Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 1

by DeLand, Cerise

  Of course.

  Who would not nurse one's loved ones from sickness and keep death away?

  Loyalty was paramount. But love had played its own vital part.

  He fingered the marriage license.

  He could tear himself apart with loyalty. Whom should he honor? His mother? Or his fiancée?

  But love inspired its own devotion.

  Loyalty was based on allegiance. He'd fought years of battles with thousands of men who'd given their life's blood to an indefinable cause based on allegiance alone.

  Love was based on fealty, too. But it was a different kind. It was ground in respect and affection, tenderness and affinity to another human. A man might claim his loyalty to country was based on duty. But his love for another was based on affection and desire.

  One could fight for both and die for both. Only one could offer heaven as its just reward.

  He stood and ran his hands through his hair, then donned his frock coat.

  The time was now to end this misery.

  Chapter 14

  He flipped open his watch piece and marked the time. His mother was five minutes late.

  He sighed and considered the pale green of the lawn. The weather was as cool as his heart. Still, his mother would not talk with him, despite his note. His plea, he was astonished to see, had fallen on deaf ears. Never had he known his mother to be stubborn or intemperate. This new facet to her character sapped his energy. But he had decided how to cope with her silence. He demanded it and told her he would leave for Bath, whether or not she came to him to talk. If she still would not come to him, then he would bring Fifi here and let affinity and love melt the barriers of discord.

  "I am here, Rory."

  He turned to find her, standing upon the withdrawing room carpet, her hands folded before her, her hair up in elaborate curls in a spring muslin of pink and green. "Thank you."

  She scanned the room. "You called for refreshments?"

  "I did. I know how you like your sweets with tea." Just like my darling Fifi.

  A ghost of a smile crossed her heart-shaped face as she swept into the room and sat before the tea service. "I shall pour."

  He clasped his hands behind his back, relief momentary as he searched her posture for signs of her disposition.

  She performed her duties with the tea and handed him his cup and saucer, then she sat back to take up her own. But she did not look at him. "I owe you an explanation, Rory. And I will give it."

  "Your happiness is of utmost importance to me."

  "I know it. You have always been considerate."

  "I had excellent examples, Mama."

  She nodded and locked her gaze on his with bright anger. "So you did. Your father was a virtuous man."

  "And you have shown me the right of ethics."

  "And therein is our problem." She swept a hand over her skirts...and her hand shook.

  He would not draw her out. She'd come to speak, to reveal—he hoped—her objection to his marriage and he had no idea how to help her. But he would not coax her either for fear of repelling her and sending her scurrying once more to the confines of her rooms.

  "When your father and I first married, we lived in the London house."

  Rory knew this. His father was already third earl of Charlton when he'd met and married. At that time, all the entailed properties in London, Somerset and York were available to him. But the newly wedded couple had chosen to live in the main house on Green Park because they both liked parties, the theater and their social set.

  "We knew each other very little when we married. Drawn to each other by heaven knows what—charm, laughter, poetry—it was love. We married within two weeks of meeting at a ball."

  Rory strode to the fireplace and faced the flames. Impatience was not a characteristic he valued, but he wanted to be done with this.

  "One evening, your father and I were invited to a ball at the home of the earl of Marlton. Your father knew the earl. They belonged to the same club. They had stock in the same shipping companies. We were late. Everyone always goes to those things as they will. We'd danced a few sets and I excused myself to seek out the retiring room. Marlton House is large, dauntingly so and I was lost. In the hall, I saw the earl headed toward me and I asked him for directions. He offered to accompany me and led me up the stairs and into a room."

  She stopped and grabbed a breath. "The room was not the retiring room for ladies. No. It was a bedroom. Small, no sitting room. But a bed. A dressing table. An escritoire. I entered with the earl close behind me and I expected him to leave. Of course, I did. Why wouldn't I. I was nineteen, a new bride, and the only man I'd ever known intimately was your father."

  She cleared her throat.

  Rory feared what was to come.

  "He pushed me to the bed. I rolled away. But he caught me. And he laughed. He either praised me for my looks or cursed me for my ability to escape his hands. I will spare you the blow-by-blow. I do recall each one. I've not forgotten a moment of the terror. I will tell you that Marlton was powerful, more than I, certainly. Powerful, insulting and brutal. He was able to pin me down and rip my bodice. I'm not sure how, perhaps he was well-gone in drink, but I fought him and hurt him. There. He fell away from me and I scrambled from under him. He caught me and threw me against the door. But I somehow some way got it open...and I screamed for help even as he dragged me back. A footman came running. Sutters."

  Sutters! Rory had known him all his life as the long-serving butler of this house. The man died while Rory was in Spain. Sutters. Dear God.

  "He was newly employed in Marlton's household and had no idea of the true nature of his master. He saved me from Marlton, hurried me away and pushed me down the back stairs to the still room near the kitchen. Then he went in search of your father." She looked out upon the lawn, forlorn.

