Nicola and the Viscount Read online

  "And who," Nathaniel asked very pointedly, as if her answer mattered to him a great deal, "is that?"

  Nicola looked away from him, but couldn't keep a flirtatious little smile from creeping across her face.

  "My goodness," she said. "For someone who got a first in mathematics from Oxford, your powers of deduction aren't very strong at all, are they?"

  For a moment Nathaniel only looked down at her in confusion. Then an expression of heartfelt delight spread across his face. A second later he was crushing Nicola to him in an embrace that was every bit as possessive as it was affectionate.

  "Nicky!" he said joyfully into her mussed hair. "Do you mean it? Or are you only teasing?"

  Nicola pulled away from him a little—a difficult feat, given the strength of the arms that held her—so that she could look up into his face.

  "Of course I'm not teasing," she said, as seriously as she had ever said anything in her life. "I tried to put it plainly, so you could understand. I know how you feel about poetry—"

  But she wasn't allowed to say anything more. That was because Nathaniel's lips, coming down over hers, silenced her for the moment.

  And Nicola, who'd been kissed before only by a god, realized that being kissed by a mortal was a great deal more satisfying, because he seemed really to mean it. Or maybe it was only because this time she was being kissed by a man she truly loved, and whose friendship she valued above all others. . . .

  In any case, being kissed by Nathaniel Sheridan, even on the back of a horse in the middle of a public street, was quite the most exciting thing that had ever happened to Nicola.

  At least until Nathaniel lifted his head to say, in a raw voice, "Nicky, I love you so," and then proceeded to kiss her even more deeply.

  And really that, Nicola decided, was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. At least until he said it again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  "Well, Nana," Nicola said, as she plucked a piece of ginger cake from its plate and popped it into her mouth, forgetting, for the moment, Madame's warning against speaking with one's mouth full. "What do you think of him?"

  Nana looked up from the pitcher of lemonade she was preparing—from lemons supplied by Lady Sheridan's seafaring brother—with a broad smile on her plump face.

  "Oh, Miss Nicky," she said, her blue eyes glittering. "He's a rum 'un, that one. Ye couldn't've picked better if ye'd've held a husband contest."

  "Yes," Nicola said with some satisfaction. "I think so, too. And Puddy? Does Puddy like him?"

  "Why, of course he does!" The old woman, the closest thing Nicola had ever known to a grandmother, crinkled her eyes merrily, "Your young man's already shown 'im a better way to figure out the accounts from the milk and the sheep's wool."

  "Nathaniel's quite good with numbers," Nicola said.

  "He's a fine young man," Nana informed her approvingly. "You've done well, Miss Nicky."

  Nicola could not help agreeing. She had done well. More than well, as a matter of fact. She was quite the luckiest girl in the world . . . something Eleanor appeared only too eager to concede when Nicola, a few moments later, found her at the picnic blanket they'd spread across the abbey lawn.

  "Oh, Nicky." Eleanor sighed, looking up at the cloudless blue sky above them. "You're so lucky."

  Nicola, refilling her friend's cup from the pitcher Nana had provided her, followed her gaze. The summer sky really was a stunning shade of azure. One couldn't see a single sign of the clouds of smoke from the colliery ten miles away.

  "Because I'm an orphan?" Nicola asked.

  "No, not because of that," Eleanor sat up. "Because of all this." She threw out an arm, seeming to wish to encompass the green pasture all around them, the arc of blue above them, and the quaint manor house behind them all in one gesture. "It's so beautiful!"

  "And to think," Nicola said, lying down on the blanket beside her friend. "They were going to put a train through it."

  "I'm so glad you didn't let them," Eleanor said seriously. "I mean, I am all for progress, Nicky, but not—"

  "—when it's going straight through your parlor," Nicola finished for her. "I know. I feel the same way. Stockton and Darlington can build all the railroads they want, so long as they don't do so on my property."

  "At least they apologized," Eleanor reminded her. "I mean, Mr. Pease didn't know you were opposed to selling. Lord Renshaw told him you'd be delighted to part with the abbey."

  "I think the Grouser's learned the error of his ways," Nicola said, rolling over onto her stomach and reaching for a nearby daisy. "Don't you?"

  "Considering he's currently residing in Newgate Prison, you mean?" Eleanor let out a gentle laugh. "Yes, I think so. I hope he and Lord Farelly are enjoying their new accommodations."

