Design for Love

by Nina Coombs Pykare

The morning passed slowly. She filled it as best she could, walking in the little garden, reading from the books in the library, making a list of needlework supplies to order. But sometimes she found herself actually wishing for some duties. After all those years of dawn-to-dark labor this enforced idleness was hard to comprehend.

  She wandered from room to room, trying to imagine what it would be like to be born to such splendor. But she could not. Her servitude was still too fresh in her mind.

  She ate her lunch and contemplated the idea of always having enough to eat.

  But first and foremost in her mind was the man who was her husband. Over and over she re­viewed his actions. And always she concluded that he was not the sort to be kept from his rights.

  She did not flatter herself that he felt any deep desire for her. Though sometimes his eyes seemed . . . She pushed the thought away.

  But she was sure of one thing. Dreyford was a hard man, a proud man. And what belonged to him belonged to him. In the fullest sense of the word.

  Finally it was time to put on the gray sarcenet and wait.

  The earl returned promptly. “Oh, milady,” Millie said as she delivered the message that he waited below. “You look grand. No wonder his lordship’s so took with you.”

  Fiona’s smile felt strained. Perhaps the earl had missed his calling. He was putting on an admirable show. But she took the spencer Millie offered her and turned toward the stairs.

  She should have waited for him in the library. Descending the great stairs under the scrutiny of those eyes was an unnerving experience. If only she knew what he was thinking.

  Was his patience merely show? Or did he really not care? She almost missed a step at that thought. If he didn’t care, perhaps he would never . . .

  The thought was oddly disappointing, but she had no time to consider. She had reached the bot­tom of the stairs. And the earl, wearing that charming smile that hid so much, offered her his arm. “So, my dear, we are off.”

  The park was crowded. Carriages and riders of all descriptions traveled around in a great circle. The crush was considerable.

  “Milord, why does everyone come at the same hour? It’s too crowded to do aught but walk.”

  Dreyford smiled. “So it is. I understand that in the mornings the park is quite empty.”

  “Then why don’t we come then?”

  The earl shook his head. “Fiona, Fiona. We don’t come to the park to ride.”

  “We don’t?”

  “No. We come to the park to mingle, to be seen. Therefore we must all come together.”

  Fiona shook her head. What these people needed was some good hard labor.

  “The ton has some odd tastes,” the earl continued. “But we are no more odd than the common people.”

  Since Fiona had much acquaintance with the plight of the common people she was not pre­pared to hear them maligned. “How so, milord?”

  “On Sundays everyone repairs to the park. La­dies’ maids promenade in cast-off finery and fat cits parade their overfed daughters. The park is a veritable jumble of oddities then.”

  Fiona permitted herself a small smile. “Perhaps they are merely aping their betters.”

  The earl turned his eyes on her. “Aping, my dear?”

  Fiona nodded. “Look at the lady over there— the one in the box coat and cape. See, she’s wear­ing a round white beaver and a cravat.” Fiona chuckled. “And Hessian boots. Surely this is not the peak of fashion.”

  Dreyford smiled. “Not now, perhaps. But it was once. That’s the Countess of Ginsfield.”

  “Why is she dressed like that?”

  “At the turn of the century there were some ac­complished women drivers—female Jehus they were called. The countess was—still is—an excel­lent horsewoman.”

  “But that coat. It makes her look like a man.”

  The earl chuckled. “Perhaps. But underneath it the ladies wore fitted cambric gowns that con­cealed very little. In fact, some were rumored to damp their gowns.”

  Fiona frowned. “Whatever for?”

  “To make them cling more closely to their limbs, of course.” The earl smiled at her look of outrage. “Huggins,” he called to the coachman. “See if you can bring us closer to the Countess of Ginsfield.” He turned to Fiona. “I want you to meet her.”

  “A lady who damps her gown?”

  The earl frowned. “That was youthful high spirits. For all her wildness, Kitty’s a fine lady. Though perhaps she should give up driving now that she’s past her prime.”

  Fiona’s mind whirled. How oddly the ton con­ducted their lives. Damped dresses and ladies dressed like men.

