There are three things that you must know before reading this chapter.
First, you must know that I think that Sir Hugh and Nathaniel were good friends during (and possibly before) the events in Nicola and the Viscount.
Second, you must know that in Nathaniel and the Orphan, I had imagined Sir Hugh to be Nathaniel's roommate in Oxford, along with Sir John Beckett, who is my original character. These two studied Literature.
And third, you must know that it makes me very, very nervous whenever I write Nat+Nicky doing things other than talking.
Disclaimer: I don't own Nicola and the Viscount. Meg Cabot does. I don't own Nathaniel Sheridan, either. Bummer.
In Which Nathaniel Faces a Knight
It was a well-known fact that Miss Nicola Sparks loved poetry. In her conversations in Almack's Assembly Halls she was usually heard injecting a line or two from Wordsworth or Byron. And she did so so beautifully that her fellow debutantes sometimes wished they had also memorized as much flowery verses as she did.
It was also a known fact that the Honorable Nathaniel Sheridan disliked poetry, and disliked it with passion. He didn't walk about declaring his feelings towards it, being a rather genial young man that he was, but whenever he was seen with Miss Sparks—and this was increasing in frequency after the incident with Lord Sebastian Bartholomew—half the time he was arguing with her over the poetry which she so quoted often.
It was artistic, she would say. It had no reason, he would reply. It put feelings into words, she would explain. It made no sense to a normally functioning mind, he would retort. It was from the heart and touches the heart, she would insist. It sounded fake and insincere, he would conclude.
No matter how proper and behaved Miss Nicola Sparks often was, she would lose the cool disdain that ladies often adopted when they were around gentlemen. When she was with Nathaniel Sheridan, a gasp of disbelief would escape her lips, and sometimes—nay, oftentimes—her hand would fly up to slap him on his arm in frustration. Occassionally, she would turn her back on him in search of the Honorable Eleanor Sheridan to verbalize to her how impossible her brother was, but at those times, Nathaniel would just catch her elbow to wheel her around to return to his side and replace her gloved hand about his arm. Nicola would protest at first, but she would eventually, without fail, be last seen with a smile upon her lips as a blush colored her cheeks.
Their debates over poetry were so regular and normal for the people closest to them that it was a bit of surprise when Nathaniel, in the middle of a chess game, announced that he was going to strive to appreciate poetry. It was a sudden declaration, Nathaniel had to admit to himself later. Sir John Beckett had stared at him as if he had grown another head, and Sir Hugh had chuckled, telling Nathaniel that it was a jolly good joke. The topic was easily dismissed.
But the idea was not.
During the next several days, Nathaniel finished his work early so that he could begin reading in the privacy of his study, but he soon found that shifting his brain so quickly from calculations to over-embellished narrations proved to be too tiring. So, he turned to smuggling the items he needed into his room. But the realization that the maids or his siblings—or, God forbid, Nicola—might stumble upon them forced him to return them to their proper place.
He resorted to sneaking to the library at night, after everyone had gone to bed. So far, no one had yet caught him, although Nicola had begun to notice the effects of his lack of sleep. Nathaniel had smoothly told her that he was fine—and he truly was, save for the occasional drowsiness.
Nicola's inquiry prompted Nathaniel to once more seek guidance from his two friends. After all, they both studied Literature in Oxford. Surely, they would know how to help him.
Their response was far from his expectation.
While their concern upon seeing his pale appearance was somewhat encouraging—Sir Hugh thought that Nathaniel looked like he had been run over by twenty phaetons, despite the fact that he was satisfactorily groomed—their response to his hard work left much to be desired.
Sir John said, shaking his head, "By Jove. You were serious?"
Sir Hugh, on the other hand, was not able to say anything because he was too busy laughing to do so, and his attempts to get any words in only resulted in unintelligible syllables and further laughter. If Eleanor was there, Nathaniel was sure she would have stomped her slippered foot upon Sir Hugh's in order to silence him.
Perhaps.
But if Eleanor was there, then the whole point of that meeting would be for naught, because Sir Hugh's head would be full of Eleanor and only Eleanor, and he would not have paid any attention to Nathaniel's pleas for help.
Help that Nathaniel was not receiving, as it turned out, despite Eleanor's absence. Having had quite enough, Nathaniel stepped towards the blond gentleman and, as calmly as he could, thwacked him on the back of his head.
"Ow!" Sir Hugh protested. "Whatever is wrong with you?"
"I asked for your assistance," Nathaniel reminded his friend, "and not your ridicule."
"Yes, well, I can't help it if you looked ridiculous."
Truth be told, Nathaniel himself felt rather ridiculous, reciting lines from a poem about lovers who needed a goblin—a goblin, of all things!—to solve their problems for them. Still, Sir Hugh needn't have laughed so hard at Nathaniel's predicament.
"Sheridan," Sir John began, thus interrupting Nathaniel's retort, "your effort is most admirable..."
