Chapter Seven

Even in the relative dark of the pub, Nash could see the angry spark in Ana Maria’s eyes. “You’re not going to do that? And who are you to decide how I am to comport myself?”

I’m your protector.

And her brother’s best friend. That was all.

But he couldn’t rid himself of the memory of walking into that room where that oafish lord had her cornered, feeling the fierce urge to pummel anything and anyone that might hurt her. And then coming across her in a dockside street, for God’s sake, as another man accosted her. Feeling the righteous anger surge within him, glad to put it to good use.

“Can we agree on a compromise?”

Not that he was going to actually compromise, but she didn’t have to know that.

“Compromise?” She sounded skeptical. He didn’t blame her; he couldn’t think of any time in the past he’d compromised. Mostly because people didn’t usually even try to compromise with him—they just left him alone. And if they didn’t? He hit them.

The barmaid returned with the ales, placing them on the table. He took the glass, gesturing for Ana Maria to do the same.

“Are we toasting to something? To you staying out of my business?”

She was far more irascible than he’d remembered. Not that he’d thought that much about her before; it was only now, now that Sebastian wasn’t there taking care of her that he’d started to pay attention. Not to mention seeing her in that gown.

The protector. Stepping in when required, even if not desired.

“No.”

Her mouth twisted into an adorable pucker.

“But I will if you learn to protect yourself.” He took a sip of the ale. She did the same, sputtering as she drank.

The look on her face made him almost laugh. Except he never laughed.

“It’s unusual!” she muttered. “I’ll get used to it.” She took another sip, this time mastering her expression. “How do you propose I learn to protect myself?”

“I’ll teach you.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh.” A moment of silence. “So—you’ll teach me how to punch people? Like you do?”

She sounded intrigued, not horrified, thank God.

“Yes.”

“But—but I am nothing close to your size. How will that work?”

How will that work?

The question brought all sorts of unwanted images to his mind—images that were most definitely not suitable when thinking about Ana Maria.

But still.

Him sliding his hand down her arm, showing her the correct way to hold her fist. Feeling the movement of her body as she thrust her hand into an imaginary opponent.

Helping her become stronger.

They were intoxicating thoughts.

“Well,” he said at last, realizing she was giving him an impatient look. “I’ll train you. I have a room for boxing—”

“Of course you do,” she murmured.

“And we can work together until I feel as though you can handle yourself. Until then, you’ll need to let me know when you’re likely to be in the kind of neighborhood I just found you in.”

Both eyebrows rose incredulously. “And why would I do that?”

He leaned forward. “Because if you don’t, I’ll tell Thaddeus, and you know how he’ll react.”

That adorable pucker again. He should probably tell her she shouldn’t look so cute when she was mad, but he knew that would likely make her madder.

“That’s blackmail.”

He shrugged. “I just want you safe. Sebastian would expect no less of me.”

“Humph.” She downed the rest of her ale in a defiant gesture. Then ruined the effect by wrinkling her nose.

“Fine. When do you propose we start these lessons?”

Another shrug. “You can tell me. You won’t need them if you can promise me you won’t venture into any dangerous areas by yourself.”

“We’ll start tomorrow, then.”

He smothered a grin at her irritable tone.

 

Ana Maria had never felt so many disparate emotions in her prior twenty-eight years. Contradictory emotions, as suited her new role as the walking oxymoron.

Gratitude, because she wasn’t entirely certain she could have handled that man on her own. Annoyance, because he’d had to rescue her. Something else that surged when she thought about the power of his body, and how he’d rushed in to protect her.

And something on top of that when she imagined what it would be like to train with him.

Alone. In a room where he presumably wore less and sweat more.

Oh dear.

She needed to get her mind off all of that. “Can we order another?” she asked. He’d finished his ale as well.

“Mmph.” He lifted his hand to beckon to the barmaid, then raised two fingers.

“I didn’t realize your grandmother was in town.” That was an excellent change of topic—if she was thinking about older judging relatives she wouldn’t be thinking of him in his shirtsleeves, thrusting his fists toward an invisible opponent.

“I didn’t either.”

The barmaid returned with their drinks, taking their empty glasses and setting the full ones down. “Pay now, if you please,” she said.

He withdrew some coins from his waistcoat pocket and handed them to her. She looked down in surprise. “Thank you, sir,” she said in an effusive tone.

Generous on top of everything. As she’d anticipated.

“So why is she here?”

He took a long swallow instead of answering.

“My heir.”

That wasn’t helpful. “What about your heir?”

Another drink instead of a reply. “Like my father.”

“Oh.” She knew about his father, of course. Not all of it—Nash was even more taciturn when it came to his own private matters—but she knew there was a reason a young Nash was suddenly at their house all the time, sometimes sporting unexplained bruising.

