When She Loved Me (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 1) Page 2

  “Papa says no woman should be allowed there, but in my opinion—”

  “That is enough, Nicole,” Sabrina said, without sharpness, but with great result, just as Trevor took up the seat opposite the young ladies.

  Sabrina’s clipped command silenced her sister with about as much effect as the suddenness of a pistol shot taking the words and thoughts out of a person.

  Nicole Kent cast her eyes down, into her lap, where she fidgeted mindlessly with her own hands. Trevor knew these ladies not at all but discerned immediately that it was quite troublesome for Nicole to be so instantly quieted, as she seemed to struggle with her efforts. Sabrina, on the extreme other hand, seemed unperturbed by the small matter, and less concerned by the very uncomfortable silence that now reigned within Trevor’s open carriage.

  They drove through Hyde Park as planned, a total of more than an hour sharing company, in which time so few words were uttered by either sister, he might have needed only one hand to count the instances. Trevor tried at first to make conversation, to learn of his fiancé, but to no avail. She answered his polite queries with monosyllables, and though her tone was neutral, he sensed in her an adamant refusal to make any attempt to consider him. Nicole, for her part, offered him several grimaced smiles, an apology lingering in the depths of her green eyes whenever he tried to converse with her, but still, she kept her answers brief, when Sabrina allowed her to speak at all.

  Chapter Two

  Two days later, determined to make this union not only happen, but thrive as well, Trevor again found himself waiting in the front parlor for Sabrina Kent to appear.

  He thought not to invite her again to ride in Hyde Park, as their last endeavor had proved almost painful. Perhaps, he imagined, something other than being seen with a man she’d rather not know at all, something that might spark some interest in her, would be more to her liking. Perhaps a thaw would begin today.

  A thaw, indeed, Trevor thought, while he waited.

  The door to the parlor opened and revealed to him not Sabrina, but her sister, Nicole. At least someone is happy to see me, he surmised. Nicole Kent burst into the room with a barely contained excitement, the shiny mop of her hair bouncing along with her. Without giving it much thought, Trevor smiled at seeing her.

  “Hello, Lord Leven,” she greeted him, as warmly as she had two days ago, removing her gloves and bonnet as she apparently was just coming in. “What a lovely surprise.” And then her face fell. “Oh, but Sabrina is not here. Perhaps she didn’t know of your intent to call,” this, hopefully.

  “She knew,” was all he said. He was not surprised that Sabrina was making it exceedingly hard to imagine a marriage between them might bring anything other than the misery he suspected. And, of course, the money he so desperately needed.

  “Had you a date planned?” Nicole asked, her expression conveying well her embarrassment over her sister’s impoliteness.

  “I had, but not another ride through the park,” he said with mock severity, hinting at no fondness to repeat the near-offensive occasion of their first outing. “I had planned to take Sabrina to the picture gallery.”

  Trevor noted how quickly her pretty green eyes brightened with keenness.

  “The Dulwich Picture Gallery?” She asked. “Excellent choice, my lord. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to visit the gallery, but I’ve heard much about it. They house Rembrandt and Gainsborough and Van Dyck, among others—oh, my, Sabrina wouldn’t have enjoyed that one bit,” she informed him pertly.

  Trevor laughed, amused by her tone, which indicated it was a good thing Sabrina wasn’t available for this outing. “But you would,” he guessed.

  “I would,” she was quick to assure him, a rather hopeful expression overtaking her.

  “Perhaps you would care to accompany me?” Trevor asked, his only thought just then that perhaps he might find an ally in Nicole Kent, one whom might at the very least, have some suggestion how to go about wooing her sister, or—with greater hope, but less expectation—might actually be able to convince his betrothed to at least give him a chance.

  Her answering smile, which accompanied her quick bobbing nod, stirred Trevor away from wondering at the prudence of such an invitation. To Trevor’s eyes, she appeared rather fetching in her blue day dress and gingham spencer, her jaunty little hat perched crookedly atop her riotous curls. He decided that her enchanting grin only amplified her allure. She would break hearts one day, he predicted.

