Leslie Lafoy (18 page)

“Isn’t Ian simply the most incredible figure on horseback?” Charlotte asked. “My papa always said that Ian was born in the saddle.”

Since it would seem odd not to, Fiona turned to watch Ian and his cousin return. The horses were lathered and had clearly earned their daily keep and feed. Fiona smiled, thinking that Harry looked as though he’d been dragged through a hedge or two. Ian, on the other hand, looked just as he had when he’d left, wearing the same dark and grim expression he had every morning, noon, and night, for the last week.

“Yes, he’s very handsome,” Fiona admitted, taking in the length of his legs, the width of his shoulders, the sureness of his hands on the reins. “And so very unfathomable.”

“Maybe you need to spend some time alone together, Fiona,” the girl suggested. “It’s been days since you have.”

Seven days to be precise. Not since they’d strolled to the end of the upstairs hall and discussed what to do about Charlotte. And to think that she’d walked away from that conversation feeling as though there was some real glimmer of hope that their relationship would blossom. She was such an optimist.

“Why don’t you ask him for some ideas about the garden and take a little walk? I’ll distract Lord Bettles for you.”

Fiona didn’t have a chance to either agree or disagree with the plan. Charlotte waved and called out to Harry, telling him that they’d baked lemon tarts while he’d been gone. Her heart in her throat, Fiona caught Ian’s gaze and smiled in silent welcome and invitation.

Ian’s pulse hammered through him at the sight of Fiona standing on the lawn, wisps of her golden hair escaping the confines of her bonnet, the breeze gently pressing the fabric of her silk skirt against the luscious curves of her hips and legs.

“Just shoot me,” he muttered under his breath. “And put me out of my misery.”

“Pardon?” Harry asked from beside him.

He was mercifully spared the need to reply by Charlotte’s raised hand and call for Harry’s attention. There was no such divine deliverance from his acute awareness of Fiona. Even as he narrowed the distance between them, he saw her gaze slide over him. God, the warm light in her eyes as she appraised the length of his legs, then visually caressed the width of his shoulders before coming to rest on his hands.

It took every bit of his self-control to swallow down the groan. He really should be getting better at ignoring her, he chastised himself. For God’s sake, he’d spent countless hours in the last week exercising restraint. He knew that she didn’t deliberately torment him, that she was completely unaware of how she affected him, but that didn’t alter the truth—or his response—one bit; Fiona Turnbridge was a natural born seductress. All Fiona had to do was be herself and walk into a room or pass at the edge of awareness and … He could only hope that she had no idea of how many times she’d been only a heartbeat away from being swept into his arms and soundly, thoroughly kissed.

And to think that he’d considered himself to be safe from her appeal to his instincts, that the injuries and abuse he’d suffered for his foolishness at the Miller-Sandses’ ball would prevent his mind from wandering along carnal paths long enough for him to change her opinion of him. If they handed out prizes for blind hope, he’d win one, hands down.

No, the plain truth was that he was never going to be battered and bruised enough to not know she was there. Hell, visions of holding Fiona and making love to her consumed him even when she wasn’t anywhere around. And there was no distracting himself, either. Riding didn’t tire him enough. The work on the hospital could only put off the fantasies for a few minutes at a time.

And sleeping … He dreamed from the moment his head touched the pillow. Dreams that were filled with Fiona reaching out to caress his skin, her eyes dark green with desire, her lips swollen with the proof of his desperate passion.

Whether it was the restlessness and frustration of his sleep or the unending strain of trying to be a gentleman, the consequences were obvious; he couldn’t concentrate well enough to practice medicine without endangering patients, he was drinking too much too often, he was a snarling bear to be around, and he was always on the brink of losing the battle against the little voice in the back of his head that whispered that he might as well surrender to temptation because sooner or later she was going to figure out what a single-minded cad he really was.

Staying as far away from Fiona as he could … It was his only hope. And he hated every minute of the sacrifice. It was only the certainty of what would happen if he didn’t make the effort that kept him wandering the construction site and the halls of hospitals when all he could think about was how much he wanted to be home.

