“What aren’t you telling me, Leah?” Nick’s tone was pleasant, a gentleman escorting a lady on a casual ramble by the duck pond on a spring day.

She wasn’t telling him she was scared nigh to death, wasn’t telling him she needed his embrace with a desperation that qualified as pathetic.

“Wilton’s getting worse, Nick. He no longer seems to care what befalls me or who learns of it.”

Nick’s hand closed over hers in a warm, reassuring squeeze. “In two days’ time, you’ll be ensconced at Clover Down. Because I must away to Belle Maison, my brother Ethan will escort you, and you can pry all my boyhood secrets from him. We were incorrigible, of course…”

She let the soothing patter of his voice wash over her, let herself believe that a week in the country would work some miracle where Wilton was concerned. She also let Nick draw her once again into the privacy of the willow bower on the far side of the pond.

“You are pale, lovey,” Nick said, wrapping his arms around her. “Your eyes are haunted, and fatigue shows around your mouth.” He bent his head and brushed his lips over that mouth. “You must not fret. All will be well.”

When he held her like this, Leah could believe it—Nicholas seemed to believe it, but then, his father hadn’t murdered his betrothed, and all but promised to deliver him, bound hand and foot, into a life of abject depravity.

She let herself cling to him for just a few more minutes, storing up the sandalwood scent of him, the heat of his tall body, the solid muscles enveloping her, and then she forced herself to step away.

“For two more days, I can manage, Nicholas. I’m not usually inclined to such dramatics.”

The look he gave her was searching, far more serious than his usual genial expression. Meeting his gaze, Leah was struck in a whole different way with how very attractive he was, and how male. The woman he married had best guard her heart and guard it well.

The breeze stirred, teasing a lock of blond hair across Nick’s brow. They were still in the sheltering embrace of the willow branches, so Leah allowed herself to smooth that errant lock back into place.

“Two days, lovey, and then Ethan and Lady Warne will kidnap you from your tower. Wilton won’t risk anything drastic when he knows you’re expected by a dowager marchioness at week’s end. Be strong for two more days.”

He kissed her again, a sound smack on the lips. One of his kisses for courage—though what did it say about her, that she was starting to catalogue the kisses of a man whom she had no intention of marrying?

Six

It nearly killed Nick to leave Clover Down without stopping in at Blossom Court, but he’d learned years ago that Leonie was a creature of routine. She loved him, and he loved her, but that meant he loved her enough that if she wasn’t expecting him, he could no longer disturb her peace by just dropping by.

When he did reach his father’s side, he was glad he hadn’t tarried on the way.

“What took you so infernally long to get here, boy?” Bellefonte’s voice had lost volume but not bite, Nick noted as he mentally armored himself for this interview.

“One doesn’t leave Town in the middle of the Season without having to send out regrets, confer with solicitors, and make other arrangements.” He met his father’s gaze, but it was an effort. The old man was losing ground, and that, not the earl’s temper, his displeasure, or his infernal meddling, was what bothered Nick most.

I’m losing him. Nick wandered around the overly warm, camphor-and-books-scented study, the better to avoid looking at his father. We’re losing him. Nick would never again be a little boy who could throw himself into his father’s arms and feel small and protected, knowing a robust, if irascible, father would defeat all demons and slay all dragons.

“Perhaps one doesn’t.” The earl’s scowl eased. “You’re too skinny, Reston.”

“Too much dancing.”

“Not enough dancing. You’ve brought me no sweet young thing for my approval.”

“I’m considering a few possibilities,” Nick said, “but I figure you’re too stubborn to die until I find the right lady, so there is no real hurry.”

“Cheeky.” The earl grinned fleetingly. “You get that from me, but don’t be too cocky, my boy.”

“Of course not.” Nick nodded graciously and forced himself to take a seat opposite the desk that now seemed to dwarf its owner. “I want this marriage business over with probably more than you do.”

The grin evaporated. “You don’t make sense. Of all my lusty boys, you are the lustiest of the lot. Word is you’ll swive anything in skirts—unlike your nancy brother, George, by the way—so what’s the delay in finding a countess?”

