?" he asked. He had never been anything but honest with Andrew about how he felt about his scar. Andrew insisted that people would like him and would not pay the thing a moment's mind. Nicholas still didn't believe him.

"No. Of course not, old chap. I just thought she might be shy. That's all. So, what troubled you?"

Nicholas took a breath. "I saw someone in the foyer," he confided.

"Who was it?"

Nicholas told him. Andrew hissed out a breath between his teeth. He shot him a compassionate glance, evidently understanding the awkwardness.

"Sorry, old chap. That's horrid."

"What are you sorry for?" Nicholas asked gently.

"Well..." Andrew cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I knew she was here in London again."

"What?" Nicholas said loudly. "You knew she'd come back from the north?" Emily's family came from York, on her mother's side, and that was where she'd gone after the scandal of her running off with Quintus. Nicholas had thought she was still in the north, living with her aunt or some other relative, but apparently, she was in London, able to shock and surprise him at any time.

"Sorry, old chap." Andrew's voice was contrite. "I saw her cousin, Jackson, at a party and I couldn't help the fact that he mentioned the fact. I didn't want to say anything about it."

"No. I understand," Nicholas agreed in quieter tones. He couldn't imagine what he would have said to Andrew if he'd mentioned that fact. It was no longer relevant—or it shouldn't be, at any rate. If she preferred his cousin, that was plain and simple and rendered her life none of his business. If Andrew had told him as if he still cared for Emily, it would have hurt. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me, old chap," Andrew murmured. "I just didn't tell you. And now you've got a shock."

"Better that," Nicholas said softly. "Better to see her than to have you remind me and confuse me."

Andrew laughed.

Nicholas drew a deep breath. Emily's appearance in town had disconcerted him a great deal; more than he'd realized. It was only now, sitting in the club, exhausted, that he realized how great an emotional burden it had placed on him. He had thought he'd forgotten all that pain—it was two years ago. But the memories were as clear as day. He reached for a slice of bread and winced at the pain as he tried to move his fingers.

"You did spend an awful lot of time hitting that thing," Andrew reminded gently.

"I suppose."

Nicholas ate his lunch and then returned briskly to his townhouse to dress and get ready for the trip to Hyde Park.

"I hope Grandfather's pleased," he muttered crossly as he stalked down the stairs to the coach. As he vaulted in and the coach jolted its way down the street, he felt his anger displaced by a feeling he could only describe as curiosity and anticipation. He wanted to see Miss Rowland again.

His thoughts drifted to her sweet face, framed with her soft brown hair. Miss Rowland seemed kind and unlikely to judge him for his scar, but then he'd only met her once, really, and this was only their second time in conversation. In the theater, it was one thing—it was darker in there and she couldn't really see it. But in broad daylight, the sunshine streaming down onto the streets and the distant park, she would be sure to notice it.

"Stop it," he told himself firmly. He couldn't let himself worry about it. He had to take this walk to keep his grandfather happy.

It isn't because of Grandfather, he mused, cheeks burning. Not really.

He knew he wanted to see her again and he couldn't help it.

He slipped out of the coach, heart thumping nervously as he waited on the stairs outside the townhouse.

"My lord?" The butler greeted him, one brow raised.

"I'm here to escort Miss Rowland to the park," Nicholas said briskly.

"Of course, my lord. One moment, please."

The butler turned to lead him upstairs, but the sound of footsteps on the landing made him look up. Miss Rowland was on the stairs.

She drifted down towards him, her dress one of white figured silk that seemed a little stiff and formal compared to the pinkish dress she'd worn to the theater. She looked a little tense and shaken.

So am I, he reminded himself.

"Good afternoon, Miss Rowland," he greeted, bowing formally. He breathed in, catching the smell of rosewater. He smiled. His heartbeat raced. She smiled back, making his breath stop for a second. She looked so beautiful, the cloudy daylight making her brown hair glow, her smile lighting her eyes.

"Good afternoon, Lord Blackburne," she greeted softly. "How pleasant to see you." She dropped a small curtsey.

Nicholas' cheeks burned. "Thank you, Miss Rowland. A pleasure to see you, too."

Her eyes widened, pure astonishment on her face, and he looked away, hiding a delighted grin. She was just as refreshing and direct as he remembered.

He took her hand and led her to the coach. She looked up at him shyly.

"It's crowded today," she commented as she swung up into the coach.

