by Cheryl Bolen
Fiona wasn’t being entirely honest with Trevor. For several nights now the arrangement and decoration of the rooms had kept her awake. But not last night. Last night she’d thought about the boy Nick had been. Her heart went out to the little boy who’d been so cruelly groomed by a fanatic father. She wondered if either his father or mother had ever praised Nick or shown him the affection that should be every child’s birthright. Her knowledge of the icy Dolina Birmingham rather convinced her that Nick had been denied such affirmations.
As Fiona had lain in the dark room beside him last night, she’d wanted to smother him with the affection so lacking in his childhood. She had never felt closer to another human being. Not even Warwick, who during the three years of their engagement had shared with her every hope for the future, every disappointment of the past.
Last night she and Nick had kissed passionately and had greedily taken pleasure in each other’s bodies, but Nick had refused to cover her body with his. “It won’t be long now before you’re healed,” he had whispered. “I can’t do something that would jeopardize your recovery.”
After he had fallen asleep, his arm stretching across her, his hand secured at her waist, she felt as if she were drowning in pleasure.
“Tell me, my lady,” Trevor began, a devilish glint in his eyes, “that Cit you’ve married indulges in that middle-class practice of sleeping with one’s spouse all night, does he not?”
She scowled at him. “I fail to see what business it is of yours whether my husband and I sleep together.”
“Czar Nicholas himself let the cat out of the bag yesterday when he said you weren’t sleeping properly. Is he as good a lover as he’s purported to be?”
“You can’t really expect me to discuss that with you! And I don’t like for you to call him Czar Nicholas.”
“But the man’s so completely dictatorial!”
Perhaps Nick was dictatorial. Like his father. It came with being so supremely confident. But unlike his father, Nick had a huge capacity for affection. He had shown it in his dealings with Emmie and his siblings, with his mother, and most of all, with her. He had only been controlling toward her when her welfare was at stake. The very thought wrapped her in a blanket of deep contentment. “And I don’t like you dredging up Nick’s old lovers!”
Trevor cocked his head to one side and gave her a decidedly mischievous gaze. “I believe you’re jealous.”
“If you must know, I am. I don’t know why I should be jealous over something that occurred before we married, but the fact is I am.” Her voice became forlorn. “I can’t bear to think of him with those other women. I have no right to expect fidelity. He only married me to help Randolph and to align himself with the Agars.”
“Don’t be silly! The man obviously cares for you.”
“Oh, he does, but he also cares for his child, his brothers, his mother, and his sister.”
“What he feels for you is decidedly different, I’ll vow. The man seems to be perfectly besotted. You, my dear friend, must be devilishly good in bed!”
“Trevor!”
“Can you deny that the sex has been sublime?”
“I refuse to have this conversation with you.” But sublime did seem to describe their lovemaking.
He did not say anything for a moment. “Darling, I believe you’ve fallen in love with the czar!”
Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, Trevor, I believe you’re right.” How stunned she was to admit it, but now that she had, she realized she’d spoken the truth. She had indeed fallen in love with her husband.
Now that the move was complete and most of the rooms were finished, Fiona needed to catch up on her correspondence. She stayed in her study this afternoon, her throbbing leg propped up, while she wrote the first letter to Verity, urging her to come stay at Menger House. Knowing her new sister’s preference for green rooms, Fiona had seen that Verity’s chamber be done up in varying shades of fern green. Her first thought of doing the room in emerald she discarded after reflecting on Verity’s subdued taste. Emerald was too striking. The more natural shades of green would suit Verity much better.
Fiona’s next letter was to Miss Peabody, urging that young lady to call at Menger House and explaining that her own broken leg prevented her from making morning calls. As she began to close the letter, she set down her pen. Should she extend the invitation to Miss Peabody’s sister, Lady Warwick? Six weeks ago she could not have done so, for the hurt of losing Warwick to the beautiful brunette was too painful. But now Fiona held no animosity toward the countess. Now Fiona understood Warwick had not been the man for her. Nick was her destiny, just as the countess had been Edward’s.
She picked up her quill and added,
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Lady Warwick. It would give me great pleasure to show her Menger House.
She signed it, Mrs. Fiona Birmingham, not just to let the countess know she now belonged to another man but because doing so filled her with pride.
As she was sealing the letter, Biddles announced a caller.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Lord Agar, madame.”
Randy! She was seized with a feeling of profound, explosive joy. Her brother was alive—back on English soil! “Please bring him here directly, Biddles.”
At the stunned look on the butler’s face, she realized he found the impropriety of directing a gentleman to his mistress’s private chambers distasteful. “’Tis my brother—back from The Peninsula!” she added.
A sliver of a smile tipped the butler’s lips. “Very good, madame. I shall bring him here directly.”
When Randolph came limping into the room a moment later, her heart caught. When she saw the fury in his eyes, the breath caught in her lungs.
He stood just inside the doorway and glared. “So it’s true. You’ve married that pompous bastard.”
Her chest tightened. “I’ll not have you speak of my husband in such a manner.”
“It’s obvious that he demanded you as payment for my freedom, damn him.”