  "And Lord Sebastian," Nicola said, plucking a petal from the daisy she'd picked. He loves me. "Don't forget Lord Sebastian."

  "Oh, Lord Sebastian." Eleanor lay down beside her friend, resting her chin in one hand. "How could I forget? Still, it seems a shame, all that manly beauty locked up in a prison cell."

  "He ought to have thought about that," Nicola said, plucking another petal, "before he agreed to go along with his father's scheme." He loves me not.

  "Without a doubt. And did I tell you, Nick? Lady Farelly's had to decamp for the Continent, she's become so unpopular because of all this. Not a soul in London would have her in their home, after the papers got hold of what her husband had tried to do to you."

  "Better the Continent," Nicola said, "than prison." He loves me.

  "True. But, oh, Nicky! I very nearly forgot. I heard the strangest thing just before we left. Lady Honoria! What do you think? They say she ran off to America. America, of all places, Nicky! And you'll never guess with whom."

  "Oh, I think I can guess," Nicola said. He loves me not. "My cousin Harold?"

  Eleanor let out a little shriek. "Yes! Isn't it the strangest thing you've ever heard? Lady Honoria and the Milksop! I can't imagine how he talked her into doing it . . . though I don't suppose it was probably very hard, given the alternative. Certainly, like her mother, she was done in London. But still. To choose the Milksop over one's own mother—she must really have hated Lady Farelly. Why, I thought I should never stop laughing when I heard it."

  "I think it's a good thing," Nicola said. "So long as he keeps her away from feathers." He loves me.

  "Where do you think the others have gone off to?" Eleanor sat up again and, shading her eyes, peered off into the distance. "Oh, Lord, Nicky. You'll never guess what Hugh and Nat are up to now."

  He loves me not. "You're right. I couldn't guess. What are they up to?"

  "Well, they're rather far away . . . but I think . . . Lord, Nicky, I think they're teaching Phillip to swim."

  Nicola sat up at once and followed her friend's gaze. "Are they naked?"

  "No," was Eleanor's disappointing answer. "Still, I hope Mama can't see them from the house. You know Phil's supposed to be being punished for slipping those duck eggs into the henhouse."

  Nicola had rather found the sight of so many ducklings straggling after a very confused-looking chicken secretly amusing, but had not admitted so in front of her guests, Lord and Lady Sheridan, who'd been furious with their youngest son.

  "Two years," Eleanor murmured, still gazing toward the stream. "It seems ages, doesn't it? I think it quite unfair of Mama to make you and Nat wait so long, as well. It isn't as if you're her daughter."

  Nicola, turning back to her daisy, shrugged. Like Phil's trick with the duck eggs, Nicola secretly liked Lady Sheridan's mandate that Nathaniel and she wait to marry until she'd turned eighteen. Having never had a mother of her own, Nicola rather enjoyed having Lady Sheridan boss her about. It was like being back at Madame Vieuxvincent's . . . except with the added bonus of being kissed, soundly and often, by the man she loved. He loves me.

  Suddenly Eleanor reached out and grabbed one of the monogrammed tea towels in which their picnic luncheon had been
wrapped.

  "Why, Nicky!" she cried. "I'd completely forgotten till now. But how delightful! Your initials aren't going to change. Nicola Sparks. Nicola Sheridan. Why, you don't even have to have new towels made."

  "Yes," Nicola said in a pleased voice. "I know." He loves me not.

  "And did you ever think that when Papa dies, Nat will become viscount in his place?" Eleanor wanted to know. "So in the end, Nicky, you're going to be a viscountess after all. Really." Eleanor shook her head until her brown cuds swayed. "But you simply have to be the luckiest girl alive!"

  "Yes, I am, aren't I?" Nicola mused.

  She looked up as she heard Nathaniel, coming toward them, call her name. The stray lock of hair that was always falling into his eyes was plastered wetly to his forehead.

  "Nicky," he called. "Come on. The water's perfect!"

  He loves me.

  DEAR READER:

  It's a good thing Nicola ends up with Nathaniel—he's way better suited to her than Sebastian was. And Nicola will marry a viscount after all, because Nathaniel will inherit his father's title!

  Sometimes a girl does have her sights set on the right guy from the start, though. Take Catherine, of the next Avon True Romance. Catherine and the Pirate: she can't help but be attracted to Derrick. So what if he has an unsavory seafaring past? So what if he's her brother's best friend? So what if he acts as though he's not into her? That one kiss had to have meant something! Right?