  "Your father came for me at once, called for our carriage and off we went home. I had a broken wrist, bruises and a black eye. Upon seeing that, your father was a wild man. He wanted to challenge Marlton to duel. I begged him not to. My god, he was my husband and new, and I could not live without him. So I feared the worst. At a time like that, he thought of his honor and revenge. I thought only that he could die at the hands of the animal that Marlton was. Don't ask me how, but your father heard my pleas. And he devised a different plan."

  Rory strode to her and sat down beside her. Then he took her hands in his. "So he never—?"

  "No. I escaped him. Not his cruelty. I have always had problems with use of my hand."

  She could not hold heavy items, Rory recalled, or turn door handles easily with her left hand.

  "My virtue, however, was intact." She scoffed. "But I had nightmares for years. I could not sleep alone. Oh, your father did not mind. But even after your brother John was born and Annalise and you, I should have slept alone, but could not. Your father was always there for me when I awakened screaming."

  "And Papa did not demand they fight the duel?" Many men used duels as means to assert their right—and their virility.

  "No. He listened to my pleas. But he devised another way to seek some kind of justice for what Marlton had done." She met Rory's gaze. Tears glistened on her lashes. "He ruined him financially. Persuaded investors in two companies to squeeze out Marlton's shares. Through anonymous sources, he bought up his cattle from his farms at bottom prices in hard times. And he hired away workers from his cotton mills in Lancashire at higher wages."

  "And the scandal?" Rory had never heard a word, not an intimation of anything amiss between the families.

  "We told no one. I could not bear it. Your father knew too that if he insisted upon a duel, word would go out of the reason. This was the better way."

  Rory stood, consumed with agony for his mother and father. He walked to the window and looked out upon what consequences had likely been in Fifi's family. Certainly, financial challenges had been one.

  But was her father abusive to others? To his wife? And to his daughter? Had Fifi suf
fered beatings?

  A sudden memory of Fifi shot through him. At Courtland Hall, he'd kissed her, caressed her and declared how he loved her. She'd asked him, 'Did your father love your mother?'

  He answered with a word that epitomized his parents' relationship. Cherished. They had cherished each other.

  But when he asked her in turn about her own parents, she'd said, 'Cherished is the very last word I could use.'

  "Now you know, Rory,” his mother spoke and drew him back to her, “why I cannot countenance a marriage between you and that man's daughter."

  "I understand your sentiment, Mama. And Heaven knows I am appalled by what happened. You have lived with this all your life. I hear your agony and I commiserate."

  She tipped her head, her hazel eyes stern. "Do I detect that you persist?"

  He whirled to face her. "I understand how you feel and how I would feel if anyone were to do the same to Annalise or to Fifi. I would want his blood, his life, his name and fortune gone. From what I hear, Papa did that. He obtained his retribution."

  Amid all this, Fifi suffered too. He did not have specifics, but he didn't need them. He had the pleased and surprised look in her eyes when he tended to her injured ankle. He had her words when she wished to know how his parents cared for each other.

  He stood taller. Did Fifi know what had happened between her father and his mother? Why would she ask him about her parents' love for each other if she did not know? That he had to learn. But it would not stop him from what he had to do now.

  His mother straightened her spine. Triumph lined her features. "So then you will not pursue this relationship. Good. I knew you would not—"

  "You don't understand, Mama."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have lived far too many years of my life maiming and killing people for the sake of king and country."

  Her lovely face turned to stone.

  "I have fought in scorching sun, rain, snow, mud and hail. I've watched men become the most noble, selfless creatures to climb mountains and scale walls, to dig trenches and roads. I've seen them die of thirst and hunger. I've seen them lose arms and eyes and minds for what they cannot see or feel or taste. But as they lay dying, they cry for those they love. They seek the succor of their sweethearts or their wives or their mothers. What we wish for at the end of life is not for revenge or wealth or fame. What we need as we face our God are those who love us."

  He went to her, and down on bended knee, he grasped her hands. "You had that from Papa. He looked upon you at the end of his life with the love he'd always borne you. I ask you to forget what you can. Forgive what you can. Make room in your heart for me."

  "Rory! You have always been there."

  "Then make accommodation there too for the woman whom I love. For she whom I will need when I lay dying."

  "You ask much. I do not know if I can give it."

  "If not, you and I will live the poorer for it."

  She bit her lip. "I agree."

  "I love this young woman, Mama. I fear she may have suffered too from the nature of her father and—"

  Her eyes went wide. She clutched his hands. "You think he beat her?"

  "I doubt it, but I am not certain. Whatever that answer, I want to take her, make her mine and show her that all men are not like her father. Fiona is kind and tender, funny and loving, and she will be my wife. Please find it in your heart to make all our lives happy from this day forward. I have never asked anything of you so earnestly. I beg it of you. For all our sake's."

  Chapter 15

  Fifi tucked her arm in Rory's and hurried him into the blue salon. When Jerrold closed the door behind them, she sank into his arms.

  "I missed you," she whispered against his lips, then truly welcomed him with a kiss.

  He smiled at her, though there was a tightness about it that caught her attention.

  "Are you well?" she asked, but she herself felt her stomach clutch with trepidation about what she would reveal to him today.

  "To see you again, yes." He extracted from his inner waistcoat pocket a parchment. "Read this."

