Leslie Lafoy (23 page)

Fiona looked back and forth between them. “She wasn’t hurt, was she?”

“Naw,” Simone said with another dismissive wave of her hand. “Lady Egan-Smythe’s timing was perfect. Ever the considerate hostess, she was in just the right place at the right time to cushion Lady Quinn’s impact. If she hadn’t squealed and thrashed all the way down, she could have claimed that she deliberately sacrificed herself. Unfortunately, she just wasn’t thinking ahead at that particular moment.”

“All this while I was on the balcony?”

Caroline nodded. “You were out there a very long time.”

“Was all this before or after Ian arrived?”

“He came in,” Simone answered, “just as Lord Egan-Smythe was pulling his wife out from under Lady Quinn. And with his arrival, everyone forgot all about the Quinns.”

“Oh, please,” Fiona instantly protested, lifting her head to toss a skeptical look at her sister. “I hardly believe that.”

Simone arched a raven brow. “Fiona,” she began in the tone she always used when launching into a subject on which she considered herself far better informed than most. “Ian Cabott walked into the room and practically every woman took two steps forward and raised her hand.”

Of all the ridiculous—

“The exceptions being me and Carrie, of course. And Aunt Jane. She took off in the other direction like a shot.”

Well, that was definitely nice to know.

“The fact that they didn’t do anything more than drool and ogle him—none too discreetly, I might add—from across the room is only because he made a beeline for me. Didn’t look left, didn’t look right.”

“You?”

“To ask me where you were. He was utterly single-minded and … primed.”

Primed was a very good way to describe him. Fiona felt herself blushing and smiled.

“You do know, don’t you, that he’s likely to explode before the wedding?” Simone went on.

Well, yes. And if they happened to have the chance to kiss somewhere private and at a time when they weren’t likely to be interrupted, she might explode herself. In fact, she was looking forward to it. But since there were some matters one simply didn’t share with one’s sisters, no matter how close the relationship, she kept the admission to herself and simply grinned in anticipation.

*   *   *

Ian sighed as the coach rolled toward home. His bones creaked as the vehicle rocked on its springs, reminding him that he’d spent hours leaning over a surgical table earlier in the evening. How long ago it seemed now, how far away. Even the pain of losing to Death wasn’t as raw as it had been. It really was amazing what the favor of a good woman could do for the soul.

Well, he amended, the favor of a good woman, the cleansing of a well-done grovel, and the end of his penance for Lady Jane Baltrip. He couldn’t say that he and Fiona were in love with each other, but for the moment he could be quite content with a mutual and breathless lust. The odds were good that they could build a happy marriage out of that.

Yes, if he took the train wreck out of consideration, he could say that it had been a wonderful evening. It would have been perfect if he and Fiona could have slipped off to spend it alone, seeing just how fevered they could make each other. Lord knew she could set his blood on fire with just a playful bat of her eyelashes. For a woman who had never been kissed before, she was remarkably skilled at it. Once she had some experience … Ian expelled a long breath to ease the tension of anticipation.

Just a while longer, he reminded himself. “For the thousandth time tonight,” he muttered as the carriage eased to a stop along the walkway in front of his house. The engagement ball was a mere three days away and the wedding itself just under a month. Having lasted this long, he could be patient just a little bit longer.

Of course, he allowed as he climbed down the carriage steps and started up the walk, it was going to be damn difficult to be patient if he had to spend every night of the next month escorting her to parties and balls and galas. Resisting her was one thing in the daytime. She wore demure house dresses that covered her from neck to ankle to wrist. And while the bodices certainly didn’t hang on her like sacks, they more hinted at the delights under them than accented them.

But when the sun went down … Tonight she’d been wearing a pale green-colored silk ball gown, its overskirt ruched up at the sides to show a slightly darker underskirt of some filmy sort of fabric. There hadn’t been any sleeves to the thing. And the neckline … If her intent was to torture him with glimpses of creamy swells that he couldn’t touch, with shadows of an inviting cleavage that promised delights he couldn’t sample yet, then she’d more than succeeded. Well, to a point, he allowed, smiling as he remembered the feel of her pressed against his chest.

