Still, he would do well to keep his distance. She already knew too much about his oddities. And women, God knew, could be scornful creatures. One false word, and his secrets would be plastered across every gossip rag in London.
Cecilia Blair, his former fiancée, had taught him that hard lesson.
He’d loved her, had trusted her with the truth, but in the end she’d abandoned him. Like his mother and father before her, she couldn’t accept that part of him that was irrevocably broken, and the reality of that had hit him hard.
Whiskey, the good stuff, sat in a decanter on a side table. He poured himself a healthy dose, then moved to the window. Below on the lawn, the rest of the guests practiced archery. Gabriella stood out in her pale pink morning gown as she quickly walked from the house, toward the group. He watched her intently. The way she moved was magical, the confidence in her stride, the subtle twitch of her hips…she was so damn delectable it hurt.
With sharp, clipped movements, she snatched a bow and arrow from a waiting servant and moved to stand in front of one of the available targets. In seconds, she fired off three horribly misguided arrows. Her form was atrocious. How had she’d made it to womanhood without learning how to hold a bow and arrow properly?
When one of the other guests, Mr. Russell, moved to stand beside her, Nicholas’s gaze sharpened. The man’s hands rested on her shoulders, his mouth lowered to her ear intimately.
“Can you smell me on her, you bastard?” Nicholas muttered as he stormed out of the library.
Outside, the weather was calm, beautiful. He strode across the manicured lawn, past the countless servants, past the confused guests, and came to stop directly behind Gabriella and Russell. They didn’t notice.
“Now, you pull the arrow back like so…,” Russell said in her ear. The bastard would pay for that later. “And release…”
The arrow hit the outside rim of the painted wood target.
Gabriella jumped up and squealed, clapping her hands together gleefully. Such joy. Nicholas scowled, angry that he hadn’t been the one to coax it out of her. That smile, God, it could light cities, illuminate the darkest parts of a man’s soul. Instead, he’d only earned her disdain—disdain that he rightly deserved, he reminded himself.
“I’ll take it from here, Russell,” Nicholas said, stepping forward.
Russell whipped around quickly, his eyes wide. “Your Grace.” He stumbled over the address anxiously. “Apologies. We thought you’d retired…that is to say; we hadn’t expected to see you…”
…for the duration of the party. He didn’t need to say the words. Nicholas knew what he was thinking. It was what they were all thinking. Nicholas smiled. “Archery happens to be a favorite pastime of mine.”
“Yes, of course.” Russell stepped aside easily. “If you’ll excuse me…”
As soon as Russell moved away, Gabriella glared at Nicholas. She’d remained silent until then, which was a small miracle in itself. But if her rigid posture was any indication, she was angry as hell, and dying to give him a lashing. That, perhaps, wouldn’t be a terrible idea. A lashing could be quite appealing with Gabriella wielding the whip.
He raked his gaze up her body, taking in her slim waist and the gentle flare of her hips. His eyes caught on her pert, perfect-in-his-palm breasts and he smiled.
“Don’t even think about it,” she snapped.
His lips twitched. Counting, the obsessions…they weren’t something he could control. A thought usually formed, then the action followed. One didn’t count for the simple joy of it.
Still, he thought he might have some fun with her.
One, two, three…
“You’re doing it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, plumping up her breasts with the motion. “And I demand you stop this instant.”
She was magnificent when she asserted herself, he thought. “What am I doing?”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Your lips were moving!” She leaned forward and whispered harshly, “You were counting my breasts again.”
He chuckled. “I hardly need to count them, kitten. Or don’t you remember my tongue exploring their ripe, delectable peaks last evening?” He took a step toward her. “Perhaps I should refresh your memory.”
Her cheeks flushed a beautiful rose-petal pink and for a moment he was struck by her wild, unadorned beauty. She was extraordinary—beautiful, intelligent, genuine. Never before had he met anyone quite like her, and he had the sudden, inexplicable urge to sweep her into his arms and kiss her here, in front of everyone.
With a huff, she plucked an arrow from the leather quiver beside her, spun toward the target, aimed, and released the arrow. The ferocity of her shot was commendable. Her aim, however, was far less impressive. The arrow launched high into the air, arched over the target, and ripped Mrs. Carson’s bonnet straight off her head, then landed in a patch of grass on the other side of the lake.