  “Shall we?” Trevor offered his arm when she’d replaced her gloves.

  They passed through the front hall and by the butler, who held the door open with nary a question in his glance.

  Once inside the carriage, when he’d given the driver leave to take off, Trevor settled across from Nicole Kent and probed what had been in the back of his mind for two days. “Why did you allow Sabrina to silence you so thoroughly the other day?”

  He noticed that now, as she had two days ago, her eyes did not meet his, but seemed to find great interest in the small beaded bag, which had previously dangled from her wrist and now sat in her lap. “I forgot myself.”

  “What does that mean?” He wanted her to be as animated as she’d been when first they met. Obviously, Sabrina’s warning carried weight and longevity, making him sorry he’d broached the subject, dampening her initial congenial mood, but hopefully not her eagerness for their destination.

  “I am only to chaperone your outings. I do not need to contribute to the conversation, and my opinion is not to be given unless solicited.”

  Inwardly, he chuckled at her recitation, but he was surprised by the spark of anger that grew inside him as well. “You are repeating verbatim instructions from either your father or your sister,” he accused, knowing he was correct when her creamy cheeks pinkened and her green, expressive eyes darted quickly to him. “Which is it?”

  “They are right,” she contended, giving away more than she’d intended.

  “Ah, a dual attack, was it?” At her frown of confusion, Trevor waved this aside and said, “Perhaps you’ve noticed that your sister seems less enthusiastic about this betrothal than she would about... say, having her head lopped off,” Trevor said, causing her dimples to appear momentarily. “You could ignore the dire warnings of both your sire and your sister and give some assistance to your new brother,” he suggested with a raised brow. “Help me to convince Sabrina that this marriage can be good, if she but gives it even minimal effort.” Even as he said the words, he wondered if they were truth or not.

  “Sabrina is very lucky to have you,” was all Nicole said, making no promise to aid him. She did add, “You must realize, I am sure, that Sabrina listens to not a word I say. I shan’t be any help to you at all, I’m afraid.”

  Trevor nodded in acceptance of this, sorrowful though it was. They arrived then at Dulwich College, which housed the picture gallery and exhibition of great painters. Trevor, having not visited the gallery as it had opened to the public while he was away with Wellington, delighted in the company of one so educated and enamored of the artists and their works. He watched, amused, as Nicole dragged him happily from one vaulted cove to the next to inspect the works of Rembrandt and Gainsborough, among others. She was able to enlighten him about the painters and their lives, even giving him a history lesson on Rembrandt, informing him that his personal life was filled with much misfortune, his wife bearing four children, though only one survived, before dying at the age of thirty.

  Trevor decided as he watched and listened to Nicole’s animated conversation that she must be this passionate about anything she discussed. It seemed to him that there was a natural thirst for information within her and a desire to share what she knew. Several times, she grabbed at his sleeve to underscore a certain point, and always her glorious eyes shone with delight.

  With a casual intent to see if she were so impassioned about Gainsborough, he asked, “Did you know that Gainsborough married at the tender age of only nineteen?”

  She nodd
ed enthusiastically, and confided from the side of her hand, “I was made to understand he hadn’t much choice in the matter.”

  Trevor chuckled. “And what might you know of that?” He asked, wondering how this little innocent miss hinted at a knowledge of a duke’s bastard daughter’s pregnancy forcing the hand of one of the great portrait painters of England.

  She lifted her brows in feigned innocence. “I would know nothing at all, my lord. I wasn’t there.” And then she shrugged, moving on to the next portrait though Trevor caught sight of an interrupted grin that likely would have proved jaunty if it had been allowed to advance fully.

  He was ill prepared for the amount of enjoyment he derived from this young woman’s company. As he was to be shortly married to this girl’s sister, he pushed aside the pleasant warmth that enveloped him, a feeling which grew then as she turned and beckoned him forth to view a Van Dyck, her smile pretty and unexpectedly disarming.

