Leslie Lafoy (13 page)

Why they’d choose to dine in here, though … The outside wall was of a line of tall windows spaced every few meters. The inside wall had no fewer than three huge marble fireplaces spaced down the length. With ornately carved mantels, brightly polished brass tools and gorgeously worked fire screens, they were nothing short of beautiful. But the flames dancing in the grates didn’t touch the chill in the room. The tea she’d poured steaming into her cup had gone stone cold within seconds. Food, no matter how hot when brought from the kitchen, wouldn’t stay warm in here any longer than a minute or two.

With chilled fingers, Fiona smoothed the forest green silk of her sleeve and pulled the black velvet cuff down over her hand. God, given how cold the room was, either Ian never had parties or he didn’t believe in his guests being comfortable long enough to linger for a meal. If he thought otherwise, he would have lowered the ceiling by putting in a false one. No one would ever know, not with the skills of a good carpenter and a talented plasterer. Not only would the dining room be more inviting, the heat from the hearths would actually have a chance of keeping both the diners and their food warm. She shook her head and drank the rest of her cold tea thinking that since he could well have afforded to make the change long ago, it must mean that he hadn’t seen the necessity of it.

It was this way throughout the house, Fiona mused darkly. Not one single room invited a person to come in, to linger, to enjoy living life in it. The dimensions were huge, the ceilings high, the carpets and drapes dark and heavy. And while the furnishings were nice and obviously expensive, they were placed for display rather than to encourage either quiet conversation or happy gatherings.

Ian had said that he wasn’t particularly attached to anything in the house. She could certainly believe that. In many respects, Fiona decided, the house was very much an extension of Ian Cabott’s manner and physical presence. One could see the wealth and gentility, feel the imposing size and power. It was all very impressive on the surface. But beneath that there was nothing but a hollowness, a lack of warmth that said that comfort and personal relationships weren’t the least bit important.

The sound of jingling keys brought her from her less-than-charitable thoughts. She looked up to see Mrs. Pittman standing in the doorway that led into the foyer. In her hands was a small square silver picture frame.

“If you prefer to be alone, Your Ladyship,” she said, “I can come back another time.”

“No, please,” Fiona quickly assured her, motioning her to come forward. “I’d love the company. There’s an extra cup since His Grace hasn’t finished his meeting yet. The tea might even still be warm enough. I’ve been very careful about keeping the cozy tucked around the pot.”

“It does tend to be a bit chilly in here in the early afternoons,” the housekeeper said, settling herself onto the chair at Fiona’s right. She placed the picture facedown on the table as she added, “It’s somewhat better in the early evening, once the sun’s warmed the outside walls and the heat from fires has had a chance to settle into the lower part of the room.”

Fiona nodded and, as she poured out, shared her idea of lowering the ceiling with Ian’s housekeeper.

Mrs. Pittman smiled broadly and happily as she accepted the cup of tea. “Oh, Your Ladyship, it’s just such wondrous things that we’ve always hoped for when His Grace finally decided to settle down and marry. I can’t tell you how happy the staff is with the coming nuptials, how very pleased and reassured we are by His Grace’s choice for his bride and our mistress.”

It wasn’t kind to let the woman assume. “Thank you, Mrs. Pittman. It’s nice to know that I’d be so warmly welcomed here, but I haven’t formally accepted His Grace’s proposal.”

The other woman opened her mouth as though to reply, then closed it and studied her tea. Determined that there be only honesty and plain speech between them, Fiona said, “Please say whatever you want, Mrs. Pittman. I don’t stand overly much on formality, and if I do decide to marry the duke, I’ll consider you my most valuable partner in running this household.

“Frankly,” she added on a sigh, “I can’t even begin to do it without you. I don’t have the foggiest notion of how it’s supposed to be done. I’ve never paid the least bit of attention to how my sister goes about it.”

