Leslie Lafoy (2 page)

“Why’s that?”

“Given her eccentricities,” Harry said on a deep sigh. “I swear, I don’t know why I bother to tell you a thing. You listen only half the time and hear only a quarter of what I’m saying.”

True. Probably because half the time it was boring information and three-quarters of what was interesting was worthless. “You’d think her sister would have some pity and not drag her out for the gawkers.”

Harry shrugged and finished off his champagne. “Perhaps Lady Fiona’s unaware that people are gawking.”

“All for the better,” Ian said cheerfully, handing his champagne flute to his cousin. “Her feelings aren’t likely to be hurt when I sweep Lady Baltrip away from the conversation and out for a private stroll in the gardens.”

“Rather confident, aren’t you?”

Ian shot his cuffs, studying the red-headed, purple-wrapped morsel on the other side of the ballroom. “Not exceedingly so. I can be quite charming when I want something that charm will get for me.”

“She has been in mourning for the past year.”

And sometimes, just mere seconds later, Harry could be remarkably astute. “And she is undoubtedly well past ready to create happier carnal memories. See you at dinner.” He started away and then stopped, turning back to grin and add, “If I’m not there, please assume that I’m feasting elsewhere and
don’t
come looking for me.”

Harry saluted him with the glass and a wide smile. Properly encouraged, Ian set out to snare his quarry.

*   *   *

The happy torrent of Jane’s words faded from Fiona’s awareness as her senses prickled. She looked over at the mirror half tucked behind a potted palm to be sure. Not that it was necessary, she allowed with a faint smile as she watched the Duke of Dunsford make his way toward them along the back edge of the ballroom.

It was such a silly-sounding title; as though someone had made it up to go with a cartoon character spoofed in the paper. Dr. Cabott was a much more fitting name for him since there wasn’t anything the least bit cartoonish about him. Or about him being considered the top prize of the Season. His title and wealth aside, he was a terribly handsome man with a finely chiseled jaw and high cheekbones, thick dark hair, and hazel-colored eyes rimmed with long, lush lashes. All that and being tall and lean with broad shoulders … Fiona glanced down the reflection. Yes, of course his fingers would be long and slender; he was, after all, a surgeon.

Her attention shifted abruptly as Aunt Jane laid a hand on her shoulder. “What about that one over by the gaming room door, Fiona?” her sister’s friend asked, leaning forward and looking pointedly off toward the other side of the ballroom. “The one with the red handker—”

“Jane,” Caroline chided softly. “Fiona is not here this evening to serve as your personal … personal…”

“Medium,” her aunt Jane supplied with a mischievous smile. “And yes, she is. Aren’t you, Fiona, my darling?”

“Actually, yes.” At Caroline’s stunned blink, she added, “Aunt Jane said this was her coming out again evening and she asked me to help her discern the fortune hunters from the potential true loves of her life.”

Caroline closed her eyes for a second and shook her head. Then, after a deep breath, she found a smile and said, “With all due respect to your aunt Jane, she views any male with a heartbeat—however faint it may be—as a potential true love.
She’s
the fortune hunter. I’m astounded that you agreed to do this for her.”

“I’m supposed to be here,” Fiona supplied with a shrug. “I assume that it has something to do—”

“Quickly, Fiona,” Aunt Jane said, deliberately looking off toward the stairs. “The devil walking towards us.”

“Good God, Jane,” Carrie muttered after a hasty glance. “That’s the Duke of Dunsford. He’s nowhere near putting a foot in the grave.”

“Is he rich?”

“Obscenely.”

“Then he can’t be a fortune hunter, can he?”

They went on talking as the two of them did all the time. Fiona watched their mouths move and the lights in the eyes shift and shimmer in the course of the exchange, but none of it mattered with the approach of the duke. Fiona cocked a brow as the realization drifted down over her.

Well, that was certainly interesting.
Why
she was supposed to meet him this evening wasn’t clear to her yet, but then, that wasn’t at all uncommon. Knowledge of the full course of events seldom came all at once. More often than not, understanding took time and a willingness to patiently accept the fact that one thing always led to another. Always. Nothing ever happened by pure chance.

