Design for Love

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  The earl smiled. “I have been scratched before.”

  She felt the color flooding her cheeks. “Of course. You must forgive me. I am used to caring for Constance.”

  She took his hand in hers. It was a masculine hand, but the fingers were long and lean. Sensi­tive. She washed the wound carefully, pleased to see that it was shallow.

  To his credit, he did not move a muscle when she sprinkled it with salt. He might have been sit­ting in anyone’s drawing room, discussing the day’s events.

  She turned her attention to wrapping it. “Shall I survive?” he asked presently.

  She returned his smile. “Yes, milord, I think I can guarantee that.”

  She left him at the door to his chamber and went on to her own. How complicated the man was. She had thought him cold, with no deep feelings. But a cold man would not dirty his clothes, or even his hands, over a stray dog. A cold man would have driven away and left the animal to its fate.

  Fiona untied her bonnet and turned to put it on the table. And then she saw. The table was gone! The chaise was gone! Every stick of furniture except the four-poster and the huge ward­robe was gone from her room.

  Complicated? The earl was Machiavelli him­self. A bubble of laughter rose in her throat. There would be no barricading the door this night.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  By the time she descended the great stairs, Fiona was no longer quite so amused. She was begin­ning to like Dreyford, to see depths of humanity in him despite the dry, bored exterior he pre­sented to the world. But no matter how she re­spected the earl, no matter how she admired him, she still felt married to Lonigan.

  If only she had told Dreyford the truth that day. But then there would have been no marriage and Cousin Charles would have . . . She put the thought behind her. There had been the marriage. She was safe now.

  “Milord is in the library,” Berkins said. “With the dog.”

  There was no intonation in Berkins’s voice. Yet she knew quite clearly that he was pleased. And—she sought for a word—proud. Berkins was proud of his master.

  So was she. “Thank you, Berkins.”

  Her soft evening slippers made no sound on the floor. In the library door, she stood, watching the tall dark man and the dog whose hair, now recog­nizably red and white, shone in the firelight.

  “You’re safe now,” Dreyford was saying. “I’ll take care of you. I always take care of what’s mine. Except, I couldn’t help . . .”

  Sensing her, he looked up and straightened. “Come in, my dear. If it weren’t for her eyes, I’d never recognize her.”

  Fiona crossed the room to his side. “Ben de­serves congratulations.”

  The earl nodded. “He shall have them.”

  “Have you given her a name?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing seems quite right.”

  “Well,” she said, settling on the divan beside him, “she’s a very lucky dog.”

  He smiled and patted her hand. “Then I shall call her Lady Lucky. And I shall give her to you.”

  The dog’s tail thumped happily.

  Fiona chuckled. “I think not, milord. This dog belongs to you. And she knows it.”

  His smile was so warm. No wonder he had charmed so many ladies.

  “But what is mine is also yours.”

  Perhaps, she thought, not really believing it, but unwilling to disturb their newfound accord by disputing with him.

  The evening passed slowly. The dinner was ex­cellent, but she found her appetite somewhat di­minished. Tonight she would not be able to keep him out.

  “You are strangely quiet this evening,” he re­marked as he led her to the library.

  “I am—just thinking.”

  They chatted about this and that, about members of the ton, about which of Shakespeare’s plays each preferred.

  And then the earl said, “It’s been a long day. I suggest we retire.”

  At the foot of the great stairs she hung back. “Milord, the dog. We have made no provision—”

  The earl turned to face her. His eyes burned into hers. “Fiona,” he said quietly. “Stop this. There will be no more tricks. Tonight is the night.”

  She wanted to accept this. She knew she had to.

  “Berkins,” the earl called.

  The butler appeared.

  “The dog will sleep in my dressing room. Put her there.”

  “Very well, milord.” Berkins took the dog by the collar and led her away.

  The earl watched until they were out of sight. Then, as though she weighed no more than a feather, he swept her up in his arms and ascended the great stairs. His arms were strong, warm. Her cheek rested against his silk waistcoat. Under it his heart beat, rapidly.

