“You’re going to the Duke of Malvern’s home. For—?”
Jane sounded as skeptical as Ana Maria felt. Though it was likely Jane wasn’t also feeling a frisson of excitement at the prospect of punching said duke.
Not that Ana Maria felt that way, of course. It was purely her anticipation of a new and unusual experience, not the thought of seeing Nash in his shirtsleeves, or less, for God’s sake, as he demonstrated how best to fell an opponent.
Was it possible to swoon over just a thought?
She should not be discovering the answer to that question. Not in front of Jane, doubtful expression and all.
“The duke has said he would show me some things that will be necessary if I am to—” But she hadn’t said anything to anybody about traipsing about London. Not now, not that she was a lady.
“If you are to—?” Jane prompted.
They were in Ana Maria’s bedroom, the two of them discussing just what, precisely, one wore to a gentleman’s home when said gentleman would be wearing the aforementioned shirtsleeves.
But that wasn’t a response.
The problem with people who’d known you since you were young is that they knew you. Ana Maria had never said anything about her conflicted—one might say “oxymoronic”—feelings about Nash, but that was probably because she hadn’t had to. Jane had likely figured it out long before Ana Maria had begun to catalogue his kindness, his fierce protectiveness, and those strong arms.
Swooning is not allowed, she reminded herself sternly.
“If I am to visit the fabric places I wish to go to.” She spoke as though it were entirely reasonable that a young lady, a daughter of one duke, the cousin to another, would want to frequent fabric merchants. Some, shockingly, even from countries other than England.
Not for the first time, Ana Maria wished that she could have stayed in her previous role as servant. It was a ludicrous wish, and she did not miss a bit of the actual work—she wasn’t a self-sacrificing idiot—but she did miss the freedom associated with being someone nobody thought much of.
Why couldn’t she have been the daughter of a country squire, the cousin of another country squire?
Though those ladies were likely even more constrained, given that they knew far fewer people and didn’t have the luxury of a bustling city like London to travel around in.
Fine. She would begrudgingly accept who she was, but that didn’t mean she had to accept its limitations.
Which made her think about just those limitations—things like not spending time alone with a gentleman when one was an unmarried lady. Not acting on one’s impulses either. Impulses such as kissing said gentleman when one had the . . . impulse to do so.
He was the perfect candidate for kissing, even if one discounted the fact that he was extraordinarily handsome. He would never speak about it, since he didn’t speak in general, and he was exceedingly loyal, and would never do anything to damage her reputation.
Not that she was necessarily going to kiss him. But if the impulse occurred to her—which, of course it was going to occur to her given how swoony she was about his entire form—she might indeed act on it.
“Why haven’t you hired a chaperone? That would solve the problem and you wouldn’t need to bother the duke,” Jane asked in a reasonable tone. “And why do you need to go to those places, anyway?”
A chaperone was the obvious solution. But even without the allure of Nash, she did not want to hire someone to be her shadow, not when she was so determined to be who she wanted to be on her own. She was twenty-eight, not eighteen. Other women her age, less fortunate women, were deemed spinsters, and therefore not required to answer to anybody.
Ana Maria had been expecting both of Jane’s questions, though she had thought it might be Thaddeus who asked first. But Thaddeus was in over his head with being the duke, and he’d spoken only a few words to her since reminding her—as though she needed reminding, she reminded herself of it all the time—that Nash was not to be thought of in that way.
“I’ve been thinking about what I would like to do.” She held her hand up as Jane’s mouth opened to ask the inevitable questions. “I would like to help people such as Miss Octavia in their decorating needs.”
When she said it aloud like that, it sounded ridiculous. And small. And meaningless.
But she knew for herself how crucial it was to surround oneself with things and colors and items that brought pleasure. Her mood had improved dramatically as soon as she’d redecorated the small salon, and she was already itching to tear everything apart in her bedroom.
So she couldn’t let her own, or anybody else’s doubts, subsume her.
