Chapter 2

"Dash it," Nicholas complained as the coach halted on the dark and bustling street. "Why is London always so horribly busy?"

The pavement was crowded despite the lateness of the hour, gentlemen in top-hats and dark coats hurrying past in the rain, and ladies in evening dresses waiting under awnings for the downpour to stop. The rain fell in swift drops, lit by the torches bracketed to the wall opposite.

"It's the theater, old chap," Andrew, his friend, drawled from his seat opposite. "The crowd is just pouring out."

"I suppose," Nicholas grunted. He leaned back, wishing he wasn't restless. The ball had left him feeling shaken, and he couldn't exactly say why. The girl who'd stared up at him so shyly was some part of the reason—every time he shut his eyes, he saw that wide, hazel stare. She'd looked frightened, but she hadn't looked disgusted. And that was strange.

Everyone is disgusted by my scar.

The scar—a white, puckered line about the width of a piece of string—cut across his well-molded mouth from the base of his nose to his chin. It had been there since a building accident when he was a child. A glazier working at his home, Lockwood Manor, had been inattentive for a moment and a playful ten-year-old Nicholas had rushed into a pane of glass, not seeing it where the man had leant it up against the tree. It shattered, cutting his hands and face. The scars on his hands were not so serious—he could wear gloves. But the one on his face he could not hide.

"Damn it," he swore again, feeling impatient. "Whatever is wrong in the street?" The coach had been stopped for a few minutes and he peered out into the darkness, trying to see what was blocking the road. As Viscount Blackburne, he had the right to demand that the street be cleared, but Nicholas was not the sort of person to wield his peerage like a weapon. He wasn't the sort of person to try and force his wishes on anyone.

I know all too well how it feels, he thought sadly. As the heir to the Earl of Lockwood, he knew what expectation felt like. His grandfather heaped it on him.

"They'll get moving soon, old chap," Andrew murmured, seeming untroubled. Andrew always seemed untroubled. A handsome enough fellow, with a squarish face, sandy hair and brown eyes that sparkled with a keen intellect, Andrew didn't seem to have a care in the world. He was a baron, if an impoverished one, and, even if he had financial woes, he had no trouble from family expectations.

Nicholas leaned back on the leather seat. His head hurt from tiredness; his eyes sore after spending most of the night standing silently in the bright light of the chandeliers.

"I'm tired," Andrew commented, stifling a yawn. "And my feet hurt. How about you?" He smiled sleepily at Nicholas across the coach.

Nicholas let out a sigh. "I'm not exactly brimful of strength myself right now," he murmured lightly. Andrew laughed.

Nicholas swallowed hard. Andrew had danced a few dances, flirting in his own dry, casual way. But Nicholas had spent the whole evening weathering people's stares, imagining them whispering behind their hands. The scar, he always thought, was bad enough. People's attitude to it was even worse.

He blinked, shutting his piercing blue eyes for a moment. The crowd was clearing, the noise quieting down.

"About time," he grumbled.

He had promised his mother he'd have breakfast with her at Aldford House, and if he didn't get into bed soon, he was going to wake up too late.

He checked his gold pocket-watch. It showed that it was almost half-past twelve. He winced, shutting his eyes. He'd promised his mother and his stepfather that he'd reach their home by eight o' clock, and he wasn't going to get much sleep if that was the case.

"You're almost there, eh, old chap?" Andrew commented. "I'll jump out here, if you don't mind." He gestured to the corner near the Northbrook Club. His lodgings were in the same street.

"Of course," Nicholas commented, blinking. He'd barely noticed that they were so close to his home already. "I wish you a good rest," he murmured, as the coach slowed and Andrew stood up. They had agreed beforehand that Nicholas' carriage would take them both home. Then the coachman stopped at the corner and Andrew jumped down.

"Goodnight," He called to Nicholas.

"Have a good sleep," Nicholas replied, lifting his hand to wave.

Andrew lifted his hat in salute and sauntered off. Nicholas shut the coach door and leaned back, shutting his eyes. He was almost asleep when the coach drew up outside Blackburne House.

"My lord? Are you feeling quite well?" the coachman called down.

"Yes. Yes," Nicholas called up. He felt his cheeks redden—he hadn't even noticed they'd stopped. His face twisted into a bitter expression. He hated feeling a fool—it was bad enough being so marred by his scar.

He went inside and to his bedchamber, where he undressed, blew out the lamps and got into bed. As he lay there, the face of the hazel-eyed young woman who'd bumped into him drifted into his mind. He pushed the thought away.

Just a foolish girl, he told himself with annoyance.

He rolled over restlessly. She hadn't been foolish, and he knew it. She'd looked up at him with curiosity, not horror or disgust, and that was why he couldn't get her out of his thoughts.