“Good evening, Lady Ryland,” he said, arriving at last. He gave Carrie a slight bow and a smile as he added, “It is a pleasure to see you here.”

“And you, Your Grace,” Carrie politely replied. She went on talking, her hands fluttering gracefully as she went through the introductions His Grace had come over to get. Actually, Fiona amended as she watched him acknowledge Jane, the one introduction that he needed to have before he could move on with his plan for the evening.

His gaze touched hers and then he looked away. But not before Fiona had seen the startled spark in the depth of his eyes. A spark of something akin to recognition.

“Fiona,” Carrie said, lightly touching her shoulder.

“Yes?” she asked, looking up at her sister. Carrie’s gaze darted to the duke in silent instruction. “Oh.” She turned her attention to the man who didn’t care one whit whether they were introduced or not and with a little nod said, “Hello.”

He started and again there was the flicker of recognition in his gaze. “Hello.” He cleared his throat quickly and softly and found a pleasant enough smile. “Might you have a space free on your dance card, Lady Fiona?”

“No,” she answered simply, knowing it was the answer he wanted to hear.

“Ah,” he said on a sigh that was obviously far less disappointed than it was relieved. “I can only hope that my heart will eventually mend.”

One. Two.

“Lady Baltrip,” he said ever so predictably and cheerfully, “would you be willing to take pity on me?”

“Of course, you poor man.”

He presented his arm, Jane took it with a lilting laugh, and together they walked off toward the dance floor.

“Fiona, dear…”

She smiled at her sister. “He didn’t come over to ask me to dance, Carrie. He came over to secure an introduction so that he could initiate an interlude with Aunt Jane. I was simply an excuse, a device to allow him to engage Jane’s sympathy.”

Carrie thought about that for a half a second or so before smiling and arching a brow. “As if an introduction and a play on sympathy were necessary. He could just as well have stood by the terrace door and whistled for her. I hope she has a care for his heart and doesn’t mangle it too badly.”

“Not to worry, Carrie. His heart is well walled away. Where Aunt Jane is concerned, his intentions are just as intensely base and every bit as fleeting as hers. It’s a perfect matching for the evening.”

“He isn’t going to batter Jane’s heart, is he?”

Why everyone in the family thought she could see everything … “Aunt Jane has never once taken her heart along when she goes for a stroll in the garden. And you don’t have to have a gift of sight to know that she’s not taking it this time, either.”

“True on both counts,” Carrie had to allow. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled broadly. “Simone and Tristan have finally arrived,” she announced, turning away from the dancers. “Shall we abandon Jane to her fate and go say hello?”

Jane would prefer it, and it was unthinkable to ignore their sister and her husband. Fiona considered the couple making their way toward them. Well, there was yet another reason she was supposed to be here this evening. Good news was always better when shared with the people who loved you.

“Is it just me,” Carrie murmured, “or do you think…?”

Yes, Simone and Tristan were finally starting their family. They were both glowing with the joy of it. The pregnancy and birth would go well and easily for Simone. And it was about time for there to be another baby boy in the lineage.

“Let’s try to act surprised when they tell us,” Carrie suggested.

Fiona nodded and arched a brow as a vision of snow-dusted moors drifted across her awareness. No houses, no people. Just the gentle roll of ancient land. As she considered it, the sun warmed and the land gently greened with the first promise of spring.

Interesting. She didn’t have the slightest idea of what it meant. But since understanding didn’t have anything to do with accuracy or inevitability, she accepted that she would someday stand on the moors watching the passage of the seasons and remember this night. It didn’t seem to be an unhappy vision. If she were pressed to put an emotion to it, she’d have to say that it was something akin to contentment, a feeling that all was as it was supposed to be.

Yes, interesting indeed. And since there was no point in speculating on what event or circumstances would take her into the moors, or even when that someday might be … Fiona put the vision away, stepped into Simone’s embrace, and focused her attention on living in the wonder and happiness of the present moment.

*   *   *

Ian guided Lady Baltrip along the garden path and away from the light and merriment spilling out the terrace doors. She laughed and chatted pleasantly at his side, the diamond brooch centered in her cleavage winking in the pale moonlight.

