With her shoulders nearly bared and her hair piled loosely in a Psyche knot, the long grace of her neck begged for a man’s lips. Once upon a time, Aylesbury would have reviled himself for allowing even a trace of desire to stir his body.
Or his mind.
Because even while forsaking his unthinkable desire to have her lithe, athletic body beneath his, to have her long legs wrapped around his hips, he had always—quite simply—liked her.
A smile kicked up the corner of his mouth and Aylesbury had to fight what might have been his first urge to truly smile in almost two years. His heart, which had done little more than sustain his life in all that time, warmed with pleasure even when her olive-green gaze narrowed with rage as he lifted his glass in a silent salute.
God, he was still alive, wasn’t he? He had almost begun to doubt it.
Fiona spun about and stalked out of the room in silence though he thought he could hear her internal screech of fury screaming in his ears. There was something oddly heartening about the thought.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” Setting his glass aside, he bowed politely to his hostess and host and followed her from the room.
* * *
“Fiona!”
Déjà vu between this night and that afternoon not long past struck Fiona then. Both times she had run from him, from his presence like a coward when she considered herself anything but. It had to end. This madness of avoidance, when he seemed to be everywhere she turned, was unlike her. Perhaps it was better to just lay the matter to rest at last.
Slowing to a halt, he turned to face Aylesbury, pleased that her position on the stairs allowed her to look down on him regally as she descended once more. “Is there something you needed, Lord Aylesbury?”
“I wanted to speak to you.”
“Whatever about?” she asked airily. “You needn’t worry your head over my feelings, Lord Aylesbury. You were right. It was just a foolhardy infatuation. A girlish fascination with a clever wit and ready smile. Since those qualities are no longer in evidence, any reason I had to be enamored of you years ago is gone. Poof.” She waved a hand through the air dismissively. “A childish whim disappeared into a foggy mist.”
Aylesbury frowned at that, not certain what to believe. Though it made sense that a young girl would have been infatuated with his perpetual charm and flirtation, some part of him believed more fully what she had said before. As if he had known the truth all along.
“Fiona…”
“It’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?” she interrupted before he could ask any more questions. “You left Edinburgh to spare me and yourself any more uncomfortable situations.”
“That is not why I left Edinburgh.”
Another wave of her hand dismissed the true reason. “Whatever whim struck you then…”
“It wasn’t a whim. It was…”
Reaching the bottom stair once more, Fiona held up a hand to cut him off. “Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter any longer. I’ve moved on from what happened and come to terms with it. I don’t need you changing the facts now.”
His brows snapped together. “You don’t even know them.”
“Neither did you and that seemed to suit you just fine.”
“Dash it all! You are still the single most obstinate woman I’ve ever known!” He ran a hand through his short locks.
Fiona laughed shortly. “Woman? I thought I was nothing more than a pesky child?”
She’d have him gnashing his teeth before long. Aylesbury glared at her, perched on the last step as if those five inches let her retain some superiority over him. All it did was allow him to look her straight in the eye, to have that green fire spit at him directly and enflame him all the more.
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“On the contrary, I’m trying to let you go,” she shot back, leaning toward him. “If only you would take the hint.”
“Take the hint? Bugger it, Fiona!” Aylesbury ground out, aware that just below eye level her breasts were heaving against that crimson silk with every breath she took. Her pulse beating rapidly down the length of her neck. He could feel the heat of her fury radiating off of her.
“Good Lord, Harry! What else is there t—”
His mouth, the shape and feel of his kiss were exactly how she remembered them. Full of frustration, yes, and perhaps a bit of anger. But passion as well. A moan built up inside of her as his lips parted hers and his tongue lashed out to ravish hers, teasing and tempting before he jerked his head away with a low curse.
“Damn, but this isn’t what I wanted!”
Fiona pressed her lips tightly together, willing the tingle away as his words lashed at her contrary heart whipping the irritation away. “No, of course, it is not.”
