by Cheryl Bolen
She flicked a quizzing glance at him, then quickly dismissed her maid. “You can finish buttoning me,” she said to Nick once Prudence was gone.
As he came closer, his pulse accelerated. His wife had never looked lovelier than she did tonight in the blue gown that was shot with silver threads throughout and with ermine inserts around the bodice, a bodice he found indecently low. He did not like other men to see any part of those delectable breasts, breasts no man had ever touched before him. Thinking of Lord Warwick’s hands on Fiona’s bare flesh brought him almost unbearable pain.
His heated gaze skimmed over her. No monarch could have looked more regal, no woman more graceful.
And it had been far too long since he had allowed himself the luxury of holding her in his arms.
She twirled around to present her back to him, and with trembling hands he began to fasten the remaining buttons, cursing himself for buttoning her when all he really wanted was to unbutton her, to bare her milky flesh and feel his lips upon it, to feel himself sinking into her luxurious warmth.
When he finished, she turned to face him, her gaze dropping to his bulging crotch, a casualty of her devastating effect upon him. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she whispered huskily, moving closer to him.
To preserve the distance between them, he edged backward and cocked a dark brow. “And why would that be, my dear?”
She stopped, a hurt look sweeping across her pale face. “Because this is a very important night, not only for Verity but also for us, dearest. It’s our first grand entertainment at Menger House, the first time many of my old friends will meet the man I’ve married. I . . . ” Her eyes watered as she struggled for words. “I wish for them to think us happily married.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “I shall be happy to oblige. I can play the part of an attentive husband most convincingly.”
Her chest heaving, she did not remove her gaze from his. “When my leg was broken, was your concern merely an act?”
“Of course not, my darling. Your welfare is always uppermost in my mind. In fact,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “I’ve brought you another bauble.”
This time it was a diamond necklace with bracelet and earrings to match, and it had cost him a king’s ransom. He hadn’t known why he wished to purchase it for her since she had betrayed him, but he found himself strangely beholden to her for presenting his sister, for acting the attentive wife, for not being ashamed of him.
“Oh, Nick! They’re beautiful! What could I ever have done to deserve such an offering?”
“You’ve worked very hard on tonight’s fete. I thought you needed a reward.”
“Your attentiveness is all I could ever want.” She stood on her toes to kiss him.
When their lips met, all his resolve vanished. He pulled her into his arms, into his crushing embrace and kissed her, unleashing his pent-up hunger for her. He nearly dissolved when he felt her cool tongue slide into his mouth, when he heard her hungry little whimpers. It was just like before. Before she betrayed him with Warwick.
His own breath harsh and labored, his hands molded to her breasts, his thumb stroking the hardened nub of her nipple. She flowed into him, and when her slender arms tightened around him, it was all he could do not to lift her skirts and take her standing up.
Instead, the vision of his wife beneath Warwick’s pounding body obliterated his own blinding need.
He pushed her away.
“Oh, dearest,” she said, those soulful eyes of hers scanning his hardened face, “can you not make love to me once more? We’ve plenty of time before the first guests arrive.”
How could she appear so hungry for him when she loved another man? For the briefest moment he allowed himself to believe it was he whom she loved, then the torturing vision of her in Whitehall with Lord Warwick destroyed his fragment of hope. Despite that every cell in his body throbbed with need of her, he put distance between them. “I shouldn’t like to mess your lovely hair.” Then, with his face inscrutable, he offered his crooked arm. “Shall we go downstairs, love?”
She could not cry. Her heart was being ripped to shreds, but she could not allow herself to cry. Not on this night. She owed it to Verity to play the unruffled hostess, and she owed Nick so very much more. It was not his fault he did not love her. Indeed, he’d never sought her love, never promised his. He had given her much and asked for little. All she had to offer him—now that he no longer wanted her body—was her exalted standing in society. So tonight she would stand proudly at his side, a testament to his worthiness.
For Nick’s sake, she would not cry.
But she was bleeding inside. She had been since the humiliating moment when her husband had refused to make love to her. The pity of it was that when she had first kissed him, he had responded with the same old searing hunger that had made their nights so wondrous before . . . before the Duchess of Glastonbury had swept into their lives—and stolen Nick’s affection.
Later, as they stood with Miss Peabody and Verity in the receiving line, Fiona could not help but be struck over how different tonight was from what she had planned during those many weeks of heightened anticipation. How she had looked forward to standing proudly at her husband’s side, her possessive hand on his sleeve as she glowed with her own incredible good fortune in landing so handsome, so worthy a man.
Now she ached from his rejection.
“How good of you to come,” she said to the Countess Lieven, who could not remove her gaze from Nick. Fiona could not remember an assemblage where more peers were in attendance.
“I’m delighted to be here,” the countess said, her glance sweeping up the magnificent marble stairway. “I’ve been dying to see Menger House.”
Any doubts Fiona had once secretly harbored over Nick’s acceptance by the ton were quickly dispelled. Men stood in awe of the scion who had built this magnificent house, the scion who had captured Lady Fiona Hollingsworth for his bride. Women openly adored the sinfully handsome man of wealth.
