by Meara Platt
Celestia glared at him. “You’re a beast.” She turned and rang for her butler. “Badger! Badger!” She cast Ian an imperious smile, as though expecting her servant to stride in and toss him out.
Badger. Ian remembered the man, still felt that odd tug of recognition. Where had he met him before? “He won’t respond, Celestia. Nor will any of your staff. Sit down and learn your fate.”
She hesitated, her eyes darting to him and his companions, then to the entry door, and finally to the fashionable silk chairs beside her. She took a seat, making a dramatic sweep of her gown as she settled in. “Am I to be put to death, as you did to your brother?”
Lord, she never missed an opportunity to stick her knife in him. “There’s no warrant issued for your arrest. I planned a better punishment for you.”
“No doubt devised by that Farthingale bitch you ruined. Have you turned soft? Are you going to marry that—”
“Don’t say it.” Ian reached out and pointed his pistol at her head. Damn. She’d rattled him, just as she’d intended. Indeed, by her gloating smirk, it seemed as though she wanted to goad him into shooting her. Then he’d have the deaths of both his brother and his mother weighing on his soul. Did she truly prefer to be dead than ever see him happy?
“Your Grace, it isn’t wise,” Mr. Dumbley quietly said as Ian continued to take aim at Celestia.
Ian let out a mirthless laugh as he put away his pistol, not yet trusting himself. He wasn’t in control of his temper, for she’d finally done it, made him hate her as much she had always hated him. He understood the twisted workings of her mind. Damn. “I alone devised your punishment. That pleasure was all mine.”
Though he’d truly taken no pleasure in it. He would have given anything for one smile, one nod of approval from her or his father. “One of the Isles of Scilly is where you’ll spend the rest of your days. On St. Mary’s, in a little house on an isolated hill. Mr. Dumbley will provide the details. Mr. Matchett will escort you there.”
She curled her hands and raised them at him, like a cat with claws bared. “You can’t make me go there. I won’t stay.”
“Indeed you will, make no mistake. You’re not Napoleon and have no loyal minions to rouse. No one will come to your aid. There’ll be no escaping your new home.” He paused and shook his head. “You won’t find any of the haute monde in residence on the island, but you can make friends among the lesser society who will be your neighbors.”
She tipped her head up and sneered. “I’ll never stoop to that level. Still, I suppose I can manage for a few months. I’ll write to my friends, let them know I’ll return to Bath by Christmas. I’ll require a lady’s maid, of course. A cook and a housekeeper. A proper butler. I’ll need a large house with rooms enough for my sisters when they visit.” She stared at him, casting a cold, soulless smile. “I wish you ill, Ian. I hope your wife recoils from you in disgust. I hope she takes on other lovers and makes you the ton’s laughingstock. I hope your children hate you.”
“I get the point, Celestia. Oh, and if you do attempt to escape, I’ll have you confined to an asylum. So think on it, the Isles of Scilly or Bedlam? What’s it to be?”
***
The sun shone unbearably bright as Ian left London and rode to Swineshead the following day. He was in a foul, dark temper, his mind awhirl and the blood coursing through his body cold and thick. Nothing seemed to warm him. He felt strange. He felt soiled. He’d disowned his family, but it had been at great cost to his heart. He’d never see them again. There would never be a reconciliation. His cousins were now on a ship bound for Goa, on the western shore of India. His mother and Mr. Matchett were in a coach bound for Cornwall, and then a boat to the Isles of Scilly.
He ought to have felt elated, but he simply felt a terrible, hollow sadness. He was in part to blame for the family’s downfall. He couldn’t shake the thought, nor would he ever absolve himself of blame. At least Dumbley and Matchett were delighted by this turn of events. They had assured him all would be well from now on.
He knew they were right.
He would make damn certain of it.
He tapped a hand to his chest and felt along the inner pocket of his cloak. The special license was safely tucked inside, the little piece of paper resting against his heart, as though a blanket protecting him from the hailstorm of rage and sorrow swirling within him. Soon, he and Dillie would be married. The thought was like a tether, holding back his dark side, that empty part of him capable of violating most of the Ten Commandments. Honor thy mother and thy father.
