Leslie Lafoy (16 page)

*   *   *

Fiona stood just inside Charlotte’s room, the door open behind her, the irascible young woman before her. Yes, she was doing this for Charlotte, for the girl who had lost everything and believed that she had no right—or chance—to be happy ever again. It had nothing to do with wanting to please Ian Cabott or make his life easier. It most certainly had nothing to do with how her heart skipped a beat and her blood warmed when he touched her. No, not at all.

But if Ian
did
happen to be impressed along the course of things … If it occurred to him that the woman he’d asked to be his duchess was more than a pretty face with a good bit of common sense … That he might discover that she had a good deal of intelligence, and no small amount of medical understanding, was a fragile hope, but one Fiona held in her heart anyway. And if he didn’t …

If he couldn’t be bothered to look past the surface and see who she really was, Fiona decided, giving Charlotte a smile, a skittering heartbeat and desire-heated blood wasn’t reason enough to sign the settlement papers and commit the rest of her life to being nothing more than Ian Cabott’s decorator, ward tender, and occasional, stoically dutiful lover.

Chapter Nine

Ian sat at the dining room table and considered the grease spot on the wall beside the fireplace. The blot that was just off the mantel and down a bit—where the cornish game hen had struck just moments into last night’s dinner—seemed to have gotten bigger overnight. How that would be possible, though …

He looked to the right of it and considered the wide pattern of spatters. The yellow tint of them testified to a delicious curried rice pilaf having been sinfully wasted. And a perfectly good moire wallpaper utterly ruined. Which fairly well summed up the whole first attempt at bringing Charlotte back into the world of genteel dining and general civility.

Shaking his head, Ian thought back, wishing it had gone better and wondering just what he could have done differently. He’d been cheerful but pleasantly firm as he’d brought her from the sun room. Along the way to the dining room he’d clearly explained the expectations of her and then, just as clearly, laid out the consequences if she were to behave badly. Yes, she’d glowered at him as he’d taken his seat and rung for the food, but he hadn’t detected even the slightest hint that she intended to go stark raving mad the minute the silver domes were lifted off their plates.

Apparently he’d been the only naive one, though. While he’d been inhaling deeply, appreciating the wonder of the meal and mentally framing his compliments to his cooks, the footmen had been discreetly scrambling out of the way. Their speed and awareness had saved their white shirt fronts while the rice had been falling off his all the way from the dining room to the sun room.

Wheeling Charlotte back to her room without supper hadn’t been as difficult as he’d expected it to be, though. Not that it reflected well on him in the light of a new day, but at that moment he hadn’t cared one whit that she was going to go to bed hungry. No, he’d been nothing but angry when he’d rolled her into the center of the room Fiona had had set up for her earlier in the day. He’d been determined when he’d left her sitting there, and, remembering Fiona’s instructions, before closing the doors behind himself he’d paused to leave his glaring, ungrateful ward with a curt wish for a pleasant night and to express the hope that she might find breakfast more to her liking.

And now that breakfast was here … Ian sighed, reached for the silver coffee pot, and poured himself a cup of steaming black fortitude. Maybe she’d be a completely reformed person when she rolled herself into the dining room this morning. Gracious. Pleasant. Clean. Not that any of it was even remotely likely, but hope was all he had.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

He vaulted from his chair and turned toward …
Sunshine in a pale green and lavender house dress.
“Good morning, Fiona,” he managed to get out past his thickening tongue. “You look lovely today.”

“Thank you,” she replied, kindly refraining from mentioning that the compliment rather implied that she hadn’t looked lovely yesterday.

He dashed forward and pulled out a chair for her. As she settled herself in it and he moved her closer to the table, he resisted the urge to press a kiss to her ear and somehow found the mental wherewithal to offer her a cup of coffee.

It was while he was pouring out that she asked, “Has Charlotte already eaten and returned to her room?”

There was nothing to be but honest. Maybe, if he sounded desperate enough, she’d take pity on him and excuse him from any further involvement in the whole effort. Not that there was any more hope of that than of Charlotte having changed completely in the course of the night. “She hasn’t been here yet. And I’ll confess to almost hoping that she decides that she prefers to miss another meal.”

