Melting Ice

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Ah...” Wide-eyed, Harriet stared at Fiona, who smiled encouragingly; Dyan knew the precise instant Harriet inwardly shrugged and bowed to fate. “Yes, of course.” Her words sounded like the capitulation they were; a fleeting frown tangled Fiona’s brows, then was banished. Wringing her hands, Harriet continued, “I’ll get Sherwood to show you to your rooms.” She smiled weakly, but with a hint of hope at Dyan.

  He smiled reassuringly and held out his hands. “It’s been a long time, dear Harriet, but I, too, am claiming refuge from my relatives. I hope you can find a pallet somewhere.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can.” Harriet’s smile turned to one of relief. She took his hands; under cover of planting a kiss on his cheek, she squeezed them warningly. “We’ll have to reorganize a trifle but...” Shrugging lightly, she turned. “Sherwood—”

  Harriet’s hope—her relief—had communicated itself to Henry. Leaving Harriet to issue her orders, he faced his unexpected guests and fixed Dyan with a significant look. “Well! Just like old times—isn’t it?”

  Dyan studied Henry’s face; so did Fiona. “Old times” referred to their joint childhoods, when, as a small army, Dyan, Fiona, Henry, Harriet, and an assortment of others—all children of the local gentry—had roamed far and wide through the New Forest. Dyan had been their leader; Fiona, two years his junior, had been his second-in-command, the only one who would, without a blink, argue, remonstrate—simply dig in her heels—if some escapade he suggested was too wild, too reckless, too altogether dangerous. She had jerked his reins any number of times, usually by invoking his conscience, a sometimes inconvenient, but surprisingly forceful entity.

  Conversely, as far as he knew, he was the only person presently alive who had ever succeeded in managing Fiona, mettlesome, argumentative female that she was. Dyan surmised it was that aspect of their “old times” of which Henry was attempting to remind him. Which confirmed his guess that the entertainment Henry and Harriet had planned for this evening would not meet with Fiona’s approval. But that still didn’t tell him what had happened to Fiona’s husband.

  “Indeed,” he drawled, politely noncommittal.

  Fiona flicked him a quick, suspicious glance, but said nothing.

  “If you’ll follow Sherwood,” Harriet said, gesturing towards the stairs, “he’ll show you to your rooms.”

  Smoothly, Dyan offered Fiona his arm; she shot him another suspicious glance, but consented to rest her fingers on his sleeve. In silence, they followed the stately Sherwood up the wide stairs; a footman followed with Fiona’s bag.

  Dyan held his tongue as they ascended—for the simple reason that he couldn’t formulate a single coherent thought. His predator’s senses were well-honed, acutely sensitive. They were presently screaming, far too adamantly to be ignored. Their message left him reeling.

  Fiona, strolling haughtily beside him, was, indeed, the same girl he’d known before. Unchanged. Untouched.

  Unmarried.

  He knew it—felt it—deep in his bones. One glance at the fingers of her left hand, presently resting on his sleeve, confirmed it—no band, not even a lingering trace.

  As they reached the top of the stairs, Dyan hauled in a not entirely steady breath. The foundations of his life had just shifted.

  He couldn’t interrogate Fiona in front of the servants. Forced to hold his tongue, he slanted her a glance as she glided regally on his arm. She was of above-average height—her head just topped his shoulder. Her hair, lustrously thick, was pulled back in a chignon; her face was a perfect oval rendered in ivory satin. Her glance, delivered from large hazel eyes set under finely arched brown brows, still held the same directness, the same uncompromising honesty—the same uncompromising stubbornness—that they always had. That last was echoed in the set of her full lips, in the elevation of her chin.

  He squinted slightly—and saw the band of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She was exactly as he remembered.

  So what had happened to Tony? And why was she there?

  He frowned. “How’s your brother?” In Sherwood’s wake, they turned down a long corridor.

  Fiona kept her eyes forward, her chin up. “Edmund’s in perfectly good health, thank you.”

  The urge to shake her returned; Dyan set his jaw and held it back. They’d reached the end of the wing and servants were scurrying everywhere.

  The rooms Harriet had assigned them were next to each other—Dyan suspected for a very good reason. A maid appeared and Fiona, with a haughty nod, disappeared into her room.

