A Woman of Choice Page 6

Then, with a sigh of resignation, and completely against his better judgment, Nicolas nodded his assent.

  Sydney jumped up and sprinted around the table. She threw her arms around Nicolas’s shoulders, erasing any rejoinder from his astonished mind.

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you so very much!” She straightened and grinned. “You won’t be sorry, I give you my word. And I’ll begin first thing on the morrow!”

  Nicolas watched Sydney sashay back to her chair, skirt swirling and braid bouncing. Though frowning, he was… happy. Pleasantly satisfied. When did he last feel like this? And why was he so delighted to be bested in a contest of wills with this strange and perplexing woman?

  Helvete if I know.

  April 16, 1819

  Nicolas finally found time to go to the corral. He grew curious how Sydney fared with training the stallion. All he knew thus far was that she appeared each night for dinner without any fresh injuries.

  He eyed the sky as he walked across the yard, always wary of too-dark clouds or a sudden shift in the wind; twisters were a serious concern this time of year. But the scudding clouds overhead appeared innocuous. So far. He turned his attention back to the small woman and huge animal in his corral.

  Sydney walked around the enclosure and Fyrste obediently followed her. When she stopped, he stopped. When she started, he followed once more. Every few minutes she reached into her pocket and slipped the huge horse a bite of something.

  It wasn’t until Nicolas reached the fence that Sydney saw him. Her face split into a wide smile that suffused his chest with bubbles.

  “Did you see?” she called out.

  “I did!” he answered, climbing into the enclosure.

  At the sound of his voice, Fyrste spun around. His ears flicked forward and back and he tossed his head. Sydney led him to where Nicolas waited.

  “I’m so proud of him. He’s a smart one, he is.”

  Though she patted the stallion’s neck, Fyrste’s tail swished mightily and he snorted several times. Sydney snickered. “If I didn’t know better, I would say he’s jealous!”

  “He’s displeased about something, that’s for certain.” Nicolas warily eyed the gray.

  Of a sudden, Fyrste’s ears laid back and he swung his head toward Nicolas, clipping him squarely in the brow with the hard bones of his nose.

  Spun around by the blow, Nicolas grabbed the rails of the corral and in one seamless move was over the fence. He staggered then, hand to his forehead, and turned to face Sydney and the stallion. Blood streamed down his face as curse words and threats poured from his mouth.

  “You filthy bastard! Skitt!” he bellowed. “I’ll geld you yet, bloodlines or no! Gud forbanner det!” Filled with sudden panic, he waved Sydney toward him. “Look sharp, Sydney! He may turn against you, as well!”

  Sydney shook her head. “He won’t hurt me.”

  Her hands stroked the trembling beast. Speaking in the nonsense singsong that calmed him, Sydney stepped close enough to nestle her head in the bend of his neck. Only the exaggerated flicking of his ears and tail betrayed his unsettled demeanor.

  Nicolas swore again and, seeing blood on his shirt, promptly sat down hard on the ground.

  “’Twas my last clean shirt, you mindless mule!” he muttered as the world tipped a little.

   

  “Let me see,” Sydney urged.

  Wet tea packets soaked the cut above Nicolas’s left eye. Head tilted back, he lifted the leaf-filled gauze to let Sydney see the split.

  He felt blood pooling under his eye.

  “It needs to be stitched.”

  He groaned. “It’s that deep? Well, tell Addie. Let’s get it over with.”

  Addie brought her sewing basket and clean rags into the kitchen, along with a flask of brandy. She handed the flask to Nicolas and he took several healthy swallows. He hated being stitched. It hurt.

  “Have you ever stitched a wound before?” she asked Sydney while she threaded a needle.

  Sydney was clearly fascinated. “I don’t believe so.”

  “Well it’s not so much different from sewing up a tear in some heavy fabric, except you can’t pull too tight or you’ll cut the skin.” Addie motioned Sydney close. “Come watch.”

  Nicolas moved his chair next to the window where the light was good. Though not particularly pleased to be a tool for teaching, he determined to be strong during the operation, in spite of his discomfort. But with the first insertion of the needle, he grew lightheaded. Ragged gray edges invaded his vision.

