Leslie Lafoy (31 page)

“And how I don’t meet them?” he asked, his wonder withering.

“Actually, Ian,” she replied cheerfully, “the specifics of your personal shortcomings were never mentioned. We were discussing, in a general way, the nature of marriage and what should be considered reasonable expectations of the female half. In listening to her, I realized that I could not fault her for wanting to be happy. I could not wish upon her the kind of shallow marriage that I and so many women of my age have endured.”

“She thinks our marriage would be shallow?” he asked numbly.

“What did you do, Ian, that led Lady Fiona to break off your engagement?”

The memory was there in an instant, full and crisp and horribly, horribly vivid. “I said things I shouldn’t have said.”

“All men do, Ian. Women know and accept that men are often incapable of working their brain and their mouth at the same time with any degree of competence. That is why we usually listen with only half an ear. Our willingness to be partially deaf allows men to live longer lives.”

“I had no idea.”

“Well, now you do,” she said crisply, picking up her teacup again. “What did you say that Fiona found not only impossible to ignore, but also unforgivable?”

He’d called her reckless and foolish. He’d reprimanded her for having disobeyed his orders. He’d told her that she was presumptive in thinking that … Realization came in a long, slow instant that crushed the air from his lungs and tore through his heart.

“I displayed a phenomenal and inexcusable disregard for her intelligence, skills and abilities,” he said softly. “I treated her as though she were nothing more than a pretty ornament.”

“And how have you gone about offering her your apology for having been so insulting, disrespectful, and wrong headed?”

“I sent her…” He gestured toward the overloaded sideboard.

“Ornaments?”

“Oh,” he whispered as the dawn of realization continued to illuminate the incredible depth and breadth of his stupidity. “Oh, damn.”

“Alcohol,” his mother offered blithely, “when combined with Harry’s instincts and encouragement, makes for very poor decisions.”

“Unfortunately,” he drawled, closing his eyes, “it’s only after sobering up that that’s obvious.”

“Would you care for a bit of maternal advice?”

As though there was anything he could do to salvage the wreckage. Chuckling darkly, he shrugged. “Is it going to make any difference whether I do or not?”

“No,” she answered, chuckling herself.

She was laughing? Ian opened his eyes, trying to remember if he’d ever in his life heard her laugh.

“I can not turn over an entirely new leaf all at once,” she told him. “Aside from that, I happen to be very good at giving advice. You need to take yourself to Lord Ryland’s townhouse, apologize profusely and sincerely to Lady Fiona, and then beg her, preferably while on your knees, to give you a second chance.”

“It would be a third chance,” he clarified while a vision of Fiona shooting him played through his mind.

“Third?”

“My second chance followed the Lady Baltrip debacle.”

“Ah, yes. I had forgotten.”

“I doubt that Fiona has.”

She apparently mulled that over for a moment and then said, “If it helps any to know, Ian, I think Lady Fiona is probably the only woman who would be able to sincerely forgive you for your repeated stupidity, and allow you a chance to start over.”

Yes, Fiona probably was the only woman on earth with a heart that big, that loving and compassionate. But the question was
why
she’d be at all interested in forgiving him.
Again.

“Of course, I am assuming that you have a true preference for her as your duchess. If any woman will do, please disregard my advice.”

“No,” he assured her. “No other woman will do, Mother.”

“Why is that?”

He
hated
questions like that. To condense an ethereal something the size and complexity of the universe into a few common words … “Fiona’s everything to me,” he offered lamely. “She makes me laugh. She makes me think. She makes me proud. She makes me happy a thousand times a day in a hundred thousand ways. I can’t imagine living without her.” He paused, and for the sake of honesty, added, “Well, actually, I can imagine life without Fiona. It’s awful enough to drive a man to drink himself to death.”

She nodded and looked off across the room. “Do you think you might love her?”

He sighed in frustration. “Of course I love Fiona. Didn’t I just say that?”

His mother arched a brow and brought her gaze slowly back to him. “No, Ian, you did not.”

“Well, in as many words,” he offered in defense.

“There are times, Ian, when fewer words are more expressive than many.”

