A Visit From Sir Nicholas Read Free

had no need for more, yet he was set on making his own fortune. Jonathon had told her it was a point of honor and pride. Nicholas wanted to atone for the failures of his father, who had also sought to make his own fortune but had been trusting and naive and unsuccessful in every venture he'd attempted.
    From the very moment Lizzie had laid eyes upon Nicholas again, she'd been intrigued and curious. Soon after his return to London, she had made it a point to come upon him alone on the terrace at some now-forgotten event. For the first time in their years of acquaintanceship they'd spoken of matters not relating to friends or the weather or other polite utterances. Her well-practiced flirtatious banter had faded under the assault of his steady, assessing gaze, and she'd found herself asking about his travels and confessing her envy at what he as a man could do and would do and she could not. He'd talked of lands as yet unexplored and endless possibilities and his own awe at the carefree nature of her family and their obvious affection for one another. She'd spoken of wishes and desires and the curiosities life might hold. He'd responded in kind with his own hopes and dreams and his determination to make his mark on the world beyond what he would achieve by virtue of who he was rather than what he was.
    He'd spoken to her as he might have to her brother or his friends. As if she were not pretty and frivolous and lighthearted but rather intelligent and competent and of an interest beyond her blond hair and green eyes and dowry. No man had ever spoken to her like that before.
    But then she had never known a man like Nicholas Collingsworth before.
    It had been the beginning of these odd feelings for him that now churned within her and the start of a friendship that was odder yet. More and more she'd found herself seeking him out, and she'd fancied he'd sought her out as well, for a continuation of their private discussions about their lives and their futures, their opinions and reflections. And more, they'd spoken of art and music and even politics and the state of the world. And the wonders it might hold.
    Their conversations in the presence of others had remained of little significance. They would dance together, on occasion, no more or less often than she would dance with any other young man. And if he'd held her during a waltz a shade tighter than the others or murmured polite, proper phrases with an underlying meaning only she could understand, no one had known it save Lizzie and Nicholas. Nothing improper or personal or untoward at all had passed between them in public. Nothing anyone could raise an eyebrow at, nothing even the most ardent gossip could speak about in hushed, smug tones. But her gaze would meet his across a room and her heart would leap in her throat, and she'd known, with a certainty that had come from somewhere deep inside, that what she'd been feeling had been shared. Until finally, inevitably perhaps, they had met privately at some gathering or another and their voices had faltered. For the first time they'd been awkward and ill at ease, as if what had been silently growing between them had sprung now full blown. There had been a hundred things, a thousand things she'd wanted to say. A thousand things she'd wanted to hear in return, yet the words would not come for her or for him. She'd turned to leave and brushed against him, and his gaze had met and meshed with hers in an endless instant of recognition and desire and even, perhaps, love.
    Then she'd been in his arms and his lips had crushed hers in a kiss that had stolen her breath and her heart. A kiss she had never imagined possible save in her dreams. A kiss that lingered in her soul. It had lasted forever and no time at all. When they'd parted he'd looked as shocked as she and as moved. He'd muttered a polite apology. She'd waved it off with an awkward laugh. And they'd pretended it hadn't happened and had gone on as before save they did not meet