You're indulging in frivolity, he told himself harshly.

He rolled over again and shut his eyes, determined to go to sleep.

***

The next morning, at half-past seven, Nicholas was sitting in the coach again. The tall stone buildings lining Waterloo Place slipped past, then they moved past the theater, up towards Aldford House. His mother had remarried Lord Aldford, an earl, following his own father's passing fifteen years ago. Nicholas was just thirteen then. Henry, Lord Aldford, was a good man, and he was not sorry that his mother had chosen as she had. His half-sisters, twin girls named Clarissa and Marcia, were among his favorite people in the world, though he wasn't sure he was looking forward to their noisy giggles and banter now that he was so tired.

The butler let him in as soon as he strode up the stairs, and, once inside, Nicholas headed up the carpeted stairs to the drawing room. There, he found himself greeted with the shrieks of two young girls.

"Nicholas! You're here!" Clarissa yelled excitedly, running to embrace him.

"You got here! Was the traffic terrible?" Marcia asked, staring up at him with wide blue eyes.

Nicholas smiled at his sisters fondly as he hugged them. They were young, and looked identical in the opinion of everyone who met them for the first time, though Nicholas had always thought they looked quite different. He squeezed them close, the light floral and lavender of their perfumes overpowering his nostrils. Their blonde heads of hair pressed against his shoulders. He grinned and bowed as his mother appeared, extricating himself gently from his sisters' embraces.

"Clarissa. Marcia. Lovely to see you," he addressed them warmly. "Now, if I might, I'd like to get this wet coat off." He hadn't even paused at the door to let the butler take his things but had hurried immediately upstairs. His sisters grinned at him warmly.

"You're soaking," Clarissa told him, her nose wrinkling. Marcia chuckled.

"It's raining, so we can't expect him not to be."

"There are such things as oilskin coats nowadays," Clarissa said loftily.

Nicholas chuckled. He felt his mood lift as he passed the coat and hat to the butler and settled down in a big leather-backed chair.

"I had to hurry," he explained. "As it is, I had to wake up early to avoid the early morning crowds at the marketplace."

"How horrid," Clarissa opined.

Nicholas laughed.

"Nicholas. Son," his mother greeted him warmly as she embraced him, and Nicholas held her tight against him. With the same wavy blonde hair as his sisters—albeit now gray-spangled—and large pale blue eyes, his mother was a gentle, lovely presence in his life. "So good that you're here."

"I'm glad to be here," Nicholas breathed thankfully. He shook Henry's hand. His stepfather, Henry Dartnell, was a good man. He had a squarish face and a thin-lipped mouth that nonetheless seemed made for grinning. He shook Nicholas' hand enthusiastically.

"Come and sit down for some breakfast, eh?" Henry offered. "You must be chilled through. Dash that rain."

"Henry," Mama said in gentle reproach.

"Papa's swearing," Clarissa teased.

"He knows it's rude," her sister added gently.

Mama looked at them fondly. "Let's go to the breakfast-room, girls," she said caringly. "Nicholas wants to sit down too. And I'm sure he'll be pleased to tell us about the ball he attended. He'll be pleased to hear all about the ball that you attended at Lady Amerhurst's last night too."

"Oh! Yes! The ball! It was so diverting," Clarissa breathed excitedly.

"It was charming. The music was excellent," Marcia told him softly.

Nicholas grinned, listening as the girls detailed their evening, replete with descriptions of dresses and who danced which dance. His head was pounding after their lively banter, and he gratefully accepted a cup of tea as his mother poured him one.

"How are you, Nicholas my dear?"

Nicholas sighed. He didn't want to tell them, as all he had were complaints and general discontent to share. Grandfather, Lord Lockwood, had insisted that Nicholas attend Lady Cobham's ball, and not Lady Amerhurst's with the family, since Lady Cobham's was more exclusive, and he had a higher chance of finding what Grandfather deemed "a suitable match." He longed to complain to his mother, but he didn't want to spoil everyone's mood. He touched his scar, feeling a pain there. When he was tense it ached.

"I'm well, Mama," he said softly.

"Good, son," she murmured.

"I say, Nicholas! Any chance of accompanying me on a ride?" Henry asked.

Nicholas tilted his head, listening to how Henry described a ride to the nearby estate of a friend and fellow investor. The man lived close to London, about two miles out of the city, and the ride sounded rather diverting to Nicholas, but he knew he wouldn't have much time—Grandfather was doubtless enrolling him in a dozen dances and salons to attend.

"I'm not certain I'll be able to go riding this week," he told Henry carefully. He saw his mother studying him and he felt oddly relieved. She clearly knew something was bothering him.