He swore again, grasping her hand before she could slip out of reach once more. “Blast it, Fiona, that is not what I meant. In fact, it is far more simple than that.”
“You are making no sense.”
“Then for once let me explain. I always imagined that if I were going to kiss you again—yes, I did imagine it—that it would not be like before, rash and impulsive. And yet, you provoked me into doing just that.”
Staring resolutely away from Aylesbury’s handsome face, Fiona willed her heart into an arctic chill but as always it warmed like a tropical summer under his melting gaze. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to be charmed by him again, to like him…to love him once more.
She clenched her jaw, working up the resolve to turn away from him yet again. But her feet did not move nor could she bite back the trembling question that came unbidden to her lips. For she just had to know.
“Wh–what did you imagine?”
Aylesbury stroked her chin, tilting her chin up until her eyes met his. He was so beautiful; it tore at her soul just to meet his gaze.
“I thought it might be more like this.” His knuckles traced a slow path down her cheeks before his fingers unfurled along her jaw.
Fiona quivered helplessly at the tender caress, her heart already racing just as it had the first day they had met. She fortified herself against it, refusing to lean into him, to find pleasure in his touch.
With deliberate restraint that tempted far more than his more forceful execution, he bent his head to hers. Aylesbury’s lips brushing like a whisper across hers once, twice, fanning the flames gently rather than feeding the molten fury as if he were trying to coax a reluctant animal out of a corner when all the beast within her wanted to do was leap into his arms.
His lips played over hers, teasing, toying. His tongue lightly tracing her lower lip before plunging in for a swift parry with hers. Feint. Retreat. Urging Fiona to take the offensive, to advance and claim for her own.
Strong arms banded around her waist, crushing her against his broad chest as he lifted her from the step and turned with her in his embrace. Her arms lifted of their own accord and wrapped around his neck as pinned her against the wall. His lips settled more firmly over hers, attacking, plundering, demanding surrender.
With a low moan, she was ready to give it to him. Her always uncontrollable but now unwelcome desire for him was unchanged even after all this time. The knowledge left her feeling vulnerable. Then angry…with herself more than him.
Fiona brutally quashed the impulse to lose herself in his arms and in his kiss until the rest of the world and even the past was forgotten. But she couldn’t do this again, couldn’t allow herself to love him again.
She was stupid! So stupid to invite heartache once more. She struggled out of his tight embrace with a desperate twist. Her feet hardly hit the ground before her hand snapped out, her palm connecting across his cheek with a crack of denial…though to him or her own longings, Fiona wasn’t sure.
She looked up at him in shock over her violent reaction, seeing the inviting warmth that had lit his eyes fade away, but not to anger, simply disbelief. Still there was the tenderness that scored her heart. Lifting a hand to her trembling
lips, she took a step back and then another, fortifying herself against his undeniable appeal.
Knowing even as she turned away from him that it might already be too late.
“Damn you, Harry. You’re ruining everything. Please, just leave me alone.”
Chapter 13
Richard says I must stop hanging about Harry so much. That I will make him uncomfortable! Cheers, I say. Why should he be any more comfortable than I?
~From the diary of Lady Fiona MacKintosh—Mar 1893
I Phillips Ltd.
94 Regent Street
London, England
“Thank you, Mr. Phillips, and again, I do apologize for the rush.” Fiona offered a smile to the tailor as he courteously held the door to his shop open for her. “The rules of apparel are ever-changing at the Royal Wimbledon and at the Commons course and I did want to take advantage of the new concessions to the lady’s uniform in time for the Open.”
“It is my honor, my lady,” Phillips told her. “I am most appreciative of your business. The ensemble will be quite perfect for you.”
“And you’re certain that I will have it before the tournament in two weeks’ time?”
The tailor nodded. “It will be on time, my lady. I promise.”
