No Other Love Read online

  “I suppose it only takes the right woman,” Nicola replied. “But it is far too long a tale for now. I will tell you all about it tomorrow.”

  With a rather tired smile, Deborah agreed. Nicola gave her a peck on the cheek and left the room, going down the hall to the room Deborah had prepared for her. She closed the door behind her with a sigh and looked around the pleasant room. The glow of the lamp was welcoming, but it could not dispel the chill in her heart.

  She hated it here. She wished she were miles away, back in London, in the life she had built for herself there. In London she was content. She had her charity work with the poverty-stricken women of the East End, the kitchen that dispensed food and clothes for those bitterly in need. There was the social round that she kept up with when and if it pleased her, the little flirtations that no one took seriously, the intellectual discussions at her small, intimate dinners. Even the arguments over her causes with various members of her social set were a bracing part of her life. She was useful and busy, and there were the pleasures of the opera and theater to be enjoyed.

  But here…here she felt unsettled. She hated being in this house with Richard. And there had been that dreadful confrontation with the highwayman…that kiss….

  Nicola shook her head as if to clear it. It was so stupid to be thinking about that kiss; she would not do it.

  She walked to the window and parted the heavy drapes, peering out into the dark night. The trees and shrubbery of the garden were dark shapes in the moonless night. Nicola closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cool window as a sharp yearning pierced her, so fierce she almost cried out. Oh, Gil!

  It had happened like this before, a swift, unexpected pain in her chest, as if the wound were brand-new, not years old, and when it did, she would ache for Gil with a sorrow that threatened to smother her. But it had not happened for a long time now; it had, after all, been ten years, and usually when she thought of Gil it was in a sweet, sad way, a remembrance of his smile or his laugh, or the way he walked, that made her smile as much as it made her sigh with regret. But this—this yearning that swept over her—was bitter and painful, cutting into her almost as it had ten years ago.

  The thought of him had kept popping into her mind all evening. As her carriage had pulled into the yard, she had remembered suddenly the first time she had seen him. It had been here at Tidings, as she and the rest of a large party had returned from a hunt. He had come up to her horse, reaching up to help her down, and she had looked down at him, taking in with a jolt his handsome face and laughing black eyes, the thick shock of dark hair that tumbled across his forehead. Her heart had been lost to him at that moment, though she had fought it for a while.

  Thoughts of him had kept intruding all through her talk with Richard and later with Deborah. Now that she was alone, she could not hold them back. Memories came flooding in. She supposed it was because she was here at Tidings, where she had first met him, or perhaps it was being around Richard, whom she had done her best to avoid for ten years. Whatever it was, her heart ached with a pain and hunger that she knew would never die, only recede now and then until the next time they welled up.

  With a half sob, she left the window and threw herself down on the bed. She turned on her side, gazing into the glowing red coals of the fireplace, and, curling up like a child, she gave herself up to thoughts of him….

  CHAPTER TWO

  1805

  NICOLA WAS SIXTEEN WHEN SHE MOVED to Dartmoor with her mother and younger sister, Deborah. Her father had died, and while he had left them well-provided for, the estate upon which they had lived was entailed and passed automatically, along with the title, to a second cousin. The cousin had politely offered to let them continue to live at home with him, his wife and their brood. He had little feeling for them, but it would have looked bad for him to do otherwise. However, Lady Falcourt, who had as little liking for him as he did for her, and even less liking for his efficient, energetic wife and noisy pack of children, declined his offer with equal politeness and removed herself and her children to the house of her sister, Lady Buckminster.

  Lord Buckminster, her nephew, familiarly known as Bucky, was a friendly, easygoing sort who welcomed them to stay as long as they wished. Nicola, frankly, found herself happier at Buckminster than she had ever been at home. While she mourned her father, he had been a distant sort of parent who spent most of his time in London. Lady Falcourt was given to various illnesses, and so, from an early age, much of the decision-making for the household had fallen upon Nicola.

