Blackwood's Lady. Gail WhitikerЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘But a witch? Rubbish! And so I told them, for all the good it did me. Thick-headed bunch,’ he muttered as he crossed to the bell pull and gave it a tug. ‘Still, no point in standing here reminiscing; you’ve important business to get on with. Ah, Trethewy, there you are. Would you tell Lady Nicola that Lord Blackwood is here and ask her to join us?’
‘Very good, m’lord.’
When the butler had gone, Wyndham gruffly cleared his throat. ‘Sorry about that, Blackwood, didn’t mean to ramble on about my wife. It’s just that Elizabeth was very special to me. We were blessed, the two of us, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. But then, I’m sure you can understand what I’m talking about, given your father’s second marriage to Madame de Charbier. Now there was a love match if ever.’
The proffered statement—well intentioned as David felt sure it was meant to be—caused the words of condolence he had been about to offer Lord Wyndham to die on his lips, and he turned towards the window, fighting down his resentment. Stephanie de Charbier had been a beautiful young Frenchwoman who had come to England shortly after Napoleon’s banishment to Elba. The widow of an influential Parisian diplomat, she had been left a wealthy young woman, and had purchased a charming house on Green Street, where, along with a small staff brought with her from Paris, she had set about re-establishing her life.
Stephanie had been twenty years younger than his father, but her age had made no difference to either of them. They had met quite by chance at the Royal Art Gallery and had fallen in love almost immediately. They had been married a mere three weeks later.
To be fair, David had no doubt that Stephanie de Charbier had loved his father. She had not been deceitful by nature, and, given her great beauty and genteel background, he knew that she could have had her choice of any number of titled English gentlemen. Certainly enough of them had danced attendance upon her.
But it was Richard Penscott whom she had chosen. And that he’d loved her in return, David did not doubt either. One had only needed to listen to the sound of his father’s voice to know that he’d adored his beautiful French émigré. But what David had never been able to come to terms with was the fact that his father—whom he had loved and respected more than anyone else in the world—had perished because of that love. That on the day Stephanie de Charbier had died from a raging fever Richard Penscott had died too. By simply refusing to go on. By giving up on life.
That David could never forgive the young Frenchwoman for. Not even in death.
Moments later, blissfully unaware of her visitor’s agitation, Nicola walked into the room and hurried to her father’s side. ‘Good afternoon, Papa. I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, but I stayed rather longer at the stables than I meant to.’
‘You did not keep us waiting, my dear,’ Lord Wyndham assured her. ‘Lord Blackwood and I were just discussing your dear mother.’
‘Ah, then I dare say it is a good thing I came when I did, for it is a subject upon which you could converse for hours,’ Nicola said, a silvery ripple of laughter accompanying her words. ‘Good afternoon, Lord Blackwood, how very nice to see—’
The rest of the greeting came to an abrupt halt as Lord Blackwood turned and Nicola was given a glimpse of eyes that were so black, so…distant that they froze the laughter in her throat and caused her to take an involuntary step backwards. Good Lord, whatever could have happened to make him so angry? The tension was etched into his handsome face like lines carved into granite, and even under the impeccably fitted jacket Nicola could sense the rigidity of his broad shoulders.
A swift glance in her father’s direction provided no clue as to Lord Blackwood’s state. If anything, her father seemed blissfully unaware that anything was wrong. What, then, was the cause of it? Was the marquis unhappy about the deed he had come to enact today? Or was he—as a stickler for propriety and punctuality—displeased by her own tardy arrival?
‘Lord Blackwood, pray…forgive my delay in arriving,’ Nicola apologized uncertainly. ‘I fear I…lost track of the time.’
Her apprehension was palpable and, recognizing that he was the cause of it, David swore softly under his breath. How stupid of him to have allowed his emotions to get the upper hand, especially in front of her.
He quickly forced a smile to his lips and bowed over her hand. ‘On the contrary, it is I who should be offering you an apology, Lady Nicola. I did not give you a great deal of notice as regards my intention to call this afternoon.’
His words were all that were polite, but Nicola was not convinced that he had recovered from his anger. Whatever had caused his anger in the first place must yet be lingering in his mind. Still, he was obviously making an effort to be civil, which meant that the least she could do was to accommodate him. Her mother’s training had been too deeply instilled to be ignored.
‘Thank you, my lord, but certainly no great notice was ever required. I am always at home and happy to receive visitors. And you did advise my father of your intention to call, so I am not at all put out.’
It was a most gracious acceptance of his apology, and David bowed again, admiring the finesse with which she had handled his momentary lack of civility.
Here, then, was the woman he hoped to marry, the lady his uncle had referred to as a dark horse, and whom society deemed a mystery. How ridiculous, he thought contemptuously. There was nothing in the least dark or mysterious about Nicola Wyndham. She was unaffectedly gracious and warm, yet possessed of a lively good nature which would make for the kind of companion David could imagine spending the rest of his life with. And, most assuredly, in the fetching silk gown which suited her complexion and richly coloured hair to perfection, she was as lovely as he could have wished.
‘Well, now that the pleasantries have been exchanged, I shall leave the two of you alone,’ Lord Wyndham announced into the silence. ‘Don’t need me at a time like this, eh, what?’
Impulsively, Nicola reached up to press an affectionate kiss to her father’s cheek. ‘On the contrary, I shall always need you, Papa.’
The earl’s eyes softened as they rested on his daughter’s face and he reached out to stroke a shiny lock of her hair. Then, giving her an encouraging wink, he turned on his heel and walked out of the salon.
Left alone with her guest, Nicola offered him a tentative smile. ‘May I offer you some refreshments, Lord Blackwood?’
‘Thank you, Lady Nicola, but no. I have just enjoyed a glass of your father’s most excellent wine.’
‘Then, will you sit down?’
Her voice was pleasantly low-pitched, with a slightly husky overtone that settled well on David’s ear. It made a welcome change from the high-pitched giggles and titters that seemed all too prevalent in the drawing rooms of London.
‘Actually, I should prefer to stand given the nature of what I am about to say. You, however, may wish to be seated.’
‘As you like.’
With an unhurried movement, Nicola settled herself on the rose-coloured sofa and smoothed the skirts of her gown around her. She had taken a little longer with her toilette this afternoon and was glad that she had, if for no other reason than to lend herself extra confidence. She knew that the gown of Pomona green silk was the most flattering she owned, and that it became her very well. Even the thick, russet-coloured hair, which was so often the bane of her existence, toned perfectly with the shade. ‘I am listening, Lord Blackwood.’
‘Thank you, Lady Nicola. I suppose I should begin by saying that, even though our acquaintance has been of relatively short duration, and our time spent in conversation even shorter, I have come to admire you greatly. Your ease in social situations, your manners, and your sense of dignity, are all qualities I am looking for in a…lady.’
Nicola allowed herself a brief smile at his hesitation. It seemed that the word wife did not come easily to the tongue of the bachelor Marquis of Blackwood. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘As for myself, I