Leslie Lafoy (5 page)

Yes, yes. Harry had told him all about that. “For which I am exceedingly grateful.”

She sighed again and this time punctuated it by putting her hands on her hips. “I was not born in the peerage, Your Grace. I am not and never will be a full member of acceptable Society. My pedigree is tarnished and I’m sure that you can understand how—”

“It makes no difference to me whatsoever,” he assured her.

“Well, it does to me.”

“Oh, how ridiculous. If the Queen says that you’re good enough for Society, who would be stupid enough to quibble? I suggest that you put it in the past and move on with your life. No one will dare to challenge the suitability of the woman I choose to be my duchess.”

She rolled her eyes, let her hands fall to her sides, and then very deliberately stepped past him saying, “You have been breathing far too many ether vapors for far too long, Your Grace.”

I have not.
“Please, call me Ian.”

“No.”

“Ian and Fiona,” he said as she gently scooped up her cat. “Fiona and Ian. Either way, it has a pleasant ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“It sounds as though we need to purchase a consonant or two.”

“We’ll buy each other one for a wedding present,” he suggested, following her out of his infirmary. “Is there a particular one you’ve always wanted?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe in long engagements. I hope you don’t, either.”

“Oh, but I do,” she answered blithely, not even bothering to look back at him. “Twenty years. At least. Twenty-five would be even better.”

“Is your aversion to marriage a general, in principle sort of thing? Or is it … well, personal?”

“Your Grace, I—”

“Ian,” he corrected.

“Your Grace, I plan to be in love with the man I marry,” she went on, still without so much as sparing him a glance. “I regret that I must say that I don’t love you. Not in the least.”

Ian reined in his smile—just in case she decided to cast a quick look his way. “I’m crushed, you know. Devastated. How can you be so cruel?”

“It comes quite naturally,” she told him as they entered the foyer. The footman, his eyes carefully averted, stepped forward to open the front door as she said, “Now, if you will again accept my thanks and forgive my haste, Your Grace, Beeps and I are going home.”

He followed her as far as the doorway. Watching her march down the walk toward the public walkway, he called after her, “Lady Fiona?”

“I’m leaving, Your Grace.”

What graceful determination! He chuckled. “Please tell your brother-in-law that I’ll be calling on him later this morning!”

“Don’t bother, Your Lordship,” she called back. “Knock on someone else’s door.”

Ian turned to the footman. “Cooper, follow Lady Fiona at a discreet distance and ensure that she arrives home safely.”

The servant nodded and left, leaving Ian to close his own door. Laughing softly, he made his way to the breakfast room. How interesting, he mused as he buttered a hot muffin, that of all the possible brides in London Society, the obvious and easiest choice would be the one who didn’t want to marry him.

Assuming, of course, that she was being honest about her feelings regarding his proposal. She might well have been all girlishly giddy on the inside and determined to hide it for the sake of dignity. Yes, she could be dancing about the Ryland breakfast table in just a few moments, gushing and giggling in anticipation of marrying the most eligible man in the kingdom. Yes, indeed. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to marry him, to be a duchess?

And since her brother-in-law was a duke himself, it probably would be a good idea to see to the formal declarations and all the other necessary folderol without undo delay. Ian checked his pocket watch again and then, with time to burn before the acceptable calling hour, sat back in his chair to have a leisurely cup of coffee and to mentally craft something that approximated a heartfelt appeal.

*   *   *

Fiona shook her head as she hurried down the walkway. “Marry him, Beeps,” she muttered to the cat in her arms. “Did you hear that whole conversation? Can you believe it?”

Beeps didn’t reply, not that she gave him a chance to.

“God forbid that he simply tell anyone who asks what actually happened and defend my virtue. No. That would be too simple. Too honest. No, let’s quake at the idea of people whispering lies. Let’s shackle ourselves together so that we can spend all of eternity congratulating ourselves for giving the busybodies a sham marriage to wag their tongues about instead. Oh, what a fabulous solution.”

Beeps blinked up at her in complete agreement.

“Marry a stranger. That’s what he’s proposing, Beeps. You know that, right? And he thinks that I should be delighted by the prospect. He actually seemed stunned by the fact that I didn’t jump up and down and clap my hands in anticipation of being his duchess. The man is undoubtedly a fine surgeon, but he hasn’t the foggiest understanding of how Society thinks. Either that or he doesn’t care one whit.”