“I gather that dinner last night wasn’t an entirely smooth first effort?”

“Charlotte has a very smooth, very powerful pitch. The poor cornish game hen was utterly flattened. Honestly, I’ve seen things come out from under wagon wheels with more shape left to them than that bird had when it finally peeled off the wall and dropped to the carpet.”

She arched a delicate brow and looked toward the window side of the room.

“Other side,” he instructed, settling back in his chair and staring down at his boots. “By the nearest fireplace. Just a bit to the side and slightly below mantel level.”

“Oh. That’s not going to come out of the wallpaper.”

“So Mrs. Pittman tells me,” he allowed on a sigh. “I’m not sure, but I think Charlotte was aiming for my head. I just happened to lean forward to savor the scent of finely cooked food at the right moment, and she missed.”

Fiona narrowed her eyes. “What was the yellow fare at dinner?”

“A delicious curried pilaf. Not that my dear ward bothered to sample it before she flung it after the chicken.”

The ever unruffled angel of goodness nodded slightly and took a sip of her coffee before asking, “And what was your response to such horribly inappropriate behavior?”

“To my credit, I didn’t throttle her,” he provided. “Although I’ll admit to being sorely tempted.”

“Understandably.”

“Instead, in a fit of maturity and reserve, I clenched my teeth, stood up, and proceeded to wheel her back to her room where I left her with a few terse words to the effect that I hoped today would go better.”

“And what was her response?”

“I have no idea. I closed the door and walked away. And, as per your instructions, the staff left her to her own devices to prepare herself for bed.”

Fiona smiled approvingly, warming his heart to a ridiculous degree and sending his spirits soaring to embarrassing heights. “Very well done, Your Grace.”

He cleared his throat and reached for the coffee pot saying, “I do wish you’d call me Ian.”

“I’ll try to remember and make an effort.”

Well, it was more accommodation than Charlotte was willing to offer him. And, truth be told, that Fiona would try was enough to satisfy him. His gaze trailed slowly over the finely carved features of her face, watching her sip daintily at her coffee and slowly realizing how delighted he was by Lady Fiona Turnbridge’s mere presence at his table. And when she smiled at him, when she glanced his way and then blushed peachy pink …

How interesting, he mused, that he’d never before found innocence to be the least bit stirring. Actually, he silently amended, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, it was far more frustrating and perplexing than interesting. Having never felt this kind of attraction, he had no idea how to best go about the pursuit. Assuming that she did eventually forgive him for the Lady Baltrip incident and accept his proposal … Just how was he supposed to seduce such an innocent without shredding what made her so appealing and unique? Without scaring the bejeezus out of her and sending her running for home?

“Is something bothering you, Your…?” She closed her eyes for a second and smiled. “
Ian
.”

He smiled in appreciation as his mind whirled through how to best respond to her question. Yes, he was bothered, but confessing that he was trying to figure out how to get her into his bed … No, honesty wasn’t the best policy at the moment. “I was thinking of Charlotte,” he lied silkily. “And wondering if I should go get her.”

Tipping her head slightly to the side, she stared off toward the far end of the table. “It could be,” she finally said, “that she’s overslept. Perhaps we could go together and see if she needs to be awakened.”

It crossed his mind to suggest that he offer to stay behind to order breakfast served, but as his conscience rebelled at the cowardice, he rose to his feet. Chivalrously stepping behind her chair, he inhaled the scent of her. Flowers, yes. But not the sickly sweet and dainty things that grew in hothouses. More like something that twined and flourished deep in the forest, something in which fairies made their beds. Scantily clad and delightfully wicked fairies.

He blinked to clear the image and completed his gentlemanly task as quickly as he could. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he answered Fiona’s puzzled look with a tight smile. “I will follow your lead.”

She grinned, quipped, “If only I’d been able to talk my dancing masters into being so accommodating,” and then glided past him, leaving him in a swirling eddy of a far too inviting scent. He stared down at the carpet, reminded himself that he was pledged to redeem himself, and then, ignoring his every natural instinct, trailed after her toward the sun room.