  She unfolded it. Viewing her name there with his set her heart beating in joy. She flung her arms around him with abandon. "Do you still wish the wedding to be Wednesday?"

  "I'd wish it could be today! Now." He held her close and ran his fingers through her hair. “Impossible, I know. But in my heart, you became mine nights ago when you slept in my arms."

  She teased him with a wicked look. "Not simply slept!"

  He chuckled. "Well, yes, other activities marked that too."

  She tugged him to the settee. She sat close to him, touching him becoming the warm delight of this day and all others to come. "Tea and pastry?"

  "Of course." He looked at the offerings of her cook with an odd expression of wonder.

  "What is it?"

  "I was just thinking how you and my mother like pastry."

  "Does she? Wonderful. And does she employ a cook whose talents thrill her?" Fifi began to pour his tea.

  "Well, you know that we live so far into the country that we cannot claim rights to a French chef. But yes, our cook has been with us for...oh, let me see...before I went off to war. So Mama must like her skills."

  "Mary's cook is better than mine at pastry." They chatted of this and that, the weather, too—and so they delayed approaching the topic that kept him unnaturally quiet.

  "How is Mary?" He took his cup and saucer but did not drink. Indeed, he put it aside and sat back, discomfort in his bearing. "Did you call on her?"

  "The morning after I returned home here, I called upon her. She'd left for London. Her butler had no explanation and she left me no notes. I am worried about her."

  "Does she have friends or relatives in London?"

  "I know of her aunt, Lady Huard, in Brook Street. Mary's fond of her so I hope she's gone there to lick her wounds."

  Rory took her hand and lifted it to his lips. "I know you feel responsible for Mary's and Bridges' rift."

  "I do. I reflected on hm and finally remembered him as someone she grew up with and cared for."

  "So knowing each other before this party, they may have reason to reunite out of long-standing fealty."

  She had to smile. "I hope you're right. As for her and my relationship, I long to see her and make things right between us."

  "There will be time for that."

  "I hope so." Time was now when she must address the issue of her mother and what they would do, how they would live in peace with her mother close-by. "Muffin? Tea cake?"

  He shook his head.

  She inhaled. “What did your mother say when you arrived home?" Is she pleased at our engagement? Did she give you any indication that she knew the reason my father would hate the name of Charlton?

  "She is relieved to hear I wish to wed, yes."

  The shadows in his grey eyes warned her of doom. She fidgeted. It was time to get on with the distasteful issues. "Rory, I must tell you a few things that will disturb you. I've thought about this while we were apart. I don't know if they will be troublesome to you, but they are indications of problems. I seek to be open with you about them."

  "I am relieved to hear it, Fifi."

  "So you know of problems? Between your family and mine? You know what I'm about to tell you?"

  "I doubt I know all. But my mother told me of an incident long ago. Please tell me your story. We shall see what challenge we have after you've shared what you know."

  She exhaled. "I've known this conversation would not be easy. But so be it."

  "It will not change how I love you, Fee."

  He was too honorable to be real. "Oh, Rory. Let me speak first. Then I can hope you'll say that again."

  He took her hand.

  "My father was not a calm and peaceful man to live with. He was demanding of staff and friends, tenants, even his estate manager. And of my mother, too. He was prone to outbursts, tempers that could rattle the crystal and shake your innards.
He required compliance in all things from the quality of his cravats to the smoothness of his hot chocolate. What made life tolerable for me with him was that he was rarely at home. He went on trips with his friends, fishing, or to racing boxes. Often he left without any indication of where he’d gone or who he was with. When he was away, the house was quiet. The servants could be heard laughing. My mother would enjoy herself with her friends which he often forbade her to do."

  She lifted her chin, seeking courage to speak the next. "He beat her. Often. A demand for his laundry not met. A beef steak too rare. Her...affections not...appropriate. I could hear him bellow about them. And I recall when I was very young, hiding from him. Finding ways to avoid him. Becoming invisible to him. If and whenever possible."

  "Fee, my darling." Pain flashed across his visage.

  "You are not like him. Not at all. I must have known that the first moment I looked at you. In that crowded ballroom. Your hair—" She combed her fingers through the silken brown curl that dipped over his brow. "Your hair was tousled from the mask. Your eyes were grey velvet. Your lips, an invitation to laughter."

  He pulled her close and pressed his mouth to the corner of hers. "I loved you too in that instant. My lovely masked creature with the face of an angel and the smile of a temptress."

  She had to go on. "In the intervening years, I remembered you as tender. An unusual characteristic for a man, I thought. And lo and behold, when we met once more, you were all I recalled. Kind, attentive. Sweet to me even though I was so—“

  "Hurt. You were hurt, my love." He raised her chin. "Look at me and tell me if he hurt you."

  "Never. Never. Not with his hands. Odd, isn't it?"

  "Miraculous." He pulled her close to his heart.

  "I don't know why he never hit me. But as I grew, I had a wariness of him."

  "You'd learned how to escape him."

  "I did. I remember when I was ten, he came after me for some imagined transgression and I threatened him with an andiron. I was by that time taller than he...and he backed away. He never tried to hurt me. Never again."