Leslie Lafoy (14 page)

“A lilac or a forsythia would do nicely there,” Fiona suggested, trying to distract her attention. “Or perhaps a flowering vine of one sort or another.”

“Excellent ideas.” He removed his hand from her shoulder and, half turning, indicated a garden bench with a sweep of his arm. “Why don’t we have a seat and discuss other changes we’d like to make?”

Her first thought was that he was again presuming that they were going to be married. It was quickly brushed aside as she remembered Caroline’s account of Aunt Jane’s anger and the aftermath. “Can you sit comfortably?” she asked before she could think better of it.

His eyes sparkled and his grin went lopsided in the most charming, disarming way. “I gather that someone told you of Lady Baltrip’s retribution.”

“Carrie did. Are you in great pain?”

“Well, if pressed, I’d have to say that I’ve had better days. But I’ve also seen men mangled far worse soldier on, so I’ll do the same without complaint or self-pity.”

Fiona nodded her assent and settled herself onto the bench. She held her breath and stared out over the boxwood hedges as Ian eased down beside her and leaned back. At his quiet sigh, she glanced over at him, noting that the sunlight revealed the lines of fatigue etching the corners of his mouth and creasing the space between his dark brows.

As they sat, side-by-side, the silence settled between them again. This time, though, it wasn’t at all tense. Why the difference, Fiona couldn’t say, but she found their companionship enjoyable.

Ian settled his shoulders against the back of the bench. “A rich silence,” he murmured, his words soft and dreamy.

Fiona looked over at him and watched as he drifted into a light sleep. The tightness eased from his lips and the furrow of his brow smoothed. And suddenly he wasn’t a duke of great importance or a surgeon of brilliant mind and highly skilled hands, but a man exhausted, vulnerable and in need of protection. Her heart swelled and tears gathered at the base of her throat. It took every measure of her self-control to keep her hands in her lap, to caress the line of his cheek with only her gaze.

A bird trilled in the pear tree, calling to his mate. The sound must have penetrated Ian’s awareness, because he opened his eyes and looked about in confusion for a second. His gaze came to her and stopped. Again his smile was lopsided and boyish. “I didn’t mean to drift away,” he said. “I promise that it had nothing to do with the quality of your company.”

“You’re very tired, Ian,” Fiona answered softly. “And it’s flattering to know that you’re comfortable enough with me to relax.”

There was a light in her eyes that Ian had never seen before. Soft and gentle and caring. It touched his spirit, soothing something deep inside him. “You are an incredibly beautiful woman, Fiona Turnbridge.”

Her cheeks blushed the softest shade of pink as she looked down at her hands. Ian reached out and gently took them into his own. As he lifted them, her gaze came up to meet his, and in their green depths he saw a flicker of uncertainty.

“I couldn’t have chosen a better woman to be my bride, Fiona,” he declared. “I promise that you’ll never regret agreeing to marry me.”

Her lips parted and although she said nothing, he felt the quickening of her pulse. He slowly turned her left hand palm up and bent his head to press a feathery kiss to her soft skin.

When he straightened, his gaze returned to hers and he was rewarded by the return of that gentle light to her eyes. A timid smile touched the corners of her mouth and he sensed that he might have not only a decent chance of mending the fences he’d so badly damaged the night before, but also a real chance to have a happy, satisfying marriage.

The moment between them was shattered as glass rained down on the garden and a chamber pot splashed into the fountain. Fiona looked up at him wide-eyed. With no other choice, he smiled tightly, cleared his throat, squeezed her hands reassuringly and began, “I should probably tell you about Charlotte.”

Chapter Eight

As he and Fiona made their way inside and toward the rear room on the third floor, he quickly explained the basic facts of how he’d known Charlotte’s mother and father, how he’d come to be named her guardian, and how she’d been crippled in escaping the fire that had killed her parents. He refrained from detailing her daily conduct, saying only that it had become something of a problem for the staff. On the landing between the second and third floor he paused to look down at the green-eyed beauty who had been following silently in his wake.

“Is there anything else you’d like to know? Need to know?” he asked.

She arched a pale brow. “Just out of purely idle and prurient curiosity, am I the only woman in the Empire with whom you
haven’t
had an affair?”