The mammoth third-floor ballroom that Fiona had feared would look bare was crowded with ladies and gentlemen in their silken finery. Thousands of candles ringed a dozen huge chandeliers that illuminated the room as brightly as sunlight. When the orchestra began to play, Nick led Verity out for her first dance; Lord Warwick stood up with Miss Peabody. This was the first time Fiona had seen Miss Peabody without her spectacles. She was quite as lovely as her sister—except for the absence of a bosom.
Fiona joined the Countess Warwick, and they proudly watched their respective charges flawlessly execute their dance steps. Neither young lady had ever looked lovelier. Trevor scurried up to Fiona and the countess Warwick. “Is Miss Birmingham not breathtaking in her white gown?” he asked, his gaze sweeping across the wooden dance floor.
Thank God for Trevor! Fiona had been on the verge of tears when he had come up. She turned twinkling eyes on him. “And her gown is most stunning. I must commend the person who suggested she wear snow white.”
“ ’Pon my word,” Trevor said, gleaming, “that would be moi!”
“And look at Miss Peabody,” Fiona said. “Is she not exceptionally pretty tonight?” Miss Peabody, who had no interest in fashion, had obviously not selected the elegant cream-colored creation she wore.
Trevor cast a glance at the lady in question. “I declare, she looks positively stunning. I’ve never really taken notice of her before.” He leaned closer to Fiona to whisper, “She’s about as sociable as a doorknob.”
Fiona swatted him with her fan.
After that first set Nick sought Fiona to waltz with him. She shivered as he pulled her into his arms. Then, brushing aside her own gloom, she looked up at him, forcing a smile. “I can’t think of a single person who declined to come tonight, dearest.” Except Randy. “You—and your magnificent house—are a great success.”
“Our house,” he corrected.
Her heart wrenched. “I can’t take credit for it when you were its driving force, you the one wit
h the remarkable vision that created all of this.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “You and I both know my so-called vision would not have been able to fill this room with the beau monde. No, my dear,” he said with a shake of his head, “it’s my selection of you for my bride that has made tonight’s fete such a complete success.”
She stiffened. “If you’ll recall, you did not precisely ‘select’ me.”
“Oh, but I did,” he growled, pulling her closer. “I’m not so great a gentleman that I would not have spurned you had I not decided that marriage to you would be in my best interest.”
If only he had decided that marriage to her—that bedding her—was what he wanted above everything! “Honestly, Nick, could you not say something a bit more flowery? I know love was never expected, but could you not pretend that I caught your fancy?” She strived for a light tone though her heart was breaking.
He chuckled. “No pretending needed. I am the most fortunate of men to have secured the hand of the beautiful Lady Fiona Hollingsworth. Have I not told you many times before how lovely I find you?”
Never with such brittle detachment before. He used to speak to her with warmth.
Before Hortense.
As they danced she saw the Duchess of Glastonbury watching them, a look of displeasure on her pretty face. It was, Fiona knew, the same look that would be on her own face were she watching her husband dance with Hortense.
She also saw Lord and Lady Warwick glide across the dance floor and thought she had never seen two people so much in love. A pang of jealousy stabbed at her. If only Nick loved me as Warwick loves his Maggie.
“Does Verity not look lovely?” she asked.
“Never lovelier.”
“Are you satisfied with how well she’s taken?”
He held Fiona at some distance and peered into her eyes. “The only thing that will satisfy me is her finding a man who will return her love. I don’t care about the man’s pedigree, and I distinctly dislike Sir Reginald Balfour.”
At least she and Nick were in agreement on the ineligibility of Sir Reginald. “I don’t recall Verity ever mentioning love.”
His lips were a grim line. “Everyone longs for love.”
Dear God! Nick was in love with Hortense! “You’ve . . . you’ve never told me you felt that way before.”
“You obviously weren’t looking for love when you expressed your desire to marry me.”
If only she had known then what she knew now, known how passionately she would come to love this man she married. If only they could go back and start over again. If only they could make this a real marriage.
Later that night Warwick asked her to stand up with him. No sooner had they reached the dance floor than Nick asked the Duchess of Glastonbury to be his dance partner. As Fiona watched Nick’s smiling face bent to Hortense’s, tears gathered in her eyes.
“Fiona, are you unwell?” Warwick demanded, his brows lowered, his hand softly stroking her pale cheek.
“If you must know,” she said, “I’m distressed over Randy’s absence.” A lie was better than the bitter truth of her marriage’s failure.
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“No. He wasn’t home the day I went to see him. I left an invitation for Miss Peabody’s and Miss Birmingham’s ball, but he obviously chose to ignore it.”
Warwick squeezed her hand, smiling tenderly at her. “Reserve judgment until you talk with him.”
“I don’t think Randy wishes to talk with me.”
“You’re wrong,” Warwick said as the dance came to an end and he restored her to her glum husband.
Anyone here would think tonight’s ball a great success, but Fiona had never felt so low. She had hoped that when Randy received the invitation, he would come because of tender feelings for his only sister. Obviously she did not elicit tender feelings. In anyone. Her brother did not want her companionship and her husband did not want her body. She was an utter failure.