Sebastian had pleaded with Nash to let him help, but Nash had refused. They were both so young at the time, and how could they possibly go up against a grown man? A duke?

“And how does your grandmother come into it?”

“Says I have to get my own heir.”

Which meant— “Oh! So you’re planning on getting married?”

Goodness, why did her voice have to squeak at the end like that?

“Have to do it eventually.”

“Ah.” She took a sip of her ale instead of responding, which was probably for the best, since her first emotions were disappointment, jealousy, and envy. None of which she precisely understood, or would allow herself to understand, but were there nonetheless.

“And your grandmother is here to . . . assist you in finding a bride?”

He grimaced. Which answered her question.

“So that is why you were at the ball the other evening.” Dressed like every other gentleman, looking impossibly handsome and dangerous all at the same time.

A grunt of agreement.

“If I can help—” But he was already shaking his head before she could finish her sentence.

“No help.”

She drew back in her chair. “So you can demand that I take lessons in fighting from you, but you won’t let me help in finding someone to marry?”

“Not your concern.”

This time, there was only one emotion. Anger.

“I know that you are entirely self-sufficient,” she said in a low, furious tone, “but can’t you see how unbalanced it is to help me without allowing me to help you?”

“And what will you do?” His fierce tone startled her. “You’ll tell me which young lady seems to be the least terrified of me? Or which one is the most desperate for a husband?” He snorted. “I can figure that out by myself, and if I can’t, my grandmother will apparently be doing it for me. I don’t need your help.”

Her chest tightened in response. That he thought so little of himself, that he was refusing a genuine offer of help, that he was so obviously reluctant to embark on marriage, but was determined to do it to stave off a potential reprisal of his father’s behavior.

All things that made her concerned for him, angry at him, and proud of him all at the same time.

“I should be getting home.” She couldn’t speak all the words in her heart, she wouldn’t dare to, so she should get herself out of his vicinity until she had composed herself.

Which might mean she would next see him when she was eighty years old.

By which point he would have gotten married, so that would be taken care of.

So there was a bright side to being conflicted.

“I’ll take you home.” He rose, holding his hand out to her in assistance. She glanced at his hand, the strength of it, marveling that he was so willing to help others but not take any help himself.

What would it look like if he did?

What kind of help could she offer?

And why did that question raise so many fascinating thoughts?

 

They walked in nearly companionable silence back to Thaddeus’s house. It was a long walk, and at first he’d wondered if her delicate lady feet could handle so much walking, but then he recalled that prior to a few months ago, she’d been doing all the duchess’s most unpleasant work.

Albeit not in her delicate lady slippers.

“Are your feet comfortable?” He sounded so awkward. No wonder he never spoke.

“My feet?” she replied, sounding surprised.

“Yes. The walking. We could hail a cab, if you’d like.” Or he could just carry her.

“I am fine,” she replied, sounding vaguely offended. So he wouldn’t offer to pick her up. Likely a good thing, what with all those soft curves in his arms.

“Why would you worry about my feet?” she asked after a moment.

He shrugged.

“That’s not an answer. I appreciate the concern, but I can walk all by myself, Your Grace. I can dance and speak and defend myself.”

“No you can’t.” He tilted his head back toward where they had come from. “Your idea of defense is to whack someone with fabric. Here, give that back to me,” he said, tugging the bolt of fabric from under her arm. He’d attempted to carry it out of the pub, but she’d been too quick for him.

She yelped in surprise, and then glared at him.

It felt good, in an odd way, to have her glare at him. It meant that he could provoke a reaction, not just a tolerance. That she treated him as a person with opinions, albeit opinions with which she did not always agree.

Such as that she should be taught self-defense.

But the thought of her wandering about London, her delicate lady feet taking her to disreputable neighborhoods in search of something pretty—that was enough to make his chest tighten and his fists clench.

“I do appreciate your concern,” she said, this time in a softer tone. “I know Sebastian has likely asked you to watch out for me. I will tell him you are doing a splendid job, if you like.”

“He did not—” Nash began, then clamped his jaw shut. It would be far better for her to believe that he was doing this out of some best friend appeal rather than out of his own worry. If she thought that he was acting out of anything other than honoring a friend’s request—then she would think he cared for her.

He did not want her to know he cared for her.

Because he didn’t, of course. That is, other than the usual care one would have for a friend’s sibling. A person to be tolerated by virtue of that person’s relationship to the person you truly cared about.

And not that he’d ever tell Sebastian he truly cared about him. For one thing, he assumed Sebastian knew.

For the other, that wasn’t anything Nash had ever done—express, out loud, his true feelings toward somebody.

