Jem.She was notdead. The impish spray of freckles across her nose and the slight scent of chocolate assured him she was real.Not dead, yet everyone in Hamilton believes she is.His mind raced, trying to piece together exactly why and how Jem could be in England. How she could be the niece of the Earl of Marsh, the very man whose daughter he thought he might marry.
Her eyes fluttered open slowly as she tried to focus. “I must have fainted, which I never do. I'm sorry, Your Grace, I thought—” The hazel orbs narrowed. “Dear God, no wonder I fainted,” she hissed, struggling to sit up. “Bloody hell, what areyoudoing here?”
“Jane Emily?” Lady Marsh questioned in a horrified tone.
A throat cleared behind Nick. “Your Grace,” Lord Marsh began, stepping forward. “I beg your apology. I fear my niece has hit her head.”
“Yes,” Lady Marsh chimed in brightly, nodding her agreement. “Bring the smelling salts.” she ordered the butler, a nervous smile on her face.
“My deepest apologies, I’ll just—” Lord Marsh moved into Nick's line of sight, meaning to assist his niece in getting up.
“No,” Nick snarled before he could think, tightening his arms and ignoring the stiffening of Jem's body.
Lord Marsh stepped back immediately, his face contorted in surprised confusion, his mouth bent into disapproval at Nick’s improper regard towards his niece.
Nick didn't care if he was rude. He didn’t care if the Earl of Marsh thought him crazed and in the habit of accosting barely conscious females. He ran a finger down Jem’s cheek. Nothing mattered. He had the disgusting urge to rain kisses across her face like a delighted puppy.
The slender girl in his arms swatted his hand away. “What are you doing here pretending to be a duke?”
“Oh,” Lady Marsh uttered. “It is apparent my niecehashit her head and quite forgot herself. Where are those smelling salts? I’ll have one of the footmen carry her upstairs, shall I?”
Nick didn't spare Lady Marsh an answer. He cared only for Jem, who was studying him closely, especially his eyes.
A hand cautiously patted his shoulder.
“Your Grace,” Nick’s aunt said in a hushed tone. “I do not know what has come over you, but this isunseemly. Even for you. You cannot sit in our host’s drawing room with your hands on his niece. I’m not sure what has caused such impropriety. Have you been drinking?” She sniffed the air.
Nick shut his eyes and willed his aunt and everyone else away. No one in this room could understand the overwhelming joy he felt. The loss he awakened with each day, no matter the amount of alcohol he used to blot it out, was suddenly gone.
Lord Marsh cleared his throat again.
“Nick.” Aunt Maisy leaned over and hissed in his ear. “You must let Miss Grantly’s family see to her. The girl merely fainted at the sight of your eyes.” She turned and addressed the group in a polite tone. “Please, do not be distressed. This is not the first time such has happened. His Grace's features can cause quite a stir at first. Your niece is not to blame.” Her hand lay heavy on Nick's shoulder, and she pinched him to make her point.
The room grew quiet, no one daring to contradict Lady Cupps-Foster and certainly no one wished to approach Nick. He could hear the rustle of the ladies’ skirts, the snapping of his sister's fan as well as Lady Marsh whispering furiously to Lord Marsh.
Jem tried once more to sit up. She squirmed in his arms and tried to push him away.
Nick stood in one fluid motion, bringing the struggling Jem to her feet as well. Pulling her to him, he laid one arm about her waist, staring at Lord Marsh as if daring the man to intrude.
Lady Marsh gasped at Nick's actions—the woman looked as if she might faint herself.
“Dear God,” Aunt Maisy said under her breath.
Arabella muttered something in a rude tone, which elicited another gasp from Lady Marsh.
The thought crossed Nick's mind that the ducal coach sat just outside. He could simply throw Jem over his shoulder and run as he should have in Bermuda. He was a powerful duke. Would anyone stop him? He stole a glance at Lord Marsh whose nostrils flared with mounting anger, to the earl's son, Lord Malden, who looked as if he would come at Nick with his fists. They wouldtryto stop him.
“No eye-patch.” Jem whispered, spitting like an outraged cat. "A disguise. A ruse. To hidethose.” She tried to pull away.
“You find them ghastly?” he said quietly, using the words Lord Corbett flung at him that night.
Before Jem could answer, Lady Marsh mustered her courage and came to her niece's side, pretending nothing had happened out of the ordinary. “I told you to eat something today, dear. Why, you've given us all quite the scare.” She turned to Nick. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. I think my niece must excuse herself.” She inclined her head.
“I’m fine,” Jem said to no one in particular. She never looked away from Nick. Her fingers twitched as if she wished to slap him, which she likely did. Jem was nothing if not consistent in her temperament.
“Leave us,” Nick said quietly, reluctantly dropping his arm from about Jem's waist. “All of you. We must speak in private.”
“Your Grace,” Lord Marsh objected, “this is quite unusual and I—”