“Good morning, Ian.”

He started and looked down, sucking a hard breadth when he found her standing not a hair’s breath from his leg. She smiled up at him and used the back of her hand to push a silken wisp of hair from her cheek. “Did you and Harry have a pleasant ride?”

God, for the freedom to trace those cheekbones with his fingertips, his lips, to explore every sweet curve of her. He forced his thoughts away from temptation, cleared his throat and finally answered, “It was fine.”

She nodded and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Ian gripped the reins so tightly that the horse danced beneath him, nervous and tense.

“It’ll be a little while before lunch is ready to be served,” she said, using her hand to shade her eyes as she looked up at him. “Could I talk you into a stroll through the garden until we’re summoned?”

Ian forced his awareness away from the fabric drawn taut over her breasts by her uplifted arm. “No,” he answered tersely while swinging down from the saddle. “I have to settle my horse in the stable and then make myself presentable.”

She smiled and tilted her head to the side in the way that accentuated the slender column of her throat and invited him to nibble at her nape.

“I’ll go along with you to the stable,” Fiona suggested happily.

Alone in the hay with Fiona … Ian clenched his teeth and sternly reminded himself that her reputation was far more important than his need. “Ladies stay out of stables. I’ll meet you in the dining room after a bit,” he said, drawing the reins down over the horse’s head.

He saw the way her gaze touched his shoulders and back as he moved, saw the rise of her breasts as she caught her breath, saw the pulse quicken in the hollow of her throat. For a second he was tempted to say to hell with it all and reach for her, to take her hand and lead her upstairs to his room.

Again, the tattered scraps of decency stepped between him and sweet temptation. He sucked in a deep breath, lifted his chin and told himself that he’d suffered worse deprivations in the course of his life. Not that he could name one right at that moment.

“Really, Ian,” she protested, the color rising in her cheeks and her lower lip indignantly quivering in a way that he found incredibly inviting. “I’ve been to a stable before. Lots of times, in fact.”

“Well, you’re not going with me,” he declared. And then, before she could shred what little self-restraint he still possessed, he walked away.

Fiona watched him leave her and tried to decide whether she was more hurt or angry. Blinking back tears, she lifted her chin and told herself that Ian’s rejection of her company didn’t matter. When he’d laid out his reasons for asking her to be his wife, neither a grand passion nor a desire for emotional intimacy had been on his list.

And despite the ease with which they’d developed the plan to help Charlotte a week ago, nothing had fundamentally changed between them. His refusal to be alone with her really said it all; she didn’t appeal to him in any way, not intellectually, not physically, and certainly not emotionally. She looked down at her hands, wondering if he thought she might be a carrier of some dreadful disease.

The ridiculousness of the very idea … Shaking her head, Fiona turned back toward the house. Holding her hems above her ankles, she scampered up the steps, her mind running through a myriad of possible courses, all of them based on her refusal to be casually dismissed. If Dr. Ian Cabott thought he was going to go through life ignoring her, he had another think coming. She’d turn his house upside down and if he persisted in being a callous, distant fool … He might not regret having his settlement offer handed back to him unsigned, but it was a sure bet that he’d think of her every moment for the eternity it would take to erase her fingerprints from his world. One more week. She’d give him one more week, and if he didn’t come to his senses …

*   *   *

Ian sent the carriage around to the back and paused on the walkway, considering his front door. It was lunchtime, he was hungry, and there was food inside. There was also chaos and constant temptation, both the consequence of his having encouraged one Lady Fiona Turnbridge to do whatever she wanted.

Five days since the “I’ll go to the stable with you” incident … It had taken her all of five days to knock every single pin out from under life as he knew it. There were holes in his walls and barely a curtain left hanging at his windows. He never knew where he was going to find furniture in a room—if there was any furniture at all. There were workmen everywhere, piles of tools in every corner, and dust covering every single surface.

And amidst it all was Fiona, laughing and dashing from one room to the next, always bubbling in excitement and eager to show him the changes she was making, pressing him for his opinions and his preferences, and never once realizing how deeply and painfully she was torturing him in the process.

