How to Tame a Lady. Кейси Майклс
firmly how necessary it is at all times to watch against the attempted encroachment of power, and to prevent its running to excess. Shall I read you his exact words?”
Nicole bit back a smile. “No, I think I understand his point. Lydia, far be it from me to declare myself a scholar, but you do realize that your Mr. Paine could be thought by some to be fomenting revolution and the overthrowing of governments, don’t you?”
“I choose to think he is only warning us to always remain vigilant,” her sister said, closing the book once more. “But I suppose you could be right. That’s what America did to us, and France did to its king.”
Nicole put down her comb. “Nobody is going to do that here, if that’s what this is all about. We have a good king.”
“Do we, Nicole? Then why did I find this in my maid’s apron pocket when I went searching for the button she promised to sew back onto my blue pelisse? Which is why I’m reading Mr. Paine’s warnings.”
So saying, Lydia took a much-folded broadsheet from her own pocket and handed it to Nicole, who first looked to her sister, and then to the poorly printed call for everyone to join the “Citizens for Justice” and to “take up arms against an oppressive government determin’d to starve our children and screw honest men into the ground.”
She quickly read the rest, and could see why Lydia might be alarmed. “And you found this in your maid’s apron?”
Lydia nodded. “I’m going to show it to Rafe tomorrow. He may know what it all means. Revolution is terrible, Nicole, even when it is necessary. And it isn’t all that far-fetched, you know. It happened here.”
“I remember from our lessons, yes,” Nicole said, more concerned by the broadsheet than she’d allow Lydia to see. “But do you really think that—”
“Oh. Oh, no, I suppose not. Not when I say it all out loud. And I know you’re not interested, in any event. I…I wish Captain Fitzgerald could be here. He’d know just what to say to me.”
Nicole winced inwardly. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested, Lydia. Or do you think I’m selfish, and care only for myself? That I couldn’t be concerned about oppressed classes or whoever it is who raise these revolutions? Because that’s not fair, Lydia, it really isn’t.”
Her sister was quick to agree, perhaps too quick to agree, and Nicole wondered if everyone saw her as shallow and more concerned with enjoying herself than she was with anything or anyone else. Was that the price a person had to pay for preferring a life without complications? Besides, was selfishness really a crime, if you were only selfish about protecting yourself?
Yes, she supposed many would see it that way. The conclusion didn’t sit well with her.
“Nicole? Don’t pout. I didn’t mean to say you aren’t the best of sisters, humoring me when I turn bluestocking, as Mama calls it each time she sees me with a book. If it were up to her, neither of us would have any conversation above commenting on the weather, as if anyone could say more than that they wished the rain would go away and the sun come back.”
Delighted to have any awkwardness passed over so easily, Nicole changed the subject—to the one she’d attempted to broach a full ten minutes earlier. “What made you invite the marquess and the viscount to dinner tonight, Lydia? Not that I wasn’t delighted down to my toes, but it was so unlike you.”
Lydia got to her feet after glancing at the mantel clock and seeing the hour. “Yes, it was, wasn’t it? I have no idea why I did that. Except that I believed I could sense that you wished to see the marquess again. It was no secret that he wishes to see you again. There’s never been a man who has seen you and not longed for more.”
“More what, Lydia?” Nicole teased, although inwardly, her stomach was doing a series of small flips. “So you saw it, too? The marquess’s interest, that is?”
“I did, the poor flustered Viscount Yalding did. You did, and then purposely set out to torment the man.”
Had she done that? Nicole didn’t wish to admit it, but she could barely recall a word she’d said to the marquess. She’d been much too busy simply looking at him.
“Do you plan his to be the first heart you break while we’re here?”
Nicole slipped her hands beneath her hair and lifted it up from her nape, piling it all on top of her head for a moment before allowing the heavy mass of waves to fall once more, shaking her head so that it tumbled free all around her face and shoulders. With any luck, Lydia would watch the gesture, and not pay attention to the flash of uncertainty her words had undoubtedly sent into her sister’s eyes. She had been doing her best all afternoon to not think about the Marquess of Basingstoke and his unexpected effect on her.
“Truth, Lydia? I had selected the Duke of Malvern for my initial conquest. After all, Rafe is friends with him, and the man has already met us, knows us. And there’s no denying how handsome the duke is. He seemed perfect for me to practice on.”
Lydia fairly leaped to her feet, her cheeks suddenly ashen. “The Duke of Malvern? Nicole, no! He’s the most loathsome creature alive. How could you even consider such a thing? I don’t think I want to talk about your silly plans anymore. I’m going to take a nap.”
Nicole wanted to kick herself for forgetting, even for a moment, the duke’s effect on her sister, that to Lydia he was a living reminder of everything she had lost. She could lay the blame for that lapse on the Marquess of Basingstoke, who seemed to muddle her brains every time she thought about him and their short but singular exchange that afternoon.
“Lydia, wait—” she said, but her sister had already run toward the connecting door between their bedchambers.
“How can I be so stupid!” Nicole berated herself, sinking back onto the low dressing table bench and dropping her chin into her hands as she contemplated her reflection. “I’ll have to apologize later. Perhaps offer to accompany her to Hatchard’s Book Repository again, and stand about for hours while she oohs and aahs over every other volume. Heaven knows that’s penance enough.”
That decided, she tipped her head to one side, wondering what it was that the Marquess of Basingstoke had seen when he’d looked at her that had seemingly upset him so much. Her eyes? Even she thought they were a pretty color, as well as unusual. Nicole liked to think of herself as unusual, singular.
She didn’t think he’d necessarily been put off by her freckles, the bane of her existence, especially since her mama, when she deigned to notice her daughters at all, had begun insisting Nicole spread crushed strawberries and clotted cream on them twice a week.
Yet if she had to choose between skin as creamy and blemish-free as Lydia’s and the freedom of riding Juliet across the fields of Ashurst Hall sans a hat, with the wind blowing her hair, well, she’d learn to live with the spots, and so would everyone else.
Although if she could rid herself of the childish habit of biting her bottom lip whenever she felt unsure of herself she would be happier, as it didn’t exactly seem the sort of thing polished London debutantes did.
In any case, the marquess had thought her attractive, she wasn’t such a ninny that she didn’t know that. And he was handsome, and sophisticated, very much a London gentleman, which was quite exciting. He’d make a delicious first conquest.
Unless he thought her vain, and stupid. Frivolous.
“Stop that!” she told herself. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks of you. You’re here to enjoy yourself, not to end up like Lydia.”
Still, before she rang for Renée to have a bath prepared for her, Nicole picked up the slim volume her sister had left behind and sat down on the slipper chair, hoping to improve her mind.
LUCAS STOPPED JUST INSIDE the doors of the drawing room in Grosvenor Square and said quietly, “Well, damn me for a fool. She said Rafael, didn’t she? Captain Rafe Daughtry. Of course.”
Rafael