“We’re here. You can leave me now.” She spoke abruptly. Had he been silent too long?

Well, he could answer that question: always.

He hadn’t realized they were as close to the house as they apparently were. They approached it, the waning afternoon light making the many windows sparkle, as though touched by fire.

It was truly impressive, even though Nash knew Sebastian had taken it for granted and Thaddeus sincerely wished it wasn’t his.

Nash could sympathize with both points of view.

The door swung open, as though someone was waiting for them, and the butler stepped out. “My lady, Your Grace,” he called.

Nash and Ana Maria ascended the stairs to the front door, him holding his hand out toward her in case she stumbled.

Something he wasn’t aware of doing. Just that he always did that sort of thing around her.

Why hadn’t he noticed that before? He drew his hand back as though he’d touched a flame.

Goddamn it. She was the flame. And he would not allow himself to get burned by the fire that was sparking within.

He waited until she was safely inside, then turned to go, but paused as he heard Thaddeus call his name.

He hoped to God Thad wasn’t about to warn him away from Ana Maria. Because he was warning himself away well enough, he sure as hell didn’t need his friend to add to it as well.

“Thank you for escorting her home,” Thad said in a gruff voice. “I am not accustomed to worrying about her being out. I will ensure she has adequate protection when she leaves the house.” He shook his head. “I could use a drink, how about you?”

Nash grinned. “Of course,” he replied.

So this was to be a social visit, one where Thad groused about his new pampered life and Nash agreed and drank Thad’s excellent whiskey.

He followed Thad to the study, noting how it had changed since Sebastian had left—the surface of the desk was spotless, no random stacks of paper on it. The letter opener was at a perfect perpendicular angle to the edge of the desk, and the chair was pushed carefully under the desk, not as though someone had just popped up out of it.

“Have a seat.”

Nash sat in the chair opposite the desk, crossing his legs.

Thad busied himself pouring the drinks, squinting at the glasses as though making certain there were precisely equal amounts in each.

Nash took his, raised it to Thad, and downed it all in one gulp.

Thad lifted his eyebrow, then took a sip. He sat in the chair, placing the glass carefully on top of a leather coaster.

The two sat in silence. Nash always appreciated that about Thad—he didn’t make conversations when there was no conversation to make.

And now, oddly, he felt like talking.

“You met my grandmother the other evening.”

Thad nodded. “I hadn’t realized you and she were friendly.”

“We’re not,” Nash said, getting up to pour another drink. “She’s here because of my father.”

Thad hesitated, as though unsure of what to say. “Your father.”

“Yes,” Nash said, returning to his seat. “It seems she disliked my father as much as I did, and for the same reasons. She’s here because she believes my heir is like him in some important respects.”

Thad grimaced. “Oh. I see.”

“Yes, you do.” Nash sighed. “She insists the only way to prevent my cousin from inheriting is for me to marry and produce an heir.”

A pause. “She’s correct.”

Nash scowled. “I know.”

“So—you’re going to get married?” Thad sounded skeptical. Likely because Nash had told him and Sebastian he would never marry, and Nash suspected they knew why.

Nash grunted.

“And your grandmother is here to assist?”

Another grunt.

“Ah.”

Thad swallowed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp. “How will that happen?”

Nash frowned. Wasn’t it obvious? “I’ll meet some lady, we’ll dance a few times, and I’ll speak to her father.”

“You’ll dance. And speak?”

Why did Thaddeus have to sound so skeptical?

Nash scowled even more. “I can dance and speak, you know. I just prefer not to.”

Nash leaned over to the bar cart and poured another serving of whiskey into his glass.

“You say that.” Thaddeus did not sound convinced. “And you’ll spend the rest of your life with this person you danced with and spoke with a few times.”

Nash nodded. It was precisely what he planned to do—the less he cared for his future bride, the better it would be. For everyone. They’d marry, have an heir or two, and then go their separate ways.

Thaddeus shook his head. “I wish you luck.”

Nash tried not to take it personally that Thad sounded as though he would need a lot more than luck.

 

“You’ve—what?” Finan asked, dodging a blow.

Nash growled. “I’m going to train her.”

Finan rocked back on his heels, an exaggeratedly shocked expression on his face. “You. The one who you insisted is just like a sister to you. That you won’t marry, but you’ll train in the art of self-defense?” Finan shook his head in woeful regret. Nash wished he had already managed to land a punch, that way Finan couldn’t keep making those rueful expressions.

“I can’t have her unprotected.”

“What about your protection?”

“That’s what I have you for.” Nash bounced on his heels, his fists up in position.

Finan sighed, raising his own fists. “You’re still an idiot. And she’d still be the perfect wife for you.”