If she couldn’t do something as ridiculous and small and meaningless as control her surroundings, what was the point of being a lady of privilege in the first place? If she couldn’t then share her abilities with others who just needed a respite from the drab browns and grays of their world, then she might as well just give up and accept Lord “I Won’t Do Anything for Myself” Brunley.
“That’s an excellent idea,” Jane said, entirely surprising Ana Maria. Thankfully forgetting about the chaperone issue as well.
“You really think so?”
Jane nodded. “I don’t know if you recall, but there was that time a few years back when the head gardener miscalculated something for the duchess”—the last two words said in a growl—“and the house was overrun with lilies. Her Grace was livid about it, since she thought lilies were vulgar”—at which she rolled her eyes—“but we put them everywhere. They made even polishing the silver more pleasurable.”
Like Ana Maria, Jane had begun her life in the house as a scullery maid, working her way up to lady’s maid after the duchess had died.
“I do remember,” Ana Maria said with a smile. “Fletchfield tried to keep himself from reacting, but even he was a trifle more joyful during that time.”
“So it stands to reason that a person’s surroundings would alter their mood.”
One thing Ana Maria had always appreciated about Jane was her ability to cut right through to the heart of the matter.
“I’ll start with Miss Octavia’s club, and perhaps—if I can manage it—I’ll try to find some funds to help beautify the local schools and orphanages.”
“Those children aren’t going to want flowers and pretty wallpaper, my lady,” Jane said drily. “They want food, and a solid future.”
Ana Maria’s resolve faltered at the accuracy of her friend’s words. But it returned as she considered the ramifications of what she might be able to do. “They do, and I’ll see what I can do there. But I know myself that presenting a situation in a certain way makes it more amenable to the viewer.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jane asked. She gestured for Ana Maria to turn around so she could remove her gown.
“I mean,” Ana Maria said, her voice muffled by the fabric as Jane slid it up and over her head, “that if we want to get these children a promising future we have to show there is promise within them. There are very few aristocratic people, unfortunately, who will see a grubby urchin and think they should be welcomed into their home, even as the lowest employee. If we clean up their surroundings and make it appear as though they fit within those people’s homes, they’ll be far more likely to take a chance on them.”
She herself was proof of that—prior to six months ago, nobody paid attention to her. But give her some nice gowns and even people who did not want her dowry wanted to know her.
“This one?” Jane asked, holding a gown up for Ana Maria’s perusal. It was one of the ones she’d worn back when she was the duchess’s maid of all work, a castoff from the duchess that Ana Maria still had a fondness for, likely because it was one of the gowns she’d worn to sneak away and spend time with Sebastian, her younger half brother.
“That one is perfect,” Ana Maria beamed.
“Huh, I’ve finally been able to choose something you want to wear,” Jane replied in a wry tone. “And it looks like something you’d clean the grates in. Since you used to do just that.”
“Oh, hush, and help me get ready,” Ana Maria said, rolling her eyes.
“In here.”
Ana Maria swallowed as Nash pushed the door open to his fighting room. He wasn’t yet in shirtsleeves, but he also wasn’t wearing a cravat, which meant she could see his bare throat.
She hadn’t realized a gentleman’s bare throat could be at all alluring, and yet here she was, staring at it as though it were a scrumptious sweet that she’d been forbidden to taste.
She’d like to taste it. Did people even do that? Tasting someone else’s throat had not been covered in the belowstairs discussion of general intercourse. And now she certainly couldn’t ask, what with her supposed to be a lady and all.
But she was still standing at the door, gawking at his strong, powerful throat.
“Yes, thank you,” she said nonsensically, walking into the room.
It was mostly empty save for a few items of furniture at the edges. The walls were covered with some odd material, chosen for something other than decoration, while the floors were dull, making Ana Maria itch to polish them.
Those days are over, she reminded herself.
“Do you want anything to drink before we begin?” Nash said. He sounded so awkward it made her feel slightly less so.
“I don’t think I should.” Alcohol would make her even less sharp, and she might accidentally say something that she should not.
“I mean water,” he replied with a chuckle. He strode over to a bureau against the opposite wall, upon which a pitcher and glasses sat. He poured two glasses, then returned to her, giving her one of them.
Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. Or perhaps it was that throat.
She took a swig from the glass, drinking so quickly she started to choke. He immediately began to pound her back, which made her whole body shake, so the remaining water in the glass sloshed out and spilled on her gown and the floor.
He stopped pounding her back as they both stared down at the widening puddle.
“Well,” Ana Maria said in a sprightly voice, “this is getting off to an excellent start.”
His expression froze, and then the most startling thing happened—he began to laugh.
Not only that, he was laughing so hard he’d flung his head back, showing even more of that damnably handsome throat. He had his hand to his chest, as though it hurt to laugh so much, his other hand still holding his own glass. Which had not spilled, despite all of his movement.
So she stepped over to him, snatched the glass from his hand, and poured all the water out onto the floor.
His eyes widened, and then he laughed harder. This time, she joined in, not quite sure what they were laughing at, but pleased to see him so joyful, for once.
She didn’t remember ever seeing him laugh. She’d seen him smile on a few rare occasions, but not outright laughter.
“Anything amiss?”
Nash’s manservant Finan popped his head into the room, his perplexed expression revealing that, yes, Nash’s laughter was a rare occurrence.
“You all right, my lady?” Finan continued, addressing Ana Maria.
“I am fine. But perhaps a mop would be of use?” And some cloths to dry the wood adequately so that no one would slip later on, but she bit back the words because she wasn’t the maid in charge of cleaning this room. Or any room.
“Right away,” Finan said, his face disappearing as the door shut again.
“Stay there,” Nash ordered as she began to move. “I don’t want you to fall.”
“I’ll be fine,” she replied, lifting her now-damp shoes from the worst of the spill.
“Why do you always tell me you’ll be fine? When I am just trying to help?”
Her chest tightened at the sincerity of his tone.
That is why he demanded he teach her self-defense. He is a protector, he knows no other way. It had nothing to do with her, the person, Ana Maria; it was because she was in his orbit, and he cared about people in his orbit.
Just like he had hired so many of the bastards his father had scattered around the country. Not that he’d ever told her that, but she’d heard him and Sebastian speaking about it.
It should be a relief it had nothing to do personally with her. It was his need, nothing more or less. So she couldn’t deny him his basic need to protect.
“Thank you. I know I should be more grateful—”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he interrupted. “I just want you to agree that there are certain things that I am more knowledgeable about than you.”
She raised her eyebrow. “Such as—?”
Such as. For a moment, Nash couldn’t think of anything. Well, besides not talking. But he’d gotten better at talking, which must mean he’d gotten worse at not talking. Not that he was good at talking; just take a look at, for example, now.
He couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“I suppose you’ll say self-defense and fighting,” she said, obviating the need for him to think of a response. “And that is true. But I believe that once you teach me the essential elements I will be as good as you are, albeit starting from a different place. What with being a female and all.”
And that was why he found himself in the confounding position of not being able to speak.
She was a female. A female he’d realized was far too attractive for him to spend any amount of time with, and yet here he was, alone in a room in his house. With only his assorted family members who were also servants. And Finan.
So. She was a female, and he was an idiot.
“Fine,” he said instead of saying anything that might reveal the extent of his idiocy. And his awareness of her as a female instead of just as the sibling of his best friend. “I don’t want to talk. Let’s spar.”
“You are better than I am at changing the subject when you know you are wrong,” she muttered.
He chose to ignore her.
He went to the bureau with the linens, drawing two lengths of linen from the drawer. “We’ll need to wrap your hands.”
She glanced at the linens, then held her hands out in front of her. As though she were submitting to him.
Holy hell, the thoughts that went through his mind—and to his cock—at the sight of it.
Her, holding her hands out as he slowly unwrapped her, taking his time to reveal each inch of perfect golden skin. Her, holding her hands out for him to guide her to where he wanted her. His bed? His desk? The carpet?
Her, holding her hands out, reaching for his body, sliding her palms over his skin.
That was the one he craved the most.
Though he would gladly take any of them.