  Huggins maneuvered their carriage until they were beside the countess. “Kitty,” called the earl. “Pull over there. I want you to meet my lady.”

  Fiona saw only a flash of smiling teeth and a red mouth before the lady pulled her team out of the path.

  Huggins followed. The earl descended and helped her down. Then he tucked Fiona’s arm through his and led her toward the countess.

  “Kitty, this is my new lady, Fiona.”

  Bright blue eyes surveyed Fiona, then turned to Dreyford. “Robbie, you bad boy. How could you wed without telling me? And where did you find this pearl?”

  “In the country, of course.” replied the earl, his voice taking on a tone that Fiona had never heard before. She turned to look at him and could hardly believe her eyes. He seemed to have lost ten years. He looked almost boyish.

  “Trust you to find a beauty.” The countess laid a gloved hand on Dreyford’s sleeve. Instead of shrugging it off, he covered it with his own.

  Seeing this, Fiona was surprised by a pang of jealousy. First Lady Roxanne, and now the count­ess. These ladies certainly took great liberties with other women’s husbands.

  “I never expected you to go off like this.” The countess chuckled. “I thought marriage . . .”

  “So did I, Kitty, so did I. Till I met Fiona. Then my fate was sealed.”

  The countess laughed, a warm rich sound. “So it appears.”

  As they chatted, Fiona searched the countess’s face. Blue eyes, red lips, smooth cheeks framed by tendrils of dark brown hair that had escaped the beaver hat. If she were past her prime, she was hiding it well.

  The countess linked an arm in Dreyford’s. “Shall we walk?”

  “Of course. Kitty.” It was then Fiona knew. The knowledge came to her surely and without any great sense of shock. This was another one of his . . . Dreyford and the countess had once been more than friends. Much more.

  “So, Fiona has been living in the country,” the countess continued.

  Dreyford nodded.

  “And who is helping her prepare for London life?”

  “Why . . . no one.”

  Fiona, watching the earl’s face, was astonished to see that the man was embarrassed.

  “Dreyford, how can you expect the poor girl to cope with our foibles?” The countess leaned around him. “Never fear, my dear Fiona. You will be well prepared. I shall do it myself.”

  “That’s very kind of you, countess.” Fiona heard herself actually accepting the help of this . . .

  “But, Kitty—”

  “Nonsense, Robert. I insist.” She winked at Fiona. “He thinks I may tell you all his boyish ex­ploits.”

  “Kitty!”

  Fiona was treated to the unbelievable sight of the Earl of Dreyford blushing like a schoolboy.

  “Now, Robbie, there’s no need for that. You weren’t nearly so wild as Byron is.”

  “Byron?” Fiona asked, wanting somehow to spare the earl further embarrassment.

  “Yes, he’s all the rage now.” The countess smiled. “Quite a dashing fellow in spite of his clubfoot. All those dark curls and that soulful ex­pression. They impress women.”

  The earl snorted. “He should have gone upon the stage. He’s so good at sighing and suffering.”

  The countess chuckled. “‘Childe Harold’ is quite excellent poetry
. Everyone says so.”

  “Perhaps,” conceded the earl. “Speak of the devil,” he continued. “There’s George now.”

  “Yes. And Caro Lamb is still following him about.” The countess sent Fiona a glance. “Caro’s married, of course, but that doesn’t stop her. She wants Byron. Silly thing, she believes love is all.”

  Fiona did not miss the sharp glance sent her way by the earl. She glanced again at the pair. This poet was a strikingly handsome man. Dark and brooding. And the slender blond woman at his side engaged Fiona’s sympathy.

  Poor Caro Lamb. Had her family forced her into marriage? Made her the property of one man while she loved another?

  The three of them made the circuit of the prom­enade and returned to their carriages. “I shall call upon you tomorrow,” the countess said. “And commence your education.” She climbed into her carriage and took the reins from her waiting groom. With a wave of her whip she was off.

  “I hope she did not embarrass you,” the earl said.

  Fiona swallowed sudden laughter. It was far more likely that she had embarrassed the earl, but she did not say so. “Oh, no, milord. The countess is very entertaining. I’m sure she’ll be a great help to me.”

