Design for Love

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  Fiona shook her head. “I’m afraid Cousin Charles did not recognize such ailments. I don’t believe Cousin Elvinia ever suffered from them either.”

  “No doubt she suffered enough from Charles and had no need of additional complaint,” said His Lordship.

  Fiona laughed. How good it was—to laugh at the man who short days ago had held life and death power over her. How very good.

  The noise outside the carriage increased. Fasci­nated, Fiona watched the coachman maneuver through the crowd toward the place where others were dismounting. In so short a time that it seemed almost miraculous, the carriage had come to a halt and His Lordship was descending, turn­ing to help her out.

  She paused on the step. Behind him the pave­ment was full of ladies in brilliant jewels and beautiful gowns, of gentlemen in evening dress and uniform. They seemed completely oblivious of the din around them. Coachmen bellowed at horses and men alike. One of them spit out a string of epithets often used by Cousin Charles in fits of rage.

  For a moment Fiona’s face went white, the hand that rested in His Lordship’s trembled.

  Dreyford saw the spasm cross her features, felt the trembling of her hand. He saw her eyes widen in horror.

  Automatically, he pulled her closer to him, a surge of unexpected tenderness filling his breast. Something had frightened her. “Fiona, what is it?”

  “N-nothing. A memory.”

  So that was it. He had much to answer for— that fat pig of a cousin. And one day he would.

  “Easy, my dear. Be easy. I am here.”

  It was perhaps a foolish thing to say, consider­ing the circumstances of their union. But he was her protector. And she clung to his arm and flashed him a look of such gratitude that he felt immensely pleased.

  He had done well in this marriage that had set everyone to talking. The poor relation had been transformed into a lovely woman. A very desir­able woman.

  A pert orange girl approached, flashing him a smile. But he shook his head. He wanted to get Fiona to the box, and chatting easily, he bore her along.

  Fiona clung to the earl’s arm. That momentary fear had passed. Charles could not harm her now. But this huge crowd was frightening. So many people—all so well and richly dressed, glittering with jewels, gleaming with gold.

  And the theater itself, ablaze with candles and lamps, was richly gilded. With great effort she managed not to gawk about like a green girl fresh from the country. With even greater effort she ig­nored the prolonged stares of the oglers and al­lowed Dreyford to settle her in the box.

  “There,” he said. “You may relax.”

  This tender mood of his was disconcerting. Still, she strove for politeness. “Thank you, mi­lord.”

  For some moments she occupied herself with looking around, trying to become convinced that this strange new world was truly hers.

  She was contemplating a rather outrageous fashion plate in a pink waistcoat of the most hor­rendous hue and a cravat so tall his head seemed almost lost in it when the curtain went up.

  The earl leaned forward. “Now,” he said, “you are in for a treat.”

  Everything around her faded, forgotten as she was caught up in the drama.

  So lost was she in the play that the intermission took her quite by surprise. She turned to the earl with a glowing face. “Oh, milord. I had no idea what a difference it makes seeing a play. The peo­ple are so very real.”

  “Indeed. I thought you might enjoy it.”

  “Oh, I do! It is absolutely marvelous.” For the moment she forgot the grievance she had against this man. Like a child with a new toy she wanted to explore all its dimensions, to take it apart and see how it worked.

  “Mr. Kemble is so majestic. Does he do comedy as well?”

  Dreyford shook his head. “Sadly, no. The man’s forte is the tragic.” He made a moue of amusement. “He’s a little too tragic for my taste.”

  Fiona frowned. “But, milord, surely the subject calls for that.”

  The earl shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  Fiona played absently with the fringe of her shawl. “And how should you have liked it played?”

  The earl cast her an amused glance. “With a lit­tle more humanity. A man in such emotional pain doesn’t necessarily declaim in rich round tones while striking heroic poses.”

  Fiona considered this. “Not being a man, mi­lord, I cannot say. But what of yourself? How should you act in such a situation?”