The bell sounded and dulled as the door closed behind Fiona. Regent Street was buzzing around her, shoppers going every which way about their business. Unfortunately, the maid who had accompanied her was nowhere in sight. No, there she was, she spotted her a street away and frowned. The silly girl was flirtatiously twisting a curl around her finger and smiling coyly up at the burly man hovering over her. She would have to speak to Hobbes about the maid’s lax behavior.
Turning to go after her, she was caught by the arm as she passed an alley and turned in indignation to soundly scold the ruffian who would manhandle her so.
“Hello, darling!”
“Lord Ramsay, you gave me a start!” she berated him. “I was about to beat you over the head with my parasol. Perhaps I might yet. What are you doing here?”
Ramsay chuckled. “Other than surprising you, you mean? Did you get my flowers?”
She nodded. In fact, she had several deliveries that morning. From Temple, a bouquet of white and scarlet zinnias for goodness and constancy with some blue violets for faithfulness mixed in. It had been a sweet, friendly gesture. On the other hand, Aylesbury had sent an enormous arrangement of yellow roses and azaleas which in the language of flowers meant forgive and forget, and temperance. She didn’t know whom he thought was in self-denial, him or her.
Either that or he didn’t know the meaning of the flower but Fiona somehow thought he had done it on purpose. Had Ramsay done the same, or was he ignorant of the fact that his small bouquet of rosebay rhododendron warned the receiver to beware? Most likely he hadn’t thought much of it at all.
“I did, thank you,” she said at last, looking up at him and noticing the cut across the bridge of his nose and a black eye.
With a roll of his eyes, Ramsay rubbed a finger lightly across the cut at the bridge of his nose. “I went to find your brother at his dammed club since that butler of yours wouldn’t let me in, I might add. I petitioned him for your hand and he hit me!”
With a wince, she recalled Eve mentioning that Ramsay had done just that. “What were you thinking? I asked you not to do that at all, did I not? You shouldn’t have pressed the issue when I had already said that I would wait out the season as Francis asked.”
He scoffed at that. “All I hear from you is Francis this. Francis that. What about me? Am I just to wait out the season while you forget me? Every time I turn about, you are there with another man. Who was that chap you went riding with?”
“Lord Temple is just a friend,” Fiona assured him, taken aback by his jealous display. “A friend of the family.”
“Yes, he looked very friendly,” he offered snidely. “And the other one?”
She blinked. “Other one? You mean at the park last week? You were there?”
“Yes, hoping for a moment with you!” he said, then sighed dramatically. “Ah, Fiona, don’t you remember all the good times we were having before you left Scotland? I still think I can best you on that seventh hole on the New Course one of these days. Imagine how lovely it would be to play every day. We could do anything you want.”
When he said it like that, it all sounded quite delightful. He offered a future on her terms. Control, when lately Fiona felt she were losing the reins of her own life.
“We could begin straight away…”
The rest of his unspoken request was simple enough to assume and Fiona was hard put not to sigh impatiently. “Lord Ramsay, please do not.”
The question thankfully remained unasked. “Can I at least offer you a ride home?”
“That’s very kind, but I have a carriage of my own waiting up the street,” she said. “Perhaps you would like to ride with me and come in and visit with my family for a while?”
“I don’t think we are ready yet for polite conversation,” he said, fingering his nose once more. “I will just see you another time then.”
Fiona nodded and watched as he turned and walked away. In a way she felt bad for putting him off so. Her rejections had wrought an undeniable rift in the pleasing companionship that had been a hallmark of their interactions but his repeated insistence that she run off with him willy-nilly and leave an unseemly hullaballoo in their wake was just as displeasing to her.
The issue would need to be addressed if she were to continue to hold him as her primary avenue of escape, as Ilona put it. Especially when there seemed to be others who might be willing to take his place.
With a sniff, Fiona turned on her heel, determined to find her maid and be on her way only to walk straight in to a broad male chest.
“Oh!” she cried, scrambling to catch her parasol and reticule before they hit the muddy walk. “Blast it!”