"Thank you," Nathaniel said, shooting a glare at Sir Hugh.
"However," Sir John continued, "you have just reminded all of us what your true feelings are regarding this form of Literature."
Nathaniel deflated. "Is it still that obvious?"
"Yes, unfortunately. How did you even come up with this idea, anyway? Everybody knows you hate poetry."
"But see here. Everybody thought I only saw Nicky as the annoying friend of my little sister—"
"I didn't," Sir Hugh volunteered. Nathaniel ignored him.
"—but now I'm courting her. So, even though everyone thought that I didn't like poetry, if Nicky sees that I actually like the thing she loves the most, then I would win her over!"
"But you've already won her over," Sir John pointed out. "And you don't actually like poetry."
"That's true," Nathaniel agreed, "but she doesn't have to know it while I'm reciting to her."
"'Oh! what a tangled web we weave,'" Sir Hugh interjected, "'When first we practise to deceive!'"
"See?" Nathaniel exclaimed, pointing at Sir Hugh accusingly, "Parker can quote Marmion even though he harbors the same feelings as mine about it!"
"Except, I'm not jealous of the brave Lochinvar."
"What— that's—! Whoever said I'm jealous? He's a fictional character! Why should I be jealous? I'm not jealous!"
Sir Hugh and Sir John, as if they had rehearsed it, each raised an eyebrow at the exact same time towards their sputtering friend.
"I'm not."
"Perhaps you should elicit help from Eleanor," Sir Hugh suggested, choosing to overlook Nathaniel's weak insistence. "She should be more familiar with the female psyche than we ever could be."
Nathaniel hadn't wanted to ask Eleanor, but he conceded that it was a rather logical thing to do. After all, Eleanor was Nicola's best friend, therefore she understood not just women in general, but, specifically, Nicola's thinking. On top of that, Nathaniel was her brother, so perhaps she wouldn't laugh at him like her fiancé just did. But, even before Nathaniel could get past the first lines, "True love's the gift which God has given to man alone beneath the heaven," Eleanor already began to snicker.
"Really, Nathaniel?" Eleanor asked him, "The Lay of the Last Ministrel?"
"It's what brought popularity to Sir Walter Scott," Nathaniel explained, feeling very strange indeed to be the one defending the value of a poem, and that Eleanor should be the one laughing at the recitation of it. And he hadn't meant it to be funny this time!
"Well... At least you had the good sense to select the canto that tells of love instead of the ones that tell of goblins," she commended him. "Still, Nathaniel, I can't quite picture you spouting the lines after that."
"I would have if you hadn't interrupted me with your very ladylike snicker."
"Oh? Then please, by all means, continue."
Nathaniel opened his mouth to accept his sister's challenge, only to close it again. Preparing himself for this mock recitation had been laborious enough, and now that Eleanor had interrupted it—and now that she was grinning at him—Nathaniel found that he, indeed, could not speak about silver links and silken ties, even though he had thought, after several nights of research, that he had selected the perfect passage as his starting point.
"You know, Nat," Eleanor finally spoke when her brother said nothing more, "It has always amazed Nicky how you know so much about poetry despite your very vocal dislike of it. Of that, at least, you can be confident."
Oho.
Ohohoho.
So Nicola was amazed, was she? Armed with this revelation, Nathaniel returned to his task with renewed motivation. Yes, forcing himself to read pages and pages of poetry had been torture, but he was going to survive it magnificently, if he wanted to amaze Nicola. In fact, he was going to take it one level higher. He had already conquered—albeit temporarily—his disdain for Scott's work, so he might as well impress Nicola with a selection from her favorite piece. Even better, he was going to sweep Nicola off her feet by facing Lochinvar.
His victory was inevitable!
Later that night, he stood in the dim library, a resolute frown upon his mouth as he glared at the tome that was sitting on the shelf amidst the other poetry books Nathaniel had leafed through the past week.
This was it. This was the confontation. Once he brilliantly learned to appreciate that section of Marmion, Nathaniel and Nicola would stop arguing about him, and that prick of a knight would no longer stand between them. And with poetry out of the way, he could scoop Nicola into his arms and—
"Nat?"
Nathaniel's thoughts came to a screeching halt at the voice, and he whirled around sharply exclaiming, "Nicky!" He wisely put down his candle upon the table before he dropped it and asked, "What— Is something wrong? Why are you still awake?"
"I could ask the same of you," Nicola said, her eyebrows furrowing as she cautiously stepped towards him. "I got thirsty. I was on my way to get a glass of water when I saw the light."
"Ah."
There was a moment of silence as Nathaniel watched Nicola's eyes survey the empty table, and then his empty hands. She gave him a hesitant smile.
"What about you?" she asked, taking another step towards him. "What are you doing here?"
"I was reading." Nathaniel took a step towards her, as well. "Or trying to, anyway."
