Leslie Lafoy (19 page)

He smiled, realizing that the scent of Fiona gently wafted through every corner of his swiftly changing world. Yes, his life was decidedly improving these days.

Charlotte had made considerable progress in the past twelve days. Far more than he’d believed to be even remotely possible in a lifetime. Yes, as Fiona had predicted, there had been some rough spots, but in looking back, he could see that they’d been brief and really not all that rough. And now …

They’d had nine straight days of her eating without so much as a whisper of complaint. Cook had reportedly fallen to her knees in gratitude after the first meal without broken china. Even more astoundingly, it was rumored that Aneesh, his Indian chef, had helped Cook to her feet and then, in his own delight with the situation, hugged her. And given the sudden breadth of variety of foods on the table since that moment, it appeared that the two of them had considered the event a cause for reaching both a territorial and culinary detente.

More importantly, Charlotte had been willing from the very first moment to take Jack out into the garden whenever he wanted to go. The light in Charlotte’s eyes the instant Fiona had walked in the door with the little monster trotting so innocently on a leash at her side … For as long as he lived, that spark, that light, would define for him the transformative power of hope.

Ian reached the doorway to the drawing room and froze. Fiona stood on the top step of a ladder on the far side of the room, her dark green shawl sliding down one arm as she reached out at an impossible, precarious angle to unhook the draperies from the rod. Good God, the woman had absolutely no sense of self-preservation. If he didn’t intervene, he’d be a widower before he was even a groom.

Afraid that a sudden warning would startle her and that she’d topple off the ladder, he quickly made his way across the room. Not that that was an easy task; she’d pushed all of the furnishings into a haphazard jumble in the center of it. She was wearing a pale yellow muslin dress with some sort of tiny print Ian absently noted as he went, the color beautifully complementing her porcelain skin and golden hair. He winced and silently cursed as he caught the rocker of a chair with his shin, but he didn’t stop to inspect the injury.

The instant his hands slipped around her tiny waist, she gasped and spun about. He didn’t bother to issue any instructions, but instead simply pulled her down off the ladder. Her hands instantly went to his shoulders and she grinned happily at him as he slowly lowered her to the floor.

Her body brushed against the length of him, remaining close enough, even after she stood on her feet for her light skirts to wrap about his booted ankles, for the warmth and scent of her skin to envelop his every sense. Her smile was mischievous and openly inviting, igniting his senses and heating his blood. He’d asked her to marry him, Desire whispered. And although she hadn’t yet signed the settlement papers, she
was
redecorating his house. What harm could there be in kissing her? Just once.

His good judgment staggered to the fore, warning him for the countless time that once unleashed, his natural instincts might be damn near impossible to keep within the bounds of propriety, that a member of the household staff, or any one of the myriad numbers of hired workmen, could walk in on them. He couldn’t in good conscience place Fiona in such an embarrassing and compromising situation. Especially since he was still trying to live down having been caught with her Aunt Jane.

Redemption be damned
, Desire whispered.

Ian pulled his hands from around Fiona’s waist, stepped away and took a long, slow, deep breath before saying, “Please stop endangering yourself, Fiona. My heart can’t take it. Just stand about and direct the staff or workers at the tasks you want done.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ian,” she quickly countered, her eyes bright and her smile wide. “Carrie’s had me climbing ladders, taking down and putting up curtains practically all of my life. I know what I’m doing and you have absolutely no reason to worry.”

He shook his head. “Decorum suggests—”

“
Suggests
is the significant word,” Fiona smilingly interrupted to point out. “It does
not
demand, thus allowing me room for my own interpretation of what is and what isn’t appropriate behavior.” Her smile broadened. “And at present I’m having such fun that I’ve decided to use a rather flexible meaning of the concept. Have you seen the front parlor, yet?”

It was virtually impossible to maintain righteous indignation in the face of her enthusiasm. He’d come back to the issue of her risk-taking later. “I paused to look on my way here. I assume there’s a plan for all that lumber?”

“I’m having new crown molding milled. The old ones are so heavy that they make the ceiling feel as though it’s pressing down on your shoulders.”