That would never happen.
Dillie’s family, however, was something special. He’d stopped by the Farthingale residence earlier to speak to Dillie’s father, but was told he was already on his way to Coniston to meet his daughter. No doubt he’d stop at the Black Sail Inn and find her there. Ian considered riding straight to the inn to protect Dillie from her father’s wrath, but John Farthingale was nothing like Ian’s parents. John would sooner cut off his right arm than ever hurt one of his girls.
Ian rode for Swineshead instead, eager to visit Felicity and make certain she had not been harmed. He knew he was being overly cautious. His family didn’t give a fig about the infant, and probably assumed he didn’t either. However, they might have set a plan in motion, intending a bad end for the helpless innocent.
Once he’d seen to Felicity’s protection, he’d attend to the other pressing matter, marrying Dillie. Lord, he wanted to wrap her in his arms and never let her go. Love and hate. It felt odd to harbor these dramatically different sensations within his heart, and odd how easily he was able to separate them. Hatred still dominated his heart... no, that wasn’t quite right. All his life he’d felt achingly empty. Emptiness wasn’t the same as hatred. His family hated him, to be sure. But he hadn’t reciprocated the feeling until now.
Quite the opposite, he’d yearned for their approval, had wished so hard for their forgiveness as a child. He’d died a little inside each time they’d withheld it. But no more. That part of his life was over and would no longer haunt him. He now had Dillie’s love and would work hard to earn that gift.
The air turned cool as Ian approached Leeds. Night was falling and a stiff breeze cut straight through him. He drew his cloak securely about his shoulders, but it did little to help. Prometheus had been traveling at full gallop, but Ian now held him back to a canter. These northern roads were still a dangerous mix of mud and ice.
Giving in to darkness and fatigue, he stopped in Leeds for the night, determined to catch only a few hours of rest and resume his journey at daybreak. He kept to his schedule and was off at the rooster’s first crow. Once again, the sun shone brightly throughout the day. In truth, he hadn’t seen this beautiful a stretch of days in years. Broad patches of blue dominated the sky, as though some force above was watching over him, assuring him of a brighter future. No swirls of gray in sight. “What do you think?” he muttered to Prometheus. “Is our luck changing?”
The hours passed quickly and before he knew it, the dark stone walls of his hunting lodge came into view. Swineshead was a sturdily built structure, erected centuries ago by one of the earlier dukes of Edgeware. Its simple, rough-hewn exterior had been designed to blend in with the natural forest surroundings, and for this reason Ian felt more comfortable here than at his much grander ducal estate at Edgeware.
The roof was made of a sturdy, dark slate. Vibrant green ivy covered the outer walls. The lodge hadn’t changed much in almost a hundred years, and Ian was determined to keep it that way. Despite the recent improvements to its interior, necessary to accommodate Felicity and her caretakers, he’d ordered the exterior to remain untouched.
He’d also authorized some changes to the rear garden, ordering a stone wall built to separate the garden from the stream that ran along its northern perimeter. He couldn’t have Felicity toddling too close and falling—
He changed the direction of his thoughts. No, one death by drowning in the family was quite enough.
>
“Yer Grace! Welcome home.” His groomsman, a stocky, bow-legged Irishman by the name of Quinn, hastened from the stable toward him with a big smile on his face. “Oh, ’tis good to see ye. Will ye be stayin’ a while?”
Ian dismounted, handed the reins to Quinn, and then patted him on the shoulder in greeting. “Nice to see you, too. How are things? Quiet?”
The old man rolled his eyes, and then shook his head, all the while laughing. “Not since Miss Felicity arrived. She has a set of lungs on her, that’s fer sure, but other than her occasional outburst, all has been well.”
Ian strode with him toward the stable. “No strangers lurking about?”
Quinn halted in his tracks and regarded him quizzically. “None. Are ye still concerned about ’em not so friendly visitors?”
“I hope not, but one can never be too careful.” Four assailants were now in the magistrate’s custody, and there was no telling if his family had hired others. Homer Barrow would find out, but his investigation could take weeks.
