Chapter 9

The springtime air was cool and smelled damp. Nicholas, standing on the steps outside the Rothendale townhouse, paced nervously. Each second that the butler took in getting there was making him more intimidated. He stepped from one foot to the other. His collar felt itchy, and he wanted to flee.

"My lord?" The butler sounded surprised as he opened the door.

"Lord Blackburne, here to escort Miss Rowland to the theatre," Nicholas said formally. His throat was tight, and he coughed uncomfortably. He felt as though his shirt was too small for him and he fiddled at his cuffs feeling annoyed.

"Of course, my lord. Come in, please," the butler said, standing back and letting Nicholas inside.

He took off his hat and coat and passed them to the butler.

"Thank you," he murmured. He knew many people of his background treated servants as though they didn't exist, but he wasn't of the opinion that anyone should be overlooked. He knew too well how it felt.

"This way, my lord," the butler replied. Nicholas followed him tensely. They went to the stairs and headed towards the drawing room, but as they reached the bend in the flight of steps, they stopped. Miss Rowland was there.

She stood on the stairs. Lord and Lady Rothendale and a dark-clad woman he presumed was her chaperone were there too, but he could see only her. Her lovely honey-colored hair shone in the muted light of the lamps. Her skin glowed like petals. She looked up shyly, one hand resting lightly on the banister. A necklace of pearls glinted at her throat and the peach-colored gown she was wearing brought out the hazel glow of her eyes. She looked shy and sweet and lovely.

Her eyes met his and held them and Nicholas felt his heart stop. She smiled; a slow, hesitant, beautiful smile.

She's smiling. At me.

Nicholas rooted to the spot in shocked surprise. He gazed up at her and he was about to smile back but his courage faltered and besides, Lord and Lady Rothendale approached and he felt suddenly tense.

"Lord Blackburne. How lovely to have you visit us again. I trust you will have a pleasant evening at the play," she added, smiling at him and then at Miss Rowland.

"I trust so," Nicholas managed to say. He could barely hear anything. The smile Miss Rowland had graced him with from the stairs held all of his thoughts.

"Have a good evening, young man," Lord Rothendale said in a friendly tone. Nicholas inclined his head.

"I trust I will," he said swiftly, looking away. His gaze moved at once to Miss Rowland. She was looking at her toes again, shyly.

"Miss Rowland," he managed to say, though his throat was terribly tight, and it came out like a whisper. "I will escort you to the coach."

"Thank you, my lord," she murmured. She cleared her throat. Nicholas frowned.

Is she also nervous? he asked himself confusedly. Why would she be? She's the one who looks like everybody else; and rather better besides.

He flushed as the thought drifted into his head. Did he find her attractive? He glanced sideways at her. His heart raced, his gaze lingering on her pearly skin, her sweet, soft bow-shaped mouth and back up to her hazel eyes. Perhaps he did.

He bit his lip. He didn't want to do that. Ladies were fickle and shallow, and she'd never feel anything but loathing for him, or amused pity. Emily had only felt amused pity for him.

No. Don't think of her.

Thoughts of Emily haunted him, warning him against all interest in anyone. The recollection of her stabbed into him painfully. He saw her thin, fine-boned face, one blonde brow raised as she gave her haughty smile. She'd fallen in love with his cousin, overlooking him because of his scar. He'd believed in her protestations that she didn't notice it, but it hadn't been true. She was lying. And she had been a good woman, someone he trusted.

I can't trust her, he thought, glancing sideways at the woman who walked beside him. Just like he couldn't trust Emily.

She was looking at the floor and he wanted to smile, a bitter sort of smile. At least she wasn't pretending.

As he walked to the door with Lord and Lady Rothendale following them, the chaperone trailing behind them both, it occurred to him that she had smiled; such a friendly, welcoming smile. He pushed the thought away.

She's not to be trusted.

He took her hand, wincing at the feeling of her petal-soft skin against his gloved one. The gloves were silk, and he could feel the warmth and softness of her skin easily enough through it.

"Miss Rowland," he murmured politely as he helped her into the coach.

"Lord Blackburne."

He winced at the grip of her hand on his. Not just because he feared she might feel the scars through the fabric, but because of the heat that flooded through him at her touch.

"Thank you, my lord," she said softly as he helped her in. Her voice was low and shy. He felt the tone of it resonate inside him and drew a breath, heart thudding, mind a whirl of confused feelings.

He withdrew his hand and waited for the chaperone to slip in to sit on the seat beside her, and then he swung up and sat down.

"Ride on," he called to the coachman, doing his best to ignore the two women who sat opposite him. The chaperone was staring at him, but Miss Rowland was looking at the silk slippers on her feet as though they were the most interesting thing in the world. He looked away. He was sure she was trying to avoid staring at his scarred face and his stomach twisted sourly.

"Onward! On!" Mr. Rayden, the coachman, yelled, and the coach set off, the horses moving briskly down the street. Nicholas leaned back, turning his face away. If he looked out of the window, they could see less of the scar.

"My! Miss, it's crowded out there," the chaperone whispered. Nicholas wanted to laugh in spite of himself. It was usual for chaperones to be silent, but this one apparently felt the need to talk.

