Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

WHERE A HELLION WONDERS HOW TO CHANGE HER IMAGE

N igel Streeter wasn’t ever going to notice her.

Too young. Too foolish. Too rash. Silly. Senseless. Cheerful. She’d heard it all.

Bella raised her spoon and stared at her distorted reflection in the polished silver. Perhaps he liked dark hair. That countess he’d bandied about last year had strands the color of coal dust while Bella’s was the dull color of wheat. Although it was thick and had the slightest hint of curl to keep things interesting. It was always escaping its confines, and once, when they were children, Nigel had wrapped a muddy strand around his scarred finger and given it a tug.

Sighing, Bella popped the utensil onto her plate, then murmured an apology to the guests assembled around the table. One thing was certain. She hadn’t inherited her father’s devious streak and her mother’s intractability for nothing. She’d been raised on stories about Pippa Darlington fighting for Xander Macauley.

And winning.

The notion of continuing this tradition into the next generation seemed a worthy goal to her.

Her mother held monthly dinners for the Leighton Cluster, as her extended family had been called since, well—Bella gave an internal shrug—forever. Of course, the moniker coming from the close-knit relationship to the Duke of Leighton. The original group, although it was hard to get everyone together at one sitting these days, included two dukes, a viscount’s bastard, an earl, her father, Xander Macauley (the earl’s half brother), one of the most famous writers in England, and a man rumored to be a former agent for the Crown. And their wives. And pets.

And now, their children.

Lots and lots of children.

Bella had grown up surrounded by family and friends. Adventures. Frank discussions. Freedom rarely afforded women. Tutors providing a robust, if superfluous, education.

She’d sailed on the Countess of Leighton’s ships. Helped her mother, Pippa, liberate young men and women from dismal conditions in rookery workhouses. Gazed through the Earl of Stanford’s telescopes on many a starry night. Attended book readings for Dash Campbell, her father’s protégé and partner in their whisky distilleries, among other enterprises. She’d sorted igneous rocks with the Duke of Mercer for his collection at the British Museum. Debated with Hildegard Streeter about matrimony and equality. Broken up scuffles—oh, so many brawls—amongst the men.

The one thing she hadn’t done was kiss Nigel Streeter.

Bella propped her chin on her fist and drew a circle in her gravy with her pinkie. When he’d snatched her tumbler away in the Devil’s Lair gallery, her knees had gone soft as bread fresh from the oven. His moodiness vexed her even as it drew her like a moth to candlelight. The moment had spun out, a fantasy. She’d never realized his eyes were not truly a deep shade of brown but a more molten gold with flecks of amber running throughout.

It had been one week since then, and she’d thought of little else. Dreamed of little else.

After all, it was the closest the man had come to actually touching her.

Except for the hair-tugging incident in the summer of 1836.

Her gaze drifted across the dining table and two seats to the left until she located him. Casually, as if it wasn’t of the utmost importance that she fulfilled her desire to do so. As usual, Nigel wore a slightly bewildered expression that stated he wasn’t sure he belonged in this familial group. Then he laughed at something his brother, Worth, said, his teeth flashing in the chandelier’s champagne glow, and her blood sizzled in her veins.

Even if she didn’t like him some days, he was an incredibly attractive man. Tall, broad of shoulder, lean of hip. A chiseled jaw not unlike one on an ancient Greek. His skin had an olive tone that she thought made him look a little sinister. A pirate or a Romani, like his father, Tobias. Women giggled and made simpering fools of themselves trying to gain his attention, partly because he appeared not to care. She’d seen it happen a hundred times. Ignored it when she could and punched her pillow into submission the nights she couldn’t.

Because, above any arguments she posed with herself, seeing Nigel Streeter made her heart trip. Across a ballroom, a dinner table, a lawn, any brief glance and there went her breath, racing from her lungs. She longed to trace the scars on his hands, and she’d finally noted just this week, the ones on his feet.

More than his good looks, the lingering sadness swirling about him struck her. Every. Blessed. Time.

