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

keys. Her feet worked the pedals, revealing her dainty ankles. His gaze traced the swell of her calf, revealed through her muslin dress, and up the graceful length of thigh. When his gaze roamed from her pert bosom beneath the pleated bodice to the burnished curls resting against her pale nape, he dragged his gaze away.

The music stopped. “Nicholas?”

Aware his body had stirred inappropriately, he stood and turned toward the door. “Exquisite, Carrie. Please continue. Don’t let me interrupt you.” He hurried from the room, seeking the sanctuary of his library.

But even after he seated himself at his desk and his secretary, who would be leaving his employ soon, presented him with letters to be signed, the music was in his head and his heart. He would always equate that beautiful piece of music with Carrie.

He needed a good, long, hard ride alone tomorrow to clear his thoughts. And he had just the destination in mind.

The next morning when Nicholas entered the breakfast room, Jeremy looked up from the remains of his eggs and bacon. “Are we riding to the ruins today?”

Nicholas’s mind had been on the morning ahead. He shook his head with a distracted smile as the footman brought his coffee. “Best to wait a day or two, Jeremy. We’ve had torrential rain all week. The river floods the lowlands, which is why they built this house on higher ground.”

“But it might rain again tomorrow and the day after that,” Jeremy protested, pushing away his plate.

Carrie frowned at him. “You must be patient, Jeremy.”

Jeremy puffed himself up, looking every inch a young lord. “But will we ride at all today?”

Nicholas noted the lad’s restlessness. “Yes, later on, a ride to the river, perhaps. I have something I must do this morning.” He nodded his thanks to the footman, who placed a plate of kidneys before him. “Amuse yourself for a few hours, Jeremy. Visit the dogs. See how your pup fares.”

Carrie buttered a piece of toast. “Yes, that’s a splendid idea, Jeremy.”

“What do you intend to do, Carrie?” Nicholas asked.

“Bella and I are going for a walk.”

“Where are you going, Nicholas?” Bella asked.

“There’s someone I must see.” He left half his breakfast uneaten and hastily threw back the last of his coffee. Then he pushed back his chair and left the table before more questions he had no intention of answering were leveled at him. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall see you at luncheon.”

In the gun room, Nicholas loaded his pistol. At the stables, he mounted Aquilo and rode north, intent on discovering the man Vano had told him about who camped on his land. The thought of this stranger harming Bella or anyone else had been on his mind.

Smoke from a campfire rose in a gray spiral against the blue sky, pinpointing the man’s position. The ground was still boggy after the rain, the river racing past beneath the bridge.

When Nicholas rode close enough to the campfire to observe the man’s movements, he dismounted and tossed Aquilo’s reins over a bush. From behind a tree, he saw a thin, hunched figure poke at the flames with a stick, and drew his gun.

Nicholas stepped out and covered the distance between them. He halted a few yards away and cocked his gun. The man’s back stiffened. “Turn around, hands in the air,” Nicholas ordered.

He turned. Wide blue eyes stared at Nicholas, his face gaunt and tense. He straightened and saluted. “Captain.”

“Bloody hell.” Nicholas uncocked his gun and tucked it into his breeches as he approached his former sergeant. “Can it be you, Warren?”

“Captain Ambrose. Sorry, it’s Lord Pennington now, isn’t it?” Michael Warren removed his hat and combed his hair with his fingers. “I have water on the boil. May I offer you a cup of java? I’m afraid there’s no milk or sugar.”

“That will do nicely. But what are you doing here?” Nicholas observed the man’s deft movements as he poured water from a metal pot into two cups. Warren had been an orderly soldier, one he had once relied on.

“It’s a long story. I heard you’d sold out after Waterloo.”

“Yes. Lost my father and Emory, my older brother.” Nicholas found a rock and perched on it.

“I was sorry to learn of their passing. That must have been hard.”

He took the chipped cup Warren handed him and wrapped his fingers around it, allowing the warmth to seep through his riding gloves. He raised it to his mouth and drank. The bitter coffee warmed his cold insides. Finding his sergeant in these straits filled him with a helpless rage. He despaired at the state of his countrymen.

Warren sat beside him and took a deep sip. “This is my one indulgence. Never lost the taste for coffee. Reminds me of better times.”

Nicholas knew how paltry a soldier’s pension was. “Were you planning to come and see me?”

Warren shrugged. “I’m on the lookout for a day or two’s work. I knew you to be fair-minded and popular with the men. But I decided against it. I was about to pack up and move on.”

“Well, as I’m here now, let’s hear that long story.”

Warren hesitated; his knuckles whitened as he held the cup. “When I returned home after Waterloo, I discovered my father had died, and my brother took over our property. He kicked me out.”

“Why would he do that?”

He evaded Nicholas’s eyes and lowered his head over the cup. “We didn’t get on. Not since a woman we both wanted chose me. A sore point with him, made worse because my father favored me. Peter never got over it.”

“It appears you’ve had more than your share of bad luck.” Nicholas motioned to the meager camp. “But what led you to this?”

“I first joined the soldiers filling London in search of work. Times are still