  For a moment Dreyford was silent. For a mo­ment he thought of telling her. No one but Kitty knew of the tears he’d shed over Katie. And that was all behind him.

  “I should not act in any way,” he said. “Because I should not have loved as Othello did. To love is to give hostages to fortune. And that is not a wise move.”

  She nodded. “So Shakespeare says. But not to love leaves such an emptiness.”

  “My life is not empty,” he replied. “There are other pleasures besides that of love.”

  She nodded. “Some lords play at cards for high stakes. Some race horses. And all keep—”

  “Enough,” he said. “Ladies do not speak of such.” His smile was ironic. “Even when the Cyp­rians share the same theater with the wives, the latter do not recognize them.”

  She shivered. No doubt she was deploring his lack of feeling. But that wall he had built between himself and love had kept him going. That and the recognition that passion need have nothing to do with love.

  “So you think Othello is foolish.”

  “Indeed, I do. Foolish on two counts. First, to chase that ephemeral nonentity called love. And second, to destroy his property.”

  He saw her shock.

  “You needn’t give me that look of outrage. Women have belonged to men from time imme­morial. It is not something I designed.”

  “But you profit from it.”

  She looked as though she regretted that remark. As well she should. A woman in her position . . .

  The door to the box opened. “Mon dieu, Dreyford! What a beauty you have found. Elle est magnifique! Why did I not see you before?” Philippe de Noir raised Fiona’s fingers to his lips in an exag­gerated gesture.

  “The countess has been staying with relatives in the country,” said the earl. She was quick. She would catch his intent.

  “Philippe and I have come to meet your new countess,” said Roxanne. She leaned over to give him a kiss, the cut of her gown revealing her bosom almost fully to his eyes.

  “Good evening, Roxanne.” He turned to Fiona. “My dear, let me present Lady Roxanne Carstairs. And Philippe de Noir.”

  Dreyford swallowed a sigh. He’d always dis­liked Roxanne’s pushy ways. The woman had no breeding. And she was not above revealing their former affiliation, which, for some unfathomable reason, he did not want brought to Fiona’s atten­tion.

  Roxanne leaned closer. “I have missed you,” she said, running a soft white hand across his lapel. “You have stayed away too long.”

  He couched his reply in polite tones, though he would have much preferred to give her a good shaking. “I have been occupied. The acquiring of a countess is not an everyday matter.”

  “I’m sure it is not.” Roxanne’s tone boded no good. Whatever had possessed him to ally him­self, even momentarily, with such a harpy?

  She was beautiful, of course. In a rather vulgar way. That display of bosom, for example, was in very poor taste. Fiona would never do it.

  He looked toward his wife, but her expression had not changed. She was learning to present to the world the bored countenance that was af­fected by the ton. For a moment he wished to see her feelings writ plain across her face. He wished, he realized, to see jealousy.

  He put a possessive hand on Fiona’s arm. She turned and gave him a smile that dazzled his soul.

  “Oh, Dreyford,” she cooed, in a tone he felt calculated to put Roxanne in her place. “I am so happy.”

  And though he knew it would incense the other woman, he could not forebear r
esponding, “Yes, my dear. As I am.”

  The other two could not take much of this bill­ing and cooing and soon departed. As the door of the box closed behind them, the earl heaved a sigh of relief.

  Hearing it, Fiona smiled. That outrageous woman had extended herself too far. She should never have touched him like that, in public. And imagine having the nerve to practically declare their alliance. Dreyford had been displeased. That excessive politeness of his was a sure sign of it.

  The play began again and she dismissed Lady Roxanne from her mind. She had better things to think of.

  When the curtain fell on the last act, unshed tears glimmered in Fiona’s eyes. She felt the trag­edy of such love. Perhaps because of her loss of Lonigan. Of course, Cousin Charles’s suspicions could be true. She was no longer the wide-eyed innocent whom Lonigan had talked into eloping to London and a marriage that could well be no marriage at all. But she still could not forget those wonderful days.