When Henry and his sisters had eaten breakfast and his sisters were ensconced in the drawing-room, his mother came over to stand by the window with Nicholas.

"I can see something weighs on your mind, son," she said gently.

Nicholas sighed. He knew there was no good to be had in hiding things from his mother. She already guessed something was wrong, and if he didn't tell her, she'd make guesses until she figured out the truth anyway. "It's Grandfather, Mama," he said softly.

His mother inclined her head. "I know. He has always been a strong character." She sighed. "He was hard on your father...not letting him have his own mind on anything."

Nicholas nodded. "I imagine," he said quietly. His heart ached as, without warning, an image of his father slipped into his mind. He recalled a sharp, bright face with an angular chin and dark eyes. His father had brown hair and his eyes were brown too and his smile had lit the world. A riding-accident had been so typical, in some ways—Father had loved life, and tried to fill up every day with work and play and family.

I wish you were here.

He bit his lip. His father had been a strong, fun, bright presence in his life and when he passed on, Nicholas' life had been made so much darker. His father had been one of the few people he could confide in and who understood everything about him, including his shame about his scar. Father had always said it meant nothing, that most people would look past it and that he could be grateful, because the scar sorted the good from the bad just by their reaction to it.

He gazed at his mother. She inclined her head, seeming to guess his thoughts.

"I know. He was a great man. But you have some similarities to Lucas, you know."

Nicholas shook his head. His father was unlike everyone, especially unlike himself. "I am not like him, Mama."

"You're as stubborn," she said with a chuckle.

Nicholas grinned. "Nobody, Mama—nobody in this world—is as stubborn as Papa was."

His mother laughed. "You're right, son."

Nicholas smiled at her and linked his arm through hers as they went through to the drawing room to join his sisters.

"I must return home," he said gently as his mother settled on the chaise-longue. "I assured Grandfather that I would be back to meet about the accounts."

"You can stay a bit longer," Clarissa said insistently.

"At least play cards with us," Marcia pleaded.

"I'd love to, sisters," Nicholas said gently. "But I must get back. Grandfather is disagreeable sometimes, and I don't want him to be irritable."

"No! Grandfather can be horridly irritable."

Nicholas laughed. Clarissa was right. He bowed to Mama. "I must excuse myself."

"I will see you soon, son," she murmured softly.

Nicholas hugged his sisters, kissed his mother on the cheek and hurried downstairs. His coat and hat were wet, and he shivered as he drew the coat on, then went to wait for the coach.

They sped through the streets, which were much less crowded at that time, and arrived at Lockwood House promptly at eleven o' clock.

"You're late," Grandfather complained as Nicholas strode into the townhouse.

"No, I'm not," Nicholas said quite calmly. He held his grandfather's gaze. At least fifty years his senior, Grandfather was tall and square-jawed and still possessed of a formidable strength of presence. He stood straight-backed, just as he must have on the parade-ground with the military, his white mustache bright against his slightly red-tinged face. His dark eyes—darker than Father's ever were—held Nicholas' gaze stiffly.

"You are," Grandfather retorted, turning towards the stairs. "But enough bickering. I need to speak to you in the study."

"Yes, Grandfather," Nicholas murmured. He followed the older man upstairs to the study.

"Now, Grandson of mine," Grandfather began firmly. "You cannot be in any doubt as to why I have to speak with you. This matter of the succession is urgent. I wish to see heirs before I pass away. And I'm not young anymore, you know." He coughed and Nicholas felt a fleeting compassion for him. Grandfather had a bad cough, was prone to anger and his knee pained him terribly. But his compassion couldn't quell the frustration at his grandfather's comment.

"I can't just produce sons on demand, Grandfather," he said mildly.

"I'm quite aware of that. That's enough rudeness from you, young man." Grandfather fixed him with an angry glare. Nicholas felt his own anger increase.

I'm eight-and-twenty, he wanted to shout. I'm not a child. Father never treated me like that, even when I was a child.

"What do you wish for me to do?" he asked instead.

"I wish for you to attend balls and parties and find a future countess by the end of this Season. As it happens, I have some ideas for you."

"What?" Nicholas yelled, then colored, not wanting to lose his temper and let Grandfather have the satisfaction of getting under his guard again. "What exactly do you mean?" he asked more calmly.

"I mean," Grandfather said with a firm look in his direction, "that you've wasted enough time choosing, and it's time that I made the choice for you."

The pain in his head that had been there all afternoon, grew, pressing in on his sight. His grandfather couldn't mean what he'd just said. He just couldn't. But Nicholas knew him well enough to believe him capable of anything. He'd made a choice for him already—Nicholas could hear it in his voice. It was typical, and all Nicholas could do was fight him on it at the first chance he had.