Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Libby had an innocence about her that Eleanor was determined to preserve. Papa had died before she was old enough to recognize the tension in their home, or at the very least to place its origin. She had a rosy view of love and life that would be crushed by some overbearing aristocrat. It was a fate she did not deserve.

Of course, it was a fate Eleanor didn’t deserve, either. The whole situation was just so blasted unfair. Blowing out a breath, she paced the length of the room. Aunt Margaret’s snores filtered past the ebony door that separated their suites, and Eleanor immediately quieted her footsteps. Her aunt’s noise may not wake her, but the woman heard just about everything else in a half-mile radius.

Eleanor would love nothing more than to pour out her frustrations to her aunt, but she had just been so delicate since Mama’s death. Gone was the fiery woman who had once been a tour de force among the ton. Growing up, Eleanor had wanted to be just like her. Widowed young and without children of her own, she had always been so strong and independent—a striking foil to Eleanor’s mother while Papa was still alive.

Now, however, she was simply the aging, older sister to one sibling who was dead, and another who was a boorish nobleman who liked to manipulate them about like chess pieces.

And on top of everything, Aunt Margaret had been under the weather this week, and Eleanor didn’t want to cause her undue stress. Sighing, she rubbed a hand over her eyes. She wasn’t getting anywhere.

A light tap on the door to the corridor interrupted her thoughts. She padded over and pulled it open, only to find Nick on the other side. What on earth was he doing here? His short, brown hair was damp and in need of a comb, standing up in all different directions. He’d taken the time to shave as well, and the late afternoon light illuminated one perfectly smooth, chiseled cheek while the other was cast in shadow.

For one fleeting moment, she had the oddest desire to run a fingertip down the side of his face, to see if the skin was as soft as it looked. And then her sanity returned with a biting snap.

Was he mad? One couldn’t go knocking on a woman’s bedchamber on a whim. She pulled the door mostly closed, leaving only enough room for him to have a clear view of her censure. “Nicolas,” she hissed, annoyance making the single word into a curse, “what are you doing here?”

He lifted one corner of his mouth is a rakish grin, knowing full well that she hated when he acted as though he was some sort of Corinthian. “You ran away without a proper greeting, young lady. I thought I might give you the chance to grovel for my forgiveness before dinner.”

“Oh please, I am not a young anything to you. Now go away, I’ll see you downstairs soon enough.” She started to shut the door, but he put his hand out, stopping her forward motion with a jolt.

“Not until you tell me what is bothering you,” he said, an underlying hint of concern coloring the otherwise belligerent words. Then, just when she was about to think he might actually care, he added, “You are not nearly waspish enough for all to be well.”

She rolled her eyes, her gaze landing on the bulge of his arm muscles as he held the door in place, resisting her attempts to shut it. It was so jarring for him to look so different. And distracting. Her heart gave a little flip as her gaze slipped over his broadened shoulders and the exceptionally sharp line of his jaw. Truly, they must have worked him like a mule in the army.

Good.

Having regained her wits, she glared at him. “Would you please leave me be?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” she said, exasperation clear in her whispered words.

“Right after you tell me what has your face drawn tight as a miser’s purse strings.” He gave another infuriating little grin. “Careful, such a thing will give you wrinkles. Especially at your advanced age.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” she said, shaking her head. “Honestly, Aunt Margaret will hear you, and if you wake her, I will make you regret it.”

He leaned in toward her until his face was only inches from hers, the clean scent of his shaving soap teasing her nose. His light green eyes held the same challenge they always did when he’d set his mind to having his way. “Then I suggest,” he murmured, his voice low and deep, “that you let me in and tell me what is troubling you.”

“You are troubling me,” she insisted, keeping her own voice down. “Now leave. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Nick sighed, shaking his head as though profoundly disappointed. “Only two years away, and they’ve turned you into such an old maid.”