  Nicolas grabbed the windowsill. “I believe I need to lie down.”

  Addie had Nicolas lay on the kitchen table. His knees bent over the edge and his toes touched the floor. Sydney knelt beside him on a chair while Addie continued her stitching and instructing. Nicolas was brave by dint of will alone. His jaw clamped shut. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He clenched his fists. And his legs twitched each time the needle went in.

  The torturous task at last completed, the women sat Nicolas upright on a chair. He stayed seated until he felt recovered enough to stand, all the while taking relieved draughts from the brandy flask.

  Sydney inspected his repaired injury with interest. “We shall be a sight at Lily’s dinner party tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, Lord. Is that tomorrow?” Nicolas had completely forgotten about the invitation. It arrived the day after he returned home from Atherton’s.

  Her mouth curved up on one side. “Perhaps we can say we understood it to be a costume dinner and wear masks!”

  “You look well, Sydney. Your bruises are nearly gone,” he countered. Her face was so close to his, he could have… what?

  She sat back on her heels. “Yes, nearly. There are only the lovely greenish-yellow tinges left. And the pink scar by my mouth. And above my eye.”

  “So you’ve made good use of the mirror, then?” Nicolas put the cap on the flask. He felt vaguely disappointed but could not imagine why.

  “Only every day since the invitation arrived.” Sydney smoothed her nankeen breeches with her palms and didn’t look at Nicolas. “At the least my gown might cover the rest.”

  “I doubt that the fair Rickard will even notice.” Nicolas closed his eyes and placed the teabag over the stitches.

  After a moment she said softly, “I had best go change and wash up for dinner.”

  Nicolas listened to her fading footsteps and chided himself for that show of peevishness. He couldn’t pin down the reason for it, but he was feeling a bit proprietary about Sydney. Perhaps he just didn’t want her to be hurt. After all, she hadn’t yet regained her memory. And Rickard’s unruly past with women was notorious.

  Truthfully, though, there was more. Sydney was different since she started working with Fyrste. When she first woke up without a memory, she was quiet and uncertain. Now she displayed the confidence that had been missing. That must be the real Sydney coming out. He liked it.

  A lot.

  As that thought crossed his mind, an unforgiving paroxysm of guilt blasted through his soul. Lara. Her name echoed in his memory, driving out thoughts of anyone else.

  Chapter Seven

  April 17, 1819

  Addie seemed to be everywhere in the small room as she helped Sydney dress for the dinner party at Atherton's. She spent hours washing, brushing and arranging Sydney’s hair, though it would have gone faster if Sydney had not continually demanded a less elaborate style. All the while, Addie kept up her commentary.

  “This will do fine, then, dear. Your hair’s so soft and it shines just like satin! You could wear it hanging down loose and look more elegant than that Lily Atherton any day of the week, if I do say so myself! But are you certain I can’t put a few more ribbons in? Weave them in through here and here? Perhaps tie this part up?”

  “It’s perfect the way it is, Addie. I assure you!” Sydney confined the older woman’s busy hands in her own. “I love what you’ve done. Thank you.”

  “Well, if you’re certain.” Addie bit her low
er lip and tilted her head to the side. “Couldn’t I just—”

  “Addie?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Am I going to the dinner in my chemise?”

  “Oh, my heavens, no! Of course not! I’ll go get your dress straight away! You just sit here and relax. I’ll be back off the reel!”

  Sydney waited in the rocker in her repaired shift and salvaged corset. Her bare feet tapped a cadence on the wood floor and her fingers drummed a counterpoint on the oak arms. She was nervous, though she knew Rickard’s sister planned tonight’s occasion out of kindness. The invitation read:

  A dinner party in the honor of Mistress Sydney,

  houseguest of Mister Nicolas Hansen,

  for the purpose of introducing her to Cheltenham society.

  But to be put on display for the township to gawk at was definitely daunting.

  Both her salvation and anticipation lay in the scrawled note at the bottom: “Sydney, I am looking forward to our evening together with great expectation. Rickard.”

  Addie re-entered the room, buried under a pile of the most beautiful emerald green velvet Sydney had ever seen.

