Afternoon
16 May 1810
Mathias smiled at the footman as he passed Romulus’s reins to him. “I shan’t be above thirty minutes.”
Likely, far less.
It would only take a few moments to ascertain if Nicolette was well on her way to recovery and apologize again for Sampson’s poor manners.
Tipping his hat at a pair of curious, haughty ladies as they passed by, and then catching a glimpse of a familiar face practically pressed against the carriage glass as the conveyance rolled past, he reconsidered the wisdom of this decision.
If he wasn’t mistaken, the beady-eyed, pinched-faced meddler peering at him from behind the conveyance’s window had been none other than Lady Gloria Darumple—rumormonger, extraordinaire. Many a le beau monde member had been scarred by that woman’s rancorous tongue.
Damn his eyes.
His presence outside the Twistletons’ house today, combined with the event in Hyde Park yesterday, would have the chinwag conjuring all manner of inaccurate assumptions. If he wasn’t mindful, he’d see an announcement in the gossip rags connecting his name with Nicolette’s.
He’d not have called on her at all today, except he felt responsible for her injuries. Sampson had been left in his care, after all, and would remain so until his owner, Landry Audsley, Earl of Keyworth, returned from the continent next month.
Odd that Keyworth hadn’t left the pup at his country seat.
Rolling a shoulder, Mathias dismissed the thought. Keyworth frequently did unexpected things.
It had been pure luck that Mathias had driven by Hyde Park yesterday on his way to White’s. He’d spied Sampson racing pell-mell across the greens as a very flustered Farrow sprinted after him, his coattails flapping furiously in his wake.
Now, two footmen were assigned to take Sampson on his outings.
As Mathias crossed the pavement to the house, a blue tit alit on the branch of a purple lilac bush.
Manicured gardens, boasting a profusion of flowers, including peonies, irises, and lily of the valley, flanked a well-scrubbed stairway with scrolled wrought-iron handrails leading to the house. The subtle, heady scent surrounding Nicolette yesterday as he carried her through Hyde Park had hinted of peonies, lily of the valley, and lilac.
Perhaps she created her own perfume.
The blue sky, with only a few wispy clouds feathered across the horizon, heralded another mild spring day, and he regretted that Nicolette’s ankle confined her to the indoors. Perhaps the Twistletons’ had a back patio or terrace from which she might enjoy the unseasonably pleasant afternoon.
Mayhap he could persuade her to take a turn in Hyde Park or ride Rotten Row with him soon. In full bloom, the cherry blossoms gave the pathways a fairylike quality, especially when the petals fluttered from the trees during a breeze, swirling to the ground like pink snow.
As Mathias climbed the stairs, he glanced up at the tidy, brick house. Not as large and ostentatious as many of the manors in the square, it was, nonetheless, quite charming. If he recalled correctly, Scarborough had come into the title after an uncle had died. Until then, the Twistletons had spent most of their time in the country.
Scarborough.
Now there was an interesting fellow—reserved, methodical, severe. Some even called him unfriendly and standoffish. Mathias had perceived Scarborough’s aloofness to stem from the discomfort of being in the public eye and from having an earldom unexpectedly thrust upon him.
How very different Ansley Twistleton, Earl of Scarborough, was from his vivacious sister.
Their coloring was similar, both possessing raven-black hair and vivid blue eyes. But as far as Mathias had observed, that was where the resemblances ended. Scarborough generally lingered on the periphery of social functions, watching—if he attended at all. Nicolette, on the other hand, was always in the middle of whatever excitement was occurring.
Not that Nicolette Twistleton couldn’t—and didn’t—regularly take a man down a peg or two. She’d perfected her wintery blue-eyed stare to an art, and cutting ripostes and witticisms easily rolled off her tongue. Wearing a winsome smile, she verbally filleted any dandy or swain who overstepped.
Mathias, thus far, had been spared her displeasure, despite the numerous occasions they’d been in mixed company together. Well, except for yesterday when the vixen had pinched him. And that merely proved that she wasn't impervious to him.
A pleased grin tilted his mouth as he briskly rapped upon the ruby-colored door.
The flush pinkening her ivory cheeks and the plump pillows of her pretty mouth pursed in annoyance couldn’t hide the spark of interest in her stunning gaze. Her big, almond-shaped eyes were, in a word, exquisite.
Indeed, the most mesmerizing eyes Mathias had ever seen.
He quite lost himself when he looked into them. Which belied explanation, as he’d gazed into many beautiful women’s eyes and enjoyed the feminine charms of several willing women, as well.
Framed by a fringe of lush ebony lashes beneath winged brows, Nicolette’s eyes were a shade somewhere between forget-me-nots and periwinkle. And always a hint of distrust, betrayal, and pain shadowed their enigmatic depths, although she veiled her emotions well.
Nevertheless, they were noticeable if one was discerning and took the time to probe beyond the various barriers she’d erected.
It pleased him no end to discover Nicolette wasn’t as resistant to masculine regard as she affected. Well, his regard, that was. Mathias certainly hoped to God it was only his attention that rattled her composure. He’d been biding his time for so long, patiently waiting for her to notice him as her heart and spirit healed.
The alternative made his blood sing with something somewhat dark and unpleasant. Something foreign and possessive and alarming in its intensity. Why Nicolette should be the sole woman to ignite whatever this thing was, he didn’t ponder. He only knew the more time he spent with her, the more he wanted to be with the winsome woman.
Much like a tippler and his gin.
She could easily become an addiction, and then what was he to do?
She had felt something as he carried her, too, though he’d wager she’d bite off her tongue before admitting to any such thing.
Mathias knew, of course, of her broken betrothal. Also knew her reputation for flirting and teasing and then eviscerating any man stupid enough to show more than a passing interest in her. Hence, he’d studiously stayed on the perimeter, safe and unthreatening.
Nicolette enticed men into her web, and then when they were caught, much like a spider’s attack, she stabbed them with her rapier-sharp tongue.
She was a contradictory, fascinating, and wholly beguiling mélange.
Rather than put him off, it intrigued the hell out of him.
It helped that he understood and even empathized with her jaded attitude and behavior.
Prior to inheriting the dukedom four years ago, he’d also experienced a broken betrothal. By a woman who wasn’t satisfied with becoming the lowly Mrs. Mathias Pembroke, even if his purse had jingled quite nicely back then.
Thanks to several lucrative investments, including acquiring three ships, said purse clinked much, much more so now.
Victoria had coveted a title before her name, and had flung him off with the same disregard one did the contents of a tosspot when the middling-aged Viscount Calbraith had come sniffing around the young beauty.
Mathias had been her back-up plan; in case she couldn’t catch a bigger fish her first Season—a peer to be precise. And he’d been ignorant of her machinations until he’d caught her in an indelicate situation with Calbraith at a house party.