“Thank you,” Nicholas murmured. He went upstairs, sweat trickling down his wrists and shoulder-blades, damp and cold on his back. He couldn’t help feeling nervous.
“Good morning,” he greeted his grandfather, who he almost bumped into in the hallway.
“Good morning.” His grandfather’s tone was cold, as if Nicholas was a newspaper seller bothering him in the road. Nicholas stiffened.
“I need to speak with Grandmother and you,” he said, voice tight and nervous.
“You may speak to your grandmother. I will not speak to you,” Grandfather said tightly.
“If you choose not to, I will not argue,” Nicholas said, forcing a lightness to his tone. He held his grandfather’s gaze, amazed at his own boldness. The fellow could disinherit him, had threatened to before. But, Nicholas reasoned, it would hurt Lockwood far more than it would hurt Nicholas. For the first time ever, he realized he was not powerless before them.
His grandfather’s gaze widened and then narrowed, and Nicholas thought he saw something in that gaze—a tension he’d never seen there before. He seemed to realize that his hold was broken.
Nicholas turned away and walked to the drawing room. In the doorway, he paused.
“Nicholas!” His grandmother greeted him. “Ah! My grandson.”
Nicholas looked at her hard. Had she forgotten the previous night? She had confided something in him, a fact that had made him sure he could not trust her. Did she think he would just forget?
“Grandmother,” he said tightly. “I came to tell you that I found Miss Rowland. She is safe. Through no work of your own,” he added, letting his cold, hurt anger show in his gaze just a moment. She blinked.
“I did nothing to her,” she began, but Nicholas interrupted.
“You made her believe I had chosen Emily. I can barely believe it. I would never, ever do that and I am angry that you would try to make it appear that I would. You hurt a young girl very seriously.” He heard the hard tone of his own voice and held Grandmother’s stare.
“I did not intend to hurt her,” his grandmother said tightly. “If she was hurt, it was not my doing. She is utterly unsuitable, Nicholas. I only wanted what was best.”
“She is a good, kind, clever woman, who sees me for who I am and loves me,” Nicholas said with a hard look at her. “Those things make her more suitable than anyone else could be.”
His grandmother blinked again, as though she was surprised that he would defy her. Slowly, he saw that same look as had been on his grandfather’s face cross hers. She knew she could no longer rule his heart and mind.
“Nicholas...” she began. “I am sure you feel that way. But she is not a countess. A countess needs to be elegant, refined, fashionable, pretty and capable of comporting herself well in society. Miss Rowland is awkward and shy, and unfashionable, and she does not make a good impression on those around her.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” Nicholas countered immediately. “A society that would judge someone by their shyness or by the clothes they wear is not a society that interests me. You forget—I am not like everyone else is, either.” He pointed to his face, then lifted up his hands, showing the thick, rope-like scars there.
His grandmother smiled. “Oh, but Nicholas! Those are justmarks. You’re a viscount, and an earl’s son and everyone would accept you.”
“But they don’t,” Nicholas cut in. “You forget, I have lived many years like this, Grandmother. I know how fickle society is.”
His grandmother looked at him. “Oh, but people get used to it,” she began, but he cut across.
“They don’t. Emily never did. She said she did, but she lied. She preferred Quintus. And I will never forget that. She was one of those in society who judged me harshly. And yet you expected me to overlook that.”
His grandmother looked at him a little desperately. “But Emily is refined and elegant! She’s pretty and fashionable and a good conversationalist. You would do much better with her.”
“If I lived only to be seen by the Ton, then maybe,” Nicholas replied mildly. “But there is more to life, Grandmother. Balls and parties are only the tiniest part of it, and I am not fond of them as it is. There are far more hours spent at home, and there I would wish to be with someone I can love.” He paused.
“Nicholas...” his grandmother began.
“Bernadette,” he said, completing his thought. “I wish to be with Bernadette.”
His grandmother looked at him helplessly. “You are strange, Nicholas,” she said wearily. “You are very strange. I do not understand you—you do not think like the nobles around you.”
“I think like a viscount,” Nicholas interrupted, remembering something. “Your son was a viscount, and heir to this earldom.” His heart ached as a memory of his father’s soft tea-colored eyes filled his mind. “Yet he cared nothing for what other people thought of him. He said my scars were a blessing, because they would make it clear who had a good heart and who did not. And he was right. Bernadette has a good heart. Emily is interested only in society. I know what matters more to me.”
His grandmother looked at him and he thought he saw something shift in her gaze. It wasn’t remorse, but it was a kind of understanding.
“I see we have different ideas, Nicholas,” she said softly. “And I cannot reason with you.”
