Nicholas caught Mira’s eye from across the table. He gave her a slow, wolfish grin just so he could watch the blush rise in her cheeks. When she appeared sufficiently flustered, he gave her a teasing wink, and peered down the table at the one person who did not seem to be enjoying herself at all: Beatrix.
She swept the company with a bored gaze, the corners of her mouth turned up in the faintest feline smile. Her fork touched each of the foods on her plate in turn, but she did not take a bite. Nicholas could not shake the feeling that she was plotting something, a cat lying still and squint-eyed in the grass waiting for just the right moment to pounce.
The only question was which of the diners would be her mouse tonight.
As he took another bite of his beef roast, Nicholas absently massaged his injured leg.
The walk back from Upper Bidwell had been slow and painful, but he had taken the opportunity to ask Mira about her visit with Mrs. Thomas. Nicholas had suggested Mira talk with Mrs. Thomas specifically because he anticipated the vicar’s wife would natter on for hours, neatly distracting Mira, but not providing any useful information.
Indeed, Mrs. Thomas had not added much to what Mira already knew, only confirming the existence of the elusive “wealthy suitor.” No, she had added only one devastating fact to the story. After some hemming and hawing, Nicholas had been able to coax the information about Bridget’s pregnancy out of Mira. A five-or-six-month pregnancy meant that Bridget had become with child near the Christmas before she died.
The timing was a small matter by itself, but Nicholas had no idea what Mira might make of it, given enough time—and the possibilities sent a chill down his spine.
A burst of male laughter drew his attention to his father. Blackwell was still a handsome man, fit and strong though beginning to show the first signs of his age. A few silver hairs caught the light when he nodded, and, when he laughed at some comment by Lord Marleston, Nicholas noted that the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth were growing deeper.
And Lady Beatrix was still a beautiful woman. Alas, beauty alone had never been enough to hold Blackwell’s attention. Blackwell craved youth and variety the way some men craved laudanum or gin. He always had. Poor Beatrix could tend her complexion and her figure with the utmost care, but it would not keep Blackwell from straying.
Not for the first time, Nicholas winced from a pang of sympathy for his stepmother. She was tied to a wayward husband, without the means to have her own discreet adventures and left moldering on the Cornish cliffs. That life had driven his mother mad. Beatrix, instead, gave herself over to her bitterness, becoming more brittle and angry with each passing year.
Still, Nicholas feared her end would be the same as his mother’s: death, far too young. Indeed, Beatrix was already plagued by declining health. She had suffered from headaches for years, and he suspected she was now dependent on the foul green liquor her physician had prescribed to treat them. And she rarely ate more than a few morsels at a time. She had never been a stout woman, but now she was painfully thin, her fair skin taut over her fine bones, her form so slight she looked as though she might shatter.
Nicholas caught Mira’s eye again. Although she was quiet, not involved in any of the conversations around her, there was an air of satisfied contentment about her tonight. Her skin had a rosy glow from their time outside, and the blue underslip beneath her muslin gown suited her complexion nicely. He would like to paint her as she looked tonight, a simple portrait of domestic happiness.
And she would soon be his.
He was startled to discover the thought aroused him. His. His wife. This bright bundle of passion and warmth would be his wife. Sometime during the course of the day, Nicholas had come to accept that he did not want Mira to leave. It was selfish of him in the extreme, but he could not let her goodness slip from his life.
She offered him a shy smile from across the table, and he had to fight the urge to grab her hand and haul her out of the dining room right then and there. He imagined taking her out to the garden where they had talked that morning, laying her down on the soft grass beneath the magnolia tree, and kissing her senseless.