Leslie Lafoy (22 page)

“Narrow-minded and close-minded men are everywhere.”

“That’s very true.”

“And sometimes people are just blindly stupid,” he went on, sounding sad. “Largely out of making groundless assumptions and because they’re so preoccupied with their own thoughts and feelings and hopes that it never crosses their mind that others might have them, too.”

“That’s true, as well,” she agreed, the ache in her soul deepening with his every word.

He turned to face her and lifted his chin to swallow. “Fiona,” he said gently, “I’ve been a complete ass. Not once in the last fortnight…” He paused as she turned to face him.

After a quick deep breath, he went on, saying earnestly, “To my everlasting shame, not once since we met has it occurred to me that you were more than a beautiful, kind, and domestically capable woman. I’ve spent the days since my proposal consumed by the effort to behave in an exemplary fashion and keep my hands to myself, to impress you with my generosity and compassion, and to shield you from the dark and grisly aspects of my life’s work.

“I’ve been so consumed with presenting myself well that I didn’t even think to ask after your interests and intellectual passions. In the clarity of hindsight, I realize that you’ve tried several times to share them with me and, again to my shame, I haven’t been at all willing to listen.”

“Ian, I—”

He held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I completely understand your hesitation to accept my proposal. So far, all I’ve done is display extraordinarily bad judgment and inexcusably self-centered, chauvinistic attitudes. Then, on top of that, I’ve taken considerable advantage of your kind heart to resolve the problems with Charlotte. Considering the rather lengthy list of my appalling shortcomings…” He smiled tightly. “Well, I wouldn’t marry me, either.”

“But you can see your mistakes and that counts in your favor,” she offered sincerely. “As does your ability to offer a sincere apology.”

“Yes,” he allowed with a slight shrug, “but it remains to be seen whether I’m capable of changing my behavior and attitudes. It could well be that marriage to me would be nothing more than a long string of deep frustrations and backhanded insults, punctuated every now and again with an apology that doesn’t change a thing in the aftermath. That’s hardly the kind of domestic situation I’d find the least bit appealing on a day-to-day basis.”

Confident in the kindness of his heart and the content of his character, she considered the one and only other concern she had. Modesty suggested that she just trust to luck and hope it all worked out for the best. Honesty compelled her to say, “May I ask you a question, Ian?”

“Of course. Ask whatever you’d like.”

“Do you find me at all physically appealing?”

His jaw went slack as his brows shot up. It took him a moment to recover enough to offer a strangled sounding, “God, yes.”

“I mean in a way more than being reasonably pretty,” she pressed, hoping she wasn’t being too indelicate about it all. “It’s just that I don’t seem to inspire you in the same way that…”

“Your Aunt Jane did?” he finished for her after a long second.

“Well, yes.”

Slowly trailing his fingertip along her jaw and down her throat, he whispered, “Apparently I’ve been trying too hard to redeem myself.”

The simple caress melted the last of her doubts. A delicious heat warming her blood, Fiona laid her hands on the lapel of his jacket and looked up into his gaze to say, “I would deeply appreciate it, Ian, if you’d consider yourself fully redeemed and stop trying to be a saint.”

“I’d be delighted.” He leaned forward and pressed a slow kiss to her lips. His arms slowly slipped around her, drawing her to him, then tightened, holding her close as his possession deepened and her senses were swept upward in a swift, exhilarating spiral. She melted into the hard planes of his chest, happily surrendering to the desire he so easily and quickly fanned to life within her.

“Oh, do pardon me.”

Ian drew back, cast a quick glance toward the now vacant doorway, and then smiled down at her, his chest rising and falling in the same quick cadence as her own. Fiona gently brushed a lock of ebony hair from his forehead. God, was there any more magnificent man in the world? And to think that he was willing to be hers.

“Well,” he drawled, grinning. “That puts a kink in things. I came out here intending to offer a withdrawal of my proposal. But having been caught together, in a passionate embrace, I find myself in the position of having to propose again.”

“It’s really not necessary, Ian,” she assured him. “Not at all.”

“Yes, it is.” He drew back, bringing his arms from around her to take her hands in his. “Lady Fiona Turnbridge,” he said, earnestly gazing into her eyes, “may I have the honor of protecting your reputation and delightfully delicious personage for the rest of my life?”