Randy must have realized the timing of his release corresponded with the timing of his sister’s marriage. “He did no such thing. He offered to give me the money, Randy, with no strings attached. He was too much the gentleman to profit by my misfortune. It was I who begged him to marry me.”
Randolph came into the room and stood before her, glaring. “You’re only saying that to ease my mind.”
She had once been prepared to feign an attraction to Nick in order to relieve Randy’s guilt, but such deception was no longer necessary. She drew in a deep breath. “I’m very sorry you’ve suffered, but I’ve come to think your abduction the luckiest thing that ever happened to me, for it brought me Nick.”
Her brother winced. “Good Lord! You can’t possibly be in love with him. He’s the spawn of crude, ignorant parents, and you’re the daughter of a viscount.”
“I’m not judging Nick on the basis of who his parents were. I’ve never known a more gentlemanly man than Nick. Can you tell me one thing in his demeanor that points to low origins?”
“Money can buy a lot, Fiona, and it appears that along with his privileged education, it has now bought him an aristocratic wife.”
Her hands fisted into tight, moist balls. “I understand your displeasure, but I will not tolerate it. Nick spent a great deal of money and jeopardized his brother’s safety to secure your release. I will expect you to be civil to all the Birminghams—and especially to Nick. Whether you approve of him or not, he is now your family.”
He sank into the chair across from her. “Dear God, this is worse than being captive.”
“It most certainly is not, Randolph Hollingsworth! You’ve returned to those who love you. Now tell me why you’re limping. What did those beasts do to you?”
“ ’Tis nothing. A superficial wound that will quickly heal.”
“I thought you’d be going back to your regiment.”
“I thought so, too, but that didactic William Bir
mingham had other plans.” Under his breath he grumbled, “Demmed Birminghams think they rule the world.”
“I suppose he wished you to return to England for medical attention.”
“That . . . and he had the audacity to suggest I might wish to return to England to attend to my grave financial matters. Tell me, Sis, how much of the twenty-five thousand came from my estate, and how much from Birmingham?”
She swallowed as if she were gulping down bitters. Would that she did not have to tell him. “There was no money in your estate.”
He dropped his head into his hands. “I wish they’d killed me in Portugal.”
“I’ll not allow you to talk like that! You’re alive. You’ve been restored to your loved ones. Nick will help you rebuild your fortune.”
He jerked up and glared icily at her. “I’ll not take another farthing from him!”
“Don’t be so obtuse! If there’s one thing the Birminghams know all about, it’s money. If you won’t accept his charity, at least accept his loan—a loan to help restore your holdings to productivity. Then you can pay him back.”
Randolph stood up and began to storm from the room. “I’ll bloody well do that. I’ll pay him back the entire twenty-five thousand quid!”
At dinner that night Fiona was unusually quiet. Nick was fairly certain he knew the source of her uneasiness. “Did your brother come to you today?” he asked.
She answered without looking up. “Yes, he did. He’s walking with a limp, but he tells me it’s a superficial wound that will quickly heal. I didn’t dare ask how he received it, for, I assure you, I did not want to know what those beastly men did to him.”
She was babbling, trying to divert him from the true source of her worry.
“If it will make you feel any better, William confirmed that Agar’s wound is nothing more than a trifle.” William had also confirmed that Randolph was seething over his sister’s marriage.
“I cannot worry over his wound when I’m so relieved he’s been rescued from those vile creatures.” She looked up and favored him with a smile. “I do thank you, dearest, for making his release possible.”
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Fiona.”
Her pulse leaped. “You’re such an exceedingly gallant husband.”
She would discuss anything but what was uppermost in her thoughts: Her brother thought Nick unworthy of Fiona. Nick had hoped that when Agar saw that Fiona seemed happy, that when he saw she resided at the finest address in London, he would not be displeased over the union.
But he’d thought wrong. Randolph’s reemergence only solidified Nick’s own doubts. He wasn’t good enough for Fiona. She should be married to an earl like Warwick. Damn the man.
“Did you and your brother compare leg injuries?”
“Actually he only stayed a few minutes, and I had no occasion to stand so he’s not aware of my stupid misfortune.”
If her brother left quickly that could only mean one thing. They had quarreled over her marriage. “I would have thought you and he would have had much to discuss.”
“I daresay he had much that required his attention. He’s been away for almost a year.”
So she was not going to apprise Nick of her brother’s discontent. Was she foolish enough to believe it would go away? “I hope you told him my brothers and I are eager to offer our services for financial advice.”
“I did mention it.”
“And?”
“I believe he’s considering it, but you must know my brother is beastly proud. It won’t be easy for him to come to you.”
“But we’re family now.” Though Agar would as lief not admit to it.
After dinner, instead of their usual game of cribbage or chess, Fiona cried off with a headache.
No doubt brought on by that insensitive brother of hers.
Though he seldom drank, Nick ensconced himself in his library and got exceedingly drunk.