Verity had never danced so much, never been in so crowded a ballroom, never been so hot. She looked around to make sure no one was watching her, then she slipped away from the ballroom and down a flight of stairs to a pair of French doors that gave onto a second-floor balcony overlooking Piccadilly.
She eased open the door and slid onto the balcony, closing the door behind her. The cool night air felt so good on her scorching flesh. As her hands coiled over the top of the balustrade, she drew in a breath and thought about her come-out. Never would she have believed that she would be so wildly sought after. Even though she knew it was her late father’s fortune that had assured her success, she was stunned that she never sat out a single set, never lacked for morning callers a single day since attending her first assembly. There were at least a dozen gentlemen here tonight who would think themselves blessed were she to bestow her affections upon them.
A pity He was not one of them. Even though she knew how fruitless it was to pine over a love that could never be, she had allowed herself to hope that her lone horseman would come tonight. She had kept her eye peeled to the door throughout the evening, watching for him, even though she had known he wouldn’t come.
She found herself wondering if he had wanted to find her, wanted to learn her identity.
Then she would chastise herself. He was a nobleman. And noblemen did not waste their eligibility upon unstylish daughters of Cits!
The doorknob turned behind her, and the door cracked open. Startled, she spun around. And faced Sir Reginald Balfour.
“My poor Miss Birmingham,” he said, a look of concern on his face. “Wretchedly hot in the ballroom, is it not?”
“Yes, it is!”
He moved closer. Far too close to her way of thinking. “I must confess,” he said in a husky voice, “I was devilishly glad to have the opportunity to be alone with you.”
Uh-oh. She smiled brightly at him. They were nose to nose. “Actually, I was just leaving. It wouldn’t do for the honoree not to be present at her own ball.” She lurched for the door.
His arm shot out to block her.
Scowling, she tried to shove through.
Then, with bruising strength, he pulled her to him. His face was only an inch away from hers, so close she could smell the liquor on his breath. “You, my dearest Verity, must know how I feel about you. I shan’t be able to sleep until I know you’ll be mine.”
She jerked away. “If you’re asking me to marry you, sir, I must decline. Now, please let go of me,” she said through gritted teeth.
His hands dug into the flesh at the top of her arms, and his mouth swooped down to claim hers.
She twisted and groaned but could not break free from his crushing mouth. Then she remembered Nick’s advice on thwarting unwelcome advances.
And she kneed him in the groin.
He doubled over, cursing her with the most vile language she had ever heard as she rushed back to the crowded ballroom.
His house was greatly admired. His sister was a great success. His wife was the most beautiful woman in attendance. He himself seemed to have gained approval from the ton. What should have been one of the proudest nights of Nick’s life, however, had turned into one of his darkest moments when he watched his wife in Warwick’s arms. How could the man have looked down at Fiona with such devotion shining on his face in front of his own countess? How could he be possessed of such gall that he would tenderly stroke the lovely face of another man’s wife in front of some two hundred people?
It was difficult for Nick to behave the gentleman when he so desperately wanted to call Warwick out. It was even more difficult to flick aside his own bruised pride and happily escort his wife into supper later that evening. How could he act as if nothing had changed, as if he were proud of Fiona when he contemplated strangling her?
But Nick was a gentleman. He refused to hold either himself or his wife up to public ridicule. He would have to deal with the matter of her infidelity privately.
After he assisted his wife to a seat at the
foot of the supper table, he took his own place at the head of the table. To his right sat the Duchess of Glastonbury, the highest ranking person in attendance. Since marrying Fiona he had learned that attendees at a dinner party entered the dining room and sat at the table in accordance with their rank, an elitist practice Nick must accept even though he did not approve of it.
Another practice of the ton he did not approve of was the preponderance of—and acceptance of—extramarital affairs. His gaze flicked to the duchess, resplendent in a shimmering copper-colored gown that complemented her fiery hair. Despite her rank, wealth, and beauty, he pitied the young woman, who was the same age as Fiona. Her hunger for rank and wealth had stripped her of the most important thing in life: love. Now, married to an octogenarian duke, the duchess so longed for a younger man to warm her bed that she had lost all sense of pride, had brazenly offered herself to Nick that night while they were waltzing.
“I detect a cooling in your marriage,” the duchess had murmured while they danced.
“You detect wrong,” he said in a stern voice.
“A pity,” she exclaimed. “However, my dearest Mr. Birmingham, should you ever feel the need for a romantic tryst, I would be a most willing participant.”
“I doubt that your husband would approve.”
“My husband knows of my . . . indiscretions. Were he capable of seeing to my needs—which I assure you he’s not—I would not have to seek pleasure elsewhere.”
“Oh come now, your grace, not ever?” he said, his voice hitched with humor, his eyes sparkling devilishly.
Smiling, she swatted him with her fan. “You naughty man!”
A few minutes after sitting at the supper table, the duchess turned to Nick and spoke in a low voice. “I’ve been watching Lady Warwick and Lady Fiona, and I do believe Fiona the loveliest. I can’t imagine why Warwick would have preferred the darker lady when he could have had the fair Fiona.” She gazed at Nick from beneath lowered lashes. “I daresay Warwick regrets his decision.”
