One Golden Ring (16 page)

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Authors: Cheryl Bolen

BOOK: One Golden Ring
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“See, my darling,” she said, smiling up at Nick, “your being an ogre was justified.”
With the expectation that the cast would come off that afternoon, Fiona had ordered a bathing tub be set up in front of the fireplace in her room. As soon as the doctor departed, she glanced from the tub to Nick. “I cannot tell you how I've longed to sink this body—and this wretched leg—into a nice warm bath. It's been two long months.”
His dark eyes sparkled and he murmured. “Allow me to assist you, my lady.” He stepped closer and began to unfasten her dress. When he finished she lifted her arms, and he removed the dress, then lifted off her chemise. She turned around to face him. His smoldering gaze dipped to the tops of her breasts that squeezed out of the stays. He stepped closer and began to unlace her until her breasts were uncovered. He drew in a breath as he smoothed the corset over her slender hips and, with those magical hands of his, dragged her drawers down with the corset until she stepped out of them and stood before him completely naked.
She was aware of what great control he exercised when he huskily said, “Hold on to me while you climb into the tub.” Her husband always put her needs above his own.
With his help she slithered beneath the warm water. Nothing had ever felt so good. Well, actually, there was one thing . . . and she hoped she'd experience that, too, this afternoon.
After removing his coat and rolling up his shirt sleeves, Nick fell to his knees and began to trickle warm water over her shoulders. “Allow me to massage your leg,” he said softly. Moving down to the other end of the tub, he lifted her foot and massaged it, then slowly moved up her calf, the water lapping at the sides of the tub. He moved past her knee to massage her thighs. “Your leg is perfect,” he murmured.
When he finished the leg he scooted to the middle of the metal tub and began to cup handsful of water that he trickled over her breasts. Her breasts felt heavy, like her breathing, and she was embarrassed to see that her nipples had turned into little spears.
“Your nipples are puckering,” he said in a low, husky voice.
A deep, burning flush hiked into her cheeks.
“Did I embarrass you?” he asked.
“It's just . . . I've never heard that word used before.”
“Nipples?”
Brazenly meeting his heated gaze, she nodded.
“Say the word, Fiona. Tell me how your nipples feel right now.”
She drew in a breath. “My nipples, like the rest of me, need you, Nick.”
“Tell me how you feel.”
Her coyness vanished. This was Nick. Her other half. She was powerless to conceal anything from him. “I never thought a woman could feel such an overwhelming need. I know men are consumed with this need to lie with women, even women they care nothing for . . .” Is that what their lovemaking had been to Nick? Was he greedy to make love to her because he was so pleased with the lovemaking skills he had taught her? Was there not some flicker of something more, something even stronger than his carnal needs?
Those black eyes of his bore into hers. “Tell me what you want me to do to you, Fiona.”
She could not look him in the eye when she spoke. “I . . . I want to feel your lips on mine, to feel my tongue mingling with yours. I want to feel your hands gliding over my flesh.” Now she allowed herself to gaze into his simmering eyes. “I want . . . I need to feel you inside me.”
A smile stole over his dark face, and he stood up. She saw that he was aroused. Taking his hand, she stepped from the tub and he swaddled her in thirsty toweling, then scooped her up and carried her to the bed, easing her down as if she were made of fragile porcelain. Next he went to the casements and drew the draperies shut, one by one.
Her heart thumped when he turned around to face her, his smoldering gaze sweeping seductively over her. As he came to the lavender-scented bed, he began throwing off his own clothing, tossing it behind him in a haphazard trail until he stood beside her, his bronzed body lithe and powerful and totally aroused.
Never removing her gaze from his, she raised up on the bed and placed her hands on each side of his stiff rod as she drew her head closer, as her mouth opened to take him in.
She was strangely aroused by his deep groans, by the masculine scent of him, by the quick thrusts he seemed to have no control over.
After a moment, he pulled away. “I bloody well can't wait another second.”