Her heart melted. Her soul soared. “You may.”

Grinning, he reached into the inside breast pocket of his coat, saying, “I’ve been carrying this around with me every day, prepared to capitalize on the first weak moment you might have.” He offered her a small dark green velvet box as he added, “I hope you like it.”

Ian watched her eyes widen as she took the box from him with trembling fingers and slowly opened it. A quiet gasp slipped past her lips as she stared at the diamond-and-emerald engagement ring nestled in black satin. Her eyes, bright with awed delight, slowly lifted to meet his, touching his very soul and taking his breath away.

“It’s absolutely exquisite, Ian,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“I don’t think an engagement is really official until the prospective groom puts the ring on his lady’s finger,” he said.

She grinned and handed him back the ring box, waiting until he’d removed the band from its nesting place before extending her left hand. Gently cradling it with his own left, he slipped the gem-encrusted band onto to her tiny finger. It fit perfectly—just as he’d known that it would the second he’d seen it in the jeweler’s case.

“It’s almost too magnificent to wear,” she said quietly, openly admiring the way it looked on her hand.

“But I hope you will.”

She beamed up at him. “I’ll never take it off.”

Ian considered his options. Engaging her in conversation, lively and witty or otherwise, wasn’t one of them. Telling himself that as long as he exercised some common sense and self-control … “I hear that it’s also customary and perfectly acceptable at this point for the prospective bride and groom to kiss.”

“Well, we can’t defy custom,” Fiona answered, her eyes sparkling, her smile inviting. She reached out to slip her arms around his waist as she added, “We certainly don’t want people talking, do we?”

“I don’t care if they do,” he replied softly, wrapping her in his arms and lowering his mouth to hers.

Common sense was staggering and gasping when Ian finally heard its desperate pleading and released his claim to Fiona’s sweet lips. She sighed in contentment, her eyes huge as she looked up at him, their color deepened by the fires of desire their kiss had kindled.

Ian softly cleared his throat and cocked a brow. “I think that our interlude had best stop now. I’ve pledged to protect your reputation, not do my best to destroy it.”

She nodded and stepped from his arms as he loosened his hold on her. “I suppose that you’re going to see me delivered back into the ballroom,” she said, adjusting first her dress bodice and then the drape of her shawl.

“You suppose correctly, my Lady Fiona.” He offered her his arm as he added, “But I must say that I’m really looking forward to the time when we can decline invitations to gala public events. I think we can find much more enjoyable private pastimes.”

The pink shading her cheeks darkened ever so slightly as she smiled, put her hand on his forearm, and let him escort her off the balcony and back to the ball.

Chapter Twelve

Fiona sighed, kicked off her elegant shoes, and dropped down on the edge of the parlor settee, heedless of wrinkling her ball gown.

“You’re very pleased with yourself, aren’t you, Fiona?” teased Simone as she, too, kicked off her shoes. She placed her fan on the mantel before dropping unceremoniously into a chair beside the hearth.

“And why wouldn’t I be?” Fiona replied, stretching out the full length of the sofa and sighing in contentment. “It was a spectacular evening. Ian apologized beyond my wildest dreams and asked me to marry him all over again. This time with genuine feeling and sincerity.”

She held out her hand and wiggled her finger so that the firelight danced off the brilliant gemstones. “I have a beautiful ring from the most wonderful man on Earth and I was escorted through the evening by the most handsome man in all of London. There wasn’t a woman there who wasn’t wildly jealous of me.”

“From angry and uncertain to flushed with giddy happiness in the span of a single evening,” Caroline observed as she came into the parlor. “I gather that he finally kissed you?”

Fiona lifted her head just far enough to see her eldest sister’s face and then collapsed back into the settee with a broad smile. “Soundly and repeatedly.”

“And did it curl your toes?” Simone asked, laughing silently.

“I don’t know. My toes never crossed my mind,” she admitted.

“We won’t inquire as to what parts of your body you were aware of,” Caroline teased, settling into the other chair by the hearth.

Simone grinned. “I will.”

“You can ask all you want,” Fiona countered, “but I’m not telling you. I will, however, admit that you were right about there being a moment in which I realized how utterly magnificent and beyond perfection he is.”