"Oh, right. Of course." Nicola laughed softly before adding under her breath, "What else do people do in libraries, anyway, silly girl?"
Nathaniel said nothing as Nicola fiddled with her fingers for a moment. He didn't know what it was, but there was always something about Nicola in a comfortable house robe and loosely braided hair that made Nathaniel want to pull her to him and kiss her breathless.
"But... at this time of night?" Nicola asked again, the warm light from her candle dancing across her features.
"It's quieter." Reaching out to kiss her, Nathaniel reckoned, would be easy to do since they were alone. But kissing her was something he shouldn't do at the moment precisely because they were alone. And, as Nicola had pointed out, it was late into the night. After all, Nicola, being a proper lady, wouldn't— And Nathaniel couldn't— And they really shouldn't—
"Well... Well, you enjoy reading, then."
But, good Lord, Nicola looked so very kissable at that very moment.
"Right."
And then, without another word of poetry or otherwise, Nathaniel covered that last step between them, took the candle from her with one hand and lifted her chin with the other, and watched her eyes flutter closed as his lips descended upon hers.
Perhaps his friends and Eleanor were right. Perhaps Nathaniel didn't need poetry to impress Nicola, seeing as she seemed impressed with him enough to let him kiss her in the darkness of the library, and even slowly slide her hands up his shoulders so she could wrap her arms around his neck...
All too soon, Nicola pulled away. She still hovered close to Nathaniel, however, he could feel the small puffs of her breath on his lips.
"I... I should..." she spoke with much effort, "let you get back to your reading..."
"'Stay yet,'" Nathaniel murmured, already leaning down again, "'stay a while, my wildered fancy still beguile.'"
Suddenly, Nicola moved away so swiftly that Nathaniel nearly stumbled from leaning into empty space. Her hand remained upon his shoulder, but this time it was unyielding as she kept him at a distance.
"Was that..." she began, her eyebrows furrowing once more. "Was that Marmion just now?"
Nathaniel blinked. "What?"
"You said, 'Stay yet... stay a while, my wildered fancy still beguile,'" Nicola recalled, her voice flat and her expression unreadable. "Nat, did you just quote Marmion?"
In retrospect, since his goal was to make Nicola swoon with poetry, Nathaniel should have smiled, pulled her close once more and whispered softly into her ear, "Yes, Nicky, that was indeed Marmion."
Instead of that suave move, however, Nathaniel, unable to help himself, winced.
"Nathaniel," Nicola said, her eyes boring into his. "Why are you quoting Sir Walter Scott?"
Nathaniel's eyebrows raised, this time. "Why do you sound so suspicious?"
"Because you acting favorably towards poetry is suspicious!" Nicola exclaimed. "Nat, what is going on?"
And there it was. Not only was he forced to unconsciously execute his plan too early, but it also didn't work, and even backfired. So much for best laid plans.
"I just..." Nathaniel tried. "I thought you'd like it. That I was getting over my 'absurd prejudice against poetry,' I mean."
"Absurd preju—" Nicola stopped, eyes widening, and she stepped around Nathaniel to the shelf he had been glaring at moments ago. She gave a small cry, whipping out their copy of Marmion. "Is this why you're getting sick? You've been reading poetry in the dead of the night?"
"Nicky, I'm hardly sick."
"But you're on your merry way to it," Nicola told him, jabbing his chest with the spine of the book. "Good gracious, Nathaniel, I was worried about you! Have you any idea what it was like to watch you the past few days? You've grown pale, you're always tired, you won't tell me what's wrong, and you wouldn't even argue with me properly!"
"...You want us to argue?"
"If it's over poetry, then gladly! Don't tell me you don't enjoy it. Otherwise, you wouldn't have done it mercilessly for years!"
"Only because you look so beautiful when we do it."
"Ah, you see? The truth surfaces."
Nathaniel sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. "But, Nicky. That's precisely it. I don't want to mercilessly argue with you, especially over something you love."
Nicola smiled, returning Marmion in its place the shelf. "And I don't want you to neglect yourself for me," she said, touching her palm on Nathaniel's cheek, "especially over something for which my fondness is nothing in comparison to my love for you."
Nathaniel, still feeling the need to give it one last try, said, "Nicky, I would do anything for you. You know that, don't you?"
"In that case," Nicola said, bringing her arms around his shoulders again, "do this one thing for me."
"Name it."
"Don't look so pained whenever I say you're like Lochinvar."
Nathaniel groaned, letting his forehead fall on Nicola's shoulder. Of all the things to ask...!
"I kid, I kid!" Nicola laughed, her happy voice filling Nathaniel's ear. "But, really, Nat, don't force yourself into poetry. You should know, however, that I won't complain if the day will come when you will actually, honestly like it."
Nathaniel, lifting his head from her neck, smirked, saying, "Don't count on it."
Nicola smiled as Nathaniel drew her even closer to him. "I wasn't going to."