  But here at Buckminster, Lady Buckminster’s housekeeper was a supremely competent woman who ran the household with little more than a vague nod of approval from Lady Buckminster. Lady Buckminster’s abiding passion was horses, and as long as she was not inconvenienced or distracted from her riding and breeding and hunts, she paid little attention to the house or to the behavior of anyone in it. Freed from a governess for the first time, with the weight of household management off her shoulders, and under Lady Buckminster’s less-than-watchful eye, Nicola found herself more or less on her own, free to do as she wished.

  Therefore, she spent most of her time riding about the countryside, meeting the people who lived there. From childhood, Nicola had always felt at ease among the servants and tenants of her father’s estate. Her mother had usually been feeling too “invalidish” to spend much time with an active youngster, and Nicola had received the bulk of her love from their nurse and had returned it with all the enthusiasm of her nature. Her “family” had grown over the years to include most of the other servants, from the lowliest groom or upstairs maid all the way to the imposing figure of Cook, who ruled the kitchen with an iron hand.

  It was Cook who had inspired her interest in herbs, explaining to her the properties of each herb or spice she put into the food, while Nicola sat on a high stool beside her, watching with great interest. It was the healing properties of the herbs that most appealed to Nicola, and before long Cook was teaching her to grow herbs in a garden, as well as identify and pick them in the wild. She had learned how to dry them, mix them, how to make tinctures and salves and folk remedies of all sorts. Nicola had broadened her knowledge as she grew older by reading and experimenting, and by the time she was fourteen, she was called upon to cure this illness or that almost as much as Cook herself.

  It had cost her a good many tears to leave behind the servants when they moved to Buckminster. However, once there, she quickly began making friends wherever she went.

  The only problem in her new existence came in the form of the Earl of Exmoor. As the only other member of the aristocracy in the area, he was invariably present on any social occasion, and given the looser restrictions of country life, Nicola, though only seventeen, was usually often included in those events, as well. She was undeniably the belle of the area, sought after by the vicar’s pimply son, down from Oxford, as well as the Squire’s son and his frequently visiting friends. She didn’t mind such boys and their usually awkward attempts at flirtations. The Earl was another matter altogether. Mature and sophisticated, he courted her with all the smoothness of an accomplished rake. Without appearing in any way overbold in the eyes of her mother or Lady Buckminster or any of the older ladies present, he managed to find numerous opportunities to touch her in some way, and he talked to her in a low, silky way, with unmistakable gazes of passion, that both irritated and alarmed Nicola.

  She had no interest in the man. However, to her mother, as to most of the world, he seemed a marvelous catch. “Goodness, Nicola,” she responded when Nicola protested her inviting him on some outing, “I would think you would be flattered by his attentions. He is quite a catch, you know. Splendid family, the Montfords—wealth, a title. Why, you’re even friends with his cousin—what is that mousy little girl’s name?”

  “Penelope,” Nicola replied through gritted teeth. “And she’s not mousy, merely quiet. Yes, I like Penelope, and her grandmother, too, but that has no bearing on how I feel about Exmoor. I
don’t like him. I don’t like the way he looks at me or talks to me.”

  “Oh, my dear,” her mother replied with a chuckle. “You’re simply too used to callow youths.”

  “Well, I prefer callow youths to an old man!” Nicola flared.

  “Really, Nicola, the way you talk…The Earl isn’t old. He’s in the prime of his life.”

  “He must be close to forty! And I am only seventeen, in case you have forgotten.”

  “Please, dear, there is no need for you to be rude,” Lady Falcourt said with a martyred sigh. “He is in his late thirties, but that’s scarcely too old to marry. Many men are quite a bit older than their wives. Your father, for instance, was sixteen years older than I.”

  Nicola bit her lip to hold back the sharp retort that sprang to them. It had been clear to everyone that her father had married her mother for her youthful beauty and then had found her a dead bore once the infatuation had worn off. That was why he had spent most of his time in London.