"It is," he agreed, gazing down the street. Her chaperone got in next, and then he alighted and they rumbled down the street towards Hyde Park.

Nicholas leaned back, trying to relax. He gazed across at Miss Rowland. She sat straight-backed, her long hair ringleted beside her face, her pale skin seeming to glow in the coach's shadow. He coughed, wishing he could think of something to say.

"Do you like..." he began.

"What do you..." she asked at the same time.

He chuckled. She giggled a little nervously, her gaze holding his.

"Apologies." He grinned, cheeks burning. "What were you going to say, Miss Rowland?"

"I interrupted," she protested gently, then smiled. "I was going to ask what your favourite pastimes are here in London?"

Nicholas tilted his head thoughtfully. He wasn't sure if he should mention the boxing he'd been doing all morning, though his hand still ached from it. "Walking," he began. "I like the quieter parks," he added.

"Me too!" Miss Rowland's tone was enthusiastic.

"Not Hyde Park, then?" he asked smiling.

Her gaze held his. They shared a chuckle. He tensed, the strangest feeling filling him--as though they had known each other a long time and understood each other better than anyone else.

"No. Not Hyde Park. Not usually," she agreed.

He smiled. "Well, we're both about to have an adventure, then."

He looked out of the window. The coach was slowing. They were at the corner and would soon be in Hyde Park.

"Here," he said gently, helping her down from the coach.

"Thank you." She looked up at him, those hazel eyes wide. Nicholas swallowed hard. He knew it was customary to offer a lady one's arm to support her while walking, but he had almost never walked with a woman and so was out of practice. He cleared his throat.

"You may lean on my arm, Miss Rowland," he murmured. He thought he'd spoken too quietly, but he had also crooked his elbow so she could rest her arm on his forearm, and he tensed, almost forgetting how to breathe as she slipped her arm through his.

"Thank you," she said softly.

They walked slowly forward. Nicholas breathed deeply, trying to ignore the strange, but pleasant, sensation of Miss Rowland holding his arm, and the familiar, but altogether unpleasant, sensation of people staring. There was a group of people by the gate, and he could feel eyes boring into their backs as they walked on down the path towards the fountains.

They'll be gossiping about us. They'll mention my scar and her obscurity and it's not kind to either one of us.

He gazed down at Miss Rowland. She was staring ahead a little dreamily, his heart filled with a sudden intense protective feeling.

"Come," he said gently. "Let's go that way."

"Less crowded?" Bernadette murmured.

"Less watched," he agreed.

The park itself was not particularly crowded—a few couples took strolls there after luncheon, and one or two nannies with their young charges walked or sat by the pond, but the paths were mostly free and unencumbered, the greens and lawns wide and expansive. The benches were occupied, mostly, and it was those watchers that Nicholas wished to avoid. That was where people would sit and gossip.

"Indeed."

They turned towards a vast green space ornamented with a fountain and walked past it towards a shady path below spreading leafy trees. Miss Rowland's chaperone followed them, trailing a few steps behind to give them the sense of not being watched.

The trees were already in leaf, the soft golden-green of the new leaves beautiful against the pale gray of the sky. He glanced at Miss Rowland. She was staring at a stand of irises.

"How beautiful," she murmured.

Her eyes were wide and round, her lips parted in a delighted grin. He felt his heart stop. He hadn't seen such simple delight on many faces before, and it struck him as beautiful. He drew a slow, appreciative breath.

"I love irises," she continued softly. "Blue is one of my favourite colors. And purple," she added. She paused, glancing sideways at a bush of white roses, the first buds still furled. "But roses are a particular favourite."

"Oh?" Nicholas felt a smile spread across his face. "But not blue, I take it?"

She chuckled. "No. But I love the yellow ones. I think they're my favourites, when it comes to roses. Yellow or pink."

"I see," Nicholas said, nodding his head. He grinned inwardly. "You seem quite aware of colour," he commented.

"I am!" She sounded intense. "Colour is so moving, is it not? I think it stirs our emotions like nothing else, apart from music."

"Quite so," Nicholas agreed. He recalled the first day they met. She'd been playing a sonata then. He hadn't even mentioned how deeply it affected him. "I think you have a special interaction with music."

"Oh? No," she murmured, looking at her toes, shy. "I think everyone has a special relationship with music. Music is pure emotion. One cannot listen to it and not be affected."

"I think you're right," he said softly. "I certainly was affected by your Beethoven sonata."

