Page 7 of The Duke of Ice
She knew him.
From the top of his dark head to the small cleft in his chin to the long, athletic length of his legs to the tips of his boots, she knew him. Oh, he looked different—there was a small bump at the bridge of his nose as if it had been broken, and his shoulders were wider, his chest more broad. And his face…his beloved face… It was scarcely the man she’d known and yet it was. His brow was coarser, as if he’d endured more than he’d thought possible. There was a hollowness to his cheeks and a tension in his jaw that made him look uncomfortable. She had the distinct impression he didn’t want to be here.
Good heavens, whatwashe doing here?
He’s the Duke of Ice,she reminded herself.
A duke! How on earth had Nicholas Bateman become a duke? And how had he earned the name the Duke of Ice?
Violet’s body thrummed. She took a step toward the door. His gaze, sweeping the room, stopped when it fell on her. There was a flash of recognition, and then he moved on. He’d seen her, recognized her, then decided she wasn’t worth his time.
The pain of eight years ago swept through her frame and nearly sent her to her knees. No, she wouldn’t be worth his time. Not after what she’d done. And certainly not that he was now a duke.
He stood in the doorway, his attention pinned to Hannah and Irving as well as the Duke of Romsey. He didn’t say much nor did his discomfort seem to wane. His stance was rigid, his jaw stiff. No, he didn’t look much like the Nicholas Bateman she had known.
For a moment, she allowed her mind to retreat to that idyllic fortnight in Bath. She’d just come out, and they’d met by chance at the Sydney Hotel. He’d taken her for a stroll through the gardens. He’d been handsome and charming, and his intelligence and wit had completely won her heart. They’d arranged to meet the following day in the Pump Rooms and then danced the next night at the fancy ball at the Upper Assembly Rooms. The day after that, they’d returned to Sydney Gardens, where he’d kissed her in the shadow of a tree, and she’d been lost. Love had claimed her heart and owned it ever since.
Chapter 3
The sightof her across the drawing room made Nick’s blood run cold. His vision tunneled until he feared it would fade altogether. He’d immediately turned his attention to the Linfords and Simon and kept it there. Nevertheless, he was acutely aware of her presence.
Violet Caulfield was as achingly beautiful now as she’d been eight years ago. But no, she wasn’t Violet Caulfield. She was Lady Pendleton. He wondered where her husband was.
The ice he was known for slid through his veins. He never should have come here and would leave immediately.
Light spilled into the drawing room as the storm raged again. Thunder clapped nearby as rain sluiced down the windows, and he realized he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Hopefully, this storm won’t last,” Mrs. Linford was saying. “But if it does, we’ll have plenty of inside activities tomorrow. Would either of you care for refreshment?” She gestured toward a table that was thankfully nowhere near Violet.
Violet.
He couldn’t call her that, nor should he think of her in such familiar terms. Yes, they’d known each other as intimately as two people could, but that had been a long time ago. A lifetime ago.
Elias’s lifetime.
“That sounds excellent, thank you,” Simon said. He nudged Nick’s arm and darted his eyes toward the refreshment table.
Nick didn’t want any bloody refreshments. Actually, he did. Whiskey, preferably. Instead, he moved toward the table with Simon without saying a word to his hosts.
“Could you manage a smile?” Simon asked. “Or at least a less murderous glower.”
“I’m not glowering,” Nick muttered. He was intensely aware of the eyes turned toward him, of the air of expectation. “I never should have let you talk me into this.”
“Perhaps,” Simon murmured. “However, we are here. It’s too late to run.”
“No, it isn’t. I’ll be doing just that at the earliest opportunity.” He looked toward the windows as he reached the table. “I’d leave now if not for the storm.”
“Storm or not, you promised me you’d stay one night.”
Nick eyed the cakes and biscuits but didn’t pick any of them up.
Simon’s brow darkened. “Hell, someone’s coming this way. Could you at least endeavor to look bored? Or maybe ill?”
That wouldn’t be too difficult, Nick thought. Being the center of attention, even for such a relatively small gathering of what, thirty or forty people, made him feel unsettled. He hadn’t been raised to be a duke, and though he’d carried the title for five years now, it still felt odd, particularly around others.
The man who’d approached cleared his throat. “Don’t know if you remember me, Duke, but we met several years ago in London.” He spoke directly to Nick, clearly indicating which “Duke” he meant. “I’m Lord Colton.” He gestured to the woman at his side. “This is my wife, and allow me to present my daughter, Miss Colton.” He made the introduction with clear intent: Miss Colton was on the Marriage Mart.
Nick offered a bow to the young lady. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Colton.” He noticed the viscount didn’t introduce his daughter to Simon, which only soured Nick’s already dismal mood. “This is my dear friend, the Duke of Romsey.”