Her breathing now unbelievably labored, she fell back onto the bed, and Nick quickly covered her body with his. He nudged her thighs open wider, then plunged into her.
The little thread of control she had hung onto snapped. She couldn't seem to raise her hips fast enough to meet him thrust for thrust. She was drenched and winded, and spasms kept rocketing through her as she felt his seed seeping into her womb. She had never in her life felt so utterly complete.
A few minutes later, totally spent, Nick collapsed beside her, securing his hand at her waist. “Well worth the wait,” he said.
Still panting, she snuggled against his moist, sweaty flesh. “Yes, it was, wasn't it?”
She was vaguely aware of footsteps outside her door and prayed they would not stop. But they paused, and a knock sounded.
“Yes?” she asked, hoping whoever it was would not come in, wondering if Nick had the presence of mind to lock the door.
“Miss Verity Birmingham has arrived, madame.”
Chapter 16
Nick cursed when he drove up to his business establishment later that afternoon and saw Randolph's crested coach in front of the building. Not only was he displeased that this visit would prevent him from completing the work he'd left unfinished, but he also disliked the prospect of facing his abrasive brother-in-law. He drew in his breath and cautioned himself not to alienate Randolph with words or actions. Fiona was, after all, excessively fond of her brother.
And Nick would never do anything that would make his well-loved wife unhappy.
Offering the viscount a stiff bow, Nick said, “Your servant, Agar. Won't you come into my office?”
Like his father before him, Nick kept his office as austere as he could get by with. The two men lowered themselves into utilitarian wood chairs. Nick eyed Fiona's brother. Except for their blond hair and blue eyes, the siblings looked nothing alike. The delicacy that defined Fiona was lacking in her well-muscled brother, who was also taller than average. Agar seemed less offensive than he had during their last meeting. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Those were the same words Nick had used a few months earlier when Fiona had paid him an unexpected call, the day she had made the proposition that had changed his life. If only today's visit could portend an occurrence half as satisfying.
“After speaking with my solicitor,” Randolph said. “I'm here to eat crow.”
Nick raised a single brow.
“It would seem I'm not only indebted to you for the sum of twenty-five thousand quid, but if I'm ever to repay you—which I assure you I intend to do—I've got to put my financial affairs in your hands.”
“I did suggest that to your sister, and I'm pleased that you've not taken offense. But as to paying me back, that's not necessary. To me, twenty-five thousand's a trifling sum.” With a smile hitching across his face, Nick remembered the day before they wed when Fiona had told him that while twenty-five thousand pounds
was
a great deal of money to most people, it wasn't to him. “I was expecting to strike marriage settlements equal to that amount.”
“Nevertheless, I wish to repay you.”
Agar was too damned proud for his own good.
“I hope you don't mind that I've taken the liberty of looking into your finances.”
“With my sister's blessings, no doubt.”
“Of course.” Nick had to tread carefully now. He could not come off as being didactic, for Randolph would storm from the room. “First, I must ask if you're going to sell your colours.” That Agar sat there wearing his regimentals did not bode well for Nick's plan.
“It seems I've no choice but to stay in England and try to make something out of the muddle my father left.”
“Good. The money you receive from selling your commission should be enough to cover your expenses for a year—provided you practice economy.”
Randolph's blond brows squeezed together. “What kind of economy?”
“I know it's difficult for one who's been raised as you have, but until you can rebuild the family fortune, you'll need to make changes in the way you spend money.”
“What kind of changes?” Randolph asked suspiciously.
“For starters, I'd recommend letting the London townhouse for the season. A bachelor, after all, doesn't need all that room—or all that staff. Letting Agar House not only would give you funds that are needed elsewhere but would significantly reduce your expenditures. You're welcome, of course, to stay at Menger House. In fact, I'm sure your sister would be delighted to have you.”
Randolph shook his head. “I'd prefer to take modest bachelor lodgings.”