Chapter 14
If it wasn’t one thing, it was another that conspired to rob Fiona of sleep. She was concerned that her leg was not healing as quickly as she had hoped. It had been a month now, and despite that she had not put her weight on the leg, she was never free from throbbing pain. In addition to the woes of her infirmity, now she was upset by her obtuse brother. His snub of her husband was simply intolerable. As she lay alone in her bed, the crackle of the fire the only noise in the room, she held a dozen imaginary conversations with Randy. He must allow himself to get to know Nick, for to know Nick was to admire him. But what could she do to lubricate the process? She had already admitted her deep affection for Nick, and that had only served to rankle her wretchedly snobbish brother all the more.
Perhaps Randy would soften when he saw how well the ton would accept Nick once they began to entertain on the lavish scale she had planned. She was assured the grand ladies and gentlemen who inhabited Mayfair would flock to Menger House, if for no other reason than to see the finest townhouse in all of London.
Miss Peabody’s come-out would be sure to draw any number of peers because Rebecca Peabody was, after all, connected by marriage to Lord Warwick. Warwick’s stature—now that he’d become foreign secretary—was such that he moved in the most exalted circles. He was even a confidante of the Prince Regent himself.
Incredibly weary but utterly incapable of sleep, Fiona waited for Nick to come to bed. After several hours her fire went out and, clutching the bed coverings up to her neck, she shivered all the way to her bones. Why had Nick not come? She suddenly realized she’d forgotten that he said they would sleep in his bed. No wonder he hadn’t come to her chambers. He must think she had no desire to sleep with him.
She managed to slip from the bed without putting her weight on her broken leg, then she eased herself into the invalid’s chair and rolled to the chair where she had tossed her Kashmir shawl earlier in the evening. Still shaking with cold, she directed her chair toward Nick’s chambers, deciding to go by way of the hallway rather than through their crowded, carpeted dressing rooms. Wheels, she had learned, glided much more easily over hard surfaces.
Once she was in the hallway, she heard a child’s muffled cries. Panic struck her. Emmie! What could be wrong with the child? Her heart leaping to her chest, she bolted from the invalid’s chair and sped to Emmie’s room at the end of the hall, careful to keep most of her weight on the good leg.
Inside the little girl’s room there was just enough firelight for Fiona to see the child sitting up in her bed, her little fists jammed into her eye sockets, sobbing. “Pray, love, what’s the matter?” Fiona asked, collapsing on the bed.
“I want to go back to my other house,” Emmie said in a forlorn little voice.
Poor lass. She was afraid to sleep in the strange new room. “But this is your new house,” Fiona said softly. “You’re understandably upset because this is unfamiliar to you, and it’s dark and quiet, and you’re alone. I promise that once you get used to it, you won’t be frightened anymore.”
The little girl shook her head, her rumpled tresses scattering. “I want to go back.”
“But, love, there’s no one left at the old house. You’d be all alone.”
“Miss Beckham could come.”
“That wouldn’t be fair to her, to take her away from all her other friends.”
“Please, can’t I go back? I don’t wish to be here.”
Fiona held out her arms, and Emmie flowed into her embrace. All of Fiona’s senses awakened to the feel of this child, to her sweet, herbal scent. “Don’t you like your lovely new room?”
“I only like it in the daytime,” Emmie whimpered. “Not at night.”
“Would you feel better if I lit some candles?”
Emmie shook her head emphatically.
Fiona’s first instinct was to summon Miss Beckham to sleep in the child’s room until Emmie became used to her new surroundings, but she decided that rousing the poor governess from her sleep was too cruel.
“Would you like to come to
my room and sleep with me?” Fiona asked, sweeping lazy circles on Emmie’s heaving back.
The little girl sucked in a deep, quivering breath and nodded, the last of her tears sliding down her reddened cheek.
“Come along then.” Fiona began to limp toward her chambers, Emmie clutching her nightshift. When they reached Fiona’s door, she instructed the child to wait for her right there. “I’ve got to go tell your Papa something. I shall be right back.”
To allay Nick’s concerns, Fiona sank back into the invalid’s chair for the short trip to his chambers. She had to see him, to speak to him before she could sleep. Nick must not think she hadn’t desired to share his bed.
When she entered his room her glance darted to his huge, curtained bed that had belonged to a French prince. It was dressed in royal blue silks that were illuminated by bedside candles. “Nick?” she called softly, but there was no answer. Only an eerie silence. She came closer to the bed and discovered it had not been slept in. Could he have gone out for the evening?
Disappointed, she returned to Emmie, who stood just inside Fiona’s doorway. “Come, love, climb up on my nice, big bed,” Fiona said.
Having made a miraculous recovery from her hysterics, the child settled her head on the pillow closest to the window. “Winnie used to sleep with me when I was sick,” she said wistfully.
Winnie had likely been the only person to ever show the child real affection—except for Nick, but men never concerned themselves with a child’s emotional needs.
“She used to tell me stories, too,” Emmie said, her mouth puckering into a pout.
Fiona smiled down at the child. “Should you like me to tell you a story?”
“Ever so much.” A radiant smile transformed Emmie’s solemn face. It was such a delicate face with a dusting of freckles across her nose, a fringe of feathery lashes, and a dimple in one cheek. Just like her father.
“What story should you like to hear?”
“The Life and Perambulations of a Mouse.”