“I know that it must seem as though I have no control,” he allowed, “but I’m really quite discriminating.”

She rolled her eyes and gestured to the stairs. Deciding that the subject was best dropped, he led the way up and then down the corridor without further attempt to defend himself, but mentally ticking back through the years and the women, even the ones whose names he hadn’t known or couldn’t now recall, who had drifted through his life in any sort of a romantic way. He kept count until he reached a number that shocked even him.

Good God. There had to be something wrong with a man who went through life making love at every opportunity but without feeling the slightest bit of anything beyond a cursory appreciation for his partner’s willingness. It had to say something about his emotional health that a truly personal relationship with any of them had never once crossed his mind. Not even fleetingly. He’d charmed and cajoled for a single purpose, performed admirably—and to their pleasure, too—then put his clothes on, thanked them and walked away without so much as a second thought.

Arriving at the open door of Charlotte’s room, he paused and gestured for Fiona to precede him inside. She glided past and he stepped in behind her, thinking that if he were in her dainty little mules, he’d have second thoughts about marrying him, too. And third and fourth ones.

“Who are you?”

Ian blinked and tore himself from his thoughts to take in the details of his surroundings. And instantly wished he were anywhere but there. Charlotte sat in her chair beside her bed, her hair matted close against her head, her dark tresses hanging in greasy wads over her shoulders. Her dress was, as usual, soiled and, as always, her black eyes burned with fury as her gaze settled on him. Ruth, one of the kitchen maids, knelt on the floor in front of the hearth, frozen in the act of gathering onto a badly dented silver tray the shattered bits of china and mounds of flung food.

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” she murmured, her voice shaky as she stared down at the floor.

“It’s quite all right, Ruth,” he assured her. “It’s no fault of yours. Please go on downstairs and calm yourself. Leave all that right where it is. We’ll worry about Miss Charlotte’s luncheon later.”

She dropped the tray and vaulted to her feet, saying “Yes, Your Grace,” and then dashed out of the room in a flurry of black skirts and white petticoats, somehow giving him a quick curtsy as she ran past him without so much as a hitch in her stride.

As he watched the maid leave, his gaze passed over Fiona. It arrowed back to her, stunned by the smile tipping up the corners of her mouth. What the hell she had to smile about … Probably, he mused darkly, it was the certainty that if she didn’t marry him, the young gorgon in the wheeled chair wasn’t going to be her problem. At least not beyond being polite through a brief conversation that wasn’t likely to be terribly polite on Charlotte’s side.

“Lady Fiona Turnbridge,” he said, beginning the necessary introductions, “I would like to present my ward, Miss Charlotte Masters, late of New Delhi.” He met the young woman’s gaze squarely and cocked a brow in warning as he continued, “Charlotte, may I present Lady Fiona, the woman I hope will someday soon become my wife.”

Charlotte’s gaze remained fixed on his, the fury still dancing in their dark depths, the muscle in her jaw flexing as she clenched and unclenched her teeth.

“Hello, Charlotte,” Fiona said softly, easing toward her without so much as a rustle of fabric. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Finally, Charlotte tore her gaze away from him to fix it on Fiona. She opened her mouth as though to speak, but apparently thought better of whatever she’d intended to say. She closed it and then, a moment later, said dryly, “I’m sure you’ve heard all about me.”

“A bit,” Fiona replied, unruffled by the girl’s rudeness, “and only enough to know that we need to become better acquainted.” She gestured toward the unmade bed with the dirty sheets. “May I have a seat?”

Ian bit his tongue, telling himself that she could see that she’d likely have to burn her dress for the unnecessarily kind and definitely unappreciated effort to be companionable.

“If you want,” Charlotte said, glaring at the window out of which she’d flung her chamber pot only minutes before.

Fiona pulled the bedding aside and found a relatively clean place on which to settle herself. Ian watched her, amazed that she’d chosen to sit so close; she could have easily reached out and touched his ward. At that short distance the smell had to be nearly overwhelming.

He was resisting the urge to take a step back when Fiona said, “I understand that you’ve been with His Grace only a few months.”

