by Cheryl Bolen
That had been a great favorite of Stephen’s. “I used to tell that story to my younger brother,” Fiona said.
“Is he little like me?”
“Not anymore. He’s twenty years old now and at university, but when he was your age, he loved the mouse story. I know it by heart.”
“So do I,” Emmie said in her wispy little voice.
“Then perhaps you should tell it to me,” Fiona teased.
Emmie shook her head. “Please, My Lady, you tell it.”
With a smile on her face, Fiona reached to stroke her palm along the child’s bouncy curls. “Very well.”
As Fiona told Emmie the story, the child’s eyelids became heavy, and before she had finished, Emmie was fast asleep. The crying must have worn out the poor child. For a few minutes Fiona peered into the little girl’s angelic face, her heart wrenching. Then she lifted the covers up to Emmie’s shoulders and bent to press a whispery kiss on her brow.
The sound of the child’s breathing was oddly comforting, yet Fiona still could not sleep. She missed Nick dreadfully. Had he stormed from his room after not finding her there? Did he think she had no desire for him? Or, worse still, had he sensed her brother’s hostility and thought her guilty of the same bigotry? Her eyes began to mist. How could Nick not realize how much she was coming to love him?
For the next several hours she tormented herself, wondering where Nick could have gone. The very idea that he might have slaked his physical hunger between the thighs of Diane Foley made Fiona ill. She cursed herself for breaking the leg, for driving him away. She vowed to never again retire at night earlier than he. She cautioned herself to never say or do anything that would point to any disparity in their stations. Then she lay in the dark gently weeping until sleep finally released her.
It was the bloody discomfort that woke Nick early the next morning. He had no notion of where he was— even after he awakened, which was understandable, given that he’d not yet familiarized himself with his new surroundings. As he came fully awake he realized he was folded in a deuced uncomfortable chair in the library of Menger House. He bolted up, every muscle in his body crying out in protest. “Bloody hell!” He had allowed himself to get so bosky he hadn’t even made it to bed.
Thank God he’d awakened on his own. He wouldn’t have liked for a servant to find him in this condition. He had no sympathy for those who overindulged, and he certainly would not expect his servants to respect a man who carried on in such a manner.
He was grateful, too, that Fiona had not found him like this.
Shoving a hand through his disheveled hair, he cursed, then painfully raised himself from the damned chair. He went first to his bedchamber. Would Fiona be there? Would she be worried? Angry with himself, he suddenly realized Fiona would not have been able to come down the stairs without someone carrying her in the sedan chair. He hoped to God she had gone to sleep before his tardiness caused her to miss him.
Stepping into his bedchamber, he was mildly disappointed not to find her there. The silken bed coverings that Ware had turned down the night before were undisturbed, the bedside candle completely burned down, like the fire in the ashen grate. Had she forgotten he wished them to sleep in his bed? Or had the headache that sent her to bed early caused her absence from his bed?
Good Lord! What if she’d been lying sick in her room all night, awaiting him? He tore off toward her chambers, fairly flying through the connecting dressing rooms and flinging open her chamber door.
She stirred, then came up from her mattress on one elbow to face him. “Nick!” Her eyes trailed over the dark shadow of beard on his face and over his mussed clothes. “You’re just coming in?”
He tensed for a moment. He disliked telling her the truth, afraid he would lose her respect. Yet he disliked lying more. What if one of the servants had seen him sprawled drunkenly in the library and that information got back to Fiona? “I’m ashamed to admit I spent the night in my library—after drinking too much.”
Her brows collapsed. “I thought you abhorred those who overindulge.”
He gave a disgusted grunt.
She patted the bed beside her.
Relief flooded him. She was not disgusted by him. He came to drop a kiss on her cheek, then sank onto the mattress beside her, breathing in her lavender scent. Her elegance in a skimpy nightshift never failed to heat his blood. As lovely as she was on their wedding day, she was ten times more beautiful within rumpled sheets, with rumpled hair, her milky flesh as smooth as satin.
