A Woman of Choice Read online

  She forced herself to regard the man, and not the mirror. “I’ll be called Sydney, though I don’t believe it’s my given name. But I couldn’t go nameless in the meantime.”

  Rickard tilted his head. His hazel eyes caressed her, claimed her. “I believe it might suit you.”

  Unsettled by his nearly wicked proximity, Sydney glanced at the screaming object on the table. “You brought a mirror.”

  “I did. Are you prepared to look?”

  She hesitated. Then, “I believe I am.”

  Rickard handed her the mirror. Smothering it facedown on the

  bedclothes, she slid her fingers along its silver-edged back, tracing the curves and crevices of the cool metal handle. Her heart stumbled.

  Would she recognize herself? Or did she forget that, too?

  Then she squared her shoulders, sucked a resolute breath, and faced the glass.

  She gasped at the wide-eyed reflection she met there.

  Her eyes looked more gray than green. She touched the purple bruise over her right temple, the swollen left eye with the russet gash above it, the greening bump on the bridge of her nose, and the black split in her lower lip. An uneven palette of terrible color. “Oh my…”

  “It is getting better,” Rickard offered.

  Sydney’s sideways glance and one lifted eyebrow spoke loudly; she was not pleased.

  “Is this what I look like? I cannot believe this is my face,” she moaned. “What will I look like when it heals?” Her eyes rounded. “Will anyone recognize me?”

  “It’s distressing, to be certain.” Rickard ran his knuckles along her arm. “But I expect you know that bruises do get darker before they fade, don’t you?”

  Sydney was intent on the multicolored horror framed by the beautiful mirror. The image was not that of a lass; somehow, she knew she was thirty.

  “Darkest before the dawn, eh?” Her wry smile was one-sided to protect her cut lip.

  Rickard laughed.

  He had a wonderful laugh. Sydney dragged her gaze from the mirror to meet his, warm and playful. He leaned closer.

  “I still believe that you have beautiful eyes. And I’m able to see the shape and color of your lips.” His eyes dropped to them, and they parted without Sydney intending them to. “You have nothing to worry about, Sydney. Trust me. You’ll heal splendidly.”

  Unconvinced, she handed the heavy mirror to Rickard. The nearness of his sculpted and completely non-battered features stirred something unfamiliar in her. His voice was smooth and rich, like dark chocolate. And his chameleon eyes; were they honey with flecks of green? Or green with flecks of amber?

  And why was she even thinking about them?

  Sydney adjusted her bedclothes, scrambling for a diversion. She settled on, “I met Stefan today. But I haven’t yet met Lara.”

  The ploy was successful. Rickard leaned back in the chair, his mood abruptly altered. His reply was flat. “Lara is…” he cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips for a long minute. “Well she’s… dead.”

  “Oh!” Sydney's hands covered her mouth as if she could stuff her careless words back in. It was no wonder, then, that Nicolas looked at her the way he did. And to compound her embarrassment—and his pain—she was wearing the dead woman’s nightclothes. His dead wife’s nightclothes. This situation could not be more mortifying.

  “Poor Nicolas,” she crooned. “And Stefan as well. He’s growing up without a mother.”

  Rickard’s jaw rippled. His gaze slipped past her and he nodded slowly. His cheeks paled and caved in on themselves. “Lara was my younger sister,” he whispered.

  It just became more mortifying.

  Sydney’s shoulders slumped and her face burned. “I’m so very sorry.”

  Rickard combed his fingers through auburn locks that shimmered in the lamplight like molten bronze. His sculpted features looked like fine Italian marble. Even in his sorrow he took her breath away.

  “Did she favor you?” she murmured.

  He nodded, absently. “Both of my sisters look just like me. And we are all the spit of our mother.”

  “That explains Stefan’s hair,” she observed quietly. “The rest is clearly his father.”

  “Yes. That it is.”

  The two sat in silence. Then Sydney tilted her head and considered Rickard. “Are you married?”