The niggling realization wasn’t a particularly welcome one, but she couldn’t very well ignore it. Not and be fair. “All right,” she allowed grumpily, “that he doesn’t care what Society thinks might be a point in his favor. It would be nice to think that he’s independent minded. But, honestly, Beeps, if he doesn’t care, why would he offer to marry me to keep them from talking about us having spent the night at his house? Lord knows he couldn’t possibly have any feelings for me.

“Oh, what a mess,” she grumbled on a sigh as she opened the gate and slipped into the rear yard. “I suppose the best thing to do is to tell Drayton and Carrie the whole story and hope that Dunsford doesn’t actually show up to make a formal declaration of stupidity. If he does, though…”

Mercifully, she arrived at the kitchen door and didn’t have the dubious luxury of thinking about what she’d do if the Duke of Dunsford persisted with his madness. The staff’s eyes went wide at the sight of her coming in—at first it was the ball gown and the unspoken realization that she’d been out all night. Then they saw Beeps and the Dunsford Problem was swept away in the outpouring of their genuine concern for their favorite feline.

*   *   *

Seeing no point in slipping upstairs to change her clothes and delaying the inevitable revelation of her adventure, Fiona tried to smooth away the worst of the wrinkles in her skirt as she made her way from the kitchen to the breakfast room. Perhaps the thing to do, she mused along the way, was to pretend she was Simone and just plow her way through the conversation with flippant quips and brazen confidence. She didn’t have to be particularly good at it; her sister and brother-in-law would be so startled by her manner that they’d reel for a week. With just a bit of luck, they’d never get around to taking her to task for having created the problem by her own actions. Yes, flippant was at least worth a try.

Caroline looked up from her newspaper, skimmed her gaze down the length of her and arched a pale brow. “I assume there’s a story to be told,” she said softly as she sat back in her chair.

“It was a dark and storm-swept night,” Fiona replied, stepping up to the sideboard and getting herself a much-needed cup of coffee. What a pity Simone wasn’t here to see her brilliant performance!

“It was clear with a crescent moon,” Drayton countered crisply over the rustle of folding his newspaper. “Where have you been?”

Bright and breezy, Fi.
“Beeps required emergency surgery last night,” she supplied, taking her seat at the table. “I took him straight to Lord Dunsford for treatment. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to save Beep’s leg, but he is alive and will eventually be just fine.”

“You were with Dunsford?” Drayton asked, the words sounding a bit strangled. He cleared his throat, not bothering to be subtle about it. “Alone?”

Fiona reached for a slice of toast and the pot of strawberry jam. “If Aunt Jane was there, she didn’t make herself known.” As Carrie closed her eyes and shook her head, Fiona smiled and went on. “Beeps was most definitely there, though. He can vouch for my conduct. I was an excellent surgical assistant.”

“Fiona,” her sister said softly, “this is very serious.”

As though she were the only one in the family who had ever risked scandal? Fiona shrugged. “Actually, it occurs to me, now that we’re talking about it, that it’s really rather typical of the Turnbridge women. You must admit that we seem to have a penchant for finding ourselves in situations that don’t look good on the surface.”

Carrie had nothing to say to that, of course, but Drayton wasn’t as cowed by the truth. “Was Dunsford anything less than a complete gentleman?” he demanded.

She couldn’t resist. Grinning, she replied, “He’s an outstanding surgeon.”

“You know what I mean,” Drayton growled.

Yes, she did. Just as she knew that pretending to be Simone was becoming counterproductive. “His conduct was exemplary,” she assured her sister and brother-in-law. “And if he shows up here in a bit, please assure him that there’s absolutely no reason for him to sacrifice himself on the altar of matrimony on behalf of my reputation.”

Drayton’s mouth fell open. As he stared at her in mute silence, Carrie shot forward in her chair to grab the edge of the table with both hands and squeak out, “What?”

“He thinks we should marry,” Fiona explained. “I’ve turned him down. Several times, actually.” She shrugged, fastened her gaze on Drayton’s and added firmly, “But he said he would call this morning and press you for a favorable answer. Please don’t give him one.”