  The earl’s eyes had grown hard again. The boy­ishness had quite vanished. “Kitty’s always been a wild one. I don’t know . . .”

  Quite to her surprise, Fiona realized that she did not want to lose the countess’s friendship. Whatever she had once been to the earl, she was convinced that the countess was now willing to be her friend.

  “Please, Dreyford. I am not offended by her frankness. Nor . . .” His face grew so grim the words almost died on her lips, but she forced a light tone. “Nor by her previous relation to you.”

  The Earl of Dreyford felt a distinct urge to voice some words unsuitable for female ears. He might have known Kitty would treat him like that. She always did. What he hadn’t known—or even guessed—was that he would feel like that eager puppy he had once been.

  He owed Kitty a lot, though. Too much to for­bid her access to his wife. He didn’t fear she’d di­vulge his secret. In all the long years since he’d spilled out his grief on her bosom. Kitty had not breathed a word of it. She would not do so now. And yet . . .

  “Please, milord. Say that the countess may call.”

  Fiona’s hand still rested on his arm. Her eyes pleaded with him. “Please, milord.”

  “We shall see. But leave off talking about our previous relation in that tone. It’s not proper.” Actually, it had been the words themselves that set him off. Her tone had been quite unobjection­able.

  Her eyes widened, those eyes so like Katie’s. And the skin under her freckles paled, just as Katie’s had. But her voice was firm. “I meant no harm, milord. Truly, I feel . . . that the countess wants to help me.”

  He felt it too. There wasn’t a mean bone in Kitty’s comely body. But it was damned inconve­nient nevertheless.

  “Very well,” he said, unable to resist the plea of those eyes, and thinking himself about as fool­ish as man could get. “The countess may call.”

  Fiona’s face lit up and she gave him a beautiful smile. The earl did not return it. Fool, he told him­self. She did not smile because of him. She had locked him out of her bedroom. He, the Earl of Dreyford.

  But she would smile at the prospect of friend­ship with a woman who had made quite clear her previous relation to him. Women, the earl thought sourly; could a man ever understand them?

  He lapsed into silence. But soon they rounded a corner and came upon a group of screaming boys. Fiona leaned out the window. “What are they doing?” she asked. “Is someone hurt?”

  The earl sighed. It was far more likely that they were tormenting one of their own. He leaned across her to look, inhaling a hint of perfume. She was so close. So desirable.

  He could see nothing and the din increased. “Huggins,” he called, “can you see?”

  “Yes, milord. ‘Tis a mongrel pup. Hurt, looks like.”

  “Oh, no!” Fiona cried. “They’re stoning it!”

  The earl sighed again. “Huggins, stop the coach.” He took his time getting out. The crowd parted, making way, curious. A whimper came from the dog as another stone hit home.

  He felt an unreasonable wave of rage. Why must the strong always batten on the weak? “Enough!” At the sound of his voice the urchins turned, a dirty, ragtag bunch, already hardened to any emotion but anger.

  Sullen eyes stared at him from dirt-encrusted faces. He felt their animosity; it weighed on him like a physical thing. “Go!” he commanded. “Get out of here!”

  For a second he thought the crowd would turn on him. But this was not France. Not yet. The boys slunk off muttering, and he turned his atten­tion to their victim.

  The cur snarled and bared its teeth. A spunky little thing, so filthy it was impossible to see its true colors. Well, at least the animal had a chance now. He turned away, but something made him take a last look back. And just as he did the ani­mal gave a little sigh and sank to the ground.

  Damnation! He could not go about London res­cuing every stray. He muttered several other choice words under his breath. This penchant for rescuing the distressed was getting out of hand.

  Nevertheless, he found himself moving toward the dog. It bared its teeth again, a feeble gesture of defiance. His nose wrinkled in disgust. The ani­mal stank; there was no other word for it. And so would he once he touched it. No sense ruining a good pair of gloves. He shoved them under his waistcoat. With another muttered curse, he bent toward the animal. And drew back suddenly. It was with real surprise that he watched the blood well up along the thin red line where its teeth had grazed his skin. He chuckled. “That will do you no good,” he said. “Fiona will tell you. When I rescue, I rescue.”