She put her teacup on the side table again and placed her hand on the arm of the settee. Ian, recognizing the sign, vaulted to his feet—not nearly as smoothly as he would have if he hadn’t spent the last three days swimming in alcohol—and wobbled forward to offer her his assistance in rising.

“I will wish you luck and be on my way,” she said as she steadied him. She was walking toward the parlor door when she added, “Do let me know how it all works out.”

It was going to take a miracle, but he had to try. He couldn’t walk away without having stood in front of Fiona and telling her that he—

“Oh, Ian?”

He looked over toward the threshold. “Yes, Mother?”

“I realize that you may be tempted to dash forth in the moment and pledge your undying love and devotion to Lady Fiona, but it would behoove your cause to wait a bit. At least until the distillery has largely passed from your person. Your breath is horribly offensive.”

Some things never changed. “Thank you, Mother.”

“You are most welcome.”

Chapter Seventeen

While he was championing his cause, he needed to do what he could to clean up the shambles he’d made of the rest of his life in the last three days. Ian glanced in his study, noted the piles of papers on his desk, and continued on his way to the rear of the house. He’d barely reached the open sun-room door and lifted his hand to knock when Genghis Jack raised his head off the bed and sprang into action.

With the snarling dog firmly attached to his trouser leg, he waited until Charlotte turned her chair to face him. “May I come in?” he asked.

“It’s your house,” she said, giving him a hard look before turning her back on him.

It was exactly the reception he’d expected to get. But if ever there was such a thing as the perfect opening to a necessary conversation … “I hear,” he said, dragging Jack back into the room, “that you’ve been talking to my solicitor about establishing your own residence.”

“I have. I think it would be for the best.”

Yes, but she was fourteen and she was female. The solicitor was listening to her only to be polite. “Would you be considering a house of your own if Fiona and I were still going to marry?”

“No. But since you’re not, and you seem to have decided to live a libertine existence, I think—”

“Harry was the libertine,” he corrected. “I was the drunk.” She shrugged. Jack’s toenails scraped on the floor as he growled and ruthlessly shook Ian’s trouser leg. “I’m going to apologize to Fiona and ask her to reconsider my proposal.”

She wheeled around. “When?”

“As soon as I’m far enough into sober that my breath won’t knock her over.”

Charlotte moved the chair back, saying, “It could be next week.”

“It’s that bad?”

She looked away, made a tiny
O
with her lips, and then glanced at him with a painful expression to reply, “There’s a peppermint patch in the herb garden. I suggest that you graze awhile before you go anywhere.”

He nodded. Jack growled and succeeded in tearing Ian’s trouser leg.

“How was your dress designing session with Lady Ryland?” Ian asked, glaring down at the Hound From Hell. “I’ll bet this thing was owned by a tailor,” he grumbled. “And he trained him to shred trouser legs so he’d have more business.”

Charlotte snapped her fingers. “Heel, Jack!” The dog instantly released what was left of his trouser leg and trotted to the side of her chair. He sat down and grinned up at Ian.

“Highly enjoyable and productive,” his ward said, answering his question. “Considerably better than your afternoon with Fiona turned out.”

Since she seemed to be fairly well informed … “Have you talked to her since that day?”

“No. Fiona’s been staying at her other sister’s house. Lady Ryland said that she’s been just horrible.”

Horrible? Fiona? “Horrible in what way?”

“Crying, moping, throwing things, not eating, not talking to anyone, not coming out of her room. Lady Ryland said she’d give Fiona three days to come to her senses on her own and then she was going to take matters in hand herself.”

Well, the three days was up. “Do you have any idea of what Lady Ryland intends to do?”

“She said she was going to make Fiona come home this morning and square up to life. The look in her eyes…” Charlotte made another
O
with her mouth and shook her head. “I don’t think people tell Lady Ryland ‘no’ very often. I stayed home today because I didn’t want to be in the way in case things went badly.”

“Do you think they’d let me in the house if I went over there? Or would they have me shot on the front walk?”

“I don’t know, Ian. When Lady Ryland heard that you were trying to drown your sorrows, she rolled her eyes and muttered something about typical men. Lord Ryland said he was going to have a drink or two in sympathy and Lady Ryland gave him that look of hers.”

