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

“It pleases you?” Nicholas asked.

She returned his smile. While she found it exciting, she wished she were more confident about what lay ahead.

The coach pulled up before one of a row of grand townhouses, and liveried footmen hurried out to assist them from the coach.

A haughty, rail-thin butler of some fifty-odd years offered a stiff bow. His murmured welcome sounded as if he had a mouth full of plums. Carrie wasn’t sure what he said.

“Here at last!” Gwen hurried down the sweep of marble stairs to kiss them both. “My butler, Fellows, will answer any questions you might have, Carrie.”

With a slight motion of the butler’s hand, a maid took their hats and coats.

“We’ve received word from your valet, my lord,” Fellows said. “Mr. Peterson awaits you at Pennington Court.”

“I’ll go there now. Thank you, Fellows.”

Gwen stared at him. “Have you opened Pennington Court for such a short stay, Nicholas? I expected you to put up here.”

“A small staff will serve me well enough until I return to the country.”

Gwen eyed him speculatively, then turned to Carrie. “You must be fatigued, dear girl. After you’ve bathed and changed, we’ll take a glass of wine in the salon. I have so much to tell you. A quiet evening awaits us before the rush begins! You will attend your first ball in three days. The Fitzgibbons are most eager to meet you.”

Carrie’s eyes grew wide. It was all so rushed. She had expected to have time to settle in, to familiarize herself with London. “But my ballgown...”

“We have no time to waste.” Gwen smiled. “My clever modiste has it almost competed. A final fitting in the morning. Then we’ll shop in Regent Street for accessories.”

Carrie laughed. “What color is it?”

“White, of course, my dear. Most debs wear white or pastels. So demure.” Gwen turned to look at Nicholas. “And yet so clever. The low-cut style of those dainty gowns enslave men at a glance. And you shall have many at your feet.”

Carrie glanced at Nicholas, who didn’t seem amused. Her heart sank. She had hoped he might change his mind and stay longer.

“I trust the journey wasn’t too fatiguing,” he said, his eyes roaming her face as if for signs of tiredness.

Her hand went to a stray wisp that had loosened from her topknot when she removed her hat. She did not feel at her best. “Not at all.”

“Shall I advise Cook to set another place, Nicholas?” Gwen asked.

“I’m afraid not. You must excuse me. I have a dinner engagement this evening.” He crossed the marble floor to the door.

“But we shall see you tomorrow?” Gwen called after him.

He paused as Fellows opened the front door. “I’ll call on my return from Hyde Park at breakfast if you’ll permit my mode of dress.”

“Of course we will,” Gwen replied.

He bowed his head and walked down the steps into the rain.

How odd to feel so…abandoned. Carrie watched the coach pull away as Gwen, an arm around her, drew her to the stairs.

Chapter Thirteen

Nicholas left his valet fussing over his clothes, while his staff set about the task of getting his London house in order. Mounting a horse from the stables, he rode through the streets to the park gates at Hyde Park corner. The rain clouds had drifted away, the sky a watery pale blue. Despite the early hour, riders intent on a canter down Rotten Row and those wishing to promenade filed inside. A carriage entered to tool along the south Carriage Drive in search of acquaintances. As it neared him, a lady’s head appeared at the window. “My lord. Are you enjoying your stay in London?”

“Indeed.” Nicholas removed his hat and bowed in the saddle. “All the more pleasant for having met you, Mrs. Burrell.”

Lillian laughed. “Charmer. Shall we see you at the Fitzgibbons’ ball?”

“You shall. Will you save me a dance?”

“Certainly.” Her carriage, which had been held up by a green barouche, jolted forward.

The widow and he had enjoyed a brief affair last Season. She looked most attractive in a wide-brimmed hat lavishly adorned with feathers. He wondered briefly if he might… No, he could hardly treat her so casually by leaving again within a few days. It had not pleased her to end their arrangement, but she appeared to have forgiven him. He wondered why he had ended it when they suited each other so well. Then he recalled it was Max’s funeral which took him from London, and since then, he had rarely returned, only for a brief dinner with friends or a stint in the House of Lords.

Nicholas rode on, breathing in the scents of trees, grass, and the tang of horse manure on the breeze. The polluted city streets seemed far away. Ahead of him, Charles waited on his chestnut, its flanks gleaming gold in the sun, and beside him, Dominic Thorne, the Earl of Redcliffe, on a spirited black stallion, which tossed its head, taking a dislike to Charles’s horse.

Nicholas hailed them. He’d hoped for a private word with Charles. He’d had little chance when he’d dined with him and his duchess, Nellie, the previous evening. Instead, he had suffered Nellie’s probing about his love life. Why did his friends’ wives always want to see him leg-shackled? It left him bemused.

He admitted the journey to London enclosed in the coach for hours with Carrie had been pleasurable once she’d recovered her good humor. In such close quarters, despite his efforts to remain in his role as advisor, he found her entrancing. What man wouldn’t be charmed by such a delightful, beautiful, and quixotic young lady? Carrie could amuse one minute and challenge the next. It surprised him when she made him aware of her reservations about making her debut. Most young women would be thrilled. It might be a