"Oh?" Miss Rowland went pink. He smiled. Seeing her sweet discomfort delighted him.

"Yes. You truly are talented," he said sincerely. She stared up at him, her hazel eyes huge.

"You really think so?" she asked softly.

He drew a deep breath. "Of course, I do," he said firmly. He frowned. "You must know how talented you are? Surely, you are aware of your gift." He had assumed she'd chosen to play the piano because she knew how good she was. He stared in surprise as she shook her head.

"Nobody ever said that. My music tutor did, but Mama and Papa, well..." She looked down at her toes. "They said accomplishments were important, and as long as I had one or two, that was enough."

"They never encouraged or praised you?" Nicholas blinked. His own father had shown enthusiasm for every talent he had, from riding to sword-fighting to running. Not shooting, since he'd always been a bad shot, but every talent he had, his father had supported intensely.

"No," Miss Rowland answered, looking at him a little oddly, as though he'd said something peculiar that she didn't really understand.

"That's no good," Nicholas said softly. He gazed into her eyes. Suddenly, he felt as though he understood her a little better. She was shy and retiring, but that was because her family didn't ever encourage or praise her. They probably belittled her, if truth be known—every time he'd done or said something encouraging, she'd acted as though she didn't know what he was talking about. They clearly showed no regard for her in arranging the match—if he were to guess, she'd been pushed into it like he had. His heart ached with compassion for her.

"It's not so bad," she murmured.

Nicholas looked into her eyes, holding her gaze. She looked up at him and he felt his heart stop, his soul drawn into the hazel depths of her eyes. Like lakes of mossy greenish water, they drew him in, and he couldn't look away.

"Gentleman's Gazette !" A newspaper-seller yelled suddenly from behind them. "Get it here! The latest news!"

Nicholas jumped, blood rushing to his head in sudden shock. "What the...?"

She chuckled. "Sorry. Newspaper seller. We've walked all the way to the other gate."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, we have." He blinked, looking around in surprise. The man selling the newspapers was stationed beside the gate, and people were strolling in and out, some of them looking at Nicholas disapprovingly for his outburst. He reddened, fingers going instinctively to the scar.

"That was loud," Miss Rowland commented, looking over at the newspaper seller, who was still yelling to advertise his wares.

"Wretched man," he said with a laugh. His heart was still thudding. He'd been staring at Miss Rowland so intensely that he wouldn't have noticed if he'd been hit by a falling building.

"Yes! He had me fit to collapse from shock." Miss Rowland chuckled.

Nicholas felt his smile stretch across his face and they turned, walking back along the leaf-lined pathway. Miss Rowland's chaperone walked with them.

"We're having a fine springtime," Miss Rowland commented. "I love springtime. It's my favourite time of the year."

"Mine, too," Nicholas agreed. "Though not the London Season." He made a nauseated face. She giggled.

"No! Absolutely not! If there could be springtime without it, I'd be most thankful."

"Indeed."

Again, their gazes met and held, and Nicholas felt a slight frown crease his brow. How had he not noticed how very similar they actually were? Both of them found themselves on the edge of society, both born to families that were very much included in it. Both of them sought solace in music and nature, and both of them were being pushed by their families in a direction not of their choosing.

He looked into her eyes and wished, for the first time he could remember, that he could read minds. Normally, it would seem like a curse. With her, he longed to be able to fathom what she was really thinking.

She gazed up at him too. Without thinking what he did, he let his hand rest, very gently, on her own. He heard her gasp and he tensed, but she didn't move.

"You're cold," he murmured. Her skin was cold like the water in the fountain. She shrugged.

"I'm not really," she told him gently. "It's just this light wind. It chills one a bit." She was sitting very still, her hand motionless where his enfolded it.

"Shall we return the way we came here?" he asked gently.

She inclined her head. "Perhaps that would be nice," she agreed. He wanted to smile—she was clearly cold, teeth almost chattering, but not ready to admit it.

"Come on, then," he said gently. "Let's go and find the coach. It's warm inside."

"Yes. Let us find the coach," she agreed swiftly.

They walked along the path and this time, Nicholas found himself able to ignore the gossip-mongers. He walked with Miss Rowland to the coach and helped her up.

Then they were rolling back towards the townhouse.

As they rolled back, Nicholas watched the street—the newspaper sellers were there, and other men selling wares from handcarts. On the edge of the road was a flower-seller. He felt his heart thump. He had an idea.