He was going to have to do something about her. Either move out of the house or … surrender. Just quit struggling to keep his fascination with her under control and within the bounds of propriety. Just give in to his desires and be done with the whole charade of being a decent man worthy of such a perfect woman. And then watch her run away, mortified and disgusted.

Squaring his shoulders, assuring himself that he could get through one more day, Ian walked up the steps. He smiled as the door magically opened at his approach. Ah, Rowan. The one last, undisrupted constant in his life.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

“Rowan,” he said, gratefully. “How—” The sound of tiny, scrambling toenails. “Damn dog,” Ian muttered as his butler closed the door behind him, and Jack, his ward’s terrier, came careening around the corner of the foyer and toward him at a full run. A man shouldn’t have to deal with an attacking dog the very second he entered his own home, Ian inwardly grumbled. His trousers were spared a shredding assault by the thankfully quick and perfectly timed arrival of Mrs. Pittman. She bent down and snatched the little monster into her arms.

Ian scowled and cocked a brow as Jack wiggled in delight and licked the housekeeper’s chin. “An appreciated intervention, Mrs. Pittman,” he said. He shrugged out of his coat and handed it over to Rowan as he asked, “Is Lady Fiona still here?”

“She’s in the drawing room, Your Grace,” Mrs. Pittman answered as Jack pinned his beady little gaze on Ian and growled. “Hard at work as always.”

Ian nodded and stepped around the housekeeper, making sure to give Jack a wide berth. He and Fiona needed to come to an understanding about that ferocious little dog she’d acquired for Charlotte. It was hard to imagine that such a bad-tempered animal could come from someone so loving and sweet. Fiona was a nothing short of an angel; Jack was Genghis Khan with four spring-loaded legs and patchwork fur.

In his darker moments, Ian fantasized about Jack going for a long journey in box on a postal coach. Only the fact that both Charlotte and Fiona would be heartbroken at the loss kept him from paying for the dog’s passage to the end of the Earth. At some point, very soon, he planned to suggest that maybe Jack would be happier terrorizing squirrels and other small animals at the country house than he was stalking the hallways of the townhouse, waiting for a chance to chew pant legs to rags. It was worth a try, anyway.

Ian’s preoccupation with the dog came to an abrupt end as he passed the open doorway of the front parlor. He paused and let his gaze take in the changes being made. Certainly no British general had ever conducted a military campaign with the precision and determination with which Lady Fiona Turnbridge had undertaken the redecorating of his house.

He hardly recognized the place these days. She’d had the curtains taken down from the windows, and rooms that had been dark and gloomy were now flooded with the warmth and brilliance of sunlight. She’d rearranged every stick of the furniture in every room she’d assailed, creating little groupings of chairs and tables that she insisted would make for easier and more lively conversation. While he groused that no one except themselves and the household staff ever came into the rooms, he had to admit that the newly arranged furniture was definitely more pleasing to the eye.

His brows furrowed as he took in a pile of lumber neatly stacked against the far wall of the parlor, the handled wooden trays of wood-working tools set off to the side of the lumber. What was Fiona intending to have done with all that wood? Heaven only knew; Ian didn’t have so much as the faintest inkling. He was certain, however, that she did indeed have a very specific plan and that in all likelihood it involved the employment of at least a dozen skilled carpenters for the next month.

Ian shook his head in wonder as he considered the room. Fiona had, for all intents and purposes, turned his home upside down in the week and a half since she’d agreed to help civilize Charlotte. But it was nothing, he reminded himself, nothing compared to what she had done to his life in the fortnight since she’d arrived on his doorstep with Beeps and a loaded pistol.

He didn’t regret one little bit any of the changes Fiona had brought to his world. They were, without doubt or argument, the best of all the things that had ever happened to him. There wasn’t a man in London—in all of England, for that matter—who wouldn’t truly envy every facet of his life. He inhaled deeply with satisfaction, filling his senses with the light, sweet scent of Fiona’s cologne.