  He pushed open the door to her room and de­posited her between the curtains onto the bed, beside the nightdress Millie had laid out for her.

  “I would retire to my chamber to disrobe,” he said, crossing the room to close the door to the corridor. “But there seems to be some problem with the doors getting stuck.”

  Her heart had come up in her throat and was jumping about there, making it impossible to speak. It hadn’t been like this with Lonigan. She hadn’t been frightened then.

  “So,” the earl continued, “I’m afraid I shall have to risk offending your maidenly modesty.”

  He took off his coat, his waistcoat, his cravat. She wanted to turn away. This was all wrong. She was Lonigan’s wife.

  He took off his shirt and stood before her in his breeches. His chest was dark. A narrowing line of black hair went . . .

  “Perhaps you’d like help with your gown.”

  “No, no. I’ll do it.”

  She turned her back on him. There would be no avoiding him this night. He was going to have what was his. Using the bed curtain as a kind of screen, she struggled out of her gown and into her nightdress. She was trembling as she crept be­tween the sheets. And when she raised her eyes again, he was standing there, totally naked.

  “Why?” she cried then, driven by her fear and some other inexplicable emotion. “Why must you have me? Hasn’t London lightskirts enough? Isn’t the Lady Roxanne willing?”

  He frowned, raising a black eyebrow. “The Lady Roxanne is nothing to you. Or to me. We will not discuss her.”

  He pulled back the sheet and climbed in beside her. “I come to you because you are my wife. This is proper and right.”

  I’m not your wife. She wanted to scream the truth at him. I’m Lonigan’s wife. And I always will be. But the words stuck in her throat. And anyway, his mouth was covering hers.

  * * * *

  Later, when he was finished, he kept her beside him. It was rather comforting there, against his warmth. She felt something cold and hard inside her beginning to melt.

  “Now you are truly mine,” he said, wrapping a curl around his finger.

  Her golden feeling started to fade. “Possession of my body is no guarantee you possess my heart,” she retorted.

  He laughed. “Perhaps not, my dear. But your body is here. Beside mine. Soft and warm. And quite beautiful.”

  He stroked her bare shoulder and she resisted the urge to burrow against him.

  “I can see your body. I can feel it. But your heart . . .” He shrugged. “I shall settle for what I can see. Can touch.”

  The cold something inside her splintered, and cut into her, driving her to say, “But you shall never have my love.”

  He shrugged. “Why should I want it? People don’t expect a man’s wife to love him. The fash­ionable world being what it is.”

  Anger flared up inside her. It was so unfair. And so confusing.

  A moment ago, in his arms, she had felt safe. Almost as though she’d found her homeplace. She rolled away, turning her back on him. “So. People don’t expect a man’s wife to love him. Then perhaps they expect her to love someone else.”

  His hand closed around her wrist and he jerked her back into his arms with a force that drov
e the breath from her body. “There’ll be none of that,” he said, his voice gruff. “What’s mine is mine— alone.”

  She didn’t stop to examine the strange feeling of relief this sentiment brought her, but hurried on, determined for some reason she couldn’t quite discern to taunt him.

  “And what will you do?” she mocked. “Will you put me on bread and water? Lock me up in the country? Or abuse me as you just have?”

  The body against her own stiffened, but he did not release her.

  “Abuse?” Dreyford repeated. “Abuse?” The chit was going beyond the bounds. “Really, my dear, you’ll have to do something about this pen­chant for the dramatic.”

  “I told you I was tired.”

  Her voice was low, muffled against his chest.

  “You have been ‘tired’ for several nights now. And, as I told you, I am not a patient man.”

  “And so you abuse me.”

  It almost sounded as if she were laughing. But that could not be possible. This was not a laugh­ing matter.

  “You should not have denied me my conjugal rights.”

  Absently, he stroked her shoulder. “I am re­puted an excellent lover,” he said. “You may ask . . .” He stopped, aware of the absurdity of what he was about to say. Sometimes she drove him to the most peculiar actions. “That is, you have no cause to complain.”