“In other words, you’re going to tear down the ceiling?”

“Well, not completely,” she replied, smoothing her skirts and adjusting the drape of her shawl. “I’m sure some of the existing plaster will come down when the old moldings are removed, but the plasterer, Mr. Stanley, has assured me that the repairs can be made without anyone ever knowing that they were patched. He really does the most marvelous work. Have you seen what he’s doing in the dining room?”

Ian cocked a brow. “I assume that whatever it is, it’s costing me a small fortune.”

Fiona laughed softly. “He does have two sons who have expressed an interest in going up to Oxford.”

“Well,” Ian countered, nodding and enjoying their banter, “far be it from me to stand in the way of two young men trying to escape the world of plaster, trowels, and horse hair.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Stanley have three daughters, too. Lydia, Dora, and Rachel.”

Ian crossed his arms over his chest, broadened his stance, and attempted to look put upon. “Why do I have the impression that the Stanley boys aren’t the only ones with aspirations?”

“Lydia wants to learn to ride,” Fiona informed him with a pretty, happy grin. “Apparently she loves horses and is very good with them. She wants to train them for riding.”

“Only for the really open-minded.”

“Of course,” Fiona allowed. “Dora wants her own dressmaker’s shop. She makes all her family’s clothes and what I’ve seen shows not only excellent skills and workmanship, but a real talent. She really could be as good as Carrie someday. And Rachel, the youngest, desperately wants to open a sweet shop.”

“Mr. Stanley’s brood’s certainly an ambitious bunch. Couldn’t you have hired a younger plasterer? Someone with no family?”

She looked up at him and pouted prettily while gazing at him through her lashes in a way that she no doubt considered playful. That he viewed her whole game as nothing short of a blatantly carnal invitation … Well, if nothing else it was nice to know that his abused body parts were fully functional again.

“You told me I could spend whatever I wanted in redoing the house, Ian. You said that I could spend frivolously if I wanted. Remember?”

Ian chuckled. “I seem to recall that at the time you said that you were going to go at the redecorating slowly. Take some time to see how the household functioned and all that. And that you’d discuss every single change with me before you made a discussion.”

Fiona grinned and began to fold up the heavy brocade curtains she’d already removed from another window. “Well, that was then. In the meantime, I’ve made several important discoveries. The first of which is that Charlotte, despite her reluctance to openly display or admit it, has an artistic eye and an interest in decorating. In giving her something to do, I’ve discovered how much fun this is and why Carrie so enjoys it.

“And secondly,” she went on, “how else am I going to see that Mr. Stanley’s children have opportunities? Everyone should have a chance to reach for their dreams.”

Ian laughed outright. “Sweetly generous, always optimistic Fiona … I truly don’t care what you spend or who you help in the process. But would you please promise me that you and the esteemed Mr. Stanley will leave my study and office just the way they are? I know my cubbyholes aren’t fashionable or even very well organized, but they are familiar and comfortable.”

“Speaking of cubbyholes…”

“Oh, no.” Ian glanced quickly around the room and made a production of swallowing hard. He was so enjoying the game with her. As long as he kept his hands to himself, there couldn’t be any harm in continuing.

“Oh, yes,” she blithely countered. “Mr. Pembroke, the dear old man in charge of the carpenters, showed me a drawing of the most wonderfully ingenious cabinet for storing dining room linens. They’re going to be hidden in the walls of the dining room itself and with a concealed latch so that they’re completely invisible. No one will know they’re there and won’t notice anything the least unusual about the wall panels hiding them. Mr. Pembroke thought of the idea and designed it himself. He says that no one else has such a thing.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “We’re so terribly fortunate.”

“And the new space being created above the dining room is—”

“New space?” Ian repeated, cocking a brow. “I seem to recall that the old space was roof and then sky. Please don’t tell me that you’re having the roof removed so we can dine al fresco.”