“Easy there.” With a low chuckle, Aylesbury steadied her with a hand under her elbow, still managing to catch her reticule by the chain. It dangled from one finger a foot above the ground. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She snorted at that. His presence on a random street in London on a Thursday afternoon was no more startling than his appearance at every event she attended, every outing she went on. He infuriated her even more by being entirely too amiable as well and not even mentioning the hard slap she had delivered.
Contrary to her wishes, Harry had not left her alone. Instead he seemed determined to do quite the opposite and the women in her family were in collusion with him. It hadn’t taken her long to realize her jest that he was a far better choice than Ramsay in her family’s eyes wasn’t far off and subtlety wasn’t even a factor in their scheme to throw them together. Eve invited him to dinner again. Moira, to share their box at the theater. Whether she was riding with Moira, bicycling with Temple or punting on the bloody Thames, he was there. There, offering compliments and pretty words, smiling in that way he had as if being so bloody nice could wash away the past.
Conner had even offered to have him round out their foursome for a round of golf at Wimbledon Commons, the course played by the Royal Wimbledon Golf Club where the British Ladies Open Championship would soon be held. Fiona had wanted to familiarize herself with the nine-hole course the ladies played on and hadn’t been at all happy to have Aylesbury there to serve as a distraction. Admittedly, he had looked rather fine in his knickers, plaid tweed jacket and cap and even impressed her by playing well, telling her it was not his first time.
It was his performance on the links that had softened her enough to go against her better judgment and actually converse with him normally—or as normally as a sordid past such as theirs would allow. They had argued over Miss Pearson’s introduction of a handicap, how it evened the playing field for groups of variable skill sets and the qualities of the Commons course recently designed by Tom Dunn when compared to her beloved St. Andrews.
That flash of amiability did not m
ean she was happy to see him.
“Well, you did startle me! You nearly made me ruin my favorite parasol!”
Aylesbury eyed the frilly concoction with interest. The parasol was an elegant ivory silk affair reduced to frivolity by the overabundance of black gauze lace hanging from the edges. Cleverly done though, with a crook added at the peak of the dome allowing it to be carried, in all its glory, upright so that the lace hung below the silk as intended rather than draping over it as it would being carried upside down.
It occurred to him then that all of the parasols he had seen her with were constructed the same way and always carried like a walking stick instead of over her head. A decoration, that was all. And very dissimilar the simple styling of her walking suit. The ivory silk of her jacket bore a faint black pinstripe, fitting in well-tailored lines from her shoulders, nipping in at the waist with a trio of jet buttons before falling smoothly over her hips to be carried out by the matching skirt in straight lines to the ground. Other than the black buttons, some black cording and a cameo at the throat of her high-necked blouse, there was nothing about her that screamed the femininity of that parasol. Nor the heavily beaded and fringed black reticule, he noted as he handed it back to her.
There was something of a sensualist hiding beneath Fiona’s severe exterior. In more than one aspect, he imagined. The revelation was a tease to discover what else might lie beneath; a lure Aylesbury was all too willing to fall prey to.
“What are you doing here? Are you following me?”
“Not at all,” he assured her with a broad smile, but did indeed follow as she pivoted abruptly around him. Employing the frivolous parasol jauntily with each brisk step, Fiona continued down the walk. “I was just across the way at my haberdashers selecting a new straw boater for summer. What has you out?” He looked back at the plank hanging over Phillips’ door. “A new habit?”
“No.” Aylesbury thought that might be all the response he was going to be given until Fiona relented with a sigh. “I was being fitted for a new golfing suit. The ladies’ association has relaxed the rules on skirt length. Hems can be higher and the cut narrower for better motion in the swing.” Snapping her jaw shut, she glanced up at him from beneath the brim of her—now that he noticed—decidedly feminine hat of the same ivory silk and that black gauze gathered about the brim. She said nothing until his eyes left the hat to meet hers, though she looked away just as he did so. “I thought I told you to leave me alone. Please stop smiling at me, my lord; you’re looking far too pleased with yourself.”
All You Could Ask For Page 129