  “It doesn’t matter” was all she said. “I have no wish to marry anyone. I don’t plan to marry for a good many years yet, certainly not until I find someone I love. Grandmama left me a pleasant portion so that I would not have to marry at all if I didn’t want to.”

  Lady Falcourt gasped and sank back weakly against her chair. “I don’t know where you get these radical notions.”

  “Yes, you do. From Grandmama.” Her grandmother had been an outspoken and independent woman who had always looked somewhat askance at the fluttery, vapid woman who was her daughter. Her grandmother had been forced by family pressure into a loveless marriage, and she had made certain that none of her own three daughters had been compelled to do the same. She had often spoken to Nicola about following her own heart, and when she died, she left both her and Deborah sizable enough inheritances that they would be able to live independently if they chose to.

  “Yes. And you get them from your aunt Drusilla, as well,” Lady Falcourt agreed darkly. Her sister Drusilla had never married, but had lived with their mother in London, where she maintained a social salon of great note and wit. Lady Falcourt understood her even less than the horse-mad Adelaide, Lady Buckminster. “Drusilla is no one to pattern your life after. A spinster…no children to brighten her days, no husband to look after or home to keep.”

  Nicola sighed. This was a favorite theme of her mother’s, even though Nicola had rarely seen her mother lift a finger to organize the household or raise a child. “I have no intention of not marrying, Mama. However, it will be when and to whom I want. And that certainly will not be now or to Lord Exmoor.”

  Still, there was little way to avoid the man unless she wanted to become a social recluse. He was bound to be at any local party or dinner; having an earl in one’s house was considered a feather in any matron’s cap, even one as supposedly unworldly as the vicar’s wife. Worse, her mother insisted on accepting any invitation he sent their way.

  So it was that Nicola attended the hunt at Tidings, the Exmoor estate, and trotted into the yard, flushed from the activity, her hair coming loose in little tendrils around her face. As the Exmoor grooms rushed out to take the reins of the horses, Nicola looked down and found herself staring into one of the handsomest faces she had ever seen.

  He was larger than most of the grooms, taller and leanly muscled. Dark, mischievous eyes gazed out from his tanned face, framed by a mop of thick black hair. A smile widened his mobile mouth as he gazed up at Nicola. Nicola stared back, feeling rather the way she had the time she fell out of the oak tree when she was little, as if the world had somehow stopped and she was floating free from it, as if her lungs no longer worked, but her heart was skittering double time.

  He reached up his hands toward her, black eyes dancing. “Help you down, miss?”

  She could not answer, simply pulled her foot from the stirrup and twisted off the sidesaddle, leaning down to him. His hands grasped her waist, lifting her down effortlessly, and she braced her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. She could feel the heat of his body beneath the rough woolen shirt, the hard stretch of bone and muscle. For an instant they were close, his face so near hers she could see the thick, dark fringe of lashes that shadowed his eyes. Then she was on the ground, and in the next instant, the Earl was there, stepping around the groom to take her arm and lead her into the house.

  Nicola scarcely heard a word he said—nor much of any of the rest of the conversation through the hearty post-hunt brunch. Her thoughts were on the groom. She wanted to know his name, but she could think of no way to inquire about him that would not sound exceedingly strange. And even if she could have phrased it acceptably, she knew that it was doubtful that anyone would know who he was, even the Earl, who employed him. Servants might as well have been part of the furniture to most people of her social set, she knew, and though they knew the name of the most important ones—the butler, the housekeeper, their personal maid or valet—it was rare that they knew the names of the multitudinous footmen, maids and grooms. So she was forced to leave later without having learned anything of use to her.

  After that, her mother no longer had any difficulty in persuading her to attend a function at Tidings. When her mother suggested they pay a thank-you call the following day, she acquiesced without a murmur, causing her mother to glance at her oddly. The next week she agreed to attend a small dinner party at the Earl’s house, and when he suggested a picnic up on the moor, leaving from his house, she smiled and agreed that the idea sounded lovely.