She’d told him in the middle of their brief dance what her given name was. He’d repeated it to himself three times in the moments right afterward, determined to commit it to his memory so that he could murmur it appropriately while in the throes of passion.

June? Anne? Or was she Sylvia? Damn. Bad form to call her by the wrong name. He sorted back through the recent memories of the evening. She’s been standing with the Duchess of Ryland. Her Grace’s given name was … Hell, he doubted that he’d ever heard it. Her Grace’s sister’s name was Fiona. Lady Fiona Turnbridge.
That
he did remember. Why, of all things, for that bit of information to be the stuff that stuck …

It had been her eyes, he allowed. A stunning shade of green. Not pale, not flecked, not changeable as his own were. A brilliant, new grass green. Clear and bright and … keenly, sharply intelligent. In a mere second …

Touched, his ass. That would be the last time he ever listened to Harry about anything. Lady Fiona wasn’t the least bit impaired, and as for looking through people as though they weren’t there … No. Lady Fiona looked
into
people and saw every shadow of their soul.

In the first instant it was disconcerting. He would allow Harry that observation. But once you thought about it a bit, it wasn’t. Not at all. In fact, there was something rather deliciously dangerous about daring to—

“Are we going to walk to Scotland this evening, Ian?”

He blinked and focused his attention on the woman on his arm. Her eyes were dark, probably a pleasant shade of brown. Her hair was definitely red. And her smile was most certainly inviting.

“I suppose we’ve come far enough for the sake of privacy and discretion,” he allowed with a smile of his own as he drew her to a most conveniently provided garden bench.

She settled herself on it gracefully and then skimmed her gaze slowly down the length of his body. Ian cocked a brow and waited for her to finish her perusal, thinking that Lady Baltrip’s vision was every bit as focused as Lady Fiona’s, just not at all concerned with anything beyond the simple surface of matters, beyond the immediate possibilities of attaining a quick but thorough physical satisfaction.

Which was fine with him, he told himself as she began to efficiently unbutton his trousers. Actually, sex with a beautiful, willing, just-met woman was his idea of the perfect mid-gala activity. Post-gala, too, if she was sufficiently good and genuinely disinterested in a more formal and permanent union.

He closed his eyes as she freed his stiffened member. God, what was her name? She leaned forward and he shuddered with the pleasure of her bold and artful advance. It didn’t matter what her name was, he assured himself as he stepped closer for her ease. As long as he remembered that it
wasn’t
Fiona.

Chapter Two

As Drayton and Carrie walked ahead toward their carriage, Fiona stepped off the shelled drive and paused to kick off her shoes. She wiggled her toes in the damp grass and sighed in relief. The worst part, physically anyway, of having to go to parties was the shoes. Hour after hour of standing about on marble floors in heels, hoping she didn’t stagger from the boredom and fall off the thick-soled shoe that disguised her shorter leg …

She considered the distance to the carriage, how many steps it would take to get there, and how many people might see her. With another sigh, she slipped her feet back into her shoes and followed after her sister and brother-in-law.

“Is Jane not riding with us?” Drayton was asking, handing Carrie into the coach as Fiona arrived.

“I believe that she’s found other transport,” Caroline answered from inside.

Well, that was certainly one way to put it. Fiona smiled and let Drayton assist her up the steps. Knowing from long experience precisely how the conversation about Aunt Jane would go, Fiona kicked off her shoes again and settled into the corner of the seat to enjoy it.

“God,” Drayton groused, climbing in behind them and taking up the opposite seat. “She’s utterly incorrigible.”

“I prefer to think of her as being highly spirited.”

“Highly is an understatement,” Drayton countered as the coach rolled down the drive and toward home. “She just yesterday ended her mourning for Baltrip. Who’s the poor old dupe this time?”

“He’s not old. And I hardly think he’s being duped. Jane is nothing if not straightforward.”

“To the point of bluntness. Who is he?”

“The Duke of Dunsford.”

“Well,” Drayton drawled, “he’s certainly younger and more healthy than her typical choice in men.”

Carrie rolled her eyes. “She’s not intending to marry him, Drayton. I suspect that she considers him something of a celebration of her return to Society.”