The very sight of her so temptingly dressed always put him on pins and needles and made the conversation over a champagne and punch excruciatingly difficult to endure. But tonight, having held her, having tasted just the smallest measure of her passion … Watching her smile in conversations with other men had very nearly undone him. He’d spent most of the evening with his teeth clenched and alternating between reminding himself that there wasn’t anything untoward in a man exchanging polite greetings with her and fighting the urge to draw her outside and along the garden paths.

There was, however, considerable consolation to be had in knowing that he was envied by every man in attendance that evening. Fiona had finally agreed to become his wife. He’d claimed for himself the most beautiful and kindest woman in the Empire. And that Fiona had delighted in showing her sisters her ring, grinning and wiggling her finger.… Deciding that he had every reason to be the happiest man of all time, he pushed open the front door of his house and strode inside.

Genghis Jack was nowhere in sight. Rowan was the one coming around the corner to meet him. That the man was still up at this late hour didn’t bode well.

“There is a problem with Charlotte?” he asked, removing his greatcoat and handing it over.

“Miss Charlotte is fine. Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess, is here to see you.”

Ian’s good mood evaporated in an instant. In the next his stomach turned to lead.

“She arrived some hours ago and has refused to leave until she’s spoken to you. We’ve placed her in your study, Your Grace, since it is the only room not under construction.”

“The proper decision, Rowan,” Ian assured the man while considering the closed door of his study. “Thank you. Now please don’t worry about her any further and retire for the evening. If I need anything, I’ll see to it myself.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied with a nod of his head but clear misgiving shining in his eyes.

Ian waited until the butler was gone before striding across the foyer and turning the knob on the door. He’d barely stepped over the threshold when a voice came from the darkened corner of the room.

“Good evening, Ian. I’d like to talk to you about your choice of a bride.”

She didn’t look one bit different than she had the last time he’d seen her. What had it been? Two years? Almost. It had been at his father’s funeral. Thin, gray, a bit stooped over at the shoulders. A buzzard in human form. “Good evening, Mother,” he replied as he headed for the decanters on the credenza. “You may talk all you like, but it’s my choice as to whether or not I listen and reply.”

“I’ve had my agents investigate her past.”

Of course.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey. “I’m sure it was a very short, very dull report. I hope it cost you a fortune.”

“The current Duke of Ryland was not born into the peerage and served in her Majesty’s Artillery Corps. He became the duke only because there were no surviving males in the direct lineage.”

So?

“And the woman he married. She is illegitimate, Ian. And the duke’s cousin. She was a dressmaker before she presumed to pass herself off as a lady.”

He took a healthy swig of his drink, remembering the times he’d met Drayton and Caroline. They’d been nothing but gracious and polite. He liked them and considered them to be two of the most honest and decent people he knew.

“There is another sister, also illegitimate, who is rumored to have killed several people prior to marrying a man in trade.”

He couldn’t decide which she thought was worse, the murders or the marrying a man in trade. As curious as he was, though, he knew better than to ask. He sipped his drink and studied the clock on the mantel. Almost three? Well, the night had been clipping right along until just a few minutes ago.

“He claims the title of marquis, but he has spent a good deal of his life in America.”

How those two things went together to damn the man, he didn’t have a clue. But having spoken with Lord Lockwood a time or two in the gaming rooms, he couldn’t see that—

“In trade.”

Of course. Tristan might have been forgiven for having left English soil if he’d spent his time across the pond shooting helpless animals of one sort or another and attending parties at the homes of America’s wealthiest men. But that he’d actually used his time and hands and mind to make money … Very bad form.

“And this creature you think is suitable to be a duchess,” his mother said crisply, “is cut from the same bolt of cloth as her sisters. Her half-sisters, actually.”

“A dressmaker and a brigand from the same bolt,” he mused aloud. “I can’t wait to hear what Fiona’s been fashioned into.”

“She is a whore.”

He simply stared at his mother, his mind too stunned and outraged to even think of a retort, silent or otherwise.