“I was so worried about you,” she said, “and to think you were here all along!”
Could it be possible she worried over him as he worried over her? “Forgive me for making you worry.” As he drank in Fiona’s fair loveliness he became aware that she was not alone in the bed. He stiffened, his heart hammering, his suspicious thoughts scrambling.
Then, rubbing her eyes and yawning, Emmie poked up her little head. The air swished from his lungs. “What in the world is the muffin doing here?” he asked.
A smile arching across her little face, Emmie sat up and addressed her father. “I was frightened last night, and my new mother—” She turned to apologize to Fiona. “I mean My Lady said I could sleep with her.”
He gave his daughter a mock scowl. “You came to Lady Fiona’s room?”
Fiona, her face solemn yet kindly, reached out to trail her hand along Emmie’s sable hair. “No, I heard her crying and went to her. The poor little lamb was frightened in her new surroundings.”
His heart overflowed with the love he held for these two females who lazily stretched out before him within the silken bed coverings. He’d swelled with pride as he watched Fiona’s delicate hands stroke Emmie’s hair, as her voice softened when she spoke to the child who was so precious to him.
“I want to go back to my other house,” Emmie said.
“That’s nonsense,” Nick said sternly. “This is your new house, and there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Until she gets used to it,” Fiona said, “we can ask that Miss Beckham sleep in her room.”
“Why didn’t you ask her last night?” Nick demanded.
“It was after midnight, and I didn’t wish to awaken her.”
“She’s a servant!”
“Now you sound like my wretched brother!” Fiona said, frowning.
Her brother who thought only one class of people mattered. Fiona had done well to put Nick in his place. “I take it you refer to Lord Agar.”
“I’m sorry I brought him up.”
Her anguished words conveyed so much that remained unspoken. Their minds were beginning to blend like those who had been married for half a century. He reached out to tenderly touch his index finger along her perfect nose, to touch her full lips. He wished Emmie weren’t here so he could be intimate with his wife. “Is your headache gone?”
She favored him with a smile. “I feel much better this morning. Would that I could say the same for you. Methinks you must feel wretched after being so naughty last night.”
A smile crinkled around his eyes and pinched his cheek. “And how would my wife know about men who overindulge?”
“Your wife has two brothers,” she said with a laugh, then stroking Emmie’s thin arm, she looked up at her husband. “Why do you not freshen up and take your little muffin riding? Perhaps the fresh air will invigorate you.”
His gaze flicked to Emmie, who was giggling. “Go get dressed, muffin.”
He and Fiona exchanged amused smiles as the laughing child bolted from the room, then he spoke throatily. “Thank you for your kindness to my daughter.”
“How could I be anything else? She’s a lovely child.”
“I wish to kiss you, madame, but not until I freshen up.”
She favored him with a gentle smile.
Chapter 15
The dreaded meeting with Lady Warwick did not go nearly as badly as Fiona had anticipated. For so many months Fiona had been so possessed of a crippling jealousy and anim
osity toward the countess that she was not sure she could let go of those violent feelings. But as the hour of their reunion came, a peace settled over Fiona, and she wanted nothing so much as to thank the countess for taking Warwick away from her. Theirs would not have been a good marriage. Her fate was with Nick; Edward’s with his Countess Maggie.
When Lady Warwick and her sister arrived at Menger House, Fiona swept to the door in her invalid’s chair to greet them. “I’m so very glad you could come,” she said. “Would you like to see the house?”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” the countess asked, casting a troubled glance at Fiona’s invalid chair.
“It would give me great pleasure to show you our new house—but for obvious reasons, our tour will have to be confined to the first floor.”
The countess subsequently made the obligatory exclamations over the celestial ceilings, and the soaring Palladian windows, and the gleaming Carrara and Sienna marble of the floors. She had inquired about the cabinetmaker and nearly swooned over the beautiful and abundant silks, the fine Sevres porcelain, and the broadloom carpets that had been specially made for Menger House.