An aching need to comfort that she couldn’t explain.

Not to mention the new sensation that had begun to settle between her thighs, what she could only describe as a raging fever in a very private area. Nigel was the lone man to make her feel this way—when she’d been kissed five times with varying degrees of enjoyment.

It was the type of gut reaction a girl raised to think for herself rarely ignored.

“Arabella has another admirer. Woo-hoo, I hear wedding bells!”

Bella glanced down the table at her brother, Tate. He was grinning, a fleck of potato caught in the corner of his mouth. Although she loved him dearly, she couldn’t wait for this charming stage of adolescence to end. “Whatever are you going on about, you toad.”

He shoveled in another spoonful of food, laughter bubbling from his throat. He’d gotten their mother’s moss-green eyes, and they flashed with amusement. “Did you see the roses in the foyer? Gobs of red and white. That silly nob Ambrose sent them over just before supper.”

“Tate Macauley,” her mother, Pippa, said and rapped his fingers with her butter knife, “you’re trying my patience today.”

Tate cradled his hand against his chest. “I didn’t mean to break it. The ball got away from me, and that ugly vase was sitting right in its path.”

Her father, Xander, cleared his throat, which meant business. “What’s this about flowers? And who the bloody hell is Ambrose?”

“Lord Marcus Ambrose. He’s the second son of the Marquess of Derring. Word is he’s on a hunt for a fortune to save his estate in Kent. The older son is going through blunt like he’s on a royal assignment, as the marquess apparently taught him to. I’ve had to boot both of them from the gaming hell twice this month.”

All gazes swiveled to Nigel as he rarely voiced anything resembling gossip.

“My Bell isn’t old enough to be courted,” Xander murmured in a tone that held the lethal edge of a blade. “The dolt should talk to me first before sending gifts. Only proper to get the father’s approval, innit?”

Bella frowned. “Papa, please.”

Her father winked, his tender smile the thing that had made her glow since she was a little girl. “Precious daughter, listen to the wise one at this table.”

Shifting her attention, Bella stared until Nigel had no choice but to catch her eye. And there, deeply embedded amidst shades of gold, was a sliver of… annoyance.

Confused, she sat back until the chair’s flat wooden slates pressed into her spine. Could this be the feminine power her mother had told her about? When a man was interested but didn’t want to be? Nigel had seemed plausibly attracted to her at the Devil’s Lair.

Or perhaps that was merely the same exasperation she always generated in him.

She decided to test the theory.

Smoothing her hand down her bodice, she flushed when his gaze tracked the move. “I’m twenty-one, Papa. Twenty- two the day before Christmas. Old enough for a suitor. Or three.”

Nigel lifted his glass to his lips, his expression not altering a whit. “Ambrose tumbled off his mount at Eton. Every damned time he tried. It was sad, actually.” He sipped, his neck pulling as he swallowed. “You know what they say about men who can’t ride.”

Xander laughed and cut into his roasted duck with enough force to crack his plate. “I won’t have a toff who needs funds and can’t ride a bloody horse going after my little girl. Strike that swell off the list.” He held up his knife, staring intently at the utensil. “In fact, burn the list with the bleeding roses. We’ll not need the Duchess Society for this match.”

Her mother, Pippa, glanced between her and Nigel with a reflective hum. Lightly, she kicked Bella’s ankle beneath the table. “Lord Marcus is quite charming in a”—Pippa drew a circle in the air with her fork—“staid, aristocratic sort of manner. He’s rather pedestrian, certainly, but who’s to say what attracts a young lady these days? And darling, Bella is only a year or so younger than I was when—”

“Stop it, luv,” Xander whispered, though his eyes were dewy.

Bella exhaled in a huff. Now, her parents would whisper in their secret language and hold hands underneath the table, then neglect to join the party in the parlor for after-dinner refreshments. Their routine disappearing act.

“Don’t forget, Lord Marcus is only twenty-four or so himself,” Bella added with a sly look sent in Nigel’s direction. “Quite acceptable.”