  “I’ve brought some fresh cravats, Your Grace.” Henry’s valet hovered at Dyan’s elbow. “If you’ll let me take your jacket, I’ll have it brushed.”

  His gaze on Fiona’s closed door, Dyan nodded. “You’ll need to be quick.”

  * * *

  He was waiting for her when she came out.

  Lounging in the shadows, his shoulders against the wall, Dyan watched as, unaware of his presence, Fiona exited her room. Looking down the corridor, she closed the door. Hand still on the knob, she cocked her head, listening. Candles in a nearby sconce bathed her in golden light.

  His chest locked. For a long minute, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t drag his eyes from the figure robed in turquoise silk poised before the door. This was a Fiona he’d glimpsed only briefly in the ballrooms of London ten years ago. Guinea-gold curls fell from a knot on the top of her head, a few shining locks artistically escaping to frame brow and nape. The smooth sweep of her jaw and the graceful curve of her throat were highlighted by delicate aquamarine drops depending from her earlobes; the expanse of ivory skin above her scooped neckline played host to the matching pendant. He fought to draw breath, fought to ease the vise locked about his chest; her perfume reached him, violet and honeysuckle—the scent went straight to his head.

  His blood rushed straight to his loins.

  Before, in London, seeing her only through breaks in the crowds surrounding her, he’d never been able to let his gaze dwell on her as it was dwelling now. Dwelling on the ripe curves of hips and derriere clearly outlined as she leaned slightly forward; when she relaxed, letting go of the doorknob and straightening, another set of curves came into better view—her breasts, full, Rubenesquely abundant, positively mouthwatering.

  Desire ripped through him—hot, strong, violent. Abruptly, he straightened and pushed away from the wall.

  Fiona heard him and swung around. And frowned.

  He strolled forward. “Now we’re alone, perhaps you’d like to explain what you’re doing here?”

  Up went her pert nose; down came her lids. “You heard.” Turning, she started down the corridor. “I had an argument with Edmund.”

  “And pigs flew over the forest this morning.”

  “I did.” Fiona heard the tartness in her tone. Trust Dyan to thrust in his oar. “You’ve been away for years—things have changed.” They hadn’t spoken in fifteen years, but here he was, as usual, trying to take her reins.

  “Try again,” he advised, falling into step beside her. “It takes generations, not mere years, to change a man like Edmund. I’d believe he’s got a mistress stashed away in the north wing of Coldstream House faster than I’d believe he would waste his time arguing—attempting to argue—with you.”

  “Be that as it may, I assure you—”

  “Fiona.”

  She only just managed not to shiver. The three syllables of her name were infused with steely warning—a warning she recognized only too well. The stairs were in sight, but she knew she’d never make their head—not unless she told Dyan the truth. She knew his propensities; minor considerations like her dignity—or the possibility of her screaming—wouldn’t stop him. She drew in a deep, much-needed breath. “If you must know, Harriet spoke to me last week, when she came to tea.”

  She kept walking; the less time she spent alone with Dyan, the more certain her goal would be. “She told me about these house parties Henry organizes.” She paused, conscious of the blush rising in her c
heeks. But it was, after all, Dyan she was talking to. She lifted her head. “About the activities the guests Henry invites delight in. Expect. Engage in.”

  Beside her, Dyan blinked. “Henry’s guests.”

  Fiona nodded and started down the stairs. “Precisely.” Sherwood was waiting by the dining-room door; leaning closer to Dyan, she lowered her voice. “You know what Harriet’s like—she’s got no gumption at all. I decided the least I could do was come and support her. At least that way she won’t have to spend the entire time in fear for her virtue.”

  “Fear for her...?” Dyan was stunned. He stepped off the stairs in Fiona’s wake. “Fiona—” Blinking, he refocused—and discovered her forging ahead. “Here—wait a minute.” Striding after her, he caught her arm and halted her, swinging about so his body screened her from Sherwood. “Listen—”

  Fiona looked down, at his fingers wrapped about her elbow.

  “I don’t know what Harriet claimed, but that’s not—”

  “Dyan—let go. Right now.”

  Dyan did. Instantly. The quaver in her voice momentarily threw him.