“As you wish,” Nick said. “I would also recommend that you curtail a few activities.”
“And which activities would you be referring to?” Randolph asked, a sour look on his face.
“For one, gambling. It's a fact that over a long course no one ever comes out ahead at games of chance.” He watched Agar for a reaction, but there was none. “My other suggestion would be to stop maintaining a carriage. The livery fees alone are quite staggering for one in your circumstances.”
Randolph glared at him. “So the first steps in recovering the family fortune are to live a life of deprivation?”
“Better deprive yourself while you're a bachelor with no family to care for.”
“Good Lord!” Randolph hissed, as if he were angry at himself for having forgotten something of importance. “What of my brother?”
“It's your sister's wish to see to Stephen's needs. In fact, he will come to Menger House on school holidays.” He was lying, not about the holidays but about the financial arrangement with young Stephen Hollingsworth. Never having to be cognizant of financial matters, Fiona had not given a thought to Stephen's financial needs. Fortunately for the youth, Nick had been sending the young man a modest quarterly income.
Randolph nodded. “I intend to relieve my sister of that burden—once I've restored our fortune.”
“Then you're willing to make the sacrifices I've suggested?”
“I am.”
“As for your sources of income . . . there are but two at present: the lands in Yorkshire and highly devalued stocks. You should be able to reap a goodly sum over the next year off your lands. If I were you, I'd reinvest that—even consider expanding your acreage to reap higher yields the next year.”
“You simplify matters.”
Nick was too used to dealing with slow tops. His brother-in-law was more shrewd. “Let's just say I have confidence in your ability to enhance your Yorkshire holdings.”
Randolph's hostility noticeably lessened.
“Regarding the stocks,” Nick said, “your father, in his quest to make money quickly, invested in high-risk areas. With your permission, I should like to reinvest in safer stocks.”
“As the ‘Fox' of the Exchange, you will, of course, have free rein there,” Randolph said.
“Then oblige me by bringing all your documents here in the next week, and I'll begin buying and selling your stocks.”
Rising, Randolph nodded. “I'm forced to accept that my sister is married to you, but I cannot like it.”
Nick tensed. “I'm aware that no man of my class would ever be good enough for Lady Fiona.”
“I'll admit,” Randolph said, glaring down at Nick, “that I initially objected to the disparity in your stations, but I believe—with my sister at your side and your gentlemanly tastes and vast wealth—you'll be accepted everywhere.”
“Then?” Nick tried to act casual, tried to hide his own pendulous emotions.
With a hopeless shrug of his head, Randolph raked a hand through his blond hair. “My sister's very dear to me. I had wished her to marry a man who would cherish her—not a man who's a noted womanizer, a man who's littered the country with his bastards. Why, even at Cambridge you—”
Nick bolted from his seat, his hands fisted, his voice shaking with fury. “I've not been with another woman since the day your sister honored me by becoming my wife.”
Randolph's icy blue eyes raked over Nick. “You'll forgive me if I reserve judgment until the honeymoon's over? Leopard's spots, I've observed, don't change.” Then Randolph turned on his heel and left.
Nick sank back into his seat, his pulse thumping with rage. But he could not fault Agar for the shameful way he'd lived—before Fiona.
 
 
Once Verity had been shown to her room and had changed from her traveling clothes, she and Fiona partook of tea in the scarlet and gold morning room, which had the benefit of late afternoon sun.
As she sat back on the satin settee and studied her sister, Fiona wondered if she would ever be able to look at Verity and not be struck over her keen resemblance to Nick. Not that Verity was masculine looking in any way. She was possessed of a graceful slimness and a sweet, cultured voice that bespoke elegance.
Sadly, her choice of clothing did nothing to enhance her attributes. Though there was nothing in her manner that was less than tasteful, she lacked her brother's flare. She was trying too hard to appear staid. The colors she wore—including today's charcoal—were subdued and monotonous, and the necklines of her gowns were unfashionably high. Fiona could not wait to take her to her own dressmaker, Mrs. Spence.
