“Probably,” he said, with a twitch of his lips.
But Olivia had found something more to her taste, and she exclaimed over the full and exquisite bloom, before burying her nose in the huge cup of purple-pink petals. “Oh, heavenly,” she sighed. “So romantic.”
When she lifted her head Nic n
oticed she had some pollen on the tip of her nose.
“Do you know the name of this one?” she said, glancing at him cautiously as he continued to stare. “Nic?”
“No. I’m sorry, but I don’t. My mother will know. I’ll see if I can find out.”
“You’ll ask her for me?” There was something in the question that made him think she wanted him to confide in her, and when he didn’t immediately answer, she answered it herself. “It’s true, isn’t it, what the gossips in the village say? You and your mother don’t speak, do you?”
Nic gave her a sideways glance. “Yes, it’s true. My mother and I do not speak. We have not spoken for a very long time.”
“I wish I knew why, Nic.”
He could see her thoughts in her eyes. What had he done that was so terrible that his mother no longer had contact with him? What was the dark and desperate secret of Castle Lacey? He wondered what would happen if he told her the truth, but he didn’t really have to wonder. He knew.
“Nic?”
Instead of answering her, Nic reached out and brushed his fingertip down her nose, holding it up for her to see the smear of bright yellow pollen.
“Oh.” She blushed. “Thank you.”
He smiled down at her, and their gazes met and tangled, and at that moment he knew he was going to kiss her. He was saved from making another mistake by the sound of a voice drifting from the direction of the castle.
“Is that Abbot?” Olivia said, turning to look.
It was indeed Abbot, waving at them from the steps on the terrace.
“Come on,” Nic said, sounding relieved. They made their way back through the rose garden to the gate, and he strove to walk without limping as they hurried toward the terrace. His leg still hadn’t mended from his fall and the cold air wasn’t helping, but he was eager to get Olivia home.
Nic didn’t trust himself, and it was getting more and more difficult to remember why he couldn’t have her.
Olivia followed Abbot as he led them to a small room off the salon, where a fire was warming the room, and two chairs were drawn up before it. Nic moved to hold his hands out to the flames, leaning against the mantelpiece, so that he could ease the weight on his painful leg. Olivia slipped off her cloak and sat down, surreptitiously checking to see whether her dress was decent.
A moment later Abbot returned with a tray of food, bits and pieces from the pantry, and a jug of red wine and two goblets. Nic splashed the liquid carelessly into the goblets and swallowed down his own.
“You may as well go to bed, Abbot,” he said, refilling his goblet.
Abbot looked at Olivia, an uneasy expression in his eyes. “What about Miss Monteith?” he protested.
Nic met his gaze and held it. “Don’t you trust me to deal with Miss Monteith, Abbot?” he said lightly, but there was an underlying note of something more serious in his voice.
“I thought you might prefer to go to bed and let me deal with Miss Monteith, my lord. Your leg has not yet healed and—”
“I am not quite a cripple yet, thank you, Abbot. I will do what is necessary to see Miss Monteith is safe.”
Abbot hovered in the room, clearly not wanting to obey, but Nic was having none of it.
“Go, Abbot. Unless you don’t trust me. Is that it? Don’t you trust me to behave like a gentleman?”
Abbot knew when he was beaten. “Nothing of the kind, sir. Good night.” His manservant bowed low, and closed the door carefully behind him.
There was an awkward silence.
Nic rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Blast it,” he muttered. “Why does he have to put my back up? He should know by now what is and isn’t acceptable in a servant. In my servant.”