“We’ve been vigilant, Yer Grace, but if it’ll help matters,” Quinn said, his brow furrowing, “I have a few friends nearby who might be willin’ to visit for a spell. Can’t hurt to have a little extra protection around, and we’ve plenty of rooms above the stable to house them. They’ll help me out in exchange for a warm bed and a few square meals.”
Ian nodded, liking the idea. “Send for them today. I can’t stay long this trip, and I’d like them here before I leave.”
Quinn patted Prometheus’ neck. “I’ll tend to this fine beast first, and then head off to fetch them. Will that suit Yer Grace?”
Ian thanked him and then strode to the lodge, eager to set eyes on Felicity. He’d walked no more than two steps in the door before he saw Miss Poole, the thirtyish woman he’d engaged to care for the child, scurrying toward him with a welcoming smile on her face. She was a plain-looking woman, but that smile on her face spoke volumes. “Your Grace, I’m so glad you’re here. Felicity will be delighted to see you. Be prepared to cover your ears, for she can be quite expressive at times.”
He laughed softly. “So I’ve been warned by Quinn.”
“Her Highness is sleeping now, but she’ll soon wake from her nap and demand to be fed. I was just on my way to the kitchen to collect her supper.”
“Then I’ll not delay you.” He glanced around. “I’ll take a quick look in on Felicity and then inspect the changes made to the lodge.”
Miss Poole appeared to have no objection to his plan, not that she had any right to countermand him. Still, it eased his concern to see her so comfortable in his presence, for it boded well for Felicity’s care. He’d hired the woman because she appeared efficient, and warm and engaging as well. She had come highly recommended, had sterling references, and even so, Ian had worried that he was doing the wrong thing in leaving Felicity in a stranger’s care. It seemed he had fretted needlessly.
Eager to see Felicity, he climbed the stairs and walked into the nursery, taking extra care to be quiet. The room was sparse, but charming. A white armoire decorated with yellow roses stood in one corner, and a white high chair also decorated with yellow roses stood in the corner nearest the window. White lace curtains billowed at the corners of the window. A small carpet in hues of dark red, azure blue, and golden amber covered the dark wood floor beside Felicity’s crib.
Ian’s heart caught in his throat as he peered into the crib and saw the sleeping infant. Her angelic face was pink and smooth, and her little lips were puckered and moving as though she were suckling on a nipple. “My favorite dream, too,” he said in a whisper, thinking of Dillie and her glorious breasts. “Most men never outgrow that dream.”
Felicity had the good sense not to respond to his wayward remark.
Ian continued to study her. She was dressed in a clean, white gown decorated with pink ribbons, and lay sprawled on her back with arms raised above her shoulders, as though she hadn’t a care in the world. This is what he’d wanted, had hoped for. He let out a breath, relieved he had managed to get this one thing right.
Miss Poole bustled into the room carrying a bowl of what looked like mashed fruit. She set the bowl down on a table beside the high chair, and then tiptoed toward him. “She’s an angel, isn’t she?”
Ian nodded.
Felicity let out a little squawk. Then another.
Miss Poole winced. “Oh, goodness. Here it comes,” she warned, just as Felicity let out an ear-splitting wail and burst into anguished tears. “Hush, Your Highness! Is this any way to greet your uncle?” She lifted the crying child into her arms and gently rocked her until she calmed. “Well, at least her bottom’s dry. Won’t be for long though, will it Your Highness?”
Felicity fisted her little hands and rubbed them along her dripping nose. Miss Poole laughed. “We’d better clean that little nose before you eat. The hands too. Now, where is that wet cloth I always keep close?”
“I’ll hold her while you look for it. I’ve been riding through rain and mud for most of these past few days. She can’t do my clothes much more harm.”
She appeared surprised, but pleased. “As you wish, Your Grace. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
A feeling of contentment washed over Ian as he held his young ward. He planted a kiss on her head, his lips gentle against her soft, dark curls. Indeed, he’d gotten this part right. Dillie would approve, of that he had no doubt.