"Yes. Yes, it is," Miss Rowland whispered softly. Nicholas hid a grin. Miss Rowland was clearly a kind soul—she could have reprimanded her companion for talking when she was supposed to be silent, but instead she was trying to quiet her without reprimanding her for it.

He pushed the thought away no sooner than it arrived. Compassionate she might be, but nobody's compassion was going to extend to him. Nobody had yet succeeded in ignoring the scar, and nobody would. He had to believe that.

He couldn't let himself be fooled by anybody else.

He looked out at the streets, which were, as the chaperone commented, crowded, and tried to ignore the women who watched him covertly from across the coach. He focused out of the window, sweat trickling down his back at the thought of another two or three hours like this in the theater.

At least the actors will be talking. I don't have to.

They stopped after a few minutes and he jumped down, ready to take Miss Rowland's hand.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Nicholas tensed. He could still smell the faint scent of her that had tormented him in the coach—a floral, rosewater-like smell that set his senses swooning. He tried to ignore the feelings that swirled through him. They would only torment him worse.

She certainly didn't return them, after all.

He walked up the steps, feeling the uncomfortable sensation of people watching and looked straight ahead, trying to ignore them. Knowing that people stared at him always put him on edge. He knew they were whispering behind their hands about him. He was used to it, but he still found it hard to bear.

"Where will we sit?"

Nicholas blinked, realizing Miss Rowland was addressing him. He had become accustomed to her quietness, as she seemed to say nothing except for what was polite. He hadn't expected her to speak to him at all, and he had no answer ready.

"The box," he said at once. Seeing her confusion, he felt annoyed at himself for not explaining better. "The Lockwood family box, of course. We've owned it for decades." His voice came out angry and impatient. He winced, seeing her recoil.

"Yes, my lord," she murmured distantly.

He shut his eyes for a moment, hating himself. He hadn't meant to scare her. But then, she was already scared.

"We will reach it in a moment," he said softly, trying to make her feel less frightened.

An attendant took them up the stairs to his left, along a narrow corridor that smelled faintly of dust. They were near the top of the stairs when Miss Rowland gasped. Nicholas turned sharply, and saw that she had slipped, falling back on the uppermost step. Automatically, Nicholas reached for her, grabbed her wrist.

He dragged her forward, catching her before she fell down the stairs. He could hear her fast, frightened breaths and feel her soft skin where he gripped her lower arm. He let go, cheeks blazing, moving his hand to hers, steadying her.

"Thank you," she whispered. She clung onto his hand for a moment. Nicholas tensed, each touch like fire in his veins.

The sound of people walking up the stairs behind him made the chaperone cough. She let go of his hand and they walked onwards down the hallway. He breathed in, deeply, his mind wading through a sea of confusing feelings.

Her closeness, her breath, her scent. It was all overwhelming him. More than that, her smile—that tender, tremulous smile—confused him utterly.

He focused on the surroundings, aware of the chaperone's gaze on him. His throat was tight as they proceeded on, aching with the memories of coming here with Papa and Mama when he was a boy. He'd never particularly enjoyed plays, preferring being outdoors in nature, and the memory was painful now that Papa was no longer here. Papa had always joked and laughed, betting him sixpence that he couldn't remain still through the first act. He had usually managed, but only because of the bet. He shut his eyes for a moment, wishing that things were so easy now that he was grown up.

He walked along the hallway with Miss Rowland walking silently beside him and let out a sigh of relief as they opened the doors of the box. It had been redone in green velvet when the theater was redecorated, and it looked nothing like it was when he was a boy. That was good. Enduring the evening with the memories of his father sitting beside him would have been too much for his wits to manage.

"Here, Miss Rowland," he murmured, standing back for her. She slipped ahead of him into the seat, her soft peach skirts rustling past his leg, the scent of her in his nostrils. He breathed in, heart aching. He could not help but respond to her and she would never be able to respond to him in the same way. He sat down beside her, trying his best to ignore her presence—so soft and lovely beside him—and focused on the stage.

The gas-lamps that lit the theater glowed eerily, still brightly lit as the theatergoers arrived. When everyone was settled, they'd put the lamps a little lower—not so low as to be dark, though, or nobody would be able to see the actors on the stage. Even so, it would be a little dimmer, and he'd be sitting in the half-lit theater box with the scent of her beside him, doing his best to ignore her. The thought made his heart twist painfully.

He glanced sideways at the chaperone, who sat beside Miss Rowland on her right. She was staring rigidly at the stage, seemingly ignoring the two people she was supposed to be watching. Nicholas felt his lip lift in amusement, but it was mixed with sadness. He was not the sort of man who could steal a kiss in the theater—he would not impose on a woman like that. Even had he been unscarred, he would have hesitated—but at least then, they might welcome his kisses. His heart ached.

At least focusing on the crowd and the stage below would distract him. It was the only way he was going to manage an evening without starting to feel something for her—and he wanted to feel nothing. It was safer that way. Feelings only meant one got hurt. And that was something Nicholas was not going to allow to happen again to him.