  He unwrapped his cravat and used it to immo­bilize the animal’s jaws. Then, his lip curling in distaste, he lifted the creature into his arms.

  Huggins’s face was a study in amazement, but the earl hadn’t the time to fully appreciate it.

  “Open the door, Huggins. And quit gaping at me.”

  “Yes, milord. Right away, milord.”

  The earl deposited the animal on the floor of the carriage. More work for the stablemen, but they could use a dog. Maybe she’d turn out to be a good ratter.

  Feeling naked without his cravat, he settled into the seat beside his wife. Only then did he look at her.

  Tears stood in her eyes and one glistened half down her cheek. He felt an unfamiliar lump in his throat.

  “You saved it,” she said. “You picked it up yourself.”

  Only then did it occur to him that he might have let Huggins play knight errant and saved his clothes. He raised a deprecating hand.

  “Oh, no! You’ve been hurt!”

  He shrugged. “It’s nothing. Some creatures al­ways bite the hand that feeds them.”

  She winced, almost as though he’d struck her. Curse that wit of his! Now she thought he was talking about her.

  He bent to stroke the matted fur and the dog’s eyes lifted to his face. There was something in them, something he’d seen in Fiona’s that first day. Fear, wonder, a desire to trust.

  You’ve got bats in your attic, he told himself. This is just a dog. And Fiona is just a woman.

  “She’s afraid. We often lash out when we’re afraid.”

  She accepted that with a nod. “Yes, I suppose we do. But why . . .”

  He shrugged again. If he hadn’t been so dirty he’d have put an arm around her. She wouldn’t stop him now. “I felt like it. I wanted to.” He chose his words carefully. “Now the dog is mine. No one will mistreat her. I take care of what is mine.”

  This was all very roundabout. But he wasn’t about to tell her that the animal reminded him of her, that the streak of tenderness he’d thought buried with Katie was not only still within him, but making up for lost time.

  Fiona gave him a sweet smile. “Whatever your reason, I thank you.”
>
  Her bottom lip quivered. He wanted badly to kiss it. And because he wanted to, he did—a small kiss, hardly more than a peck. She colored a little but said nothing.

  “The dog will be all right.”

  Her eyes were still worried. “Are you sure? Those dreadful boys . . .”

  “Yes, my dear, I am sure.” He ran a hand over the dog. “She’s bruised and dirty. Probably half-starved. But she’ll survive.”

  He straightened and was surprised to see that the dog moved her bound head until it rested on his once polished boot.

  * * * *

  The rest of the ride home was accomplished quietly. He moved the dog’s head off his boot and climbed out. “Huggins, take this animal to the stable. Give her to Ben. You know, the boy who’s so good with the horses. Tell him to wash and tend to her. Then bring her up to the house so we can see her.”

  Huggins nodded. “Yes, milord.”

  Fiona took the arm her husband offered her. The smell of the street was strong, but he had never looked better to her.

  “I shall have to go bathe,” he said, his nose wrinkling. “I smell like the gutters.”

  Fiona shook her head. “First we must attend to your hand.”

  “It’s nothing, my valet . . .”

  Fiona turned to the butler. “Berkins, we’ll need soap and clean cloths. And some salt. We’ll be in the library.”

  The earl straightened. “Really . . .”

  “It’s no use,” she said. “I’m not letting you out of my sight till that scratch is cleaned.” She saw the amusement in his eyes, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t tell him outright that she was sorry. That she knew she’d bitten the hand that fed her. But she could show her gratitude. At least as well as a dog.

  “Milord?”

  “Yes, Fiona?” He settled into a chair.

  “What shall we call her?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  She paused. “I should like you to name her. You saved her.”

  The earl smiled. Why had she never noticed the warmth in his smile?

  “All right,” he said. “Give me some time to think on it.”

  Berkins bustled in, followed by a footman car­rying the supplies. He put them on a table beside the earl.

  Fiona nodded. “That’s all, Berkins. I can man­age.” She pulled up a stool. “Now, this may hurt.”