  Fiona didn’t look up; she stepped back, but didn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t expect you to agree with my views—I don’t expect you to help.” Her chin firmed. “Just don’t try to stop me.”

  With that, she swung away. Lifting her head, she swept into the dining room.

  Dyan cursed, and strode after her.

  He crossed the threshold just as Sherwood opened his mouth to announce Fiona. Dyan planted his boot on Sherwood’s foot.

  Sherwood cast him an anguished, somewhat reproachful glance. “Miss Winton,” Dyan hissed, and removed his boot.

  With commendable aplomb, Sherwood announced Miss Winton and His Grace of Darke.

  Dark was precisely how Dyan felt as he stalked up the table. Harriet had left two seats vacant, next to each other in the middle along one side. Equidistant, Dyan noted, from Henry at the head and Harriet at the foot. Chairs scraped as the gentlemen hurriedly stood; all heads turned to assess the late arrivals. With the single exception of Henry, every male reacted similarly as their gazes connected with the vision that was Fiona—their eyes widened, taking in her abundant charms; their lips lifted in anticipatory smiles. More than one reached blindly for their quizzing glass before recalling where they were.

  Following on Fiona’s heels, Dyan fought back a scowl. He was peripherally aware of the response his own appearance was provoking—the flaring interest that lit many feminine eyes, the sudden increase in attentiveness, the subtle preening, the slithering tendrils of sexual excitement that reached for him. He ignored them.

  He waved the footman back and held Fiona’s chair. His logical mind patiently reminded him that she had rejected him—very thoroughly—fifteen years ago; she was no responsibility of his. The lecture fell on deaf ears. Seeing one so-called gentleman reach for his monocle under cover of the general re-sitting, Dyan caught his eye—a second later, the gentleman flushed; letting his monocle fall, he turned to the lady beside him.

  As Dyan waited for Fiona to settle her skirts, he looked down the table; Harriet met his saber-edged glance with an imploringly helpless look. Swallowing a furious oath, Dyan sat.

  “Such a pleasure, Your Grace, to see you here.” The lady on Dyan’s left, a handsome woman with almost as much bosom on show as Fiona, leaned closer and smiled warmly. “I hadn’t realized you were acquainted with the Brookes.”

  “Childhood acquaintances,” Dyan tersely informed her, and turned to Fiona.

  Only to discover a soup tureen in the way. She was helping herself, apparently concentrating. Finished, she held the ladle out to him, still refusing to meet his eyes. He reached for it—and caught it in midair; she’d let go before his fingers touched it. Frowning, he helped himself to the thick oyster soup, then waved the footman away.

  “Did you hear about the party old Rawlsley held at that manor of his in Sussex?”

  The other guests, well ahead of the two of them, were spooning up the last of their helpings and starting on the next phase—tossing conversational balls about the table.

  “Gillings said he’d pop up tomorrow—he had to stay in town until his wife retired to Gillings Hall.”

  By keeping his gaze on his plate, Dyan avoided the many waiting to capture his attention. Fiona, too, kept her eyes down. He shot her a sidelong glance; lashes decorously lowered, she sipped her soup. Looking back at his, Dyan frowned. What had happened in the hall?

  Deaf to the conversations about them, Fiona breathed deeply, steadily, and ate her soup. And struggled to settle her nerves. Dyan’s touch had jerked her back fifteen years—to that moment when he’d kissed her in the forest—and her world had stopped turning. Just a simple touch—and her knees had gone weak; she’d felt like crying for all her lost dreams, dreams that had come to nothing, that had turned to dust. Forcing the old memories into the deepest mental drawer she could find, she slammed it shut—there was no point letting their past torment her.

  Gradually, a measure of calm returned; she could actually taste the soup.

  Beside her, Dyan had been frowning at his, absentmindedly stirring it; apparently reaching some decision, he lifted the spoon and sipped. “You’re obviously as stubborn as ever.” Glancing sideways, he caught her eye. “You’re on some damned righteous crusade, aren’t you?”

  She raised a haughty brow. “Better than a licentious one.”

  The riposte stopped him in his tracks—for all of half a minute. “Fiona, can I at least suggest—just introduce the idea to your mind—that Harriet might not be quite as innocent as you’re supposing?”