Nigel’s lips held the beginning of a frown before he tipped his head in acknowledgement of their age disparity. Then the disconnectedness that seemed a part of him settled into place.

Leaving Bella with the stinging sensation she’d overplayed her hand.

Nigel felt his father’s presence before the man the ton had once called the Rogue King of Limehouse Basin stepped out of the veranda’s dense shadows and into the frigid moonlit night. Tobias Streeter halted at the balustrade, hip to hip with his son. Digging in his waistcoat pocket, he offered a bamboo toothpick without comment.

With a half shrug, Nigel extinguished his cheroot on the railing’s rough stone. Taking the toothpick, he slipped it between his teeth. “It’s not a habit, Toby. Occasional smoke is all.”

Tobias sighed, his own toothpick bobbing. His black hair had gone completely gray two years ago, but it was as thick as ever, adding a striking elegance to his looks. “Toby, is it? So, we’re there today.” Searching his coat pocket this time, he located his flask. His wife, Hildy, had given it to him on their first anniversary, and he carried it everywhere. Nigel glanced at the dented silver etched with the initial S surrounded by a circle of hearts, thinking it spoke perfectly of his parents’ marriage. “What happened? And may I remind you to never, ever call your mother Hildy again. The shawl you gave her did make up for it, but we don’t want a repeat of the tears.”

Properly chastised, Nigel took the metal canister and lifted it to his lips. Among other ventures, his family produced the finest whisky outside Scotland, and it flowed down his throat in a soothing flood. He wanted to say nothing had happened… but his father knew him better than any person on earth. Better some days than he knew himself. “Down by the docks today, I ran into Coop Andrews, a lad from the workhouse.”

“Ah,” Tobias said. Nothing more. Not a push. Just an offer to listen, as always.

Nigel scrubbed his fist over his lips, hoping to take away the sting that was deep, deep in his heart. “He looked ten years older than me, maybe more. Life lived on the hard road. I was terrified to tell him, when he asked, that I was purchasing a terrace in Belgravia. One that my father designed. That I managed the most successful gaming den in London. Leaving me able to buy a bigger manse than I know what to do with. And another friend from those days, well, they found him washed up on the riverbank last month.” He took another sip, the alcohol blending nicely with the wine he’d consumed at dinner. “That could have been me if not for you. Either of those scenarios if I’d made it this long at all.”

Tobias held his hand out, took the flask, and drank deeply .

Nigel knew his family worried about the difficulty he had escaping his past. He’d grown up with love, siblings, animals, wealth. A fine education. Travel. However, the eleven years before that were burned into his skin like the memories had been branded. Those dismal days were a part of him. Dinners like these, surrounded by happiness and fine china and laughter, made him feel like a stray mutt tossed in for charitable measure. By God, he didn’t know his birthday or even his real name.

Nigel had sounded good to a boy shivering on a damp orphanage mattress in the middle of winter.

Tobias leveled his shoulders, preparing for battle. “Are we going to have this argument again? My family is comprised completely of circumstance and fate, Son. Don’t think the slice of blue blood from a viscount, who tossed aside a Romani boy he sired, brings me any higher than you. Because it doesn’t. And your mother’s father, a lofty earl, was a nightmare in every way. He left her with nothing but dismal memories.”

“I don’t think it’s in my future to have what you have with her. I seem to possess a gift for brief associations. Like mist, emotion that evaporates quickly and leaves no trace.”

Tobias tapped the flask against the balustrade. “I wanted Hildy more than I wanted grief or guilt or any of the emotions that would have kept me from taking her. From letting her take me. Because I didn’t belong in a place that she didn’t want to belong meant nothing compared to what we gained. If you find someone, don’t let them slip away because of your exclusion from bloody Debrett’s .” Tobias laughed, a cunning sound that told Nigel his father thought he knew something that no one else did. “Or age. Don’t let that hold you up, either.”

“ Christ , can’t this family leave matchmaking behind for one second?”