“No, of course not,” she assured him, her hands on her hips and chin tilted at a pretty angle as she looked up to laughingly meet his gaze. “Mr. Stanley is putting in a false ceiling, lowering it so that the room isn’t quite as cavernous and cold all the time. But in lowering it, a rather large space is created above it. Mr. Pembroke didn’t think it at all proper that it should go to waste. He hates wasted space.”

“Of course,” Ian drawled, nodding. “And I’m sure that he sketched another drawing of a wonderfully unique idea whose construction isn’t going to cost all that much in the grand scheme of things that no one else has.”

“Mr. O’Connor recommended both Mr. Stanley and Mr. Pembroke,” she informed him brightly. “He says they’re the best craftsmen in London. I certainly believe him. As Drayton’s always said, a certain degree of discerning vision and unusual creativity is the essence of what separates a quality artisan from the garden variety tradesman. I really do think you should feel incredibly honored that both Mr. Pembroke and Mr. Stanley are willing to work their magic to make your home so beautiful.”

With a sigh, Ian grinned and held his hands up in mock surrender. “And so what has the illustrious Mr. Pembroke designed for what was formerly the upper portion of the formal dining room?”

She considered him for a long moment with sparkling green eyes. “Perhaps it would be best if I showed you.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Fiona,” Ian said as she led him out of the drawing room, across the foyer and toward the wide stairway. “But doesn’t a solid wall of the master’s suite abut…” Suddenly a mental image filled his head and he knew precisely what she intended to do with that newly created room. His heart raced and his blood warmed.

She cast a bright smile over her shoulder as she continued to lead him up the stairs, but that was all the reply that he got.

He couldn’t stand not having the answer. “Are you having that wall torn out, perchance?” he pressed.

“I’d say that the project is a bit further along than perchance. Although they did begin actual work on that phase of it only this morning,” she supplied as they made their way down the the upstairs hallway. “Mr. Dylan tells me that they won’t cut the new windows into the exterior walls until later in the week. Which, of course, means that for the time being your room is still recognizable.”

And functional.
“I gather then that you have plans to enlarge my sleeping quarters?”

She blushed prettily and avoided his gaze. “You’re a very perceptive man, Ian Cabott,” she answered quietly.

He couldn’t resist the temptation. “Are you planning similar changes in your own suite?”

The color in her cheeks deepened. “I don’t consider any of the rooms mine,” she began. She took a deep breath. “At least not at this point. But it has occurred to me that if we do decide to marry, we might be inclined to dispense with the entire notion of separate bedrooms.”

The images suddenly filling his brain sent his blood pounding hot through his veins. Ian swallowed hard and deliberately forced his mind along a different track. “Won’t that leave us with a large number of empty rooms on this floor? Or are you expecting a steady stream of houseguests?”

To his surprise her blush deepened even further. “Well, yes, there is the matter of accommodating overnight guests. But, actually, I was thinking about places to put children.”

Children that had to be made before they needed to be put anywhere. Which meant, given that she was even thinking in that direction … Apparently Lady Fiona was reconsidering her initial aversion to the idea of bedding him. Proof that there was a reasonably understanding if not entirely benevolent God. Ian managed to stifle a groan of pure, frustrated desire, but just barely. “Oh,” was the full extent of any pithy and witty commentary he could muster.

Thankfully, Fiona recovered her poise as they entered his room and before the silence between them could become any more awkward or painful.

“I’d like very much to know what you’d like to have in terms of colors and furniture styles,” she said, passing the foot of his bed and keeping her gaze firmly fastened on the gaping hole in the wall ahead of them.

“I doubt very much whether my ideas on bedchamber decor would be either fashionable or aesthetic,” he answered, following along in her wake, being just as careful not to look at his bed as she’d been. He told himself it was far better to avoid temptation altogether than briefly indulge it and then have to both fight frustrated desire for countless hours afterwards
and
spend the next month apologizing for being such a cad. And that was ignoring the very real chance that he’d lose control of the situation and undo all the trust he’d earned since the Miller-Sandses’ ball.

Redemption be damned.

Ian clenched his teeth.

“I was thinking of using medium shades of blue and gold in here,” she said, drawing his attention away from his inner turmoil. “Would that be all right with you, Ian?”