  She turned to the earl. “Such tragic love,” she murmured unthinking.

  His Lordship shrugged. “Love is always a cheat,” he said cynically. “And those who prac­tice it are fools. On the other hand, jealousy is an emotion I find quite reasonable. It has to do with possession. What is mine is mine. No man may have it.”

  Fiona glared at him. Was he saying that he con­doned Roxanne’s behavior? How could the man be so unfeeling? “Let me understand this cor­rectly,” she said, anger creeping into her voice. “You do not believe in love.”

  “As I recall I mentioned that very fact. As I just said, love is only for fools.” He raised a black brow. “And simple-minded young ladies whose brains have been addled by too much exposure to romantic novels.”

  At least he did not love Roxanne. She pushed the thought away. “You have never loved any living thing. Your mother, your father. Your horse, your dog.” She saw the flicker of pain at her mention of his mother, but it was gone almost immediately.

  “For my parents I felt respect,” he said soberly. “For my horses and my dogs I feel affection. But I should be the first to admit that I do so, partly at least, because they are mine.” He smiled briefly. “Just as for you, in spite of your rather provoking ways, I feel a certain affection.”

  “Because I belong to you.”

  “Of course.” His serene expression betrayed no idea that he might be wrong.

  “I should like to go home now,” she said crisply. “I have the headache and do not care to see the afterpiece.”

  “A pity,” replied His Lordship amiably. “It is rather an amusing one. But of course we must at­tend to your health.”

  His eyes told her clearly that he considered her behavior childish. But his tone held no reproach.

  It was not until he had her settled in the car­riage that he smiled and remarked, “An early bed­time will not harm either of us.” Only then did she realize that she had hastened what she hoped most to delay.

  The journey home was made in silence, the earl quietly regarding the city and Fiona planning how to elude him for another night.

  But he made it all very easy. He left her at the foot of the great stairs with a smile and the words, “I believe I’ll have a look at some papers before I come up.”

  She thought surely he would hear the beating of her heart, but he merely nodded to her quiet “Yes, milord,” and turned toward the library.

  Scarcely able to believe her good fortune, she sped down the hall and into her room, turning the key in the lock behind her. She was halfway to the other door when her mind registered what her eyes were telling her. The key was gone!

  Frantically Fiona fell to her knees. Could the key have fallen? Could it be lying somewhere on the carpet? But the carpet was bare.

  She tried to quiet her panic. There must be something she could do. She got to her feet. Maybe the door was still locked.

  Her hand crept toward the knob. Slowly she turned it. It gave under her hand. Now she had no defense against him.

  She looked around the room. The chaise! She pulled and tugged until she had wedged the chaise against the door. Then she dragged all the loose pieces of furniture she could move, piling them against it. Finally, panting, she retreated to the bed.

  Millie’s first knock went unheard. At the sec­ond, Fiona called out hastily. “I won’t need you tonight. Good night, Millie.”

  In time she recalled she was still wearing her gown. Strangely, she had not injured it in her mad scramble to move things. With a glance at the door, she pried at the hooks and managed to loose them. Her fingers trembled so that she could not unfasten the heavy emerald necklace and brace­let, and she was forced to slip into her nightdress still wearing them. Cold and heavy, they hung about her flesh.

  Like chains, she thought, creeping into the big bed and pulling the covers up over her trembling body. She knew she could not keep him out for­ever, but that was rational knowledge. It held no meaning for the trembling insistence within her that she could give herself to no man but Lonigan.

  She tried to conjure up his likeness as she lay there in the flickering light of the single remaining candle, but her mind would not focus. Instead of Lonigan’s fair face and laughing eyes, she saw only the dark earl, those green eyes of his alive with desire. Once she dozed off, and, imagining she felt his hands on her, was startled awake again. But the room was empty.

