Leslie Lafoy (12 page)

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Six long strides took Ian across the foyer and to the open parlor doors. Not bothering to announce himself with a knock, he simply stepped across the threshold. A slim, golden angel stood gazing silently into the fire, her gloved hands clasped demurely before her. She started and turned as he entered, but said nothing as her gaze quickly swept the length of him in critical appraisal. The firelight at her back, illuminating her pale curls and burnishing her silhouette in golden bronze light … Ian swallowed and dragged a breath into lungs that had suddenly become painfully tight. Jesus, she became more beautiful every time he saw her. Her eyes were such a bright and clear shade of green and her pretty pink lips … They’d be a delight to kiss. So soft and yielding.

Ian willed his awareness away from temptation and along necessary paths. Remaining where he stood by the doors, he softly cleared his throat, and began by saying, “Thank you for calling today, Lady Fiona.” He glanced over at her sister, dipped his chin in acknowledgment and added, “And you, Lady Ryland.”

Fiona squared her shoulders. “It remains to be seen as to whether we can truthfully call the occasion a pleasure.”

The cool distance, the reserve of her response didn’t deter him; in fact, given the circumstances, it seemed only right. Ian nodded and faced the situation squarely. “I sincerely apologize for my conduct last night, Lady Fiona. I won’t attempt to offer an explanation or an excuse. There are none sufficient to absolve me of my lack of good judgment.”

“True. But I’d like to hear an explanation anyway. However paltry and flimsy it may be.”

Her words, though calmly and evenly spoken, struck him with the force of a well-aimed, well-thrown brick. He blinked in shock, slowly realizing that her eyes were bright with fiery indignation. The resolute angle of her chin, her tightly laced fingers … Good God Almighty. He’d never guessed that she possessed such strength.

He managed a shallow breath on which to reply, “As I said, there are no adequate explanations to excuse my behavior last night. The fault is entirely mine.”

At the edge of his awareness he saw Lady Ryland roll her eyes, heard her mutter something about stupidity and gallantry. Lady Fiona didn’t give him the time to ponder it.

“Your Grace,” she said, taking a step toward him, “I have never in my life met a man as presumptive, insensitive and self-centered as you are. And to put it bluntly, despite your misguided attempt to shield Aunt Jane from any sort of culpability, what I’ve seen of your behavior so far doesn’t speak well of either your honor or your character. Which in turn leads me to believe that we would
not
be the least bit suitable for a life together.”

Ian stood in silent, awed amazement before the quiet fierceness of her anger.

“Know this, Ian Cabott,” she added. “Write it in blood and carve it in stone. I refuse to be nothing more than a glorified housekeeper and a brood mare for any man. I won’t tolerate a husband who cavorts with any and every woman willing to lift her skirts for him. And if you think that offering me houses and obscenely huge annual allowances is going to make me deaf, dumb, blind, and sweetly accepting, you can very well think again.”

To be honest, he’d thought that perfectly possible at one point. Just yesterday, in fact. But today was a new day that clearly required him to adjust his thinking on a great number of things. He cocked a brow, wondering just how much ground he could afford to give. There was a fine line between agreeing to a marital partnership of relative equals and surrendering control of his entire life to the whims of a female.

“I can understand that you need time to ponder your decision,” she said, stepping to the side and obviously preparing to leave.

Ian stepped as well, blocking her path as he said, “No more time than I’ve already had, Lady Fiona. If you’ll accept my apology for last night and give me a chance to prove that I’m not nearly the faithless, mean-spirited beast you believe me to be, I’ll promise that you’ll never again have cause to doubt either my fidelity to you or my devotion to your happiness.”

She met his gaze and for a long moment considered him in silence. Finally, slowly and warily, she nodded. Knowing that his victory was a small one and that it could well fade to nothing if she had time to reflect in solitude, Ian smiled, bowed, and said, “Thank you, Lady Fiona. Would you like to see the rest of what I hope will be our London home together?”

Her eyes went wide and he watched her struggle to swallow. Her delicate lips parted and her breasts rose and fell in quick cadence.

“We’d love to,” Lady Ryland chirped from over in her corner of the parlor.

