That elicited a short, bitter laugh. “Good God, no! She harbors no affection for my father. No, poor Beatrix resents my mother for dying. And she resents me simply for being. You see, my father is not a sentimental man, and he has little concern for hearth and home. But the one exception is his firm belief that a child needs a mother. If my mother had not died, or if she had not left me behind, my father would not have sought out another wife, at least not so quickly. He might have waited until Beatrix herself was safely married off to some kinder, more considerate husband.
“As it was, my father decided he needed a wife right away, and Beatrix happened to catch his eye. Her parents could hardly turn down an offer from the Earl of Blackwell. It was a far better match than they had hoped for. So poor Beatrix married Blackwell at the tender age of eighteen and was promptly deposited in Cornwall. Miles from her friends and family, miles from parties and balls, miles from anything at all. Stranded in Cornwall, with the charge of another woman’s child and quite soon one of her own, while her husband, my father, continued his life of debauchery in London—which was a tremendous blow to her pride. Under the circumstances, I believe she is entitled to resent someone.”
Mira frowned in consternation. Without stopping to think, she blurted out, “But she should resent your father, not you. He is the one responsible, so it is only logical that she should direct her anger at him.”
“Well, I suppose that would be logical, my dear, but logic rarely has a place in matters of the heart. My father is never here. He returns to Blackwell exactly twice a year, for a fortnight at Christmas and for a fortnight to a month at the end of the Season, to partake in the local Midsummer’s Eve revelries and to catch up on estate business. If Beatrix hoarded all of her anger during the year, with no outlet save for those few weeks, I believe she would go quite mad. I, on the other hand, am here. So it is more satisfying, less frustrating, if she blames her lot in life on me.”
As he spoke, Nicholas rose, took another scone from the buffet, and moved down to the other end of the table, to sit next to Mira. That was when she realized the maid had disappeared. They were alone.
His sudden nearness made it difficult to concentrate, difficult to breathe. “Yes,” Mira choked out, “I suppose you are correct. But it still does not seem right.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Speaking of ‘right,’ I must apologize if I startled you last night.” The heat rose in her face as his voice lowered to an intimate vibration. “That was certainly not my intent.”
Mira had no idea where the impulse came from, but she could no more resist taking his bait than she could resist the pull of gravity. “And what exactly was your intent, sir?” She stammered, her voice little more than a whisper.
Nicholas reached out a hand to run one surprisingly soft finger along the curve of her jaw. His touch made her insides turn warm and soft. The sensation was unsettling. Primitive. Delicious. “You may be innocent, Mira-mine, but you are not a child. I believe you know exactly what my intent was.”
She gasped, just a tiny inhalation, and at that moment he leaned forward and kissed her. Her eyes drifted shut as his mouth moved softly over hers, barely touching her yet consuming her. All of her sensation was focused on those gentle brushes of his lips, every other feeling stripped away.
It only lasted a moment, but during that moment time seemed to stretch out forever. When he pulled back and a whisper of cool air caressed her mouth, still warm from his breath, she sighed.
When she opened her eyes, she found him watching her, a troubled look on his face. He cleared his throat and stood abruptly. “If you will excuse me, I have some matters to attend to.” As suddenly as he had appeared, he vanished out the door.
Mira sat stunned. Stunned and bereft. She stared at Nicholas’s half-eaten scone, lying forgotten on the table.
She was still sitting at the table staring dazedly at the abandoned scone, when Nicholas’s half brother, Mr. Jeremy Ellerby, sauntered into the dining room.
In the bright morning light, the contrast between Jeremy and Nicholas was even more pronounced than it had seemed the night before. Jeremy’s build was thicker, less feral, his hair fair like his mother’s, his eyes a piercing blue. The ladies of the ton probably swooned over him, but, from their brief introduction the night before, he put Mira off. His animated good humor, so contrary to Nicholas’s temperament, struck her as forced.