  Trevor imagined that two sisters, having been deprived of their mothers and having to live with the baron, whom Trevor now understood firsthand suffered only two temperaments— markedly gruff and decidedly oblivious—might be well pleased to have each other’s company. The drive in Hyde Park hinted that this was not exactly the case, and today’s visit to the Kent house verified that these sisters shared not one whit of affection. To be fair, though, he allowed that the younger sister would very well embrace any congeniality from the older, if she but offered, yet she did not.

  Trevor sat, rather on the edge of his seat in the drawing room, as if he might bolt at any moment, while the two sisters attended their embroidery and his company. Sabrina had poured him tea earlier, though he’d wished for something more fortifying and actually debated traveling with a flask if all their meetings were to be so stilted. She’d inquired of the weather, wondering if he agreed that the air contained a certain chill today. And that, apparently, had exhausted her efforts to engage him in conversation, and she sat mostly mute afterward.

  He was quite aware that Nicole stole glances at him while she sat at the opposite end of the elegant settee. Her eyes danced with some merry light and he wondered if this was a constant circumstance, that bubbling just under the surface of laughter being always ready.

  “And what is it you are working on there, Miss Nicole? Some letter sampler to frame upon the wall?” He asked, not particularly interested in yet another young lady’s boasting of her fine needlework and her knowledge of the alphabet.

  She laughed. “I should have, perhaps, only limited myself to that endeavor.” She held the piece up for his inspection. “I should explain that my intent to create a likeness of Lady Hortense—no, not viscount Marmount’s wife,” she clarified when his eyes widened in horror, upon viewing the threads upon the linen. “Lady Hortense is my favorite mare.”

  That made more sense, Trevor thought, but still was inclined to narrow his eyes, trying to discern a horse within the artwork, but could truly only make out four stubby legs and a conical body.

  “Exactly,” Nicole said, looking now with disappointment upon her handiwork. “Mayhap, it will only be a likeness of my favorite dog.”

  “You have a dog?”

  “I do not. But my needlework proposes that I do. I shall name him Lord Higginbotham.”

  Trevor chuckled at this and then was surprised when Sabrina casually turned her own needlework toward him for his perusal. Her design showed a perfectly styled vase and flowers, with curving and graceful vines and leaves. “Quite well done, indeed,” he intoned approvingly.

  “Dear Nicole hasn’t the patience to learn the genteel arts,” Sabrina said, the ‘dear’ being said in such a tone as to suggest she was anything but. She stared at her sister for just a moment, while Nicole bent again over her needlework, and Trevor was somehow not precisely surprised to witness Sabrina actually looking Miss Nicole over from head to toe—he would have said with repugnance but could not fathom this—with the barest whisper of a sneer drawing her lips down.

  “I just cannot sit for so long,” Nicole confessed, raising her face again, unaware of Sabrina’s inclination. “Drawing and painting, and the piano—practice, practice, practice. I’d rather see or hear these things brought to life by persons who were engaged by passion and inherent genius to create their art, and not by one who is compelled to create atrocities to please a society that insists that she embrace a talent when none naturally exists.”

  Trevor was taken aback by the ardor behind her argument, which advised that it was not the first time her own abilities or desires were brought into question. And then she surprised him by smiling, her eyes lighting up with mischief, and proclaiming with laughter in her voice, “But now that we’ve established I have neither the liking nor the artistic ability to attempt such nonsense, I can dispense with it.” And she placed her embroidery aside then settled her arms upon the rolled arm of the settee and rested her chin there to simply gaze out the window.

  It came to him, as he watched her rather sprawl out, that she would lift her feet and tuck them underneath her if not for his presence. Just now though, there was something very attractive about her pose, her waist and arms twisted to face the windows, her hair being pinned away from her face, the length of it curling down the slim line of her back. She slanted her head upon her forearms so that her cheek lay there but her eyes still kept on the street outside. She raised her gaze to the sky and Trevor wondered what had caught her interest to lift her lips in soft appreciation. Her brow had been knit with her frustrated concentration when she’d applied herself to her embroidery and now, just gazing out the window, watching carriages or people or birds pass by, her brow lay perfectly untroubled, her needs obviously met and her mind at ease. How perfectly envious of her he was just now.