“Her mother was a common strumpet, walking the streets and offering herself to anyone for a tuppence.”

“And Fiona is to be painted with the same brush you so self-righteously wield against her mother?” he asked as his anger got the better of his restraint. “A dead woman who can’t defend herself against the accusations? A woman whose early circumstances and choices you know absolutely nothing about?”

“My agent reports that this Fiona girl worked in the brothel with her mother.”

“Your agent is padding his bill.”

“My agent is a diligent man, Ian. He reports that she not only continues the practice into which she was led by her mother, but is blatant in the public display of her moral failings.”

“Oh, do tell, Mother,” he snarled. “What might she do that’s so incredibly heinous?”

“She frequents, unchaperoned and for obviously unseemly purposes, places reserved for men.”

Places reserved for men.… Only an agent paid by the pound for sleaze would twist a laudable circumstance so viciously. “Good God,” he muttered. “It’s an unbelievable low.”

“Well, I am relieved to know that you finally understand just how horribly unsuitable she is to be your duchess. You will withdraw your proposal immediately, of course. First thing in the morning.”

“Did your agent mention just what kind of
male haunts
Fiona frequents?”

“Of course not. There is no need to shock or offend to inform.”

“Lady Fiona has a mind for medical study. She attends teaching lectures by prominent physicians. By my colleagues, Mother. She doesn’t go there to solicit medical students.”

“Just to find one foolish and blind enough to marry her.”

“That’s not where we met, Mother.”

“Wipe the stardust from your eyes, Ian. You are a duke. You do not have the luxury of being a romantic.”

“I’m a man and I’ll do as I damn well please.”

She arched a white brow and said with icy firmness, “She is no lady, Ian. I will not accept her as a daughter-in-law.”

So be it and thank you for the deliverance.
He lifted his whiskey glass in salute, saying, “We’ll miss you at family gatherings, Mother. We’ll send you announcements of our children’s births, of course. And, just for the sake of decency, the occasional note to keep you abreast of their milestones and accomplishments.” He smiled tautly. “Shall I have your coach brought around front now?”

“I sent my driver on for the night with instructions to return late in the morning. Your housekeeper has prepared me a room.”

Well, Rowan could have damned well warned him about that. Standing there holding a whiskey glass, and gaping like the village idiot, wasn’t anywhere near a position of strength. And with his mother, any little weakness could lead to scars that lasted for a lifetime. He threw the whiskey down his throat in a show of manly mastery that he hoped would disguise how fast and desperately the wheels of his mind were whirling.

Of one thing he was absolutely, positively certain: he needed to be at Lord Ryland’s early enough tomorrow morning to head off Fiona. If she sailed in through the door of this house while his mother was still here … God, he didn’t even want to think about how deeply she’d be hurt.

Oh, Jesus. And Charlotte. The damage his mother could do to a young soul … And one so fragile …

Chapter Thirteen

Fiona propped her elbow on the dining room table, put her head in her hand, and smiled into her cup of coffee.

“Satisfied with life?” Drayton asked as he came to the table with his breakfast plate.

She sighed and looked up at her brother-in-law. “Supremely.”

“That’s quite the ring you have on your finger.”

“Isn’t it, though?” she agreed, twisting the band so that the light danced through the brilliant facets. “I spent all night just looking at it. Beeps is most impressed, by the way. He said he’d always thought the best of Dr. Cabott.”

From the sideboard, Caroline chuckled and asked, “Did you sleep at all?”

“I don’t think so,” she admitted. “I’m exhausted this morning.” Sitting up to sample her coffee, she added, “Happy, but exhausted.”

Carrie joined them at the table with her plate. “Maybe you should think about going back to bed for a bit.”

Oh, what a tempting thought. “I can’t,” Fiona lamented. “Charlotte and I are digging up a garden bed today. And the plasterers are planning to set the medallion on the new dining room ceiling. I have to be there for that. Mr. Gebhart is bringing his wallpaper sample books over this afternoon so that Charlotte and I can go through them and make selections for the drawing room, dining room and three of the bedrooms. I don’t have time to go back to bed.”