He stopped in the open doorway to first survey the situation and then to be thankful that he’d delayed in the dining room. If he’d been the one to open the doors and first step in, he’d have … Well, retching was still a distinct possibility. Charlotte sat in her chair in precisely the same spot he’d parked her last evening. She wore the same clothes she had last night. What was different this morning was that she’d repeatedly soiled both her clothes and the chair in the hours since he’d left her.

Fiona, to his amazement and chagrin, didn’t appear to have the slightest aversion to putting herself squarely in front of his disgusting—and very wide awake—ward. Good God, how she could bear the smell …

“You are
mean
,” Charlotte snarled at Fiona. “Mean! Vicious! Cruel!”

Ian had to swallow down his stomach and tell himself to pretend that he was in a military field hospital before he could get his feet to move. Not that either Fiona or Charlotte paid the least bit of attention to his tardy and obviously reluctant arrival.

Fiona nodded ever so slightly and leaned back against the mahogany bureau. “I can see how you might think so, Charlotte,” she replied calmly, her fingers sweetly laced in front of her. “And if you were unable to use your entire body and if your mind were impaired, I’d be guilty as charged. However, you aren’t entirely crippled and that makes all the difference in the world.”

Ian stopped just a meter into the room, sensing that Fiona didn’t need his intervention. Or his support, for that matter. For such a little slip of a thing, she had a presence about her. Steel. All soft and gentle and curvy on the outside. And on the inside, a spirit of finely tempered steel.

“You’re perfectly capable of getting yourself out of that chair to see to your personal needs,” she went on gently. “You could have rolled yourself to the commode chair at any time in the night. You could have taken yourself to the wardrobe and changed into your night clothes. You could have climbed into your bed and spent a night in peaceful, comfortable sleep. You chose not to do any of that. You chose to be miserable.”

“I hate you!”

And there was a reason to love Charlotte? Pity her, yes. But love …

“I’d suggest,” Fiona countered, utterly unruffled by his ward’s venom, “that what you hate is the expectation that you abandon both your anger at the unfairness of life and your petty tyranny over His Grace and his staff.”

“My parents are
dead
.”

Again Fiona nodded sympathetically. “For which we’re all truly sorry, Charlotte. If it were within our power to change what happened, we would in an instant. But we can’t and there’s nothing left for you to do but to accept your circumstances and carry on as your parents would expect of you.”

“I don’t want to!”

“That’s apparent,” Fiona replied smoothly. “And understandable. But it’s also unacceptable, Charlotte. It wouldn’t be at all kind of us to allow you to spend every moment of the rest of your life wallowing in misery over what you’ve lost.”

“What do you know of loss?
Lady Perfect
.”

“A great deal, Charlotte.”

“What do you know about going through life crippled?”

Fiona seemed to contemplate the question for a moment before answering, “Enough to know that a happy life can be lived despite limitations and imperfections.” She shrugged a shoulder and added, “If overcoming them is the path you choose to take.”

“Well, I don’t,” Charlotte all but hissed. “I refuse.”

Of all the stupid, obstinate for the sake of obstinacy declarations he’d ever heard, that one ranked as—

“It is entirely your choice,” Fiona allowed serenely. “But please understand that we have a choice, too. And ours is not to support you in the foolish wasting of your life. We’re not going to rush in and prevent you from suffering the consequences of your decisions. If you choose not to eat at the table and in a civilized manner, you’ll be allowed to go hungry. If you choose to sit in your chair all night instead of sleeping in the comfortable bed you’ve been provided, then you’ll be allowed to be stiff and sore. If you choose to soil yourself rather than use your commode chair, then you’ll be allowed to sit there and reek.”

Oh, now that might be going a bit too
—

“The matter of the horrible odor aside,” Fiona went on, apparently unaware that his stomach was churning. “You should be aware of the fact that if you persist in soiling yourself and then sitting in it, your skin will ulcerate, your tissues will become infected, and you stand a good chance of dying. Painfully.”