Never Dance with a Marquess (The Never Series Book 2), Maggi Andersen [best short novels of all time TXT] 📗

Later, Carrie climbed into bed. She went back over the game. Just being near Nicholas made her heart race. Would she be able to think clearly enough to ever beat him?

She pummeled her pillow. Would there even be a next time?

Chapter Nine

When Nicholas returned to the library after breakfast, his dog leapt up to greet him, tail wagging.

“You are indefatigable, Chester.” Nicholas bent to pat him. “You exhausted yourself following my horse this morning. Have you forgotten?”

Chester returned to his basket, turned around, and sank down with his head on his paws. Seated at his desk, Nicholas opened his ledger and read the chapter he’d penned earlier. He cleaned his pen, dipped it in the inkwell, then stared at the page as the last few hours came back to him, banishing any thoughts of the Battle of Waterloo.

Carrie had been a mesmerizing opponent at their chess game last night. He found himself watching her rather than the board.

Yesterday when her horse reared, and she slipped from the saddle, his heart had dropped into his boots. He grew sweaty thinking of it.

Nicholas threw down his pen.

His thoughts took him back to that day years ago. Sylvia, limp in his arms as he’d carried her from the lake, her wet, dark hair plastered across her ashen face. He’d returned home from meeting friends in the city. They were to meet that afternoon. Sylvia had taken the boat out onto the lake to fetch her hat, which must have blown into the water, and when reaching for it, fell in. She could not swim. If only she had waited for him. He arrived moments later, but it was too late.

It seemed like a penance, like poking a sore to examine his culpability. He was about to go to Sylvia when his father arrived home with his new stallion, bought at Tattersall’s auction. Firefly was a chestnut beauty, spirited, and fleet of foot. Nicholas was eager to ride him, and his father promised him he could. He’d gone to the stables to see the horse settled in, the stallion’s coat gleaming like fire in the sunlight. Nicholas stayed too long. He had expected to find her cross at him for being late. But he arrived too late to save her from drowning. If he’d been there when he should have been, it would not have happened. He had only confessed this to one person—Max.

Suddenly, with her death, his world lay in turmoil. From neighboring estates, he and Sylvia had known each other most of their lives. They were still young but expected one day to marry. Nicholas recalled how, his mind numb, he entered Oxford and completed his studies in history and mathematics. Max’s wisdom and strength helped Nicholas deal with his deep despair.

Carousing in London with friends, watching boxing matches, attending race meets, or wandering Covent Garden at night no longer appealed to him. He begged his father to buy him a commission in the Horse Guards. As his older brother, Emory, was his heir, his father, albeit reluctantly, agreed. Nicholas began his army life as a subaltern and quickly rose in the ranks.

Nicholas held his head in his hands; losing his father and brother still hit him hard. Emory fell from his horse and broke his neck, and a mere eighteen months later, his father died in a freakish hunting accident. When news reached Nicholas in Spain, he returned home shocked and saddened to take over the title. He refused to sink into sadness again.

As his grief eased, he threw himself into the task. He had a methodical mind and was good at overseeing estate matters. And he liked to help his people. He was keener, in fact, than his father was and his brother might have been, for they both preferred to hunt and spend the Season in London at the gaming tables. Neither pastime interested Nicholas. While his years in the army had hardened him, it did not change his love of literature. His mother, a dedicated reader, had died when he was nine, but he remembered her fondly, often with a book in her hands.

Nicholas gave up trying to write and closed the ledger. He doubted he’d accomplish anything until Carrie left for London. That she meant something special to him wasn’t surprising. She was an enchanting young woman, and he admired her. Once safely in his sister’s care, he would be free to write his book with a clear mind. While caring for Bella and Jeremy, he would be content.

He sat back in his chair. Was contentment still enough? Gwen said he’d imposed self-exile on himself. He didn’t expect her to understand a man’s need for solitude. To disappear into their cave for a while. A primeval instinct, he was sure.

Through the window, the setting sun painted the sky in a palette of gold and rose. Bella and Jeremy eased the ache he had carried in his heart with their youthful exuberance. But Carrie? He didn’t want to think about how much he would miss her. She would find a husband soon enough, a man who shared her interests with a poetic soul like hers. That wasn’t him. It never had been.

Suddenly restless, he abandoned the library and any thought of writing and went in search of Jeremy. The boy might appreciate a game of billiards. High time he learned the skill.

***

For the next week, torrential rain lashed the windows, day and night. Every day, Bella and Jeremy amused themselves, playing dominos, spillikins, or snap, while Carrie read a poetry book she’d found in one of her rare trips to the library.

By the sixth day, Jeremy, bored and restless, began to complain. Nicholas took luncheon with them but work soon took him away. She expected not to see him