Page 23 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)

Chapter

Twenty-Three

R osalind sat in the carriage, quiet and contemplative as they made their way home from the Lygon ball. That she was not speaking to him, Nathaniel could understand, and he hated himself for having to put up a wall to try to save her from whatever it was they were doing. What he was doing—seeking her out, pulling her into rooms, and kissing her to within an inch of her life—was entirely his fault.

He watched her, unable to keep his gaze from her profile as she observed the streets of Mayfair slipping by. Hell, she was beautiful—a woman who made him feel completely discombobulated just by being in her presence. Not that he would tell her such a thing. She already held too much power over him. He did not need her to know any more than that.

"Did you have a pleasant evening?" he asked, knowing that she appeared to have, while he had watched on in agony, forced to listen to Lady Smithe slip between concerned chaperone and scathing gossipmonger. Not that she was performing her duty this evening—no, she had stayed at the ball and was nowhere to be found when it was time for them to leave. So they had departed without her ladyship. No doubt tomorrow that too would be another matter for which he would be admonished.

"Very pleasant, thank you. I believe the tea we're hosting this afternoon shall be full to the brim with interested gentlemen."

Nathaniel glanced out the window as the dawn kissed the stone buildings of London. "I hope they're all suitable," he stated, knowing full well that he could not control every facet of her life, no matter how much he wished to.

She looked at him then, her eyes void of warmth. "More suitable than you, Your Grace. None of them pulled me into the dining room and pawed me like you did, if that is what you're asking."

He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, hating that she was angry with him. "I'm sorry for my conduct. You deserve so much more than what I gave you. I'm ashamed of how I treated you."

She shook her head, her mouth pursing into a displeased line. "You… you are asha— How dare yo u kiss me, want me as you do, and then become frigid, colder than the Scottish Highlands? I do not believe what you're saying. I do not believe that you do not care for me or want me still, so stop pretending to have a moral compass when you do not possess one."

He fisted his hands at his sides before clutching them to stop himself from sitting beside her. To explain himself clearly, nothing else. "But I should have refrained from kissing you or touching you as I did. It was wrong and reprehensible."

She growled and punched her seat. "Stop it, Nathaniel. Stop pretending that what we did was wrong. I've never felt anything so right before in my life. I come alive in your arms, and you damn well know it, so stop saying I'm a regret—that you do not want me—because I know that you do. I know that you burn as much as I burn for you too."

"But it is wicked, and I need to mend what I did or I'll never forgive myself. I cannot have you ruined. To do so puts your siblings at risk, and that is not fair to any of them. I feel like an old man who is salivating after a woman I am supposed to look out for. Men such as those I've ridiculed in the past—and here I am, doing the same."

"You are only three years my senior, not some ancient relic old enough to be my grandfather. "

"I will not touch you again. You must look elsewhere for your husband, as you have done so this evening. Passion between people does not mean that we would suit as husband and wife, and I shall not have either of our names sullied by more gossip. I am responsible for you. That is where this relationship must end."

She stared at him, clearly flummoxed by his words that ran contrary to his actions these past weeks. He turned to look out the window—anywhere but at Rosalind. He hated seeing the disappointment in her eyes, yet he believed that in time she would be thankful that he allowed her to find a true and unwavering love somewhere else.

"Very well, Your Grace, whatever you wish, but know this. I shall never allow you to touch me, kiss me, or try to have any intimate relations with me again from this night forward. Do not come to me regretting your choice, for I will not hear of it. I do not like to be played the fool, and that you've made me do so is unforgivable. I will not allow it a second time."

Her words struck ice through his veins, and he swallowed the bile rising in his throat, knowing she meant every word. That he would never touch her again—to feel the softness yet eagerness of her mouth—left him bereft. As hard as his choice had been, it was for the best. He was certain of it, and in time she would be grateful for his restraint.

The carriage rolled to a halt, and before a footman could run to open the door, Rosalind had pushed it open and was hastily making her way indoors.

Nathaniel watched her leave. A war raged within him—wanting to call her back and then wanting her to go. Guardians did not marry their wards. The idea was both proper and vile, and many would forever raise their brows in disgust should it come to pass.

She disappeared into the house, and he climbed down to follow her. Instead of retiring to his rooms, he walked into his study. No matter the many appointments the day would bring, he was not quite ready for bed just yet. He would lie there and think, stare at the ceiling, and debate his choices—whether they were good or bad. Right now, everything felt wrong. So, so wrong.

L ater that same day, the afternoon tea was a success by all accounts, but Nathaniel could think of nothing worse than watching a parade of young bucks—or at least men of his acquaintance, some of them friends—lining up to court Rosalind. He sipped his tea, hoping the beverage would wake him from the nightmare of his own making. This was what he wanted Rosalind to do, and judging by the cloying men surrounding her and listening to her every word, that was exactly what she was doing. She had not looked at him once, nor had she even bid him a good afternoon when she entered the room with Lady Smithe, who too seemed to be engrossed in her afternoon gossip with several friends of her age.

Nathaniel swallowed a sigh and leaned back in his chair, welcoming the sight of Lord Issacs as he entered the room. Instead of heading directly to Rosalind, the marquess came and sat beside him.

"Ravensmere, how are you this afternoon? You look tired, my friend. Is the excitement of the Season keeping you up at night?" he asked.

The mischievous glint in his friend's eyes put Nathaniel on guard, and he wondered if there was talk already about him being a guardian to a woman who was only three years his junior. Or was the man merely niggling him since they were friends and Issacs had taken a liking to his charge?

"Not at all. What gives you that impression?" Nathaniel replied.

"Well, look, my friend," Issacs said, gesturing toward Rosalind. "Being the guardian to a young woman of means and beauty must be a massive undertaking for a man used to doing whatever he wishes whenever he pleases. It is not for the faint of heart."

"Do not tell me you’re serious in your pursuit to win her heart? I know all there is to know about you, Issacs, and I do believe I'd find you lacking the requirements to be a husband if you were serious and not merely making sport of me having to play guardian." Not that Lord Issacs wasn't handsome or wealthy—but he was a rake through and through, preferring the chase to the catch. He was not for Rosalind.

"I have not yet made up my mind. She is indeed a beauty, but I am not certain I want a wife this year. Flirting is fun. That is all I have come here for this afternoon. I must keep you on your toes, Ravensmere—a little taste of your own medicine and all that."

"What a good friend you are." Nathaniel shook his head, glad that at least Issacs was not pursuing Rosalind seriously. His attention turned back to Rosalind, and he froze the moment he witnessed a small, folded note being handed to her from Lord Felton.

The fiend.

How dare he act so recklessly and fast! He would need to have a word with Rosalind about that note and find out what was in it so he could shove it down Felton’s throat. Something he would do when he had the bastard alone, where no one could see what he’d do to him when he did.