“Easy now.” Nick unclenched the duke’s gnarled fingers. “We’ll speak of it in the morning,” he said lightly, steering his father up the stairs.
The duke leaned heavily on Nick’s arm as they climbed the stairs. “Lost you to Sir Alfred Tombs. Had the devil’s own luck . . .” He yawned. “Daughter’s name is Alice. Hear she’s . . . pretty at least . . .”
His chin nodded near his chest and Nick propped him up, half carrying him to his chambers.
Sir Alfred—wealthy shipping merchant. Reputation for ruthlessness.
Nick had even met the daughter once at an art exhibition. He remembered her perfectly.
Miss Tombs was pretty, Nick would give her that. On the tall side for a female, with a fine complexion, deep dimples, and sparkling turquoise eyes.
Nick had been contemplating a seductive portrait of a gauze-draped woman when Miss Tombs had suddenly appeared, a vision of virginal white lace and rosy cheeks. Very sweet and wholesome . . . until she opened her mouth.
For some reason, she’d decided to beguile him with a gory description of how the portrait artist had died of a putrid fever. She’d described the entire course of the putrefaction in lurid and gleeful detail, with no agonizing or malodorous aspect spared.
Good God. The ghoulish Miss Tombs was as far from a prospective bride as Nick could imagine.
Not that he ever imagined marriage.
That venerable institution was the snare waiting to trap unsuspecting gentlemen into allowing one lady to ruin them for all others, as it had done to his friends the Duke of Harland and the Duke of Osborne, who were foolishly, irretrievably in love with their wives.
Nick was the last man standing of their disreputable band of ruffians and rogues.
Speaking of ruffians and rogues, where were his so-called servants? Not a one to be found when he needed them.
The duke roused slightly as Nick helped him remove his coat and cravat. “What time is it?”
“Bedtime.”
The duke held out his hand to Nick with a befuddled expression. “I think I have a splinter.”
Nick plucked a small painted slice of boat from his father’s palm. “Good as new. Into bed with you.”
Obediently, the duke snuggled under the coverlet. “Nicolas?”
“Yes?”
“I gambled you away.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Oh.” His father was silent for a moment. “Well, marriage might do you good.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “You need someone . . . to love. But find someone strong. Not delicate, nor easily crushed.”
“Go to sleep now.” Nick tucked the covers tighter around his father.
As soon as the duke’s breathing grew slow and steady, he left to go find Stubbs. The man had many questions to answer.
You need someone to love.
He tried to shake his father’s words away but they stuck like a splinter in his mind.
It wasn’t that Nick didn’t believe in love. He just didn’t believe in tomorrow—or in any kind of permanence.
He kept his amatory liaisons on a surface level, protecting his heart as stringently as he protected against unwanted progeny.
He had no intention of marrying or passing on the suffering of the curse that lurked in his direct line. His sanctimonious curate of a cousin would be delighted to inherit the dukedom and restore the family’s reputation when Nick’s dark days were done.
“Bargained away like a harem girl,” he muttered as he descended the stairs. “I’ll never live this down.”
It must be one of his father’s outlandish imaginings, but the rumor would spread across London like an outbreak of plague and slosh its way across the channel to his mother in her extravagantly expensive apartments in Switzerland.
He’d unravel the tangle in the morning. Right now he had to find Stubbs, before returning to the ballroom and attempting to control the damage.
Give the gentlemen he’d invited enough brandy and actresses and they might forget the duke’s announcement.
And even if it did turn out to be true, there was no chance Nick would allow anyone to coerce him into marriage, least of all a grasping merchant and his pretty but decidedly odd daughter.
Nick gripped the smooth wooden staircase balustrade.
They had no idea whom they were dealing with.
Obviously, the Earl of White had no idea whom he was dealing with.
He clearly thought Alice should be overwhelmed with gratitude at the honor he was bestowing by wooing her this fine late spring morning in the small inner courtyard of her father’s town house.
They were sitting on a bench next to a flowering hawthorn shrub and Lord White was gazing at her devotedly.
“Miss Tombs, you are a goddess sent from heaven above.” He flung a hand heavenward, to make his point. “I adore you most ardently. Your dimples are divine.”