  She took deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves. And then she heard the footsteps in the adjoining room. They approached the door. Hold­ing her breath in the silence, Fiona heard the slight creak of the turning of the doorknob. Then there was nothing. She imagined His Lordship pushing his broad shoulder against the door, and her ears strained for the first sound of crashing chairs that would signify his success. Instead, she heard him breathing heavily. This was followed by the sound of muffled curses. The curses lasted only a few moments and then his footsteps re­ceded.

  She let out a long sighing breath. Safe for an­other night. Only another night, said a voice in her head. But in her relief she didn’t care. At the moment it was all she could hope for.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  When daylight dawned, Fiona was already awake. The long hours of the night had passed far too slowly. And each succeeding minute had brought home to her the folly of her behavior.

  Dreyford was certainly not accustomed to being treated in such a fashion. She could well be­lieve that no woman had ever resisted him. And to have his own wife do so. . . That must have been a blow to his pride.

  She still could not fathom why such panic should have overtaken her. After all, she had been married before. She was not a schoolroom chit who trembled at the sight of a man.

  Whatever its cause, however, this could not continue. Even a man of Dreyford’s patience would not remain calm forever. Nor could she ex­pect him to be. Any day, or more precisely, any night now, the famed Dreyford temper would ev­idence itself. And rightly so. At least to his mind.

  She pushed back the coverlet and swung her legs over the edge of the great bed. It was a far cry from the trundle that had been her lot at Hinckley House. Just as this room quite surpassed any room she had ever expected would be hers. She ought to be grateful.

  Slowly she washed and dressed in the new morning gown that had arrived with her evening dress. Madame Ormond’s girls must have worked day and night.

  Fiona sighed. She had much to be grateful for. From poor relation to countess was a grand leap. But it was hard to believe that this wasn’t all a dream. That she wouldn’t wake one morning and find herself back in Cousin Charles’s power.

  The thought made her shiver and she went to stand in the warming sunshine by the window that looked down into the little garden. Perhaps she could grow some flowers. That would be a pleasant way to pass the time that hung so heav­ily on her hands. She would ask Dreyford about it at breakfast—if she dared.

  As it turned out, Dreyford was in fine spirits. He got to his feet, smiling at her genially as she appeared in the breakfa
st room door. “Come in, my dear. Come in.”

  “Good morning, milord.” She hated the little break in her voice. But she couldn’t help it. This genial mood of his was far more threatening than the screams and curses Charles had been wont to dispense. With Charles she had always known where she stood. But with the earl. . . .

  Dreyford resumed his chair and turned back to his steak and kidney pie. A footman appeared to hold her chair for her. And Berkins bustled in to inquire what she would like for breakfast.

  “Chocolate and rolls should suffice,” she said.

  The earl turned his gaze on her. His eyes gleamed with a certain merriment. “Come, come, lady wife. Best eat some real food. We’ve a busy day ahead of us.”

  “We have?”

  He nodded. “Yes, indeed. Some more of your gowns should arrive this morning. And this after­noon we shall ride in Hyde Park.”

  “But . . .”

  His Lordship smiled. “I’ve a fancy to show off my new lady. And my new team of high-steppers.” He patted her hand, a gesture both un­settling and comforting. “You’ll enjoy the park, my dear. Everyone will be there. I can point them all out to you.”

  Fiona sipped her chocolate, her mind in tur­moil. “Milord?”

  “Yes, Fiona?”

  She had meant to apologize for the night be­fore, to tell him she was ready to accept her wifely duties. But somehow her lips would not form the words. “What shall I wear?” she asked instead.

  “Your gray traveling dress will do well enough. Did you sleep well enough, my dear? You’re looking a little hagged.”

  Fiona flushed. When he used that tone the servants would think he was the cause of her tired appearance. But she kept her voice steady as she replied, “I slept quite well, thank you, milord.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. A little fresh air will be good for you, however.” He got to his feet. And before she quite knew what he was about he had dropped a quick kiss on her cheek and was gone.

  * * * *