“I cannot tell you how happy I am that you've come to us,” Fiona said.
“I cannot tell you how happy I am to finally be able to see Menger House. It's incredibly lovely.” Her voice sobered. “I only wish Papa could have lived to see it.”
“I'd like to have known your papa.”
“He wasn't a gentleman, you know.”
“Yes,” Fiona said. “Nick told me. Nevertheless, I have a great admiration for him.”
Except for his harshness toward the little boy that had been Nick.
Verity smiled. “You're all that's kind. How did you know that I'm fond of green? My bedchamber's wonderful.”
“I copied the color in your room in Nick's old house.” Fiona poured the steaming tea and handed Verity a dainty cup and saucer. “I'm so happy you've decided to let us bring you out.”
“I've never been more nervous in my life,” Verity said. “I'll be so vulnerable.”
Vulnerable to snobbery and effrontery.
“Miss Peabody, I believe, feels the very same,” Fiona said.
“But Miss Peabody is Lord Warwick's sister-in-law. I'm nobody.”
“You're Lady Fiona's sister-in-law. My family's older than and as respected as Warwick's.” Fiona did not like to boast, but she liked even less for poor Verity to worry. “Your come-out will be
the
event of the Season—if for no other reason than everyone will want to get a glimpse of Menger House.”
“But that does not assure that I'll have dancing partners,” Verity said.
“With your extraordinary looks—and wealth—I'm persuaded you'll not lack for men to dance with.” Fiona put sugar in her own tea. “Nick said you'd always balked at taking dancing lessons for the same reason you'd thought not to come out.”
“Because I'm too low for your class and too high for mine?” Verity asked with a little laugh.
Fiona nodded.
The butler stepped into the room and cleared his throat.
“Yes, Biddles?” Fiona asked.
“Mr. Trevor Simpson to see you, madame.”
“Please show him in.”
Just inside the door, Trevor stood dead still, his head cocked to one side as he stared at Verity. “Well, if she isn't a female version of his czarness,” Trevor said.
Verity lifted a quizzing brow.
“This, Miss Birmingham, is my friend Trevor Simpson,” Fiona said, scowling at Trevor. “He's taken to calling your brother a czar.”
Verity Birmingham then did a most undignified thing. She almost spit out her tea in a fit of laughter. “Then Mr. Simpson must know Nicky well,” Verity finally managed. “He is rather dictatorial in his dealings with others.”
“I beg to differ,” Fiona defended. “Nick has never been anything but perfectly solicitous of me.”
“That, my dear lady,” Trevor said, squeezing onto the same settee with Fiona and Verity, “is because the man's besotted with you.”
If only he were
. “He's no such thing,” Fiona said. “He's merely a considerate husband.”
“I think, Mr. Simpson,” Verity said, smiling, “my brother may very well be besotted over Lady Fiona.”
“You're not to call me ‘lady,'” Fiona scolded. Then taking Verity's hand, Fiona said, “But just between you and me, I am besotted over your brother.” Fiona felt she owed such an explanation to her sister after her heavy silence during their last visit—when Verity had disclosed how happy she was that Nick had married a woman who cared for him.
“Oh, pul-eeeeez,” Trevor said, lifting his eyes toward the celestial ceiling, “spare me the mush.” Even with his head tilted upward, Trevor's shirt points completely bracketed his slender face, his elaborate cravat comprising yards of freshly starched linen. He leaned forward and directed his attention to Verity. “Lady Fiona tells me you're coming out with Miss Peabody?”
“I may regret it, but I've consented,” Verity said.
“Miss Birmingham's afraid no one will ask her to dance,” Fiona said.
“I, for one, would be honored to dance with you,” Trevor said, “even though I fear you're taller than me.” Then gaping some more at her, he said, “Of course you'll have to allow me to dress you.”
Clasping her hands over her breasts, Verity sent Trevor a shocked look.

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