Chapter Seven

The only joy she’d found, fleeting as it was, had been in the faces of the household staff who’d been quickly assembled in the foyer. She’d been mortified when Ian had introduced her as the woman he hoped to be the new duchess, but the gasps from his servants had been ones of delight. Their smiles had been wide, and she’d felt truly welcomed as Mrs. Pittman, the tiny, grandmotherly-looking housekeeper, had introduced each member of the sizable staff in turn, detailing their length of service and giving her a quick summary of their respective responsibilities to Ian and his estate. By the time the introductions were done and everyone had either bobbed a curtsy or bowed to her, her mind was mush, capable only of whispering, over and over again, that they were all kind people and they would help her.

She’d cast a quick plea at Carrie as Ian had begun the tour of the public rooms of his monstrous dwelling, but Carrie’s analytical, designing mind was so immersed in the new surroundings that she was absolutely oblivious to anything and anyone else. Initially, she’d felt betrayed by Carrie’s absorption, but as the tour had progressed, she’d found herself more and more grateful for it. Carrie had asked a thousand questions and
oohed
and
aahed
every time they’d turned a corner or opened a door. Her sister’s obvious interest and lively conversation with Ian had made her own silence both less noticeable and considerably less awkward.

“I hope that you’ll feel free to make any changes you’d like,” Ian said as they passed side by side through the open double doors of the drawing room, Carrie gliding silently—for once—in their wake.

“There are all kinds of fine rugs and furnishings in storage. Mostly things my grandfather and father collected over the course of their lives. If you’d like to see them, Mrs. Pittman will show you where they’re kept and have them brought out for inspection. All you have to do is ask,” he continued as they came to a halt in the center of the large, chilly room. Carrie moved past them toward a pair of leaded glass French doors that led out into the gardens.

“If there’s anything you don’t like at all,” Ian went on, “just send it out to auction and replace it with whatever it is that you do want. There’s nothing in this house that I have any particular feelings about one way or the other. Well, except for my surgery and office,” he added with a grin. “I would appreciate it if you’d ask me about things in there before you have them hauled off.”

“Of course,” she said, with a nod of acknowledgment. How could she tell him that she was completely overwhelmed? That she thought it would be impossible to turn this cold, uninviting mansion into a warm and welcoming home? There was absolutely no way to kindly or gently say that the only hope she saw was in selling every stick of furniture, every piece of bric-a-brac, before knocking the whole thing down and building a new house.

“I’m sure I’ll eventually think of some changes I’d like to make,” she added diplomatically. “Assuming, of course, that I eventually become the mistress of all I survey. And even then, I’ll take time to see how your household functions and discuss any changes with you first.”

“It’s our household,” Ian corrected. “You don’t have to ask for my approval for anything. I trust your good judgment and good taste.”

While she smiled and nodded in acceptance, Ian was keenly aware that the expression didn’t reach her eyes. As he had been several times in the course of their tour, he was again struck by how terribly out of place she seemed in the house. At first he’d thought it was simply a matter of the masculine colors of his inherited decor being at complete odds with her feminine grace and elegance and the huge rooms making her seem even smaller than she was. But while those possibilities might well have been part of it, he sensed that there was considerably more. What it could be, though …

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace.”

He turned from Fiona and his musings to find Rowan standing in the open doorway of the drawing room. Ian cocked a brow in silent inquiry.

“Mr. O’Connor has arrived, Your Grace. He says the matter is urgent and requires your immediate attention. I have placed him in your study.”

O’Connor wasn’t a man given to either exaggeration or panic. If he required Ian’s time, then the matter was important enough to stop what he was doing and take care of it. “Please tell him I’ll join him directly, Rowan. And when you’ve delivered that message, please instruct Cook to prepare some tea for Lady Ryland and Lady Fiona.”

“A messenger has arrived for Lady Ryland, as well,” Rowan replied.

“Oh?” Carrie said, turning from her inspection of the gardens.

Rowan bowed slightly. “From His Grace, your husband. He asked that you be reminded that the interviews for the nursery maid were scheduled for this afternoon, Your Grace.”