  “I picked it for your eyes.” Addie shook out the dress and held it up for Sydney. “Isn’t it grand?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sydney breathed.

  Addie lifted the dress and Sydney dove under the pool of fabric, re-emerging through the neckline. Three-quarter sleeves covered the worst of her fading bruises. Cuffs of white lace drew attention to her pale wrists and hands. The neckline was square, cut low enough to show the upper swell of her bosom. Vertical insets of lighter green in the bodice accentuated the curve of her waist. Once laced, the dress fit as though it was created for her.

  “Addie, this dress is absolute perfection. Thank you.” Sydney hugged the older woman with such force that she almost pushed her over.

  “Go on with you.” Addie blushed. “You just go and have a good time, dear. The good Lord knows, you deserve it!”

  Downstairs, Sydney waited in the entry, feeling as though a nest of hummingbirds had hatched in her belly. Their beating wings vibrated in her chest and dared her heart to keep pace. It was trying to.

  Then she heard Nicolas’s bedroom door open.

  As Nicolas descended the stairs, Sydney reminded herself to breathe. She had only seen him in work shirts, breeches and dusty boots; and even then had thought him beautiful.

  This evening, he wore a dark blue velvet frock coat that hugged his broad shoulders and matched his eyes. A brocade waistcoat and white lace shirt complemented his sunburned face, and tight fawn-colored breeches outlined powerful thighs over tall black Hessian boots. His shining blond hair hung loose on his shoulders.

  With his towering frame he seemed an ancient Nordic god arrayed in modern attire. His only flaws: the gruesome multicolored stitches, and the blackened eye over one high cheekbone.

  His gaze undressed her. Twice. Did he recognize the gown? He swallowed audibly and offered his arm, his expression unexpectedly resigned.

  “Are you ready?”

  “I am.” Sydney slipped her arm through his and felt a slight tremble. “Let’s go, Sir Nicky!”

  He stopped and tossed an accusing glare at Addie. “No one may call me that unless they’ve changed my diaper clouts. And you, madam, are much too young, and much too beautiful, to have ever contemplated such an unpleasant task!”

  Sydney found his unexpected playfulness delightful. She laughed and squeezed his arm, and he led her out to the waiting shay.

   

  The Atherton manor glowed like a rich man’s jack-o-lantern. More than twice the size of Nicolas’s, it stood three stories high. Carriages of various styles pulled up to the expansive front porch and spewed well-dressed guests. They ascended the spotless steps, and crossed polished wood planks to the open front door where Rickard greeted each of them.

  Nicolas stepped from his shay and then offered Sydney his hand. She gripped it, and stepped carefully to the ground. Her gaze widened as it skittered over the manor and the crowd, then met his. He had no idea what she was thinking so he turned, tucked her hand in his arm and led her up the steps to the front door.

  “Nick! Welcome, brother.” Rickard shook his hand and slapped his shoulder. When he faced Sydney his expression transformed into such a set that, for a moment, Nicolas thought him addled.

  “Sydney.” He gave a little bow.

  “Rickard,” she returned.

  He lifted her hand to his lips. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank, you,” she whispered. Nicolas watched an irksome flush

  bloom on her cheeks.

  “Nicolas, darling! There you are!” Lily stepped to the top of the stairs. She began her gliding descent, her modulated voice loud enough to be heard over the affable din. “I was beginning to believe you had left me to fend for myself this evening.”

  Lily’s voice was teasing and her laugh coquettish. But when Nicolas turned to fully face her she recoiled, losing all her aplomb.

  “What happened to you?”

  Nicolas bowed in Lily’s direction, his mouth curved in a half-smile. He cast a sideways glance at Rickard. “Good evening, Lily. I was accosted by the demon horse your esteemed brother forced into my possession.”

  “Rickard? What’s he talking about?”

  Rickard didn’t appear to hear a single word. He tucked Sydney’s hand into the crook of his arm.

  “Welcome to my humble home. I hope everything tonight is to your liking.”

  “I’m certain it will be, Rickard,” Sydney murmured. And, as she smiled for the first time since they arrived, he led her toward the drawing room.