  Silence had now stretched for quite some time, but he didn’t think to disrupt it as it rather unconsciously occurred to him that her pose, however artless and unintentional, was actually quite provocative. Her position stretched her back and waist, showing her lean figure, while the angle at which sat her head and face revealed a wonderful and swanlike expanse of neck, the bare and creamy skin almost begging a man to touch. She is not a child at all, he realized just then, admiring still the line and arc of her neck and jaw.

  Trevor caught himself, jerking his eyes away just as the shameless content of his thoughts struck him. Bloody Hades! He’d just ogled lecherously the sister of his fiancé. His gaze lifted guiltily to Sabrina, and found her eyes upon him, her fingers unmoving upon the thread and needle. He aimed for nonchalant, lifting his brow to her as if he only awaited words she might speak. She stared back, her look perceptive, while Trevor had all he could do not to clench his jaw at his grand error in judgment—indeed in thought and action.

  “Will you and the countess come to dine tomorrow night, my lord?” Sabrina asked, her hands still frozen, though her smile was honeyed.

  “Oh, yes, you must,” Nicole cried and thankfully straightened herself to a perfectly ladylike seated position.

  Trevor sent his gaze to her for only a split second before returning it to his betrothed.

  “Say you will,” Nicole pleaded.

  Trevor kept his eyes on Sabrina. “I should be delighted,” he lied smoothly. “I will send ‘round a message to mother.”

  Nicole glided through the kitchens of the Kent house in Mayfair, inhaling deeply to identify scents of garlic and lamb and onions. She found Mrs. Abercrombie chopping anchovies at one end of the long prep table. The director of the kitchen showed no hair, her graying locks tucked neatly under a turban of red cotton. Nicole thought her life might turn upside-down if ever she walked into these kitchens and saw the middle-aged and ruddy-cheeked woman with her hair loosed.

  “Please say there’ll be no mackerel tonight,” Nicole begged prettily of Mrs. Abercrombie, sidling up next to her, wrinkling her nose as she inspected the reeking fish upon the counter.

  “Yes, there’ll be mackerel,” said the cheery woman, “broiled in herbs and butter t
he way your father likes it.”

  Nicole grimaced, as she was not a lover of seafood and had been sad when many years ago Mrs. Abercrombie had merrily announced that the great majority of recipes—even if it weren’t obvious—called for fish, or fish stock, or fish parts, to which Nicole had requested that she never know into which dishes such offensive ingredients were being sneaked.

  “Very well, but please not cream of mushroom soup,” she said now. She’d folded her hands at her breast, very close to Mrs. Abercrombie, offering a charming and manipulative grin to the appeal.

  “Oh, go on with you, child,” Mrs. Abercrombie laughed. “It’ll be white soup today for you—and what has you so interested suddenly in what I’m putting out to the table?”

  “Lord Leven is coming to dine, as well you know,” Nicole said, slinking along the counter to the other end, where the kitchen maid, Edrina, was hulling strawberries. Edrina sent her an indulgent smile as Nicole swiped several cleaned berries out of the bowl and plopped them into her mouth. “It has to be perfect—oh, I wish you had made ice cream, that would be so lovely!”

  “And so I did, and Edrina will make the berry sauce to serve with it.”

  Nicole’s eyes widened with delight, and she stole one more strawberry before returning to Mrs. Abercrombie at the other end. She kissed her rosy cheek. “Bless you.”

  “And why would you be caring if it’s perfect or not? Are you to be marrying the earl, and not your sister?” The woman asked, raising a dark brow and giving a knowing look to Nicole.

  “I am not,” Nicole told her, then grinned cheekily at the woman, “but I have it on good authority that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  Mrs. Abercrombie giggled gleefully at this. “And here I thought, all these years, you’d not been paying attention.”

  Nicole leaned close to the woman and made to whisper something serious. “Sabrina is going out of her way to jeopardize this betrothal. We’ve only your cooking to save it now, Mrs. Abercrombie. The forever fate of my dearest sister lies solely in your hands.”