A short while later, once Felicity’s attention was firmly fixed on her food and no longer on him, he strode out of the room and made his way about the lodge to inspect the general improvements. He was pleased with the results. Sturdy new windows, solid wood floors in good repair, hearths and chimneys also in good repair. Carpets cleaned and new furniture in place so that the lodge had been transformed from a rough and tumble bachelor’s hunting retreat to a home suited to accommodate a family.
Ian remained the following day at Swineshead as well, deciding to spend a little extra time with Felicity and make certain that Quinn’s friends, who had arrived last night, were familiar with the grounds and what was expected of them concerning Felicity’s protection. His instincts told him there was no danger, that neither his family—nor the wharf rats they’d hired to do him in—would show up on his doorstep to abduct Felicity.
Likely, there had only been those four assailants, all of whom were now securely in the magistrate’s hands. So why was he lingering here, making excuses to avoid returning to Dillie? He wasn’t certain and could come up with no good reason. He knew he had to marry her. He truly wished to marry her. The sooner the ceremony took place, the better.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered to himself, suddenly understanding his reluctance. He’d been alone all of his life. Detested by his family. He wasn’t yet in control of his anger. What if he unleashed his barely leashed rage on those he cared for most? He wanted to be a good husband to Dillie, but wasn’t certain he knew how.
He’d just entered the stable and approached Prometheus’ stall looking for Quinn when the feisty Irishman hurried in behind him looking quite perturbed. “Yer Grace! There’s a carriage rattling up the drive. It could be them unwanted visitors.”
Ian tightened his grip on the stall gate and nodded. “Summon your friends. I want them in the lodge, guarding Felicity, their weapons at the ready.” Had his gut instinct been wrong? Were more assailants on the loose?
“No worries, Yer Grace,” he said as they walked out to intercept the approaching carriage. “They’re in the kitchen as we speak. I’ll take care of ’em interlopers while ye get yerself to safety.” He raised a fist and shook it at the advancing carriage to emphasize his point.
The morning sun shone on the gleaming black conveyance. Ian shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed into the distance. He grinned. “Quinn, forget my instructions. These are welcome guests.” Though how Dillie managed to obtain a Farthingale carriage and find him here was beyond him. The note he’d left in London with George Farthingale had only menti
oned that Dillie and Abner were at the Black Sail Inn due to bad weather and difficulties with the carriage, and that Ian would escort them to Coniston within the next few days.
He stood with arms folded across his chest, waiting for the conveyance to draw to a halt, and then moved to the door as it opened. Dillie fairly flew into his arms. “Ian, you’re here! Thank goodness. I was afraid you’d gone off to... well, I wasn’t certain what you planned to do, just knew it would be something dangerous.”
He frowned, but kissed her soundly on the lips because—damn it—he’d missed her. One look at her and all his concerns simply fled. She was sunshine and meadow flowers. She loved him. It felt so good to have her in his arms. “You ought to be resting your foot. And where did you get these new clothes?”
She had on a simple, blue wool gown, several shades darker than the blue of her eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, but some curls had broken loose in the light breeze and now framed her beautiful face.
“The gown is mine. We stopped at Coniston first so I could pack some belongings, and then we came straight here.” He bent to kiss her again, but John Farthingale chose that moment to descend from the carriage. Oh, hell. He did not look at all pleased. No doubt, he’d learned about Dillie’s carriage tipping over and seen Abner Mayhew recovering from his broken leg.
Ian was curious to know just how much else Dillie had told her father. By his angry scowl, Ian figured she’d told him far too much. He had no intention of deceiving the man about what had happened between him and his daughter, but that conversation was better held after the wedding ceremony, when pistols were less likely to be drawn. Specifically, her father’s pistol pointed at his throat. He stifled a sigh. A little discretion on Dillie’s part would have been helpful.
No, the fault was all his. A little restraint on his part would have done the trick. Unfortunately, he’d shown not a whit of it when seducing Dillie and still felt not a whit of remorse. “Welcome, Mr. Farthingale.”
