Page 64 of Worth Any Price
Beholding the pair, one so fair, one so dark, and yet both so similar in their striking attractiveness, Lottie smiled. She turned to Sir Ross and carefully rested her sore hand on his shoulder as they began to waltz. As might have been expected, he was an excellent dancer, self-assured and easy to follow.
Feeling a mixture of liking and gratitude, Lottie studied his severely handsome face. “You’ve done this to save him, haven’t you?” she asked.
“I don’t know that it will,” Sir Ross said quietly.
The words sent a fearful pang through her. Did he mean that he still believed Nick was in some kind of peril? But Nick was no longer a Bow Street runner—he had been removed from the hazards that his profession had entailed. He was safe now... unless Sir Ross was implying that the greatest danger to Nick came from somewhere inside himself.
In the days following the public revelation of Nick’s identity, the house on Betterton was under siege from callers. Mrs. Trench spoke to everyone from Nick’s old underworld cohorts to representatives of the queen. Cards and invitations were brought to the front door until the silver tray on the entrance hall table was laden with a mountain of paper. Periodicals dubbed him “the reluctant viscount,” recounting his heroism as a former Bow Street runner. As reporters followed the lead that Sir Ross had established, Nick was generally depicted as a selfless champion of the public who would have modestly preferred to serve his common man rather than accept his long-dormant title. To Lottie’s amusement, Nick was outraged by his new public image, for noone seemed to regard him as dangerous any longer. Strangers approached him eagerly, no longer intimidated by his air of subtle menace. For a man who was so intensely private, it was nearly intolerable.
“Before long, their interest in you will fade,” Lottie said in consolation after Nick had to push through an admiring throng to reach his own front door.
Harried and scowling, Nick shed his coat and flopped onto the parlor settee, his long legs spread carelessly. “It won’t be soon enough.” He glared at the ceiling. “This place is too damned accessible. We need a house with a private drive and a tall fence.”
“We have received more than a few invitations to visit friends in the country.” Lottie came beside him and sank to the carpeted floor, the skirts of her printed muslin skirts billowing around her. Their faces were nearly level as Nick reclined on the arm of the low-backed settee. “Even one from Westcliff, asking if we would stay a fortnight or so at Stony Cross Park.”
Nick’s face darkened. “No doubt the earl wants to assure himself that you’re not being maltreated by your husband from hell.”
Lottie couldn’t help laughing. “You must admit that you were not at your most charming then.”
Nick caught at her fingers as she reached over to loosen his necktie. “I wanted you too badly to bother with charm.” The pad of his thumb stroked over the smooth tips of her fingernails.
“You implied that I was interchangeable with any other woman,” she chided.
“In the past I learned that the best way to get something I wanted was to pretend that I didn’t want it.”
Lottie shook her head, perplexed. “That makes no sense at all.”
Smiling, Nick released her hand and toyed with the lace edge of her scooped neckline. “It worked,” he pointed out.
With their faces close together and his vivid blue eyes staring into hers, Lottie felt a blush climbing her face. “You were very wicked that night.”
His fingertip eased into the shallow valley between her breasts. “Not nearly as wicked as I wanted to be...”
The sound of the front door being soundly rapped echoed through the entrance hall and drifted into the parlor. Withdrawing his hand, Nick listened as Mrs. Trench went to answer the door, telling the visitor that neither Lord Sydney nor his wife was receiving callers.
The reminder of their beleaguered privacy caused Nick to scowl. “That does it. I want to get out of London.”
“Whom shall we visit? Lord Westcliff would be perfectly—”
“No.”
“All right, then,” Lottie continued, unruffled. “The Cannons are in residence at Silverhill—”
“God, no. I’m not spending a fortnight under the same roof as my brother-in-law.”
“We could go to Worcestershire,” Lottie suggested. “Sophia says that the restoration of the Sydney estate is nearly complete. She has made no secret of the fact that she wants you to view the results of her efforts.”
He shook his head instantly. “I have no desire to see that accursed place.”
“Your sister has gone to great effort—you wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings, would you?”
“No one asked her to do all that. Sophia took it upon herself, and I’ll be damned if I have to shower her with gratitude for it.”
“I’ve heard that Worcestershire is quite beautiful.” Lottie let a wistful note enter her voice. “The air would be so much nicer there—London in summer is dreadful. And someday I would like to see the place where you were born. If you do not wish to go now, I understand, but—”
“There are no servants,” he pointed out triumphantly.
“We could travel with a skeleton staff. Wouldn’t it be pleasant to stay in the country at our own home, rather than visit someone else? Just for a fortnight?”