  But despite all her efforts to be at Tidings—which had cost her a great deal of inner squirming—she did not catch even a glimpse of the groom. She surmised that he was not important enough in the line of command in the stable to be allowed to interact directly with guests unless there were such a large number present that they needed all the grooms, such as at the hunt.

  She told herself that it was foolish to be so interested in the man. She had, after all, seen him only for a moment, and just because she had had that odd response, it did not mean that he was anyone special or significant. It could have been just some odd physical twinge, indicative of nothing.

  She could not even have said what she hoped to accomplish by seeing the man again. All she knew was that she was restless and unsettled, that she had to see him.

  Oddly enough, it was not at Tidings that she came face-to-face with him again two weeks later. It was at Granny Rose’s cottage.

  Not long after she had moved to Buckminster, when she had administered a tonic to one of the upstairs maids for a head cold and given a salve to the gardener to ease the pain of his reddened knuckles, people had begun to tell her about an old woman in the area. Everyone called her Granny Rose, though Nicola surmised that no one was actually related to her. She was known throughout the countryside for her remedies. There were even those who superstitiously considered her a witch. It was said that she knew more about plants and their medicinal properties than anyone, and for miles around, people had long relied on her potions to ease the pain of childbirth or protect a wound from infection. Even the old Lord Buckminster himself, who had suffered terribly from the gout, had availed himself of her remedies to ease the disease.

  Nicola immediately wanted to meet the woman, and after some cajoling, she got one of the maids to lead her through the woods to the woman’s cottage, nestled in a pleasant spot sheltered by a group of trees cupped like a hand around the little house. It was a small structure of wattle and daub, with a thatched roof, and so overgrown with ivy along one side that in summer it almost blended in with the green trees behind it. A small garden of herbs grew beside the house, tinging the air with scent.

  Granny herself seemed almost as ancient as the house, her skin creased and browned like a withered old apple, and her hair a pure snow white. But her eyes were merry and younger than she appeared, and her smile, though gaptoothed, was so warm that one had to respond to it in kind.

  Nicola took to the old woman at once, and Granny Rose had an equal affinit
y for Nicola. Nicola was soon riding over to the little cottage frequently, where Granny taught her far more about herbs and medicinal plants than Cook had ever known—although it took her a little time to understand Granny’s thick Dartmoor accent. Nicola helped her with her garden of herbs and plants and walked with her in the woods, where Granny searched for wild plants, pointing them out to Nicola and explaining all their uses and dangers. She taught her how to decoct her potions, how to dry and cook and steep and grind, what proportions to use. Nicola diligently wrote down each step of her recipes, adding them to her collection. Granny, who told her that her own daughter had never been interested in learning her secrets, was happy to entrust them to Nicola to use and preserve.

  Granny was wise in many other ways, too, and Nicola often stayed to chat with her over a cup of fragrant tea. She had told her about her father and his death, about her mother, even about the persistent pursuit of the Earl of Exmoor. Granny frowned at this and shook her head.

  “A bad ‘un, that ‘un. Ye best be stayin’ away from him,” she said grimly.

  “Bad?” Nicola looked at her, faintly surprised. Though she had not liked the Earl, she had not attributed it to any sense of evil in the man. “But no one has said that he has done anything wrong.”

  “Mayhap they don’t know it,” Granny pointed out, with a sage nod of her head. “Mayhap he’s good at hiding it from his own sort. But them that works fer him, they see, and they know. There’s no kindness in the man.”

  “Well, I shan’t be marrying him,” Nicola assured her. “No matter what Mother thinks.”

  After that conversation, she was a little embarrassed to tell Granny that she had gone against her own judgment and had been to Tidings as frequently as she had been able to the past two weeks. Besides, she found herself reluctant to reveal her desire to see the groom again. Granny would no doubt find it as odd as any of the people in her own class would; ladies did not mingle with grooms, even ladies as pleasant and down-to-earth as Nicola. Moreover, Nicola found herself reluctant to share anything about the feeling that had swept over her; it was something she had hugged to herself for two weeks.