by Cheryl Bolen
Fiona nodded.
The butler stepped into the room and cleared his throat.
“Yes, Biddles?” Fiona asked.
“Mr. Trevor Simpson to see you, madame.”
“Please show him in.”
Just inside the door, Trevor stood dead still, his head cocked to one side as he stared at Verity. “Well, if she isn’t a female version of his czarness,” Trevor said.
Verity lifted a quizzing brow.
“This, Miss Birmingham, is my friend Trevor Simpson,” Fiona said, scowling at Trevor. “He’s taken to calling your brother a czar.”
Verity Birmingham then did a most undignified thing. She almost spit out her tea in a fit of laughter. “Then Mr. Simpson must know Nicky well,” Verity finally managed. “He is rather dictatorial in his dealings with others.”
“I beg to differ,” Fiona defended. “Nick has never been anything but perfectly solicitous of me.”
“That, my dear lady,” Trevor said, squeezing onto the same settee with Fiona and Verity, “is because the man’s besotted with you.”
If only he were. “He’s no such thing,” Fiona said. “He’s merely a considerate husband.”
“I think, Mr. Simpson,” Verity said, smiling, “my brother may very well be besotted over Lady Fiona.”
“You’re not to call me ‘lady,’” Fiona scolded. Then taking Verity’s hand, Fiona said, “But just between you and me, I am besotted over your brother.” Fiona felt she owed such an explanation to her sister after her heavy silence during their last visit—when Verity had disclosed how happy she was that Nick had married a woman who cared for him.
“Oh, pul-eeeeez,” Trevor said, lifting his eyes toward the celestial ceiling, “spare me the mush.” Even with his head tilted upward, Trevor’s shirt points completely bracketed his slender face, his elaborate cravat comprising yards of freshly starched linen. He leaned forward and directed his attention to Verity. “Lady Fiona tells me you’re coming out with Miss Peabody?”
“I may regret it, but I’ve consented,” Verity said.
“Miss Birmingham’s afraid no one will ask her to dance,” Fiona said.
“I, for one, would be honored to dance with you,” Trevor said, “even though I fear you’re taller than me.” Then gaping some more at her, he said, “Of course you’ll have to allow me to dress you.”
Clasping her hands over her breasts, Verity sent Trevor a shocked look.
“Not literally,” Fiona said, laughing. “I believe Trevor fancies helping you select a new wardrobe.”
Verity looked at Trevor as if he’d suddenly sprouted a second head.
“He’s awfully clever about fashion,” Fiona explained.
“And I can tell you, Miss Birmingham, you’re wearing the wrong color.” Trevor’s gaze lazily perused Verity, then her charcoal dress. “One with your olive complexion and dark features cries out to wear red or snow white. Those are the only two colors I’ll permit you to wear,” he said with a limp flick of his wrist.
Verity sat stone still, obviously shocked.
“You must humor him,” Fiona told Verity. “Please say you’ll allow us to take you to Mrs. Spence’s tomorrow.” Anyone who read the newspapers or ladies’ magazines would know Mrs. Spence was the modiste to the ton.
Her brows nudging down, Verity said, “I shouldn’t like to look too . . . too undignified.”
Fiona laughed. “Showing the better part of one’s bosom is not undignified, dearest. Everyone does it.”
“And even though I suspect your bosom’s no more generous than poor Lady Fiona’s,” Trevor said to Verity, “I truly believe the lower neckline will accentuate your stunning coloring and the elegance of your long neck.”
Scarlet tinged Verity’s cheeks.
“Don’t be embarrassed because Trevor’s discussing your bosom,” Fiona said. “You just need to think of him as one of the ladies.”
Now Trevor scowled. “Perish such a thought.”
After she and Nick made love that night, they lay in each other’s arms, two damp, bare bodies that had so recently been one. She listened to the crackling sounds of the fire and to the sounds of his heavy breathing and thought she had never known such contentment.
“Trev and I shall take Verity to the modiste tomorrow,” Fiona said in a whispery voice, pressing soft kisses into the mat of dark hair on her husband’s chest.