Tobias turned to him, stunned. “I’m no bloody matchmaker. That’s your mother.” He extended the flask, giving Nigel the final draught. “The girl gazes at you like Pippa gazed at Xander back in the day. Frightening, the resemblance and the determination. The Macauley grays staring back at you. And you see how that gambit turned out. Wrapped around Pippa’s finger, Xander is. Still . ”

“They’re not the only ones. You and mother are…” Nigel gestured, not willing to admit what his parents were.

As in love as any couple he’d ever seen, that’s what.

Which was part of his problem, the ideal examples Nigel was up against.

Tobias chewed thoughtfully on his toothpick. “You could do worse, much worse. Arabella is lovely and spirited. Intelligent. A daredevil since she was in leading strings. You’d have to deal with her hellion of a father as yours by marriage, but you already hold him there, in your heart. Thankfully, her mother is wonderful.”

Nigel squinted into the narrow mouth of the flask. “She stopped by the Devil’s Lair last week. In need of rescue.”

Tobias stilled, his exhalation piercing the night. Nigel was thrilled to leave his father speechless for once. “Well, well,” he finally murmured. “Checkmate.”

Nigel recapped the canister and passed it back to his father. “It wasn’t like that. Her companion, that giddy chit with the flaming red hair who talks nonstop, ran off with Gadsby. Arabella was merely giving them enough time to make it to Gretna before alerting anyone. She needed somewhere to hold for the evening, then an escort home.”

Tobias snorted, unconvinced. “And she came to you, did she?”

“Well, yes, but…”

Tobias hummed a response that only served to vex Nigel.

“Her brothers were otherwise engaged, and she couldn’t very well return home without a chaperone. We snuck into the domestics’ entrance—you know that lock isn’t worth shite—and that was that. I didn’t lay so much as a finger on the girl.”

His father chewed on his toothpick to keep from laughing. Nigel recognized this trick.

“I’ll repeat, it isn’t like that.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Tobias agreed, staring at the sky rather than meeting his son’s gaze.

“She smiles all the time, Papa, the most unburdened woman in England. Who could deal with that upon waking every day? A ray of sunshine lighting up the room. And you said not to think of it, but I am ten years older. ”

“Eleven,” Tobais murmured, his breath fogging the air.

Nigel knocked the toe of his boot against the balustrade, scuffing the pristinely polished leather. “Exactly!”

“You’ve made your own choices, and I let you make them. Even if they ended up being mistakes, I let you. Because that’s what parents do. We make mistakes right along with our children. Someday, you’ll see how hard it is.” He bumped Nigel’s shoulder with his. “Out of all the enterprises we have, the distilleries, steam engine production, shipping, architecture, you chose the gaming piece of it. Since you were a boy, you’ve loved the Devil’s Lair. Fascinated would be the better word. After university, it was your decision to assume management, and you know what? You’ve tripled profits without ruining anyone in the process. We haven’t been blamed for an aristo losing his inheritance in, oh, going on seven years. And it was your idea to start purchasing cork in Tossa de Mar, which saves us thousands of pounds each year with whisky production. You earned that new home of yours, Son. Don’t talk yourself out of your victories. Or the things you deserve.”

Nigel tunneled his hand through his hair and watched a stray moonbeam dance across his arm. “What does this have to do with her ?”

“Macauley’s little girl isn’t a little girl anymore, Nigel. If she sees something in you, I suppose I’m asking you to trust her judgment. Which I consider incredibly astute myself. What could it hurt to open your mind to the thought of her?” He laughed and finally caught his son’s gaze, and a searing pulse of love rippled through Nigel. “Maybe some of her happiness will rub off on you. Hildy’s did on me. I was almost as bad-tempered as you when I met her.”

He paused just long enough to make it seem as if he hadn’t thought of this himself. “I’ll consider it.” And he would.

Because he’d wanted to kiss her in the gallery last week, his little secret.

Tobias grinned, his toothpick dipping. “Son, you would have made an excellent solicitor.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather take their money at the tables.” Then he glanced at the sky alongside the man who’d given him everything.