  “Me?” Rickard eyebrows shot upward into his tumbled hair and he leaned back in surprise. He wagged his head. “No! Oh, no. Lord, no!” Rickard’s chuckle started deep in his chest. “Fortunately, I’ve been able to avoid that particular estate.”

  He charmed Sydney with a wink. “Not for lack of opportunity, mind you! I’ve been chased by some rather determined fillies. Almost got caught by one or two of them, I must admit. But this particular stallion can run fast!”

  Sydney laughed at the unexpected hubris of his analogy. Stallion, was he? It struck her so funny that she could not stop, in spite of her embarrassment, bruised ribs and split lip.

  “I can just see you!” She waved hands in front of her and tried without success to keep from breathing too deeply. “Running like a hunted fox with a pack of howling girls chasing after you!”

  “A very quick fox!” Rickard added, grinning. He shook his head and considered Sydney with narrowed eyes and puzzled brow. “I believe you’re the first woman I ever met who would laugh at the idea of a man of my position avoiding matrimony!”

  Still smiling, Sydney shrugged; truthfully, she had no idea of his position. But he was warm and sensual and easy to be with, and his presence made her forget her circumstances, if only for an hour.

  She held out her left hand in the steady light of the oil lamp. “Look at this. Are you able to see the ridge on this finger? It’s quite faint, but it causes me wonder. Do you suppose I wore a wedding ring?”

  Rickard took her hand and inspected it. Her heart skipped at his touch.

  “I can’t say for certain that it was a wedding ring. It might have been any sort of ring. But it does appear that you wore it for some time.”

  Sydney stared at her hand, trying to divine knowledge from her pale fingers. “I wonder what happened to it. Do you believe I might have been robbed?”

  “That might explain why someone left you for dead,” Rickard posited. Sydney stared hard at the line in her skin and tried without success to purge its silent secret.

  “If I am married, shouldn’t someone come looking for me?” she asked the obvious question.

  “I can say, with absolute certainty, that I would,” replied the adamant bachelor.

  Chapter Four

  April 4, 1819

  On the third morning after her rescue, Sydney announced to Addie that if she didn’t get out of that little bedroom, she would certainly lose what small part of her mind she still owned. Addie set down the breakfast tray, rested fists on ample hips and cocked her head.

  “Well, you can’t go traipsing around in your nightclothes, and that’s a fact! Let me see what I can find around this place that might fit you.”

  Sydney clasped her hands in gratitude. “Addie, you’re a jewel.”

  The housekeeper blushed. “Oh, go on with you! Eat up, now. You need your strength if you plan to go gallivantin’ around this place. I’ll be back to get the tray!” Addie hurried out the door, head bobbing and elbows pumping.

  Sydney chewed her last bite of honeyed biscuit when Addie returned. The housekeeper carried a long-sleeved bodice of gray linen trimmed with black piping. The coordinating linen skirt was burgundy with three black box-pleats in the front, and three in the back.

  Sydney held the skirt up to her waist. It was a little short for her, but she didn’t care. She would have gladly worn burlap feed bags to be able get out of this room. She assumed the answer before she asked the question, but asked it anyway.

  “Where did it come from?”

  Addie wiped her hands on the ever-present white apron, her expression pensive but guarded. “Lara had a few dresses made
special.”

  The skirt grew heavy as iron and Sydney fought the urge to throw it on the floor. “Addie, I can’t wear this. What will Nicolas say?”

  Addie’s lips twisted. “Nicky’s a man. He’s never seen those dresses and isn’t likely to consider where they came from. You go ahead. It’s needful and I insist.”

   

  It proved a glorious day.

  First, she got out of the nightgown and put on the dress; that simple act made her feel human again, in spite of her repaired chemise and battered corset.

  Second, Addie brushed and replaited her hair. Sydney willed herself to ignore the bruises on her scalp and allowed herself to thoroughly enjoy this bit of luxury.

  And third, she walked out of the small bedroom to explore her strange, new world.

  The wide hallway outside her door breathed through large open windows at either end. The cool spring breeze, heavy with new growth, brushed past her. Spotless wood floors reflected light. Sydney crossed the hall to a closed door that faced her room.