The last room they came to was Nick’s library, the darkest room in the house but also the coziest because of the rich walnut wainscoting and the tranquil greens of its decor. That morning the servants had hung Nick’s portrait over the mantle. He had not changed since it had been painted two years previously. The painter had done a masterful job of conveying Nick’s innate power with dark colors: Nick’s deep brown hair, pensive near-black eyes, olive skin that complemented the rich chocolate-colored frock coat he wore. Contrasting with all the varying shades of brown was the stark white of his eyes and teeth. Gazing affectionately at the portrait, Fiona said with pride, “ That handsome man is my husband, Nicholas.”
The countess’s face softened as she looked at the portrait. “You’ve married well. He’s incredibly handsome.”
Even Miss Peabody, who seldom noticed those of the opposite sex, pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and stared at Nick’s picture. “If he has a brother, I’ll take him.”
Fiona and Maggie broke out laughing. “As a matter of fact,” Fiona said, “he has a brother who looks enough like him to be a twin.”
“Then I shall very much look forward to my come-out,” Miss Peabody said.
Returning to the blue saloon, Fiona said, “That’s the very reason I’ve asked you here today. Remember, I promised to sponsor you, and I’m greatly looking forward to your come-out. It will be the first grand fete in our new house.”
Maggie stiffened. “Are you sure you still wish to do that?”
There would never be a better time than the present to clear the air between her and the countess. “My lady,” Fiona began, looking earnestly into the countess’s beautiful face, “by coming here today you’ve taken the first step toward restoring the friendship we once shared, and I’m indebted to you.”
Maggie’s head inclined, her huge black eyes softening.
“I cannot deny,” Fiona continued, “that at one time I was extremely jealous of you, but I assure you that is no longer the case.” She sank back in her invalid’s chair. “Do you believe in destiny?”
“I do,” Maggie whispered.
“I do, too. And I believe you were Edward’s fate, not I.” She drew a deep breath. “I now believe that Edward’s meeting you was the best thing that could ever have happened to me.”
A slow smile came over the countess’s face. “Because Nicholas Birmingham was your fate?”
Fiona nodded. “Most definitely.”
“I cannot tell you how happy I am to learn that,” Lady Warwick said.
“I only wish Warwick could understand,” Fiona said. “I know he feels beastly guilty about how everything happened.”
“I’ll try to convey all this to him,” Maggie said.
Staring at the beautiful countess, Fiona wondered if Lord and Lady Warwick were as close as she and Nick. It seemed almost inconceivable that anyone else could ever experience the unity she and her husband shared.
As she beheld the countess, Fiona could well understand why Warwick had fallen in love with her. Was there a lovelier creature on the entire earth? The countess was possessed of a head of rich, dark brown hair and huge almond-shaped eyes so dark a brown they looked black. Her milky skin was highlighted with deep pink cheeks and a luscious rose-colored mouth, and her figure was statuesque—with a large bosom. If one looked especially close, one could see the swell of the Warwick’s second babe. No woman with child had ever looked lovelier.
Fiona had once observed that every color Maggie wore became peculiarly her own. Today she wore a dress the color of salmon, and once again Fiona could not believe anyone else could be so lovely wearing that shade. The gods had indeed blessed Maggie in every way. And now she had a husband who adored her and a babe of her own, Fiona thought with a stab of jealousy.
It would give Fiona great pleasure if she could bear Nick a son. “How are you and Warwick enjoying being parents?”
The countess instantly turned from gracious beauty to gushing mother. “Oh, we adore him! He looks just like Edward, and he’s such a joy.”
“Now that I’m jealous of,” Fiona said with a smile. She eyed Miss Peabody, who pulled a slender volume from her reticule.
Her sister instantly chastised her. “You will not read when you’re a guest at someone’s house!” Turning to Fiona, she said, “Please forgive my sister’s shameful manners.”