Again the older woman’s smile was broad and genuine. “I appreciate your openness, Your Ladyship. I’d be delighted to assist you in any and every way I possibly can. I had thought to say that I’ve been in His Grace’s family’s service for many years and that I deeply respect him as both a man and, since his father’s passing, as an employer. I know that he often has a distant manner, but he truly is a decent man; not at all mean-spirited as are some members of his…”

Before Fiona could prompt her to finish the thought, Mrs. Pittman set aside her tea cup and picked up the picture. “I thought you might like to see this,” the housekeeper said, handing it to her. “It’s a picture of His Grace, drawn by my late husband years and years ago. When we first came into the family’s employ.”

Fiona looked down at the ink drawing and felt an invisible hand close gently around her heart. The face was Ian’s, as a child of no more than five. Despite all the years since, his basic features—the well-defined line of his nose and cheekbones, the firmness of his jaw and the arch of his brows—were still the same. But that was all the similarity between the boy and the man he’d become. The boy in the picture had an impish smile and a light in his eyes that spoke not only of a joy in living, but also of an openness and willingness to love. This boy wasn’t anything like the self-possessed, reserved and commanding man he had become.

“Sometimes,” Mrs. Pittman said, softly intruding on her thoughts, “I catch a glimpse of that little boy in His Grace. It’s usually in the oddest moments, when I least expect it, but always when something surprises him and he forgets for a moment that he’s a duke and that he bears a world of obligation on his shoulders.” She sighed and added wistfully, “No matter how hard and cold he seems, that little boy is still inside. So eager to please, so happy when he does. He’d have become a much different man if he’d been born to different parents.”

Yes, his parents, Fiona mused. He’d mentioned them yesterday when they’d shared the bench in the garden. While he’d provided little in terms of detail, the impression he’d given of them spoke of an unhappy home and uncompromising expectations. She had only a vague recollection of the shadows of her own childhood; the years since Caroline and Drayton had rescued her had replaced them with happy memories of a home and family in which she was loved without condition and allowed to follow her heart and her dreams. To not have that …

“Thank you for showing me this,” Fiona managed to say, handing the picture back to the housekeeper.
And for reminding me not to judge a man I don’t really know,
she silently added.

“I knew the moment I saw you that you were the kind of woman who would appreciate it,” Mrs. Pittman said with a soft smile while rising from her chair. “Is there anything I can do for you? Perhaps have Cook prepare another pot of tea?”

“It’s most kind of you to offer,” Fiona answered. “But I’m fine.”

When Mrs. Pittman had gone, she sat alone in the dining room, lost in silent reflection. For the first time since she’d met Ian, she let herself consider the feelings he stirred in her. There was no denying that she found him physically appealing. He was not only a breathtakingly handsome man, but powerfully, magnificently built. How such a large man could move with the easy, lethal grace of a cat … He could easily break her in two. Not that he would. No, she knew to the center of her bones that he would never intentionally hurt her.

He was an excellent surgeon and his motives for becoming a physician spoke of a man with a strong conscience and a keen sense of public service. There was absolutely no fault she could find in him for having defied his parents to take up the study of medicine. In fact, she had nothing but extreme admiration for him in that regard.

But something about him made her uneasy, made her wary of … Of what? she silently posed, frustrated. She couldn’t even define what she was reluctant to do. She picked up a crustless sandwich from the tray and nibbled as she sorted through her impressions of Ian Cabott. Handsome. Independently minded. Highly educated and intelligent. Wealthy and generous. Definitely persistent.

Kind? Well, yes. He’d saved Beeps’ life and offered to marry her to save her reputation. The whole thing with Aunt Jane hadn’t been so much an unkindness as it had been an incredibly bad moment of poor judgment compounded by really horrible timing.

Maybe, she mused, absently picking up another sandwich, her wariness had nothing to do with Ian and everything to do with herself. What it could be … She shook her head and thought back to the last time she could remember feeling as though all was right in the world. Her life had been so serene, so predictable and comfortable until … Until Aunt Jane had asked her to go the ball and peruse romantic possibilities for her. In that instant she’d sensed the hand of Fate propelling her forward. She’d gone without resistance, blithely accepting, never suspecting that the order of her world was going to be so quickly turned upside down and so slowly turned inside out.

