The earl’s head was still turned away as he listened to the fading footsteps. She tapped him on the shoulder, and he cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Could you please put me down?” she asked politely.
“Must I?” He nudged her a bit, making her squeak. “I’m quite enjoying this particular position.”
“I’m not,” she said tartly. Well, not entirely, anyway.
“Spoilsport.” He eased her down in a stimulating slide. It took a moment for her to catch her breath.
“I suppose we’d better keep away from the door,” he said in a casual tone. “It was bound to get a bit noisy if we continued along as we were. That would be entirely inappropriate for your first time, anyway.”
Victoria’s mouth sagged open. “You can dothatagainst a door?”
“Love, you can do it against a door, in a chair, in a carriage, or just about anyplace else you can think of.” He grinned. “You can even do it from behind, on your hands and knees. I’ll be happy to demonstrate some of the more adventurous positions once we’ve mastered the basics.”
She of course wondered if he’d done those things with other women. “With my luck, I’d probably get a splinter from the door,” she blurted out.
His eyes gleamed. “Och, lass, I’ll be happy to doctor your pretty arse if that happens.”
She blushed. The conversation had become entirely mortifying.
“I’m sure there will never be the opportunity to do so.” She pushed her tangled hair back over her shoulders. “And now that we’ve fulfilled the demands of tradition and exchanged a New Year’s kiss, thus ensuring good luck, I think we should bid each other good night.”
She did her best to dignify her ridiculous little speech with a quick curtsy.
Nicholas choked out a laugh. “Victoria, that’s just cruel. Especially considering this.” He glanced down at the erection that was tenting his kilt, something she’d been doing her best to ignore.
“Sir, it’s almost two in the morning. The entire house is abed.”
“I’d be happy to put you to bed too, Miss Knight,” he said with a comical wiggle of his eyebrows.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or scold him—or run into his arms and kiss him. She’d rarely felt more confused, poised between pure joy and the fear she was making an awful mistake.
Though Nicholas seemed entirely at ease, his gaze turned serious. “Love, why are you fighting this so hard?”
“I . . . I told you. I want to be sure you’re not making a mistake.”
Sympathy flickered across his handsome face. Or, perhaps it was pity.
She turned and made her way to the fireplace, taking the iron and clumsily poking the logs.
“Give me that, you daft girl,” he said as he came up behind and plucked the tool from her hand. “You’re making a mess.”
Victoria let out an aggrieved sigh. “We can both agree on that.”
He leaned the tool against the marble fireplace surround and then steered her to the high back chair in front of the hearth. Going down in a crouch before her, he clasped her hands.
“Is it your parentage you’re worried about?” he asked. “Because I believe we’ve addressed that.”
“But—”
“It’s not an impediment, and you know it. Now, tell me the real reason you’re feeling so hen-hearted.”
There was a simple, stark reason for his apt description of her worries, and his name was Thomas Fletcher. Nicholas would never blame her for defending herself, but no sensible man would wish to marry a woman with a potential murder charge hanging over her head, especially not a man whose marriage had ended in tragedy and scandal. Although Fletcher’s death wasn’t Victoria’s fault, in the eyes of thetonshe would still be considered suspect—if not outright guilty.
Nicholas had already suffered too much for her to make his life more difficult.
But more than anything, she feared losing his respect. She feared seeing the warmth in his gaze fade away, replaced by shock and dismay. He would surely recall all the reasons why she was so unsuited to be his bride.