He squeezed her shoulder. “Good. She needs a bit of guidance. Her tastes are too . . .”
“Too plain. She’ll sparkle with the right clothing.”
“I think she will.” His hands glided over a smooth, bare hip. “So what did my sister think of Trevor?”
Fiona gave a little laugh. “I think she was actually quite stunned over him.”
He chuckled. “I doubt she’s ever met his likes before.”
“Like Scotch whiskey, Trevor’s an acquired taste.”
“And like Scotch whiskey, a little bit goes a long way.”
“You naughty man.”
“Allow me to show you just how naughty.” He nuzzled his face into her hair, kissing indiscriminately, his hands touching her intimately. “Did Verity say what made her change her mind about the come-out?” he asked in a husky voice.
“It was William,” she answered breathlessly. “When he went to stay with her before he left for Prussia, he urged her to have a Season. He said he didn’t like to think of her becoming an old maid, a spinster aunt to her brothers’ children.” The very idea of Nick and her having a child together had filled Fiona with a frothy sense of well-being. “He told her she would do well to look to the ton for a husband worthy of her.”
“That’s what you’d already told her,” Nick said, nibbling on her neck.
She breathed in his scent that was a mixture of sandalwood; exotic cigars; and pure, heated male. “I had played on her desire to marry a well-educated gentleman.”
“God, but I hope she does. I pray she’ll not be snubbed.”
“That’s worrying her, too.” Fiona laughed. “Trevor promised to dance with her.”
“Heaven help her.”
“You mustn’t worry about her not taking, dearest,” Fiona said, stroking his muscled arm. “I truly believe she’ll meet someone who values her as we do.”
“I pray you’re right.” He softly kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her mouth. “Are you sure your leg’s not hurting anymore?”
“I’m fine. Even my limp is less pronounced than it was earlier today.”
“Then perhaps you can get on top this time,” he growled, hauling her on top of him.
Chapter 17
“You’ve got to have a scarlet velvet riding habit,” Trevor told Verity as he and the two ladies examined drapes of fabrics at Mrs. Spence’s. “You do ride?”
“You can be assured,” Fiona said, “that Jonathan Birmingham’s children had the best instructors in all endeavors—including riding.”
“All except dancing masters,” Trevor quipped.
For a very good reason. Jonathan Birmingham knew his children would not be welcomed in aristocratic ballrooms, but Fiona had no wish to remind Verity of that fact now. Now that she would make her debut in one of those ballrooms. “I’ve decided you shall teach Miss Birmingham to dance,” Fiona told Trevor.
His green eyes brightened. “I can think of no one better than I to school the lady.” His eyes traveled over Verity. “Pity she’s not shorter.”
Fiona did not like his references to Verity’s height. The poor girl was nervous enough without him making her feel an Amazon no man would wish to dance with. “Fortunately, most of the gentlemen who will dance with her will be possessed of more height than you, dear Trevor.”
“There must somewhere be a beguiling dwarf awaiting my kiss,” he said in a martyred voice.
“Not a dwarf, dearest. Just a person of no great stature,” Fiona said, a smile eking from her pursed lips.
They had already selected an elegant ball gown in snow white crepe for Veri
ty to wear to her come-out, and Fiona and Trevor had encouraged her to order all new dresses. “Though your clothes are beautifully made,” Fiona had said, “they’re not quite the mode for London.”
They commissioned muslin and merino morning dresses, worsted and velvet pelisses, and the scarlet riding habit.
Verity lamented her old wardrobe. “It seems such a pity to waste perfectly good clothing.”
“It won’t be wasted,” Fiona said. “I assure you my maid will be only too happy give them to the less fortunate.”
“But,” Miss Birmingham countered, “it seems such a waste to spend so much money on me. It’s not as if I have a lot of friends with whom to socialize.”
Fiona patted her arm. “But you will shortly. You’ve such a sweet, nonthreatening nature I’m certain all of my friends will adore you.”
The look on Verity’s face was not at all reassuring.
“And really, Verity,” Fiona added, “you don’t need to be so thrifty! It’s not as if you aren’t disgustingly rich!”