  Indeed, she had not. He’d taken as much care with her as if she’d really been Katie. He’d used everything Kitty had taught him and all he’d learned since.

  Fiona had responded to him, too. Not at first, perhaps. But later. And hers was not the staged passion of Harriette Wilson’s crowd or the vio­lent, almost devouring coupling that Roxanne craved. It was real—and still tinged with her in­nocence.

  He kissed his wife’s ear, and then her throat. All this talk was making him . . .

  Fiona tried to sort out her tumbled feelings. For a while there, in his arms, she had forgotten Lonigan. The earl must be the excellent lover he held himself to be: indeed, he had been able to reach her through her fear.

  No man but Lonigan had ever touched her. She had expected a distasteful, abhorrent experience. And instead . . .

  His lips were raising those strange feelings again. He could melt all the coldness inside her. But it was only temporary. Some sort of delusion. Because she was still Lonigan’s wife. And she should not be enjoying the caresses of another man.

  She twisted her head to avoid his kiss and forced a brittle laugh. “Really, milord. It’s not necessary for you to prove your point again. Surely one possession should suffice.”

  He did not show his anger, but she felt the change in his body. And although he held her just as close, she felt a chasm opening between them.

  “Very well,” he said, dropping a kiss on her forehead. “I shall respect your wishes.”

  The moment his body left hers she felt a sense of loss. A chill passed over her.

  He got to his feet and stood there, naked, but with perfect aplomb. “Sleep well, lady wife. I shall.”

  And then he was gone, leaving his clothes on the floor for Millie to pick up in the morning.

  With a sigh Fiona sank back into a strangely empty bed. “Dear Lord,” she murmured, “what shall I do?”

  And on the other side of the connecting door the earl pulled his nightshirt over his head and climbed into his own bed. The sheets had been warmed, of course. And besides, it was spring. But the bed felt cold nevertheless.

  He sighed. It would have been nice to sleep be­side her, to feel her warmth next to him all night.

  And then he laughed. How the mighty had fallen! How many times had a woman begged him to stay the night? And always he had refused. But this was different. This was his wife, his Fiona.

  He stretched and smiled. It had been a good be­ginning. Her attitude toward him had been changing for the better. Slowly, though, until today and the affair with the dog. He smiled. What would have marked him outlandish with his own kind had made Fiona like him more.

  A sigh not his own startled him and he turned to find a pair of eyes looking at him with adora­tion. He reached out to pet the dog’s head.

  “If only she would look at me like that,” he murmured. “All right, Lady. You may sleep be­side the bed. I guess I owe you that much.”

  The dog settled onto the rug with a small sound of contentment and the earl returned to his thoughts. Yes, rescuing the dog had put him con­siderably higher in Fiona’s estimation.

  He shook his head. What a pretty pass he’d come to. The Earl of Dreyford, the best catch of many a Season, not only leg-shackled, but acting like a foolish witling to boot. And not even caring.

  Fiona woke late the next morning. She stretched and smiled a little. Last night had not been so unpleasant. In fact, the worst part had been trying to sleep after he left her.

  Lying there, under the green coverlet, she tried to discover why she had done that, why she had driven him away when she really wanted him there. She sighed and rolled over—and met the dog’s eyes.

  “Lady, what are you doing in here?”

  Warmth flooded her body. He must have let the dog into her room, let her in while she was sleep­ing. Had he stood looking at her? Had he bent to kiss . . .

  She threw back the covers. Enough of such foolishness.

  She rubbed the dog’s ear. “He must have gone out,” she said. “If he were still in the house, you’d be with him.”

  The dog’s tail thumped the floor.

  Fiona sighed. Life was so much simpler for Lady. Dreyford rescued her and she gave him her complete loyalty.

  For a moment Fiona wished she could have done that, wished there had been no Lonigan. How could she wish such a thing? For years the memory of Lonigan had been her sole source of comfort, the only good thing in a miserable life. And now she was ready to forget him. And all be­cause another man had treated her civilly. That was like forgetting her homeplace.

  “No,” she said aloud. “I won’t forget him. I won’t.”