“I had completely forgotten,” Carrie exclaimed, her surprise sounding something less than completely genuine to Fiona’s ears. “Thank you, Rowan,” she added as she came to Fiona’s side. “And thank you, Ian, for the tour of your home. I’ve very much enjoyed it.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Lady Ryland. Please feel free to return any time you’d like.”

Fiona didn’t have to work up a smile; her relief was completely real. “Yes, thank you, Your Grace. Perhaps we can stay for tea next time.”

Carrie put an arm around Fiona’s shoulder and gave her a quick hug, saying, “Just because I’m going, doesn’t mean you have to, Fiona, dear. In broad daylight with a bustling household staff and a formal engagement just weeks away, the requirements of propriety can be stretched a bit.”

A protest was on the tip of her tongue when she saw the resolution in her sister’s eyes. She and Simone called it The Look. Part flint, part love, all determination, it wordlessly said that Carrie had set her mind on a course and no amount of pleading, negotiating or arguing was going to alter it. Fiona had no idea why Caroline had decided she should stay, but she knew better than to make a scene about it. Later, when she finally escaped and made her way home, though …

Carrie smiled sweetly in silent victory, kissed her cheek, said, “Enjoy your afternoon,” and then breezed toward the door without so much as a backward glance of regret or reassurance.

Rowan cleared his throat. “Would Your Ladyship prefer to take your refreshment in the drawing room or the dining room?”

Trapped, abandoned, Fiona mentally compared the distance of the two rooms from the kitchen and opted to inconvenience the staff as little as possible. “The dining room, if you would please,” she replied.

“As you wish, Lady Fiona.” He bowed again and departed.

Ian turned to her. “I’m sorry to have to leave you so abruptly and in the middle of our tour. I’ll try to make quick work of whatever concerns and questions O’Connor has.”

“It’s quite all right,” she hurried to assure him. “I understand how matters can arise unexpectedly and demand attention. Please take all the time you need and don’t be concerned about me. I’ll contemplate possible renovations until you return.”
Either that or arson,
she silently added.

He seemed to want to say something, but after a moment he simply nodded, turned and left her alone in the opulently furnished and cheerless drawing room to contemplate how her day had gone so utterly and completely wrong.

Staring down at the black-and-gold Persian carpet, Fiona shook her head in dismay. She’d come here intending to play the part of a demure, deeply wounded maid, to let him see what a genteel and gentle lady she was and make him feel like a worm for being unfaithful. But, as was the way with most lies and false pretenses, it had all fallen apart. He’d walked into the parlor looking as though he were prepared to take yet another beating and her heart had twisted and melted. Angry at herself for being so weak, she’d been anything but demure, genteel, or gentle.

And then, despite having all but picked up the fireplace poker and lopped off his head, he’d not only apologized, but groveled. All right, he’d groveled in a dignified way, but it was still a surrender. And in acceding to every single one of her demands, he’d left her with no choice except to be gracious in victory and allow him a chance to redeem himself.

From there … Once her plan had begun to ravel, it had just kept on unwinding. Carrie had accepted his invitation to tour the house, ending any possibility of a quick retreat. The staff assumed she’d accepted the duke’s proposal and would soon be their mistress. In encouraging her to make any changes she wanted to in his house, Ian had repeatedly presumed that she would eventually accept. Hell and damnation. Carrie assumed it, too, or she wouldn’t have left her here alone.

Fiona lifted her head and squared her shoulders. Everyone could make all the assumptions they wanted to. She wasn’t of a mind to do the same. She might have verbally accepted Ian’s proposal but, until she signed the settlement papers, nothing was official and she wasn’t legally bound to go through with marrying him. And she wasn’t going to sign anything until Ian Cabott had proven himself capable of being a decent and genuinely caring husband.

*   *   *

Fiona sat alone in what amounted to a hallway, sipped her tea, and looked down the length of the dining room table made of what she thought might be rosewood. Whatever the wood was, it had been polished to a mirror finish. There were twenty-four chairs—thirty-six if she counted the ones that were pushed up against the walls. Good Lord, if she and Ian ever dined in this cave alone, the only way they could have a conversation would be by having servants running back and forth between them with written messages.