by Cheryl Bolen
His stomach churned and his heart drummed as he mounted the stairs to the third-floor nursery. Had Fiona thought herself a deserted wife? Had, God forbid, she returned to Warwick’s arms? He had but to ask her guards to know if she had met with Warwick. But he would not do that.
Dazed by his own grief, he eased open the door to the nursery.
“Papa!” a smiling Emmie said as she flew into his arms.
He gathered her close and just held her. He loved the feel of her, the sweet smell of her.
Her little arms tightened around him. “I’m ever so glad you’ve come back. I was so afraid you’d not return. Like My Lady. Please, can we go to her?”
What if she doesn’t want to see us? But he could not voice such a suspicion to his daughter. “We’ll go there for Christmas,” he said firmly. And heaven help me if she sends me away.
“I wish My Lady were my real mother.”
“I do too, love. I do too.” And I wish she were my real wife. “Go get your hat and coat. We’re going to buy My Lady a fine Christmas present.”
It was Christmas Eve and Nick hadn’t come. She had been right. He was glad to be rid of her. Now he could channel all his attentions on his damnable mistress. Was she Hortense? Or could it be he was still seeing Diane Foley—regardless of what Trevor had told her?
Dear Trevor. She smiled to herself. At this very moment he had ensconced himself beneath a rug in front of the fire, where he sipped steaming tea and cursed the foul weather. He had begged off gathering the Christmas greenery, leaving that task to Fiona and Verity. Thank the heavens for Verity. The daily intercourse with her sister was the only thing that made leaving London—and Nick—almost tolerable. Almost.
“Here you are,” said Verity as she strolled into the morning room and set down her basket.
“What have you there?” Fiona asked.
“Presents for my loved ones.”
Fiona sighed. “A pity Nick and Emmie won’t be coming.”
Verity’s eyes softened as she peered at Fiona. “It’s not Christmas yet. I believe Nicky will come.”
“You’ve brought him a present?”
Nodding, Verity began to rifle through the basket. “I found him the nicest copy of Blake’s poems—to replace what he gave you last Christmas. I know how dearly he loved that book.”
As Fiona loved it. “Would that I’d thought of that. Not that I expect to see him, of course.” She shrugged. “It’s exceedingly difficult to find a gift for the man who has everything.”
“What about giving him a miniature of yourself ?”
Fiona gave a bitter laugh. “Miniatures are to be given to those who love you.” And Nick most certainly does not love me. She spoke with false brightness: “I must show you the miniature of my eldest brother. ’Tis one of my most treasured possessions.” She went to her reticule, withdrew the miniature of Randolph, and gave it a quick glance. “Of course he’s changed vastly since he had this made for Mama a decade ago.” She presented it to Verity.
Verity’s face went white as she took the oval in her shaking hands.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Fiona, who rushed to Verity’s side and settled her hand at Verity’s waist.
“This is y-y-your brother?”
“Randolph, Viscount Agar.” Fiona nodded. “I wish you could have met him.”
“I have.”
Fiona stared at her sister. Then everything became so clear. “You mean . . . he’s the man from the park?”
Verity nodded.
“Oh, my dear sister, this is wonderful! You’re the perfect wife for Randy. I must write to him straight away.”
Shaking her head, Verity grabbed Fiona’s arm. “You’ll do no such thing! Your brother has no more desire to marry a Cit’s daughter than he desires his sister be wed to a Cit.”
Fiona stiffened. Of course, Verity, in her infinite wisdom, was right. As much as Fiona loathed to admit it, her brother had proven to be a terrible snob—and such behavior was at tremendous odds with the person she had thought him to be.
She had no reply for Verity. In the span of a few seconds she had swung from an incredible high to a despairing low.
Verity handed the miniature back to Fiona.
“No, I want you to keep it. I think no other woman will ever love my brother as you do.”