“In the first place,” Nick said pleasantly, “I do not swive anything in skirts, but am, rather, very choosy about my partners. In the second place, keep your beak out of my personal business, or I’ll dawdle until June to make a selection and let her choose the wedding date. In the third place, not just any woman could take on the family you’ve created, my lord, much less your rather generously proportioned heir.”

The earl waved a bony, mottled hand. “Marry some bovine parson’s daughter, my boy. You know I believe in the occasional outcross.”

“I will consider that advice,” Nick said, his tone somewhere between bored and pleasant.

“See that you do,” Bellefonte snapped. “This dying business is tedious, young man. I do not relish becoming an ugly, odoriferous old stick, and I would be done with it sooner rather than later. Your dithering wears on me, sir.”

Nick suffered that hit, as it hid a genuine plea for haste and for understanding.

“So how fare you, Father?” Nick asked, all hint of posturing gone.

Bellefonte smiled thinly. “I do not suffer, particularly, except that indignities bring a pain all their own. I am not bedridden yet, though, so you have some time. I truly do wish only to see you happy.”

“One would never accuse you of having any other motivation,” Nick drawled, returning the smile.

“And as to that brother of yours…” Bellefonte shoved the momentary sentimentality aside with another dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m going to formally acknowledge him.”

Nick went still, not having seen this pronouncement coming.

“You haven’t told Ethan,” Nick surmised. “Don’t expect me to tell him. This is between the two of you.”

“Don’t preach to me, Nicholas. I know how to deal with my own children.”

“By sending them all away,” Nick said. “You wanted to spare them the ordeal of watching your decline.” A final, poignant display of patriarchal kindness.

“And spare myself the pleasure of being watched as I decline,” the earl added. “I’ve unfinished business with you and your brother.”

Your brother, Nick noted, meant Ethan, as if those other three young men were something else.

“So finish it.” Nick fell silent, waiting and wondering what in the world his father had to say to him. In recent years, they’d gotten better at bickering, taunting, and insulting their way through difficult matters, such that what needed discussion was in some-wise discussed. So what did that leave?

“I owe you and Ethan an apology,” the earl said, spearing Nick with a glare. “I was wrong to separate you all those years ago, and more wrong for how I went about it.”

“Apology accepted,” Nick heard himself say, though inside, in his chest, his vitals, his brain, a shivery feeling came over him. “Will you be joining us for dinner? I’ve brought one of Moreland’s sons with me from Town.”

“Bother that.” Bellefonte rummaged in a drawer of the desk. “My hands shake so badly, eating is no longer pretty, if it ever was.”

“You had exquisite manners,” Nick said softly, knowing his own delicacy at table was gained by following his father’s example. “Is this why you’re turning into a shadow?”

The old man banged the drawer shut. “Assuredly not. It’s because I’m fretting over the succession, you insolent, thoughtless, self-centered puppy.”

Only his father had ever called him a puppy and managed to make him feel like one.

“Of course.” Nick rose, his smile genuine. “Then you won’t mind if I have a word with Nita and the cooks regarding your menus.”

“Listen, pup.” The earl struggled to rise, and Nick let him. Pure cussedness got the old man to his feet, and love of a good scrap had him leaning over the desk, bracing himself on gnarled knuckles. “You will not go telling Cookie to feed me beef tea through a damned straw. The day I can’t chew my own food is the day I stop eating.”

Nick’s smile broadened, knowing his father’s display of temper had been for his benefit. He sidled around the desk and bent to kiss his father’s cheek.

“I love you too, Papa,” he said before sauntering off, knowing the earl was grinning like a lunatic at his retreating back. Over his shoulder, Nick called, “And see that you finish your pudding. I have my spies too, and locating a worthy countess may yet take some time.”

* * *

“You sent for me?” Leah joined Nick in his study at the back of the Clover Down manor house, trying not to let her anxiety show. She’d left the door open, of course, but when Nick silently padded across the room and closed it, the anxiety she’d carried with her everywhere of late congealed low in her belly.

Since his arrival the previous night, he’d been distracted and distant, though never rude. As much as she studied him, as carefully as she’d tried to pry details from Mr. Grey or Lord Valentine, Nick’s present mood was a mystery to her.