“Not going to happen,” Nash said, before launching a blow that narrowly missed Finan’s jaw.

Finan danced back, his eyes gleaming. “I suppose you have some ridiculous reason that makes sense in your brain why you won’t even consider her.”

Nash landed a hit to Finan’s side. He staggered, then popped back up, still bouncing on his toes. “Good one.”

Nash shifted to avoid Finan’s fist, which landed in the air instead of in his stomach.

“And what will any of your prospective brides think about you spending time alone with Lady Ana Maria, the lady you’ve known since childhood who is not at all related to you?”

“They won’t know.”

Finan’s eyebrows rose. “Ah! So this self-defense training will all be conducted in secret. Even better.”

“Shut up.”

Finan held his hands out in a smugly satisfied gesture. “You’re making my point even better than I could. And all without saying a thing.”

Nash advanced on Finan, who held his hands up in surrender, his eyes laughing as he stared Nash down.

 

He wished he’d exhausted himself into oblivion in his boxing salon. Because if he had, he would have been passed out in his bedroom by himself instead of taking tea—tea!—with his grandmother in the largest of the receiving rooms.

“I’ve made a list.”

The paper wavered in her hand, as though she were trembling. He knew she wasn’t frightened of him. Perhaps it was old age? Was she ill? Was that why she was so determined to see him settled? So she could die in peace, knowing that the dukedom wouldn’t be passed on to someone like his father?

Not that he could ask her any of that. She would likely refuse to answer, and then he’d be left having revealed how he did not want her to die, not when he’d just found her. Or her him.

And who would have thought he’d have wanted even more family? Given he was employing all the ones he’d found in his house already.

She held it up to her lady’s maid, who stood behind her chair. The woman brought it to him, giving him a look that seemed to warn him: don’t disappoint my lady, or you will be sorry.

He admired that loyalty.

He took the paper, his thoughts churning as he read the names, none of which were familiar to him.

“Well?” the dowager duchess said in an impatient tone.

“I don’t know any of them.” He tossed the paper on the table between them, narrowly missing the sugar bowl.

Her mouth curled into a supercilious smile. “And that is why you are so fortunate as to have me here.”

“You forced your way in.” He hadn’t realized he’d spoken until he saw her look of surprise. And the lady’s maid narrowed gaze.

“I did so for the good of the family.”

He felt that impotent anger rise in his throat. “The good of the family would have been doing something about my father in the first place. The good of the family would have been twenty years ago, when my mother left me alone with that monster. You knew who he was, you said so yourself.”

The dowager duchess’s face crumpled. “It is my profoundest regret I didn’t do more at the time. I wish I could have ensured your mother was able to take you. But your father would absolutely not have allowed that. For that I am sorry.”

She sounded sincere.

“But I can’t change the past,” she continued in a stronger tone of voice. “I can only help you to correct the future. And the future lies with that list,” she said, pointing to the paper on the table.

He picked it up again, scanning the names. Lady Mary Arbuthnot. Miss Grace Collins. Lady Felicity Townshend.

“Lady Felicity—the one I met the other evening?” When he’d danced with Ana Maria in her silver gown, and punched that oaf, and wiped brandy from Ana Maria’s face.

“Yes. Which reminds me, we should add Lady Ana Maria to the list as well. I know she has Spanish heritage, but other than that, she is of impeccable breeding. The daughter of a duke, the cousin to another.”

“No.”

“And . . . ?” she said, raising one supercilious brow.

Because I already care for her, and we both know what happens when a man from our family cares for a lady. I can’t risk that. I can’t risk her.

Not that he could share any of that with this woman, the one who was determined to see the proper thing done rather than the right thing. What the right thing was he wasn’t entirely certain, but he suspected it would be to eradicate all the possible rotten men in his family by any means necessary.

Was that why he was so quick with his fists? Wanting to eradicate evil?

Hm. Far too much deep thinking for teatime.

“Lady Ana Maria is like a sister to me.” A lie.

“At least you know her, unlike any of these other ladies. And she is not actually a sister.”

Excellent logic, if one weren’t determined to stay away from the lady in question to protect her. In which case, it was probably not the smartest thing to have insisted he teach her how to defend herself.

Why couldn’t he have kept quiet then? He had no problem being sullenly silent most of the time.

Oh of course. Because otherwise she would be manhandled and worse. He had to say something. He had to do something.

But he couldn’t think of her in that way.

“I’ll consider the ladies on the list,” he said, snatching it up and stuffing it in his pocket. Anything to keep her from pursuing that line of questioning.

“Good.” She leaned back in her chair. “Now please ring for more tea. This has gotten cold.”

Nash had never been more grateful for the British aristocrat’s obsession with the perfect cup of tea as he was at that moment.