  “Allow me to begin the introductions.”

  Nicolas stood with Lily in the entryway, abandoned. He grunted his unexamined irritation and lifted his bent arm to Lily. She accepted it, though her eyes were on Sydney.

  “I believe I should be introduced to the guest of honor!” she hissed. “If Rickard doesn’t keep her all to pieces to himself!”

  Nicolas understood the lightly disguised command and obeyed, simply for the lack of a reason not to. He guided Lily to Sydney’s side.

  “Pardon me for interrupting.” Nicolas stepped between Sydney and Rickard and turned his back on his friend. “Sydney, I’m afraid I’ve been lax in my responsibilities. May I present the mistress of this estate and our hostess for the evening, Miss Lily Atherton?”

  Lily extended one manicured hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Madam—do you have a last name?” Her wide, innocent eyes went to Nicolas.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Sydney answered for herself. “In truth, Sydney is just the name Nicolas gave me so he had something to call me.”

  Lily’s eyebrows arched at her familiar reference to Nicolas. She offered Sydney a condescending smile and the modulated tone was back in place. “Well, then… just plain ‘Sydney’ it is! Welcome to our home.”

  Plain? Most assuredly not the word Nicolas would have chosen to describe the woman. Even with the still-healing cuts and bruises Sydney presented a striking figure, her vitality and grace evident in the unconcerned way that she moved.

  He didn’t know where that green dress came from, but he’d burn it if he could. She looked more beautiful, more tempting, more desirable tonight than he wanted to acknowledge. But he mustn’t forget. He must never forget.

  Sydney dipped her chin. “Thank you, Miss Atherton.”

  “Please. Call me Lily.” The younger woman’s lips smiled.

  Her eyes did not.

   

  Rickard stepped decisively around the broad blond obstacle and took Sydney’s elbow once again. Though he pulled her away, she peered over her shoulder at Lily. Maybe that’s what Lara looked like.

  Were her greenish eyes mixed with brown like Rickard? Or with blue, like Lily? Clearly the wavy auburn hair bred true. Stefan was proof of that.

  Sydney saw something else that shocked her: Lily clearly had set her cap for Nicola
s. No woman dressed that way and held a man’s arm like that, unless she was trying to attract and claim him. Lily fawned, rubbed, giggled, and pressed.

  And what about Nicolas? Truly, she hadn’t known him for long. But she credited him with enough sense to know that courting his dead wife’s sister wasn’t a good idea. Sydney watched his lingering gaze caress the swells of Lily’s pale pink breasts, jammed high enough above her décolletage to choke her.

  Nicolas was all male, that much was certain.

  “Sydney?”

  Her attention jerked to the couple Rickard intended to introduce. “Yes? I’m sorry. I’m very pleased to meet you—”

  “Margaret Brown.” The slender blond woman was in her mid-thirties. She reached for a man with black hair, also in his mid-thirties, who stood nearby engrossed in a conversation concerning Missouri’s pending statehood. “This is my husband, Jess.”

  Jess’s gaze swung around to Sydney and his dark brown eyes swept over her. “It’s a pleasure, Madam.”

  Rickard led Sydney to another couple. “And this is my good friend, Lee Matthews, and his beautiful wife, Fanny.”

  When the very pregnant Fanny turned to face her, a bottomless sadness infused Sydney’s core. She forced a pleasant expression. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Matthews. When is your confinement expected?” The words echoed in a hollow spot below her breastbone.

  “Sometime next month, we believe.” Fanny blushed and looked adoringly at her much older husband.

  “This is our first.” Lee slipped his arm around his wife’s enlarged waistline.

  Sydney touched Fanny’s arm. “I pray it goes well for you.”

  “Thank you.” Fanny’s chin dipped.

  As Rickard moved Sydney away, he whispered, “She was one of the most determined fillies.” Sydney clasped a hand over her mouth to keep from hooting out loud.

  Seating at dinner was a masterpiece of Lily’s planning. Rickard was at the head of the table with Sydney seated at his right, where a wife would be. At the opposite end sat Lily with Nicolas by her side, hinting at the same relationship. Lily stood to get everyone’s attention.