Her cheeks red, Miss Peabody shoved the book back into her reticule. Fiona thought perhaps Rebecca Peabody was not yet ready for the Marriage Mart. Even her manner of dressing—today in a sprigged muslin, high-necked gown—was more like something a younger girl, not a girl of marriageable age, would wear. “You are nineteen now, Miss Peabody?” Fiona asked.
“I am.”
“I suppose it’s time you give thought to getting married.”
“If I should get married,” Miss Peabody responded wistfully, “it would be to get a little boy as delightful as my nephew.”
“Becky dotes on Eddie,” the countess said.
“How fortunate you all are to have a little one to dote upon. I shall be glad when I’m in your shoes. For now, though, I’m happy that my family is enlarged. At long last, I finally have a sister.”
“Birmingham’s sister?” the countess asked.
“Yes, her name is Verity, and she’s the same age as Miss Peabody. We expect a visit from her in the next few weeks. I’m trying to persuade her to come out with Miss Peabody.”
“I should be delighted to have someone with whom to share such a frightening event,” Rebecca said.
“Have you decided when you’d like to have the ball?” Maggie asked.
“I thought perhaps in early June.”
“Splendid,” the countess said.
“But don’t let us wait until then to rekindle the friendship I so desire,” Fiona said.
“I won’t,” Maggie said, visibly moved by Fiona’s olive branch.
As Nick sat across the ale house’s wooden table from Lord Warwick, his last decade of unparalleled power was suddenly stripped away. He was once more the outsider he’d been at Cambridge. Despite his immense wealth and despite that he was one of the few lads at Christ’s who had the luxury of his own valet, he had never been accepted by the likes of Warwick and Randolph Hollingsworth and their set. Today he was once again the recipient of Warwick’s condescending arrogance.
He detested the man. The earl’s presence would have been much easier to accept if he’d been less handsome, if Fiona had not loved him, if Nick was confident Fiona no longer loved the man. But Nick had no such confidence.
“I was surprised, my lord,” Nick said, meeting the earl’s amber eyes, “that you were familiar with this public house since it’s in the financial district and far removed from Whitehall.” It was Warwick who, via a note delivered to Nick that morning, had suggested they meet here.
&n
bsp; “I’m less well known here,” the earl replied. “It’s especially important to me that our meeting appears to be of a social nature rather than an official encounter. I do thank you for seeing me today.”
If Warwick weren’t the foreign secretary, Nick would not have come, but because of the earl’s vital work Nick could not refuse him. “You will no doubt be pleased to learn that my brother purchased all the francs in Portugal during his recent visit there,” Nick said.
Warwick nodded. “About that visit . . . I’ve only just learned from Agar about his captivity. Forgive me for not acting upon it in an official capacity. We thought he had been killed.”
Nick glared at him. “And you neglected to tell his sister?”
“I wished to wait for confirmation before imparting such sad news to Lady Fiona.”
Nick detested hearing his wife’s name on Warwick’s lips.
“She should have come to me when the bandits made their demands,” Warwick said.
“So that she wouldn’t have soiled herself by marrying me?”
Anger flashed in Warwick’s eyes. “I didn’t mean that. It’s only that I feel it was the government’s responsibility to rescue one of its distinguished officers.”
“I daresay Agar wishes you had.”
The earl said nothing.
Nick lifted his bumper and took a long drink. “I’ve decided to help my country.” It rankled him to say he would help Warwick. “My brother leaves tomorrow for Prussia, where he’ll buy up a hundred thousand guineas’ worth of francs.”
Warwick’s eyes rounded. “I had no idea you were possessed of such a large amount of discretionary funds.”
The Birminghams might not have pedigree, but they had staggering wealth, and this once he wished to brag, to show Warwick that Fiona had not married so very badly. “We’re the richest family in England.”
“Then I’m very happy I selected you for this mission.”
Did the pompous bastard wish to take credit for what Nick’s father, his brothers, and Nick himself had built? It was all Nick could do not to slam a fist into Warwick’s smug face. “You should be happier still that I accepted.”