“I’m afraid I’m less like Nick and more like Papa when it comes to spending money,” Verity said. “Papa did not amass so great a fortune by spending foolishly.”
When they left Mrs. Spence’s, they went to the milliner’s on Conduit Street and tried to remember the colors of all the new dresses in order to match them with new bonnets. It was at the milliner’s that Fiona eyed a child’s muffin ermine. “I must purchase that for Emmie,” she said, fishing in her reticule for a handful of shillings with which to pay for it.
Once they got back in the carriage, Trevor said, “Pray, is Emmie the bastard?”
Verity’s stiffening did not escape Fiona’s notice. “You are not to ever call her that!” Fiona scolded. “She’s a perfectly lovely child. I can’t have you blame her because her parents were wicked. But, of course, Nick’s no longer wicked.” At least she hoped with all her heart he was no longer cavorting with ladies of dubious reputation.
“Thank you for championing my niece,” Verity said to Fiona.
Some champion I am! The poor little girl desperately needed a mother, but as fond as Fiona was of the child, she could not bring herself to call Emmie her daughter. “She’s a dear.” Changing to less uncomfortable conversation, Fiona asked, “Do you think she’ll like the muff?”
“She’ll love it.”
Nick felt beastly that he’d been so damned busy he’d scarcely had time for his sister during her first two weeks in London. But tonight he would finally be a good host. He surveyed the dinner table before him. The first course had been laid, and footmen dressed in the Birmingham livery of blue and yellow stood by ready to assist. His wife faced him at the foot of the table, her lovely face bathed in candlelight from the gleaming chandeliers overhead.
Dressed the dandy, Trevor Simpson sat next to Verity, and Adam across from them. At Nick’s left sat the Duchess of Glastonbury, one of Fiona’s oldest friends. Not accompanied by her elderly husband, the duchess was exceedingly pretty with flame-colored hair. And she was exceedingly available. The few times Nick had met her, she had let Nick know just how available she was.
Fiona had also invited Randolph, but he had made an appallingly insincere excuse for not coming. She had not seen Randolph since that first day he returned to England, and Nick felt responsible for the rift. Could he give her the moon and stars he would gladly do so. A pity he could not command Agar to be a dutiful brother. God knows Fiona deserved Randolph’s allegiance. She had, after all, made great sacrifices for her brother, though Nick loathed to admit it since her greatest sacrifice had been to pledge herself to a man unworthy of her.
Nick might not be worthy of her, but no man could love her more. Not a day passed that he did not thank God for the Spanish bandits who’d brought him Fiona.
“More wine?” he asked the duchess.
“Yes, please,” she said.
He replenished Verity’s glass next, then replaced the stopper on the decanter. “Tomorrow night we’ll go to the theatre.”
“To Miss Foley’s new play?” Adam asked.
His wife’s laughing face went suddenly white, her posture rigid. Surely, he thought, she doesn’t know that Diane Foley had been his lover. “Yes,” Nick answered. “It’s supposed to be a great comedy.”
“Then I shall look forward to seeing it,” Verity said.
His glance whisked over Verity. She looked truly lovely in a peach-colored dress that draped off her shoulders—and that displayed the tops of her breasts. He’d never before noticed his sister was possessed of such an attractive bosom. “You look . . . actually beautiful, Verity. Elegance becomes you.” Then his gaze flicked to Fiona. “I perceive you’ve had a hand in my sister’s lovely transformation.”
Still looking a bit shaken, Fiona shrugged. “I can’t take credit for her own dazzling beauty.”
“Yes,” Adam said, staring at his sister, “you really are beautiful, Verity.”
“The woman’s a goddess,” Trevor proclaimed. “That bosom was made to be displayed.”
Her face turning scarlet, Verity threw her arms up around her chest to conceal her soft, feminine curves. “I daresay,” she said in a shy voice, “you make me feel like a horse being auctioned at Tattersall’s.”
“If you were a horse,” Trevor said, “you’d fetch a hefty price.”