  It was locked.

  Undaunted, she turned around and followed the polished stairwell railing to the room beside hers. She reckoned this was the room where Rickard stayed. She smiled at the memory of his chocolate voice, chameleon eyes and melted bronze hair. The room fit him; it was adorned, but not at all feminine.

  Next was Stefan’s room. Several wooden toys were stacked neatly—a little too neatly, she thought—on shelves under the window, and a model of a tall navy war ship reigned on a higher shelf. A braided rug in blues and reds brightened the room; Sydney decided that must have been Addie’s touch.

  Only the door at the head of the stairs remained.

  Did she dare?

  Curiosity knocked against her, rudely shoving her forward. Holding her breath, she pushed the half-opened portal and peered cautiously into the dim, silent chamber.

  Nicolas’s bed was so enormous that there was a stepstool on the floor beside it. He was an exceptionally tall man, to be certain, and a broad man as well; this bed was obviously built to ensure his comfort. The foot-thick mattress sat on a platform that rose at least two feet off the floor. A feather bed added another half foot. The massive headboard and footboard were carved of cherry wood.

  Even though she was barefoot, Sydney tiptoed inside, afraid to make any sound. The furnishings, like the man himself, were well-made. Utilitarian. Masculine. Clean.

  A door beyond the hearth faced the locked room. That must have been Lara’s dressing room. Of course it’s locked.

  She glanced, again, at the oversized bed.

  Unable to stop herself, she stepped on the stool and sat on the edge. Nicolas’s musky male presence was strong here. Sydney closed her eyes and breathed it in. She skimmed her hands over the coverlet and pictured the huge man who slept in this huge bed all by himself.

  From what she’d seen of him, he seemed reserved and serious and so different from the warm, seductive Rickard. But something about the stoic widower gripped her and she felt his unexpected pull, strong as steel to a magnet.

  She resisted.

  Afraid Nicolas might return and find her there, Sydney garnered her diminishing strength and departed. She descended the stairs, inspecting portraits that hung along the wall. The people in them were clearly related to Nicolas judging by the features the artists were able to capture. Some of the older subjects appeared rather royal with their ermine collars, brocade jackets and ornate jewelry.

  At the bottom of the staircase was Nicolas’s study. An ancient oak desk held court over several unmatched chairs, scattered randomly by their most recent occupants. The aromas of brandy and cigar smoke permeated that space.

  “Nicolas’s bedroom might have tolerated a wife at one time,” Sydney whispered. “But not this room.”

  The drawing room was across the entrance hall on her left. Sydney sank onto a comfortable, cushioned settee in front of a large window framing the front yard. Leaning back, she succumbed to the demands of her weakened body and closed her eyes for just a moment.

  She awoke not remembering where she was. Panic shot lightning through her veins and her heart tried to climb out of her throat. Only when her frantic visual search caught the painted portraits in the stairwell did she remember Nicolas. And Addie. And Stefan.

  And Rickard.

  Forcing herself to breathe slowly past her bruises, she closed her eyes until she could regain her equilibrium and stop trembling.

  "I wonder how long this blasted muddle will last," she grumbled.

  When she felt steady enough, Sydney pushed herself up by the arm of the settee. Then she followed the scent of food past the formal dining room, toward the kitchen, Addie, and lunch.

   

  At seven o’clock that evening, Sydney sat alone at the dining table and waited to have dinner with Nicolas. Addie explained that every night Nicolas ate his dinner with a book, its characters his only companions. He would love to have her company.

  “I’m not at all certain that’s true,” Sydney objected.

  In the four days she had been at his estate, he only deigned to speak with her twice. He obviously held very little interest in her company.

  But Addie couldn’t be dissuaded. So here she sat.

  She drummed her fingers on the tablecloth while she waited for her stern host. She smoothed the linen and brushed away imaginary crumbs. She moved her wine goblet a little to the right. She put her napkin in her lap, and then refolded it and set it next to her plate. She lifted a spoon and examined the ornate engraving on the handle.