Fiona sighed and closed her eyes. It was all so very complicated. And, yet, at the same time so very simple—if one were being honest. She didn’t know precisely what lay ahead in her life, but she was certain that if she agreed to marry Ian Cabott she’d no longer have complete control of her world. Yes, there would still be moments of serenity and predictability, but there would also be feelings wilder and more powerful than any she had ever known. What, precisely they were, she couldn’t say, but she could clearly sense them gathering out on the edge of her tomorrows. And she knew—to the very center of her soul—that if she married Ian they’d consume her and change her both profoundly and forever. It was the possibility that she might not be able to control those changes that made her uneasy. Maybe even a little frightened.

*   *   *

Ian walked beside Fiona down the garden path, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, his gaze carefully fastened on the paving stones ahead of him. Wisdom said that being alone with her wasn’t a good idea. Ian smiled ruefully and silently admitted that his injuries, the sleepless night before, and the day of unexpected decisions had worn what was left of his good judgment to a weary nubbin. He was to the point, he had to admit, of being too tired to think straight, too dizzy by the unexpected turns his life had taken in the past two days to care all that much about propriety.

Silence hung between them, heavy and taut. Clouds scudded across the afternoon sky and Fiona drew her black velvet cape more closely around her neck. Ian, walking at her side, noted the cool breeze that blew through the gardens and wished that she hadn’t thought to bring her cape along so that he could have given her his coat. At least offering it would have given them something to talk about.

“I’m sure,” Fiona said gently, apparently as aware of the awkward silence as he was, “that Caroline could tell you the Latin names and the growing habits of every one of these plants. She has the most amazing mind when it comes to designing things.”

Ian paused to examine a leaf bud. “Do you like to garden, too?”

“I’m afraid that my approach to it’s considerably less informed and a lot less precise than Carrie’s. She plans and plans, draws pictures and stands forever, squinting and imagining. I garden because I like the feel and smell of freshly turned earth. My planning amounts to mixing packets of seeds and scattering them everywhere. When they come up … I like the surprise.”

He nodded. “So Lady Ryland sees gardening as an exercise for the mind, while you see it as a respite for the soul.”

The fullness and depth of his understanding stunned her. Fiona smiled, her spirits buoyed. “Perfectly stated,” she replied. “I gather that you like to garden, too?”

“Like your sister, I enjoy the planning and the initial planting. There’s a unique satisfaction in transforming bare ground into something ordered and beautiful.”

“You planned these gardens then?”

He nodded. “Oh, I thought I was the grand planner at the time, but in hindsight I can see that George, Mrs. Pittman’s husband, was very good at guiding. He had a gentle hand and an easy way. We worked for the better part of three seasons to lay out and establish the basic design.” His smile shaded to sad as he added, “And then I was sent off to school and became too important to spend time with the gardener.”

“You must have very fond memories of your days with him,” Fiona ventured.

“Sometimes,” he said quietly, gazing into the distance, “it’s the smallest gifts that mean the most. Time. Kindness and patience. It’s a shame that we often don’t realize how special people are until years later.” His attention came back to her as he added, “I hope you’ll feel free to make any changes you’d like out here, Fiona. Plant whatever you want, wherever you want. Make surprises to your heart’s content.”

“I wouldn’t want to alter your and George’s design. It’s lovely and has good memories for you.” As though heaven wanted to second her observation, a cloud rolled on its way, allowing sunshine to spill softly over the garden. The golden light touched the chiseled planes of Ian’s face just as he lifted it to gaze into the distance. Fiona felt her breath catch. So handsome, so sad. So very, very alone.

“Actually,” he said, “George wouldn’t mind at all. He always said that gardens that didn’t change were the sign of a dead imagination and a stagnant soul. I’ve been thinking that were I to do it over again, I’d do several things differently. For instance…” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder and leaning close to point at a distant object. “Do you see that pear tree over there? The one crowded into the corner? It hasn’t had the room to spread its limbs to grow as it should and really needs to be moved to a more open spot.”

She murmured something, but her awareness was focused not on the tree in the distant corner, but on Ian standing beside her, on the warmth and gentle power of his touch. She caught the scent of shirt starch and warm skin, felt the deep timbre of his voice pass through her, felt the protective strength of his presence. How had she never noticed that his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck and softly encircled the pulse beat at his temples? Had her heartbeat always raced like this when he was near?