Her cheeks were still red from gathering the berries and evergreens, and her hands were numb from the cold as she fastened sprigs of holly to the foggy windowpanes in the front parlor. Off in the misty distance she saw smoke curling from the chimneys at Great Acres. The sound of Verity’s and Trevor’s laughter came from the next room as they contrived to make a Christmas bough. Stephen was in the wood selecting a yule log. At least Fiona would not have to spend Christmas completely alone.
Her thoughts drifted to the last Christmas Eve. Her wedding day. She could not look fondly upon that day. Everything had been too new, too bizarre for her to have enjoyed that first day she had become the bride of a stranger. Would that she could have understood then how precious that time was. Looking back on it now she was filled with a bittersweet sadness. How fortunate she had been then to have Nick, to share his bed. She would give all that she had to be able to go back now and recapture that night.
She heard the clopping of a lone rider before she looked up to see him, her heart hammering wildly in expectation of seeing Nick. But Nick would not come on horseback. He would come in his fine carriage. Her hands stilled, her pulse pounding in her throat, as she watched the rider draw closer. It was difficult to tell who it was because he was so heavily bundled against the cold.
Even as he dismounted some twenty feet from her, she could not tell who it was. Not until he shook off his hat and she saw his blond hair. It was Randy!
She dropped her basket of holly, ran to the entry hall, and swung open the door to greet him with the broadest of smiles.
His eyes narrowed, he cocked his head to one side. “Forgive me?”
She answered by flowing into his arms.
After they had affectionately embraced, she rushed him to the front parlor. “Come stand beside the fire. You’ve got to be frozen. I shall be most vexed that you came by horseback on such a frigid day—but, of course, I’m too happy to be vexed.”
After taking off his damp greatcoat, he removed his gloves and waved his hands in front of the fire.
Turning somber, Fiona asked, “Did you know that she’s here?”
His brows squeezed together as he regarded his sister. “Who?”
“Miss Birmingham. The lady from Hyde Park. The woman you’re in love with.”
He whirled around, his eyes wide. “My lady’s . . . Miss Birmingham?”
“Indeed.”
He cursed himself under his breath. “Of course Birmingham’s sister would be all that is refined. A pity I’ve alienated her.”
Fiona’s voice softened. “Did you not tell her you didn’t care whose daughter she was?”
“I did.”
“Did you mean it?”
He did not answer for a moment. “I’ve done many stupid things—things that have hurt those I love most, but I want you to believe me when I tell you I had to hit the bottom before I could rise, before I could see how dearly my beastly pride has cost me. Rank no longer matters to me. All that matters is those I love.” He turned around and faced the fire again. A moment later, his voice thick with emotion, he asked, “Do you think she’ll have me?”
“You shall have to ask her yourself.” Fiona came to link her arm through his. “Come, allow me to introduce you to the woman you love.”
Despite that Nick had not come and that William was God-only-knows-where on the continent, Verity took comfort in Fiona and in the knowledge that Adam would be there that night to celebrate Christmas with his family. She found that she was rather enjoying Christmas Eve. It was much merrier than she had expected, especially given the bleakness of her own romantic future. Trevor Simpson and the delightful, if quite youthful, Stephen Ho
llingsworth contrived to keep a smile on her face throughout the making of the kissing bough.
One moment she was laughing at Stephen Hollingsworth; the next moment she was gazing up into the handsome face of his elder brother. She felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck her.
“Hey, brother,” Stephen exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were coming. By Jove, we could have ridden together. I arrived only today myself.”
But Randolph was not attuned to what his brother was saying. His eyes were on her. His blond locks were in disarray, his cheeks bright red from the cold, but Verity thought she had never seen a more handsome man.
“I wish he would have ridden with you,” Fiona said. “Our foolish brother came on horseback all the way from London in this wretched weather.” As Fiona gazed affectionately at Randolph, Verity thought she had not seen her sister so cheerful in a very long while. “Come, you must stand by the fire,” Fiona told him, “but first I must present Miss Birmingham to you.”