“Trevor,” Fiona chided, “you must know women are embarrassed to have their brothers looking at their bosom.” She sent Nick an amused glance that said husbands looking at their wives’ breasts was an altogether different matter. It was just one of the little looks they had begun to share with each other, one of the little ways they were growing close.
The memory of Fiona’s breasts, their feel, their taste, had him instantly aroused. No woman had ever aroused him as she did. When he was away from her and she would cross his mind, he became suddenly erect.
After dinner the ladies went to the saloon to play the pianoforte and sing, but the men would not join them until they had drunk their port and smoked their cigars. When the ladies got up to leave the lavish dining room, Nick froze for a moment. He was not sure which gender Trevor would align himself with. Even though Trevor surely had more in common with the women, he stayed behind.
“So, brother of mine,” Adam said, “I had my doubts about this marriage of yours, but it looks as if you and the lady were made for one another.”
Physically, yes. He and Fiona were decidedly compatible. If only she wasn’t in love with that damned Warwick. “I can’t speak for Fiona, but I certainly have no complaints. She’s all a man could want in a wife.”
“Well, I can answer for her,” Trevor said with a flick of his wrist. “She’s completely besotted.”
Nick did not believe it for a moment, but he was grateful for Fiona’s feigned devotion. She had certainly fulfilled the vow she’d made to him the day he’d dropped to his knee to beg her hand. “I’ll make you a good wife,” she had said. And she had in every way.
If only Warwick had not long ago won her heart.
“Nick’s always had a devastating effect upon women,” Adam said to Trevor. “I perceive that the Duchess of Glastonbury is no exception.”
“You naughty man!” Trevor said. “I wasn’t going to mention the sizzling looks she gave your brother, though I daresay Lady Fiona could not help but to notice.” He turned to Nick. “Did your wife not seem ill at ease?”
She did, but Nick attributed that to Diane Foley. He supposed a lady—even a lady who was in love with a man who was not her husband—would hardly tolerate her husband offering his protection to a vulgar actress.
There was little entertainment available to one who was economizing, Randolph, Lord Agar, had discovered. Since he was not staying out late—devilishly difficult to drink and game when one had no money to spare—he had taken to rising early, walking round to the livery stable for his mount, and taking a good romp through Hyde Park each morning.
A good ride always seemed to release the tens
ion in his body. There had been a great deal of tension since he had returned from Portugal. He missed his sister and knew his own stubborn arrogance had estranged them, but he could not bring himself to come face to face with her knowing she had sold herself to an arrogant Cit. For him.
Never mind that Birmingham was wealthier than a nabob or that women of every age and every background made fools of themselves over him. He was still a social-climbing Cit who was using Randolph’s sister as rungs in his social ladder.
Randolph dug in his heels and sprinted forward. The fog was beginning to lift, and for as far as he could see, he was alone. He was not in the mood to be civil to another human. He was too devilishly angry with that blasted Birmingham. The pity of it was Fiona had actually tried to convince Randolph that she had fallen in love with the Cit!
It wasn’t just Birmingham’s inferior social standing that roused Randolph’s fury—though he certainly could not overlook that, where his sister was concerned. It was the man’s reputation with lewd women. And everyone knew about his bastard—or bastards, possibly! Such a pity that Fiona would be saddled with such an ill-begotten child. Fiona, who had been an innocent virgin. Before Birmingham.
Randolph snapped his riding crop angrily and forged ahead. But he was no longer alone. Some fifty feet away a lone rider, a woman, was cantering toward him. As she drew closer he was able to make out her features. Lovely features they were, too. Rich, dark brown hair swept into a stylish hat that was bright red, like the red riding habit she wore. He saw that her eyes were as dark as her hair, her cheekbones high, her face beautiful. But what impressed him even more than her abundant beauty was the way she sat her horse. He’d never seen a woman ride more fluidly.
There was no doubt she was a gentlewoman. Her horse was unquestionably expensive, as were her clothes. And only a person who’d had the finest riding masters could sit a horse like that. But Randolph could not understand why she had no groom with her, even if she were a married lady—which he distinctly hoped she was not.