Why the two of them seemed so deeply stunned … Well, all right, she could see that they had never expected
her
to present them with such a problem. She was the Perfect Sister, the shy and quiet one who went through life largely invisible. They’d never lain awake at night, bracing themselves to deal with disasters of her making. Simone’s making, yes, but not hers.

So, all in all, she probably needed to allow them some time to come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t quite as perfect or invisible as any of them had thought. Fiona sipped her coffee and prepared herself another slice of toast while she waited for their brains to stop staggering.

Whether it was the footman’s mere arrival at the breakfast room door, or the fact that he softly cleared his throat to announce it, didn’t matter. All three of them were looking at him by the time he bowed slightly and said, “Pardon the interruption, Lady Ryland. Lady St. Regis is in the parlor and says that she must speak with you on a matter of great urgency.”

Carrie arched a brow and pulled her napkin off her lap. Rising to her feet, she laid the cloth on the seat of her chair, said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” and followed the footman toward the front of the house.

Drayton watched her go, then shrugged and turned his attention back to Fiona. “Dunsford’s considered quite the catch, you know,” he offered, reaching for his cup and saucer. Standing with them, he added, “It would be hard to do better than him,” and headed for the sideboard.

“It wouldn’t be difficult to do worse, either,” she countered, passing him her cup.

“How so?”

“He’s marrying because he has to, Drayton,” she explained as she accepted her freshened cup. “Not for love. He has absolutely no intention of ever being a faithful husband.”

“How do you know that?”

Fiona frowned and puzzled the notion as Drayton settled back in his chair. “I don’t know how,” she finally admitted. “I just do.”

“Well, that is a negative,” her brother-in-law allowed, as usual accepting her pronouncement as fact.

“A rather large negative.”

He nodded slowly, then sighed and took a sip of his coffee. “So what happened to Beeps?”

The Dunsford Problem was done. Fiona leaned back in her chair and relaxed. “I don’t know precisely. He slipped out the kitchen door at some point in the evening. I found him under the lilac bush shortly after we came home, his leg badly, badly broken. I scooped him up in my cloak and…” The memories rushed back in a torrent. “Oh,” she whispered as the swift stream of them parted around a single detail.

“Oh, what?” Drayton asked warily.

“I borrowed your gun and forgot to bring it home with me,” she supplied. “It’s on the desk in Lord Dunsford’s infirmary.”

Again Drayton’s mouth fell open. To his credit, though, it didn’t take him nearly as long this time to recover. “You didn’t use it, did you?”

Fiona chuckled. “I’m not Simone.”

“True,” he agreed. “
She
would have brandished a sword.”

Not very well if she’d had a badly injured cat cradled in her other arm. But since that wasn’t the point of the conversation, she kept the observation to herself. “You should probably know—just in case Lord Dunsford ever mentions it to you—I pointed the gun at him, but wasn’t forced to fire it.”

Poor Drayton. But he was getting better at recovering from the surprise every time. “Well, thank you, God.”

“Save the thanks for later, Drayton,” Carrie said from the doorway. Her skirt still swinging about her ankles and her hands gripping the doorjamb on each side, she added, “We have a little bit of a problem in the parlor.”

*   *   *

A little bit of a problem was a little bit of an understatement, Fiona mused as they all sat in the formal drawing room and Dr. Ian Cabott, His Grace the Duke of Dunsford finished up his preliminary summary of the circumstances and moved smoothly into the request for her hand in marriage. As if the rest of her weren’t attached to it.

Good God, she never would have guessed that their having met at the ball the night before would lead to this. Tending to Beeps’ injury, yes, but beyond that? If only she’d had the presence of mind to scoot home right after the surgery instead of sitting down in the big leather chair to make sure that Beeps was going to emerge from the sedation without a problem. If only she hadn’t fallen asleep. If only Dunsford had awakened her and sent her on her way.

But she had and he hadn’t and the sun had risen with not only the two of them alone together in his townhouse, but also with half of Society’s mavens rolling around town in their carriages desperately looking for an innocent situation to paint red and blow entirely out of proportion. And they’d found one. Sweet Mother of Pearl. The luck of the Turnbridge women was something truly, incredibly awful.