Verity’s chest pounded, and she was quite certain she was trembling like an octogenarian—and even more certain that Lord Agar’s presence had rendered her speechless. She showed a great interest in studying her lap as he strolled to her, took her hand, and brushed his lips across it.
Then she allowed herself to gaze into his eyes.
Had there been a hundred people in the room, she still would have felt as if she and her blond lord were the only two people on earth. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, then Lord Agar was as deeply affected by her as she was by him. She suddenly recalled Fiona’s talk about destiny. Nick was Fiona’s destiny; Lord Agar, Verity’s.
She was only vaguely aware that Fiona was asking Mr. Simpson and young Hollingsworth to assist her in hanging the kissing bough, but she was keenly aware of the door closing behind them, of being alone with Lord Agar.
“So you’re Miss Birmingham,” he said, still hovering over her chair.
“And you’re Lord Agar,” she said breathlessly.
He just stood there looking at her as if she had sprouted angel’s wings.
“You must be chilled to the very bone, my lord. You came on horseback?” Thank God she had not lost her voice.
He nodded. “Allow me to say that any discomfort I experienced was well worth the reward of seeing my sister—and seeing you once again, Miss Birmingham.”
She stood and moved toward the fire. “I beg that you come warm yourself by the fire.”
He came to stand next to her, zigzagging his hands in front of the flames. Neither of them spoke for a moment. A rush of memories flooded her. Memories of him.
“When you quit coming to the park,” he said solemnly, “it was one of the blackest times in my one and thirty years, but now I’m glad it happened.”
Her stomach dropped, her pulse accelerated. So he wasn’t her destiny after all. She wanted nothing so much as to flee the room ahead the torrent of tears that was threatening.
Then he continued. “For most of my life things have come easily for me. Until the past two years. My father died. Our family fortune was gone. Then I lost you.” He turned to her, his eyes full of warmth. “I had to reach rock bottom before I could climb back. That night at Vauxhall I was too proud to ask for your hand when I had nothing to give you in return. Now I realize my deuced pride has kept me from that which is most important to me—you. I’ve been tormented that you’d find someone else.”
Then he did still care! She melted into his arms and found his lips crushing against hers, his tongue thrusting, his arms tightening against her back. She exulted in his touch. Being here—in his arms—was her destiny. It was foolish to fight it.
After he had thoroughly kissed her, he settled her head against his chest and combed his fingers through her dark hair. “I can’t let you get away from me again. Not ever. I vow if you will but honor me with your affection I will work harder than any man has ever worked in order to be worthy of you, to restore the Agar properties.”
“Is this a proposal, then?”
He swallowed. “I have nothing to offer now, save my name and my heart.”
“Your heart is all I could ever desire. But . . . you know my family background—”
“Were you the spawn of a stable hand, I would still love you. I will go to my grave loving you. It’s I who am not good enough for you.”
“There’s no one else I could ever love.”
He held her at arm’s length and peered into her face. “Then will you honor me by becoming my wife?”
“I will.”
The next kiss was far more tender than the first. When it was finished, he asked, “Pray, my love, what is your Christian name?”
“Verity.”
He smiled. “Lovely. Just like you. I beg that you call me Randolph.”
Then they heard the sound of the front door opening. She placed her hand in his. “Come, my dearest, that must be my brother, Adam. We must tell all of them our good news.”
When they walked into the hall they saw it was Nicholas Birmingham, not Adam, who had arrived. His black eyes on the kissing bough over the door to the drawing room—and on Fiona who stood beneath it—he strode the length of the hall, then pulled his wife into his arms and settled his lips on hers.
Chapter 28
A man besotted over his mistress did not kiss his wife as Nick had just kissed her.
Still reeling from the powerful kiss, Fiona held Nick’s hand to ground herself. She was possessed of the most dismaying feeling that she had taken flight. Nick was here! Nick had kissed her with deep passion. Nick had chosen to spend his Christmas with her. He’d even brought Emmie. No Christmas could ever be so wonderful!