  Was that an H? It looked like an F.

  The old silver was worn to a hazy patina. While she pondered how many generations might have held that particular spoon, Nicolas appeared. He filled the doorway, dressed in a clean cotton shirt and nankeen breeches. Sydney smacked the spoon back into place harder than she intended.

  Nicolas carried a thick, leather-bound tome with an incongruently feminine crocheted bookmark dangling from its center. Sydney stood awkwardly, her recovering muscles stiff from sitting still so long.

  She tried to think of something to say but her mind continued its inconvenient rebellion. Her mouth opened and closed and she couldn’t conjure a greeting.

  “I wasn’t aware that you were joining me for dinner,” Nicolas said.

  Sydney’s face heated. “If it’s bothersome to you, I’ll eat in the kitchen,” she managed.

  “No. Uh, no. Not at all.”

  Nicolas shook his head and glanced at the book in his hand. He set it on the sideboard and walked around the table to hold her chair.

  “Please, sit.”

  Sydney sank back into the carved maple side-chair. Nicolas sat opposite her. He silently considered her over his long, interlocked fingers.

  She shrank under his intent scrutiny. “I’m afraid I look rather gruesome.”

  Nicolas blinked. “On the contrary. You seem to be mending rather quickly,” he countered.

  Rescued by the arrival of Addie and dinner, Sydney realized she was ravenous. She cut into a roasted chicken breast. It was savory, smoky, succulent. Delicious. She took another bite. And another.

  “You must have labored quite well today,” Nicolas declared. “Either that or you bore a mighty grudge against that particular chicken.”

  Sydney froze. Her cheeks roasted with embarrassment. She set the fork on her plate. Her hands dropped to her lap, and her gaze dropped to her hands. She wished to be anywhere else at that moment. Joining Nicolas for dinner was proving a bad misjudgment.

  “I—I’m sorry, Sydney. I meant it to be funny.”

  She wove her napkin through her fingers. Her throat tightened and she couldn’t swallow the bite of chicken resting on her tongue. She wanted to get up and leave the room, but her legs weren’t cooperating.

  “The truth of the matter is…” Nicolas paused and pulled a breath. “I’ve not shared a meal at this table with an attractive woman for several years.”

  Attractiv
e? Sydney saw herself in the mirror today. She snorted her dissent.

  “Sydney? Would you be polite enough to look at me?”

  Sensible that Nicolas had indeed saved her life and was being quite generous in her unusual circumstance, she daren’t refuse. Determined to claim any dignity she might still possess, she sat tall, straightened her shoulders, lifted first her chin, and then her eyes. His lonely soul surfaced in the deep sea of his gaze.

  Sydney could not have looked away even if her life was at stake. She swallowed the bite of chicken.

  “I’ve grown unaccustomed to the common niceties. I’m afraid I don’t know the appropriate words to say anymore.” Nicolas leaned back in his chair, his expression gone dark and unreadable. “In truth, I don’t recall if I ever did. I knew Lara all of her life. We grew up together. I didn’t have to say things to her; she already knew.”

  “Of course,” Sydney whispered, still transfixed.

  “Will you accept my apology?” Nicolas looked so uncomfortable that Sydney couldn’t help but give him ease.

  “Of course,” she said again.

  “Good.” Nicolas punctuated the word with a brief nod of his head, and then took a substantial bite of his chicken. He refilled her wine glass without her asking, and handed her a basket of warm rolls.

  The couple ate without speaking. Silver on china rattled the silence. Sydney wanted to ask him about some things that niggled at her, but the longer she hesitated, the harder it became to force her voice across the widening void. As Nicolas neared the end of his meal and her opportunity faded swiftly, she squared her determination and jumped into the chasm.

  “Nicolas, what year is it?”

  Her question obviously shocked him. He frowned and his lips parted, then pressed together. Sydney noticed and her expression tightened. Any friendliness that might have sparked between them appeared doomed; she was the resident oddity once again.

  “I had no idea it was that bad, Sydney. I should have thought to say. It’s April fourth of 1819.”