Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Indeed,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes in thought. Did Malcolm think he could use Ellie as some sort of pawn? He took a good hard look around the room. There were an inordinate number of members of the House of Lords present—several of whom were unmarried. There was no disguising the fact that this house party was meant to strengthen political bonds.

A thought occurred to him, one so distasteful he nearly crushed the stemware in his hand before he realized what he was doing. Did Malcolm have visions of marrying her off to one of these overly dry, mostly older men? Nick had no doubt that if his stepfather couldn’t get by on his politics, he’d use whatever weapon he had in his arsenal to get what he wanted.

And Nick would be damned if he’d let Eleanor be the man’s ammunition.





WITH A BLAND SMILE FIRMLY IN PLACE, Eleanor pretended to listen as Lord Shevington droned on about his hunting trip to Scotland last month. She couldn’t have cared less about the details of the hunt, but she was determined to appear to Uncle Robert that she was abiding by his ultimatum.

The very thought of his words poisoned her mood, and she swallowed against the lump that lodged in her throat. It had been over a day since Uncle Robert had thrown down the gauntlet, and absolutely no alternative had presented itself, no matter how much she tried to think of one.

She could refuse, make a fuss, cause a scandal—but all of them seemed to come back to her sister paying the price. Libby deserved a Season, blast it. More than that, she deserved the chance to decide her own future.

By God, Eleanor wouldn’t let her uncle steal that from her.

Laughter from across the room caught her attention, and she glanced to where Nick stood with Miss Landon and Lady Blackwell. Her brittle smile softened just a bit. It had been the highlight of her night when he had attempted to free her from her uncle’s control.

Or was it just that he enjoyed being contrary to his stepfather? That was more likely the case, but still, she appreciated the effort.

“Don’t you agree Miss Abbington?” Shevington blinked at her expectantly, his old-fashioned whiskers making him look like a squirrel begging for a nut.

“Of course,” she said with conviction, having no idea to what she was agreeing. Whatever it was, it made the man smile and carry on.

Sneaking a glance in Nicolas’s direction again, she was struck with an unexpected pang in the vicinity of her ribs as Miss Landon giggled at something he said. It was the oddest sensation—she’d never once felt jealously where Nick was concerned. He was a pest; surely she was just envious of their freedom. It had nothing to do with the brief touch of Miss Landon’s fingers to his sleeve, or the way he tilted his head toward her when he spoke.

Ugh—she had to get a hold of herself. This was Nick! The bane of her existence, her competitor, her own personal tag-along tormentor. Clearly Uncle Robert’s demands had addled her brain.

Speaking of which, she should be paying more attention to Shevington. A low burn deep in her chest nagged at her, threatening to turn to full-blown panic. The men she had met so far tonight either were old enough be her father, or worse—reminded her of him. Polished manners, polite smiles, but with a certain arrogant authority about them that could easily translate to overt possessiveness or unreasonable rage.

She shuddered, pushing back against the memories that threatened to surface at the thought of her father.

“Are you chilled, Miss Abbington? Shall I have a footman fetch you a wrap?”

Caught in her woolgathering, though thankfully he didn’t seem to recognize it as such. She purposefully relaxed her tense shoulders and smiled. “No thank you, my lord. I think perhaps I could use some refreshment.”

“Allow me to fetch you something to drink,” he replied, bowing his head before lumbering off in search of a servant.

Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. Finally—a moment of peace. Of their own volition, her eyes strayed once more toward Nicolas. Miss Whittingham had joined them and was fluttering her eyelashes as though caught in a windstorm. Not that Eleanor blamed the girl for trying to flirt with him—he was the youngest man present. And his regimentals did rather stand out among the sea of somber jackets the other men wore.

“Eleanor,” Uncle Robert murmured from directly behind her, his hot breath uncomfortably damp against her ear, “I suggest you ignore your little friends and set your focus on the task at hand. Not that I mind choosing a husband for you.”

She turned, as much to escape his invasion of her space as anything. “I’m aware of what I should be doing,” she said through clenched teeth. At that moment, Shevington returned with a glass in each hand, and she gratefully accepted the one he held out to her.

She was beginning to understand why Aunt Lavinia liked spirits so well.