She was far too happy to wipe the smile from her face as she gazed up at the husband she adored.
“Happy anniversary, my love,” he said, squeezing her hand.
My love! Could any Christmas gift be more welcome? “I’m very touched that you remembered.” Then she turned her attention to Emmie, who stood in the hallway with one hand clutching the doll Fiona had given her, the other stuffed into the ermine muff. “Come, love, you must allow your mother and father to kiss you beneath the kissing bough,” Fiona said.
Squealing with delight, the child scurried to them and climbed up into Nick’s arms as both her parents kissed her rosy cheeks.
Fiona wished to savor this moment of complete happiness surrounded by all those she loved. Her gaze swept from Trevor to Stephen, then to Randy and Verity, who looked every bit as happy as she. She knew at once that Verity had accepted Randy’s offer. “Is there to be an announcement from my brother?” she asked, her smile impossible to dispel.
“Indeed there is,” Randolph said. He met Nick’s gaze. “I would be honored to have your blessing.”
Nick gave him a quizzing look.
“Your wonderful sister has done me the goodness of accepting my offer of marriage.”
“But . . .” Nick glanced from Verity to Randolph. He had not been aware that the two of them knew one another, but to look at them was to know that they were deeply in love. “You, of course, have my blessing. We can speak later, Agar.”
As the others collapsed around the betrothed couple, Nick watched Fiona stroke Emmie’s warm brown hair. “I’m so glad you’ve come, pet,” Fiona said. “You can help your mama decorate the windows with holly.”
“Could you give me a hand with a yule log?” Stephen asked Nick.
Nick’s eyes glistened with happiness. “It will be my pleasure.”
His heart swelled as he watched Emmie and Fiona hurry off to the front parlor.
Just as he lighted the log a few minutes later, Adam arrived with Nick’s mother. “Happy Christmas, Mother. Come sit near the fire where you can get warm,” he said with concern.
He could hear Fiona’s and Emmie’s laughter in the next room, and he glowed with the happiness of knowing he was surrounded by all his loved ones. Save one. His worry over William marred an otherwise perfect Christmas.
Once he he
lped the females wrap the bannister in a garland of fresh boxwood, all of them sat around the fire of the yule log and conversed amiably. Even his normally cranky mother was exceptionally hospitable. “I’ve brought the child a gift,” she said gruffly. Turning to Emmie, she said, “But you can’t open it until the Lord’s birthday tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Grandmama,” Emmie said in a wispy voice. “This is my favorite Christmas ever.”
As it was Nick’s. Even if William wasn’t here. Damn but he worried about the fellow.
It was just past ten when Trevor bid everyone good night. “I’m utterly fatigued.”
“But you’ve not left your cozy chair all day!” Fiona teased.
“You forget, my sweet,” Trevor answered, “how delicate my health is.”
After Simpson left, Nick could barely manage the wait until his own bedtime, when he could be alone with the woman he loved above everyone.
Taking the cue from Trevor, Adam rose and offered his hand to his mother. “I’d best get you back to Great Acres. It grows chillier by the hour.”
“And I need to show you to your room,” Fiona said to Randy.
Just when Adam opened the exterior door to leave, Nick looked up to see William standing there under the portico. “Happy Christmas!” William said.
Now, thought Nick, it will be a perfect Christmas. The happiest ever.
After Nick had spoken privately with William in his library and learned the details of his brother’s release, William left for Great Acres. And Nick mounted the stairs to Fiona’s room, drawing up to her door and tapping it with his knuckles.
“Nick?” she asked softly.
His heartbeat tripped. “Yes.”
“Come in.”
He stepped into the dark chamber that was lit by a yellow circle of light from a bedside candle, relieved that her maid had gone. His gaze traveled to his beautiful wife. She sat on the edge of the bed, covered only by her thin lawn nightshift. The room was cold, so cold that her fair skin twinged blue and her nipples pricked the soft gown. “I hoped you would come to me,” she said in a husky whisper.