“They’ll let me in,” he said on a sigh of utter relief. “They’ll let me try.”

“If they do, please don’t make a mess of your apology, Ian. I adore Fiona.”

“As do I,” he assured her.

“Then you might want to show her that you do.”

That’s what he’d been trying to do with all the folderol now crowding his parlor. Apparently in his drunken state he hadn’t managed to hit upon anything she really wanted from him. And, sad as it was to say, he didn’t think he could do one bit better sober. “Do you have any suggestions? Has she mentioned anything she particularly wants?”

“I can’t think of anything, Ian. All I’ve ever heard her say is that she wants to spend time with you. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Charlotte.” He headed for the door, adding, “If you think of anything else, I’ll be here for a while longer. Since I’m still promoting my cause, I might as well take a quick look through the papers that have piled up on my desk in the last couple of days.”

“While chewing peppermint leaves.”

“I’ll go get some right now,” he promised, changing course and heading for the kitchen and the door that led into the small herb garden just outside.

Time with him. Doing what? Other than destroying peignoirs and twisting sheets into knots? He loved her, yes. With all his heart. But dammit, he had people to treat and a hospital to build. He couldn’t hover around the house all the time, gazing dreamily into her eyes. She’d be sick of seeing him inside a week. And besides, how the hell was he supposed to put time in a box and wrap it up in a pretty bow?

Ian stopped in the hall, his apparently still impaired brain stumbling over the pure simplicity of the idea. “Lunkhead,” he muttered, turning and heading to his study.

*   *   *

Simone paused at the conservatory door to pull on her opera gloves and proclaim, “You can’t hide forever.”

“Yes, I can,” Fiona defiantly called back as she resumed filling the bird feeder. “Watch me.”

“Sooner or later,” her sister went on, “he’s going to sober up and come looking for you.”

“No, he’s not,” Fiona countered. “I wrote him a letter today—when I sent all his gifts back—and told him not to waste his time.”

“Oh, really? It would appear that he didn’t get it.”

Fiona knitted her brows and turned just as her sister said, “Hello, Ian. Lovely night for a reconcilation, isn’t it?”

Fiona didn’t hear what he said in reply; the only sound in the world was the frantic pounding of her heart. Her foolish, girlishly dreaming heart. She saw his lips move, saw him bow slightly to Simone as she slipped out the door, saw him slowly straighten and bring his gaze to hers.

Just to look at him, just to have him there … For all her insistence on respect … Despite knowing better in every fiber of her rational being … She loved him. God help her, she loved him, heart and soul and forever.

As he made his way toward her, Fiona looked down at the flagstones and drew a ragged breath into her lungs. It did nothing to ease the tightness around her heart or make the truth any less painful. She closed her eyes, took another breath, and willed herself to be strong, to resist the temptation of blind hope and do what was best for both of them. Her love alone wasn’t enough for them to build a happy life together.

“Fiona?”

Resolved, she found a smile that she hoped looked serene and confident, lifted her head, and focused her gaze on the second button on his shirt front.

“I’m here,” he began, “to apologize for my behavior that afternoon, for the things I said. I was wrong in insisting that you stay in the carriage. And I was most certainly wrong in criticizing your judgment and your abilities.”

“Thank you. I should have considered how you might worry about me.”

He sighed and then quietly cleared his throat. “And if possible, I’d really appreciate it if you’d forget that I sent you all those ridiculous gifts. If my brain had been working even a little bit, I would have known that I was digging the hole deeper.”

That he realized what his blunder was was definitely an unexpected point in his favor. “I got the impression that you were drinking heavily.”

“And continuously,” he added. “Truth be told, aside from a couple of foggy snippets, I don’t remember the last three days. According to my staff, I spent them largely unconscious.”

She knew that she needed to keep a distance and formality between them. But … She looked up to meet his gaze. “Just how does an unconscious man order flowers?”

“Well,” he drawled, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a chagrined smile, “in the hour or so that exists between his mind shutting down and his body falling down, he lets his slightly less inebriated lackwit cousin drag him around to various shops to place ongoing orders.”