  Later that afternoon Fiona sighed and glared at the needlepoint chair cover she was stitching. Or­dinarily she was quite good at needlework. And she enjoyed it. But this day she couldn’t seem to concentrate.

  The dog was company for her. But she was also a constant reminder of the earl and what he had done for her.

  Fiona had just stabbed her finger for the third time when Berkins announced, “The Countess of Ginsfield, milady.”

  “Oh, do send her in.”

  The countess stopped in the doorway. And Fiona stared.

  Kitty was wearing a gown of white muslin, of the simplest cut, the sort a girl might wear before her come-out. Only the countess’s gown was al­most sheer, and it certainly didn’t give her a look of innocence.

  It was tied high, under her white bosom, with a long black ribbon that streamed to the floor. And it left her shoulders, and her arms, and con­siderable bosom, bare. She wore no other adorn­ment. She needed none.

  Fiona got to her feet. “Lady Ginsfield, please come in.”

  Kitty took a chair and crossed her long legs, re­vealing black Hessians.

  Noting Fiona’s glance, she laughed. “Rather a silly getup, isn’t it? But Ginsfield likes it.” She smiled. “It reminds him of our salad days. Which are quite too far behind us.”

  She grinned. “And to be truthful, I like it. I don’t mean to grow old till I absolutely have to.”

  Lady thrust her head into the countess’s lap. “Well, what’s this? I don’t remember you.”

  Fiona finally found her tongue. “Her name’s Lady—Lady Lucky. Dreyford rescued her from some awful boys.”

  Now it was Kitty’s turn to stare. “He rescued her?”

  “Yes. It was quite wonderful. He went for her himself. Picked her up and all. She snapped at him, nipped his hand. But she adores him now.”

  Fiona paused. “I’m sorry, Lady Ginsfield. I shouldn’t run on so. I’ve very glad to see you. Thank you so much for coming.”
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  “No thanks are necessary,” Kitty said. “I wanted to come. And for mercy’s sake drop that Lady Ginsfield stuff. Just call me Kitty.”

  “Yes, Kitty.”

  “Now, tell me. How did you and Robbie really meet?”

  “I— Oh, Kitty, I’d like to tell you. But I don’t know.”

  Kitty raised a hand. “Stop right there. If Robbie wants me to know, he’ll tell me.” Her eyes sur­veyed Fiona’s face. “You know about us,” she said.

  Fiona considered lying. But she wanted to be friends with Kitty. And friends shouldn’t lie. “Yes,” she said. “I guessed.”

  “And you didn’t take him to task? For intro­ducing you to me?”

  Fiona shook her head. “Why should I? I did not know him then. And I could see— There is affec­tion between you.”

  Kitty smiled. “I believe I was his first.” She scrutinized Fiona’s face. “My dear, I don’t mean to shock you. But Dreyford has had many women. You’d do well to accept that.”

  She smiled. “When he came to me, he was prac­tically a stripling. But so proud. You must never get in the way of his pride.”

  Fiona nodded. She waited, wanting Kitty to tell her more, wanting to see Dreyford through some­one else’s eyes.

  “We have not—been close like that for many years. But you’re right, I have an affection for him. And he for me, I believe.”

  “You say he has had many women.”

  Kitty nodded. “Of course. But he will not thank me for telling you so. Strange, isn’t it? Men do as they please and no one says a word. But if a woman—”

  She paused. “I don’t know how you think on this, but a word of caution. Don’t try to play Dreyford tit for tat. He may have his dashers. And the ladies will flock around him. But don’t you try anything. He wouldn’t stand for it.”

  Fiona swallowed despite the lump in her throat. The last thing she wanted was to complicate her life with another man. But she couldn’t tell Kitty that.

  “I shall not be interested in other men,” she managed to say.

  “And quite rightly so. Considering that you’ve got the best of London’s Corinthians.” Kitty leaned closer. “I tell you, my dear. No one ever expected Robbie to go off. It was a tremendous shock to hear the news. Robbie—leg-shackled. It’s still hard to believe.”