“Sixty-three days, seventeen hours and…” Charlotte checked the watch pendant pinned to her grimy collar and then added, “Forty-eight and a half minutes.”

Fiona pursed her lips and seemed to give the response considerable thought before she nodded and asked, “How long has it been since your parents were so tragically taken from us?”

“The fire was the thirteenth of October.”

Fiona arched a brow and slowly nodded, then looked casually about the room. “I see that you paint.”

“What you see,” Charlotte said snidely, casting a hateful look his way, “is that Lord Dunsford bought me paints thinking that I can or might want to.”

“I see needlework materials as well,” Fiona bravely and cheerfully continued.

“I hate needlework. It makes my fingers sore.”

She considered the full bookshelf on the opposite wall next and asked, “Do you not read, either?”

Charlotte’s chin came up to a haughty angle. “I’m perfectly capable of reading. I just don’t like to.”

Again Fiona pursed her lips. Again she took a moment to think before she ever so breezily asked, “So what do you do with your days, Miss Charlotte?”

“I look out the window sometimes.”

“At the gardens?”

“There isn’t anything else to look at.”

“Have you been down to see them more closely?”

“No,” Charlotte snapped. “I haven’t.”

“Would you like to?”

“No.”

For the first time since the two women had been introduced, Fiona looked over at him. She trailed the tip of her tongue over her her lower lip and took a long, slow deep breath. Ian didn’t wait for her to speak. “Feel free to intervene in any way you see as having potential,” he said. “God knows I haven’t come up with any great ideas.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, before turning back to his petulant ward. “Whether or not His Grace and I eventually marry, it’s clear that a firm hand is required here, Miss Charlotte. I can certainly appreciate that you’re in need of understanding, given the sudden and horrible tragedies you’ve suffered. But I know from experience that unmitigated kindness and unrelenting tolerance simply aren’t good for a person. There are some significant changes to be made in your world.”

“I’m happy just the way I am,” Charlotte declared.

“Whether that’s true doesn’t matter,” Fiona replied evenly. “What does is that you’re making everyone around you miserable.” She rose from the bed with a gentle smile, saying, “His Grace and I are going to leave you now so that we may discuss the situation privately. We’ll be back shortly.”

Charlotte reached down, grabbed the wheels of her chair, and swung around to face him squarely while she snarled, “You’re going to send me off somewhere, aren’t you?”

Fiona answered before he could reassure his ward. “So you can be a petty tyrant in another place to other people?” she posed sweetly as she walked past him, heading toward the door. She stopped at the threshold and turned back. “No, Miss Charlotte. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you aren’t going anywhere. Now, if you’ll excuse us for a few minutes.”

And off she sailed, down the hall, leaving him to either suffer Charlotte’s wrathful, resentful glares alone or trot after her like an adoring puppy. He went after her, pulling the door closed and telling himself that he wasn’t so much adoring as he was desperate and clueless. He found her waiting for him not five feet from the room, shaking her head in silent rebuke.

“She’s not happy,” he said as he reached Fiona’s side.

“Really?” she posed blithely. “I hadn’t noticed.”

All right, that hadn’t been the most intelligent or sharply observant thing he could have said. Unfortunately, he really didn’t have anything any more significant to offer. He opted for a confession. “I had no idea that you could be so … so…”

“Mean?” she suggested.

“Not at all!” he protested. “Deliberate. And coolly determined.”

She chuckled. “Apparently pointing a pistol at your chest didn’t make much of an impression.”

“That was different. The heat of the moment and worry for your cat and all that. Which reminds me. How is Beeps doing today?”

“Eating and drinking happily,” she assured him as a smile tickled the corners of her mouth, and her eyes sparkled with amusement. “He’s grooming himself and is back to his usual place on my comforter. Shall we move down the hall so that Charlotte doesn’t come out to interrupt our discussion?”

So much for the hope of a lengthy diversion. “We can move down to the window seat if you like, but only so we can sit and talk. Charlotte hasn’t come out of that room since I carried her in there when she arrived,” he said, moving down the hall. As Fiona fell in beside him, he added, “And yes, before you ask, she’s been invited out countless times. She simply refuses to accept.”