“Nash?”
He jerked his thoughts away from all of that, clamping his jaw as he began to wrap the linen around her hands.
Once again, he was touching her ungloved hands. Her skin was smooth, not marked by scars and calluses like his.
“I won’t be wearing linen like this if somebody accosts me on the street,” she pointed out.
“No, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
“You are very sweet,” she replied.
Well, thanks to her words his concern that he would embarrass himself because of a poorly timed erection was no longer a concern, at least.
“I am not sweet.”
Her mouth curled into a wicked smile. Concern back on board, given what thoughts that smile conjured in his mind.
“Oh, but you are. You insist on rescuing damsels in distress—even though I was not in distress, mind you—and you’ve hired people who most men in your position would prefer to ignore.”
He scowled in reply.
“And you are taking time from whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing—”
At which he grunted.
“—to train me in self-defense. Although, presumably, once you train me you won’t have to spend time rushing to my aid. You can stay home, safe in the knowledge I can take care of myself.”
That’s not going to happen.
“I am not sweet,” he repeated.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Not sweet. Can we get to the training portion now?”
The training portion. Where he’d be touching her. Not just her hands, which had already inspired images that he would be revisiting in the privacy of his bedroom. But elsewhere, adjusting her stance, demonstrating what a straight and true punch looked like. Making certain her shoulders were relaxed as she moved so the tension wouldn’t make her lose momentum. Pretending to be an assailant who might want to get her into a prone position.
Goddamn it.
Was that why he seemed to be procrastinating in doing the one thing he had insisted they do together?
“Nash.”
“Yes.”
He nodded, then stalked behind her.
“All right. The first thing will be to gauge your reaction time.” He took a deep breath, then placed a hand on either side of her waist. Holding her still.
She shrieked and leaped away, spinning to face him, her expression one of astonishment.
“Well. Reaction time is good.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
He frowned. “If I’d warned you, you’d have had time to prepare your reaction. That wouldn’t make sense.”
She rolled her eyes again. “You are the most irritatingly pragmatic man I’ve ever met.”
“I don’t even know what that means.” He held his hand up when she opened her mouth. “Nor do I care to. We need to work now. We can spend time tossing barbs at one another later.”
Her eyebrows rose, and that wicked smile returned. Damn it. “Tossing barbs? As though that is a thing you actually do?” She shook her head, that smile still in place. “I believe you would rather do a thing than say a thing.”
Well, yes. If that meant he’d rather punch a scoundrel than reason with him. Or drink a whiskey rather than talking about how it tasted.
Or kiss a woman who was just beginning to come into her own gloriousness.
The door swung open, and Finan returned along with Bertha, a young woman he’d found when making what he called his Bastard Tour of the villages near his father’s estate. Now his estate.
Bertha carried a mop and pail, while Finan held cloths in his hand.
“Oh good. I was hoping there would be a mop,” Ana Maria said in satisfaction.
The two stepped between them, Finan getting on his knees to wipe up the water as Bertha mopped.
“How’s it going?” Finan asked, his expression and tone almost offensively banal.
Nash grunted.
“Good. As I’d expected,” Finan replied, grinning.
“The duke has wrapped my hands and has tested my reaction time,” Ana Maria said. “Thus far, he has not shown me how to do anything that would possibly help me in a difficult situation.”
Finan raised his eyebrows as he looked pointedly toward Nash.
“It’s preparation.”
Finan nodded. “Of course. Preparation.”
Why did that sound like such a loaded word?
“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Finan said as Bertha put the mop back into the bucket, nodding in satisfaction. “Don’t forget the dowager duchess requires you at tea. Dressed appropriately,” he added with a wink.
“Thank you.” Ana Maria spoke before he had the chance to. Not that that was unusual, of course.
“Thank you,” he echoed as the two left the room.
“Well. Shall we get back to it?”
“If you’re actually going to show me something, then yes.” That wicked smile.
He liked it when she smiled like that. Too much. He also liked it when she needled him, which was something he should ponder later, but likely wouldn’t.
“Let me show you several things.”