  Fiona’s lips compressed; she fought to hold back her words, but they tumbled out, acid and tart. “You may suggest what you like, but I would hardly accept your word on the matter. I know you find it difficult to distinguish between a virtuous lady and a light-skirt.”

  Dyan’s brows snapped together. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Fiona shrugged. “You confused me with some wanton scullery maid years ago.”

  “What?”

  It was just as well the rest of the table was loudly enthusing over the dishes comprising the next course, which Sherwood and his helpers had just set forth. Fiona merely raised her brows and took another sip of her soup.

  The turbulence to her left didn’t abate, although Dyan lowered his voice. “I never confused you with anyone.”

  His words were harsh—and bitter. Dyan frowned ferociously and viciously stirred his soup. He’d never confused any other woman with Fiona. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  He glanced up in time to see Fiona color delicately. She shot a brief glance his way, then looked down and carefully laid her spoon precisely in the center of her plate. “When you kissed me in the forest. You’ve probably forgotten.”

  Forgotten? Dyan stared at her. One didn’t forget major turning points in life. He bit the words back; jaw clenching, he looked away. He had an exceptional memory, particularly when it came to Fiona. In the blink of an eye, he was reliving that scene in the forest—something he’d not allowed himself to do for over ten years. Nevertheless, it was easy to go back to the clearing where they’d stopped to rest the horses after he’d deliberately lost Henry. Easy, too, to recall the hot words Fiona had heaped on his head the instant he’d released her and she’d been able to draw breath. “Don’t you dare confuse me with some wanton scullery maid!” She’d paused, and looked briefly, expectantly, at him. Stunned and stung, he’d simply stared back. Then she’d drawn a second breath, and a tirade had tumbled out—a scornful, scathing, hurtful denunciation. She had dismissed the incident, tarnishing it, rejecting what should have been—hell, had been to him—a glorious moment.

  Dyan frowned; he glanced at Fiona. “I didn’t think you were—or confuse you with—a maid. Or any other woman.”

  “Oh?”

  Her haughty disbelief hit any number of nerves.

  "No.” The single syl
lable vibrated with suppressed fury. “I didn’t.”

  A footman reached between them to clear their plates. Dyan looked away, ostensibly scanning the guests, in truth seeing nothing more than a blackly swirling haze. The old hurt was still there—unhealed, throbbing, and raw. He could still feel his shock, feel the totally unexpected pain. Taste the bitterness that had flooded him.

  “Excuse me, Your Grace.”

  Fresh plates were laid before them; stiffly, her expression a polite mask, Fiona served herself from the already plundered dishes. With an effort, Dyan forced himself to do the same—he supposed he had to eat, or at least preserve the appearance.

  “Here, my dear Miss Winton. Allow me.” The gentleman on Fiona’s right held a large platter for her inspection; Fiona rewarded him with a brief smile. As she made her selection, the gentleman’s eyes strayed downward—an instant later he looked up, blinking dazedly. Dyan gritted his teeth—and jabbed his fork into a slice of roast beef.

  Other gentlemen and ladies, too, were exceedingly helpful; Dyan blankly refused all invitations to interaction. Beside him, he felt the cool wall of Fiona’s hauteur slide into place, deployed between her and any too-overt advances.

  Sherwood hovered between them. “Wine, Your Grace?”

  Dyan nodded curtly. Sherwood filled his glass, then Fiona’s. She was still making her selections; as she finished with each dish, she slid it toward him. Grimly, Dyan piled food on his plate. From the corner of his eye, he saw Fiona lift her head and scan the table, then imperiously wave up one last dish. Eagerly, gentlemen reached to pass it to her; she smiled benignly and accepted it—then handed it wordlessly to him.

  Frowning, Dyan received it; he looked in—pork in wine sauce. Fiona hated pork, but the dish was one of his favorites. With a grunt, he helped himself, glancing at her from under lowered brows. She was calmly eating—she didn’t look his way; he wasn’t sure she even realized what she’d done.

  The simple act helped him get his temper back on its leash. Picking up his knife and fork, he growled through still-clenched teeth: “I didn’t kiss you all those years ago because I thought you were some sort of loose woman.”