Redeeming Lord Ryder. Maggie Robinson

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СКАЧАТЬ Mrs. Grace sniffed with disapproval and hung it on a hook by the door. “I didn’t see you in church this morning, and came to see how you were doing. Your ankle and whatnot. I see you’re standing. Can you walk on it yet?”

      Very carefully, Nicola pirouetted, then curtseyed.

      Oh, how very foolish she was being. There was something about Jack that made her want to be foolish. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d flirted with anyone. In the time she’d known Richard—more than half her life, really—there had been little cause for flirtation. Richard had been a serious boy then and was a serious man now.

      Jack grinned. “Well done, you. But perhaps you’d like to sit down and not overdo.”

      Nicola wished her dress was not a sensible gray, had a bigger bustle, more ruffles, and that she hadn’t pinned her hair up any which way this morning. But judging from the heat flaming on her cheeks, she probably didn’t look white as snow anymore.

      “I’ve brought you something to while away the time while you’re recovering. I mean about your ankle, not whatever has brought you here to Puddling. But don’t get too excited—the shops here are very limited, aren’t they? And they keep us impoverished too. I had to turn over all my pocket money to the fiend who works in my cottage when I arrived. Mrs. Feather is as strict as a nun. Probably worse. Nuns have to be charitable and take pity on one—it’s in their contract, I expect. You would not believe the lies I had to tell the woman so she’d advance me some of my allowance.”

      Nicola waggled a finger at him.

      “Of course I should have lied! I wanted to give you a gift, shabby though it is. I feel rather responsible for you. It’s not every day that I get to save a pretty young lady from a life on the streets.” He handed her the brown-wrapped package and sat across from her in a chair she knew to be uncomfortable.

      Oh! A life on the streets! He was so cheeky. She should be offended by his teasing, but she smiled anyhow.

      He passed her a small pocket knife. “For the string. Don’t stab me later.”

      Nicola sliced open the string and unfolded the paper. Inside was a pocket-sized blank notebook and a pack of colored drawing pencils.

      “I didn’t know if you were artistic. If you are not, you can use the book to talk to me.”

      Nicola raised an eyebrow.

      “You know, I’ll say something—probably stupid—and you can write down your reply. Whatever you say back will be much prettier if it’s in red or blue or green.”

      Nicola mouthed the words “thank you,” and selected a purple pencil. She flipped the book to its first page.

      You are very kind. But I am a terrible artist. She squiggled something after the words. Can you tell what this is?

      Jack took the book from her and squinted. “Huh. A dog? No, a bear. Maybe a cat without a tail.”

      See? I’m hopeless. It is a rabbit.

      “You’ve got the ears all wrong, you know.” He borrowed her purple pencil and sketched an exquisite little rabbit next to hers.

      That is very good. My rabbit wants to hop away in embarrassment. If he had proper feet.

      “Well, one more foot, at least. They usually have four. Thank you. I’m a bit of a draftsman. Normally I draw machinery to mathematical specifications instead of cute fluffy creatures.”

      So, he was employed somewhere. Nicola had a healthy respect for those who earned their own bread. As a solicitor’s daughter, she had no right to be snobbish, and thought it ridiculous that the idle rich were so very idle and so unfairly rich. Richard was a Liberal MP with a true concern for the poor, and she had planned to support him in his progressive ideas.

      Did she dare ask what Jack did and why was here?

      No. She would keep everything casual. Discreet.

      And it was none of her business.

      Mrs. Grace entered bearing a well-stocked tea tray. Jack leaped up to help her, but she refused. “Please sit down, sir. You’ll only make me spill something.”

      It was true that now he was in the parlor, quarters seemed even tighter. He was tall and broad and so very present. Nicola was used to blending into the background, but no one could ever miss Jack.

      The housekeeper set the tray on the low table in front of the sofa. “All right, Miss Nicola? Or would you like me to stay and pour?”

      Did Mrs. Grace think she needed chaperonage? Jack did not seem dangerous at all, despite the fact that he was tall, dark, quite handsome, and took up so much space in the room.

      Nicola hoped he was not a homicidal maniac hiding out in Puddling from the law. Or a married man with half a dozen children. She stole a look at his left hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but then so many men didn’t.

      “Milk and no sugar, please,” her mysterious visitor said before she had a chance to gesture.

      Her mother had raised her to be the wife of an MP, perhaps even a future prime minister, for Richard was ambitious beyond belief. Nicola usually moved with grace and ease, except when she was falling down an icy hill or skating. Ice seemed to be her nemesis. Perhaps she was meant to live somewhere in the tropics. She poured the tea and arranged a small plate of sandwiches and biscuits for her guest as any properly trained young woman would do.

      But she hadn’t the first idea what should come next.

      Chapter 4

      Jack had always been a talker. A chatterbox, if one was being completely accurate. He had so many ideas, a second would tumble out before the first was finished, and it had required a lot of patience from his friends to wade through his words. But he found his mind was completely blank now.

      Mrs. Grace—Miss Nicola, since he wasn’t supposed to know her last name—was sipping her tea, her face a delightful shade of rose. One of his former companies manufactured oil paint—paint was flammable, so no more factory—and he’d never seen pigment that delicate in color. She reminded him of the portrait George Frederic Watts had done of the actress Ellen Terry, all gold and pink and ivory. What was its name?

      Choosing. The actress had been in a garden, deciding between the worldly red camellias and the humble violets. Jack bet that Miss Nicola would pick the violets if she had a chance.

      It wasn’t because she was childlike, for she must be almost as old as he was, but there was a freshness, an innocence about her. Perhaps if she recovered her speech, that illusion might be broken. She could sound like a fishwife, or worse, his opinionated mother.

      The fire rippled along merrily, but he got up to stab at it. He needed something to do besides swallowing tea and biting tiny sandwiches in silence, even though the food on offer was a thousand times better than the swill he’d been served since he arrived. He’d have to speak to Mrs. Feather and complain he was being mistreated, for all the good it would do.

      Jack wasn’t uncomfortable with the quiet; it was soothing. But he was a man of action, wasn’t he? He did enough damage with the poker, causing sparks to land on the hearth rug. He stamped them out with his large feet, then sat back СКАЧАТЬ