  For a sneak peek at this heartstopping, high-seas adventure, turn the page!

  Abby McAden

  Editor, Avon True Romance

  FROM CATHERINE AND THE PIRATE

  by Karen Hawkins

  Despite the fact the country was at war, Boston Harbor bustled with life. While there were markedly fewer ships on the sea due to the British patrolling the waters, shipping was still a very profitable industry. Even more so since the war began as people were willing to pay more for the scarce goods that came from overseas.

  Derrick managed a faint grin at the thought. Shipping had always been a chancy venture, what with the uncertain weather, the tricky currents of the Atlantic, the number of pirates who preyed on the ships off the coast, and the difficulties of procuring worthwhile merchandise and finding qualified sailors. For someone with Derrick's experience, the new British threat was little more than an added inconvenience to an already difficult chore.

  A sudden commotion arose and cries of "Thief!" filled the air. Derrick leaned over the railing and watched as a fat man burst from one of the small taverns, hard on the heels of a lanky boy who looked to be about fourteen.

  Despite his girth, the man was fast, but the boy was faster, darting between the milling throngs of people on the wharf.

  "He's a fast 'un," Smythe said from where he stood at Derrick's side. The pudgy first mate watched as the boy leaped over a large barrel, much to the dismay of the man chasing him. "Looks as if the lad might get away."

  Derrick nodded. The innkeeper was being left farther and farther behind. "He'll make it."

  But as soon as he said the words, the innkeeper yelled at two large and burly men, who promptly dropped the barrels they were loading and joined in the chase.

  "Uh-oh!" Smythe said, his fat stomach resting on the railing. He shook his head, all three chins wobbling back and forth. "The lad's luck has run out."

  Derrick was inclined to agree as he watched the two hefty men dash past the innkeeper and around a stack of barrels. They closed in on the youth, finally cornering him against the wall of an alehouse. The innkeeper caught up and the three men slowly approached the boy. Derrick could hear them mocking the youngster even from that distance.

  He frowned. Life on the docks was hard, even more so for a boy on his own.

  "'Tis a pity, Cap'n," Smythe said with a sad sigh, "but the docks do tend to attract the lowest forms of humanity."

  "Aye," Derrick agreed absently.

  "Adventurers, gamblers, and worse. Chances are that boy is indeed a thief."

  Derrick didn't care what the boy was, he didn't like the odds—three huge men against a slender youth. It didn't seem fair. The boy crouched lower, his hat pulled forward until his face was hidden, his entire body tensed as if prepared for the worst.

  Smythe rubbed a hand across his chin. "I'd say that lad is done for. I wonder if—"

  A furry blur of white and russet bounded past the men and planted itself before the boy. Smythe swore, his eyes round. "Saint Peter's bones! What's that? Looks like a horse, it do. But it has no mane."

  The men didn't seem to know what the animal was either, for they backed away, their gazes locked on the massive beast.

  Derrick squinted against the bright light. He could just make out the animal's huge head and massive shoulders. As a matter of fact, he thought, that looks just like the dog belonging to—

  "It can't be," he muttered. Frowning, he eyed the ragged boy, who cowered against the wall of the building. Slight of build, he couldn't be more than fourteen . . . or could he?

  Derrick examined what he could see of the boy—narrow shoulders beneath a large, loose-fitting coat, long, slender legs encased in worn woollen breeches and delicately thin feet and hands. There was something less than masculine about the line of those legs and the trim curve of the boy's hips.

  If Derrick didn't know better, he'd swear he was looking at a girl. A slender girl, quite tall, with long, long legs that—

  Catherine Markham. "It can't be!" Derrick pushed away from the railing. There could be no mistaking her. Catherine was the sister of Derrick's best friend, Royce Markham. She was quiet, well-bred, demure—he didn't think he'd heard her say more than ten words the entire time he'd known her. But surely not . . . Catherine Markham wasn't the kind of brazen female to stride about the docks wearing boy's clothing. Surely the lad before him was just a boy and nothing more.

  As if in answer to his unspoken question, the "boy" turned toward the dog and a strand of hair escaped the hat. The long tendril curled over one shoulder, glinting in the morning light.

  Though he couldn't see more than the curve of a chin, Derrick knew exactly what he'd see if the "boy" faced him—an oval face, wide-set green eyes, and a full, soft mouth.

  Derrick cursed out loud. What in the world was that blasted girl doing?