“Really?” Caroline said, leaning back and settling her shoulders. “How long did it last?”

Fiona grinned up at the ceiling. “He’s still magnificent and perfect.”

“Well, that puts him head and shoulders above every other man who was there this evening,” Simone quipped. “Talk about dull, duller and dullest. Since Tristan wasn’t there and I didn’t need to beat the tarts off of him all evening, I had plenty of time and opportunity to watch what was going on around me.”

“Oh, really?” Caroline taunted, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Do tell us everything you saw, Simone dear. Everything.”

“Yes, and don’t spare the slightest detail,” Fiona added, happily joining the game. “And start at the beginning.”

“That would be the point where Haywood was announced. Which was right after you went out to hide on the balcony. I’m telling you, every woman under the age of seventy … Well, I’ve never seen so much fan-fluttering and near swoons.”

“Haywood?” Fiona asked, mystified as to why Drayton’s ever-single friend would suddenly elicit such female awe. It wasn’t as though he ever had before.

“He’s dyed his hair,” Caroline answered dryly. “And let it grow longer.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Oh, no we’re not,” Simone hurriedly assured her. “Jet black and almost to his shoulders. Personally, I think he looks like a skunk without the stripe, but then, I’m not exactly open-minded about the whole thing.”

“I happen to agree with you,” Carrie said. “But the two of us seem to be the only ones who think he’s making a complete fool of himself. I overheard Lady St. Regis say that she thought he looked like a dashing, romantic pirate who could,
and I quote,
swash her buckle and jolly her roger any time he wanted to.”

“Oh, my God!” Fiona cried, lifting her head from the sofa to stare in amazement at their eldest sister. “The Queen of the Rumor Mongers really said that?”

“She did indeed.”

Simone snorted as she waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, that wasn’t the best. When he handed back Lady Philben her dance card, she kissed it and then grabbed his waistband and shoved it in. And judging by the look on Haywood’s face, quite a ways down.”

Struggling to contain her laughter just long enough to speak, Fiona asked, “What did he do?”

“He walked away like a pirate. A pale, eighty-year-old, decidedly arthritic, bowlegged pirate.”

“His timbers,” Caroline added sweetly, “having been shivered. Or shaved.”

Poor Haywood. It really wasn’t very nice to laugh at his misfortune, but since he’d invited it … Fiona wiped the tears from the corner of her eyes and drew a steadying breath. “And aside from Haywood setting all sense of matronly decorum and decency on its ear,” Fiona said, “what else did you see this evening?”

“Lord and Lady Quinn came in shortly after that.”

“Dear God,” Caroline sputtered, “I thought I was going to die.”

“What happened?” Fiona demanded, grinning.

Caroline, laughing silently, motioned for Simone to start the tale. “Well,” their dark-haired sister drawled, “they were announced and strode in, her under a huge crane plume headdress and him looking—and walking—like a severely trussed penguin. They step up to be received by Lord and Lady Egan-Smythe.”

Caroline chortled and quickly pressed her hands over her mouth.

“Lady Quinn does her curtsy to both of them. Lord Quinn shakes Lord Egan-Smythe’s hand and then steps over to pay his respects to Lady Egan-Smythe. She presents her hand, he leans over it and…” She grinned and shook her head.

“Thar he blew!” Caroline exclaimed. “Oh, Lord, Fiona. His corset laces popped right up the line. One right after the other. Everyone in the ballroom turned. It was that loud. And then, right before our eyes, his jacket gave way at the seams and he plumped and plumped.”

“Like a biscuit in a hot oven,” Simone said, picking up the story. “So, undoubtedly seeing far more than she ever wanted to of Lord Quinn, Lady Egan-Smythe is mincing sideways to put some distance between them, looking horrified in a dignified sort of way. Lady Quinn is just standing there looking horrified.”

“Dignified was beyond her.”

“Lord Quinn, still bent over double, decides he’s going to make an escape just as the waistband on his trousers starts to go. He whirls around looking for a way out, accidentally puts his head in Lady Quinn’s rump and, before he can stop his momentum, gives her a big heave ho.”

“She grabbed her crane-plumed hat,” Carrie said, gazing off into the memory, “and then holding on to it for dear life, her eyes as big as saucers … she went over like a tree.”