Page 63 of Worth Any Price
He smiled suddenly. “All right, then. I would hate to gainsay your wishes.” He sent Nick a questioning look. “Will you return to the ballroom soon?”
Nick’s mouth twisted. “If Lottie wishes it.”
“Yes,” she said decisively. Despite the pain in her wrist, she felt ready to confront the devil himself, if need be. She saw the glances the two men exchanged as they silently agreed to discuss the problem of Radnor at a more appropriate time.
Sir Ross left them in private once more, and Lottie stood resolutely. Nick was at her side immediately, his hands framing her waist as if he feared she would topple over. Lottie smiled at his overprotectiveness. “I am fine now,” she told him. “Truly.”
She waited for the familiar glimmer of wry humor to appear in Nick’s eyes, for him to return to his usual insouciant self, but he remained tense, his gaze searching her face with strange gravity. He looked as though he wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and carry her far away from here.
“You’re staying by my side for the rest of the evening,” he told her.
Lottie tilted her head back to smile at him.“That might be wise, as the brandy seems to have gone to my head.”
Warmth kindled in his eyes, and one of his hands slipped upward to cradle the shape of her breast. “Do you feel dizzy?”
She relaxed into the cupping pressure of his fingers, his touch releasing a glow of sensuality from her susceptible flesh. The pain in her wrist was nearly forgotten, her nerves tingling wildly as his thumb teased her nipple into a thrusting point. “Only when you touch me like that.”
Finishing the tantalizing caress with a gentle rotation of his palm, Nick returned his hand to safer territory. “I want this damned evening to be done with,” he said. “Come... the sooner we go out there, the sooner Cannon can make his bloody speech.”
Extending her bare hand, Lottie steeled herself not to flinch as he eased the tight-fitting glove over her swollen wrist. By the time he was finished, Lottie was white-faced, and Nick was sweating profusely, as if the pain had been his rather than hers. “Damn Radnor,” he said raspily, going to pour her another brandy. “I’m going to tear his throat out.”
“I know something that would hurt him far more than that.” Carefully Lottie raised a folded handkerchief to blot his damp brow.
“Oh?” His brows arched in sardonic inquiry.
Her fingers closed around the handkerchief, compressing it into a ball. She paused for a long moment before replying, while a wave of hope rose in her throat and nearly threatened to chokeher. Taking the brandy from him, she took a bracing swallow. “We could try to be happy together,” she said. “That is something he could never understand... something he’ll never have.”
She could not bring herself to look at him, afraid that she might see mockery or rejection in his eyes. But her heart slammed heavily in her chest as she felt his mouth drift along the top of her head, his lips playing with white rose petals as they fluttered against the pinned-up silk of her braid.
“We could try,” he agreed softly.
After the two glasses of brandy, Lottie’s head was swimming pleasantly, and she was grateful for Nick’s steady guidance as they returned to the ballroom. The hardness and strength of his arm fascinated her. No matter how heavily she leaned on him, he took her weight easily. He was a strong man... but until tonight, she had not suspected that he was capable of offering her such tender comfort. Somehow she did not think that he had suspected it of himself, either. Their reactions had been unthinking—hers, to turn to him, and his, to engulf her in reassurance.
They walked into the ballroom and approached Sir Ross. Ascending a moveable step to become easily visible to the huge crowd in the ballroom, Sir Ross signaled the musicians to stop playing, and asked for the guests’ collective attention. He possessed the kind of elegant, innately authoritative voice that any politician would have envied. An expectant hush fell over the ballroom, while more guests poured in fromthe outside circuits, and a virtual army of servants moved rapidly through the assemblage with trays of champagne.
Sir Ross began the speech with a reference to his magisterial career and the satisfaction it had always given him to see that certain wrongs were put right. He followed with a string of approving remarks about the inviolable traditions and obligations of hereditary peerage. The remarks obviously gratified the gathering, which was liberally salted with viscounts, earls, marquesses, and dukes.
“I was under the impression that Sir Ross was not a great supporter of hereditary principle,” Lottie whispered to Nick.
He smiled grimly. “My brother-in-law can be quite a showman when he wishes. And he knows that reminding them of their strict adherence to tradition will help them to swallow the idea of accepting me as a peer.”
Sir Ross went on to describe an unnamed gentleman who had been deprived for far too long of a title that was rightfully his. A man who was in the direct line of descent of a distinguished family, and who in the past few years had devoted himself entirely to public service.
“Therefore,” Sir Ross concluded, “I am grateful for the rare privilege of announcing Lord Sydney’s long overdue reclamation of his title, and the seat in the Lords that accompanies it. And I have every expectation that he will continue to serve the country and queen in the role that is his by birth.” Raising a glass in the air, he said, “Let us toast Mr. Nick Gentry—the man who shall beknown to us from now on as John, Viscount Sydney.”
A ripple of amazement went through the crowd. Although most of them had already known what Sir Ross would announce, it was startling to hear the words spoken aloud.
“To Lord Sydney,” came hundreds of obedient echoes, followed by as many cheers.
“And to Lady Sydney,” Sir Ross prompted, drawing another enthusiastic response to which Lottie curtsied in gracious recognition.
Rising, Lottie touched Nick’s arm. “Perhaps you should offer a toast to Sir Ross,” she suggested.
He gave her a speaking glance but complied, lifting his glass toward his brother-in-law. “To Sir Ross,” he said in a resonant voice, “without whose efforts I would not be here tonight.”
The crowd responded with a round of hurrahs, while Sir Ross grinned suddenly, aware that Nick’s carefully worded toast did not include the barest hint of gratitude.
Toasts to the queen, the country, and the peerage itself ensued, and then the orchestra filled the room with buoyant melody. Sir Ross came to claim Lottie for a waltz, while Nick went to dance with Sophia, who wore an irrepressible smile as she sailed into his arms.
