Leslie Lafoy (20 page)

“I’m sure that whatever you choose will be absolutely, wonderfully perfect,” he answered. “You have impeccable taste.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, turning to face him squarely and, as always, blushing a delicious shade of rosy peach. “But I really do want to hear your opinions. It seems to me that a husband and wife should share their lives completely, make decisions together. I want to share every aspect of my life with you and I hope that you feel the same way about sharing yours with me.”

Well, yes, darling, it was a busy day today. I drained the pus out of an old man’s leg, but I suspect that next week I’ll either have to cut it off or call the undertaker for him. And there were three babies who didn’t draw their first breaths today and two of the mothers who crossed into eternity with them in their arms. A kinder fate, though, than the ten-year-old boy whose head was crushed under the wheels of a train.

Ian pasted a smile on his face and pretended his thoughts were far lighter than they really were. “The desire to share our lives is a lovely sentiment, Fiona, and certainly worth trying to achieve. I just hope that you’re not disappointed when reality falls short of the ideal from time to time.”

She tilted her head and studied him. “Why would it fall short?”

Ian heard the cool distance edging her words, but he shrugged and offered her the only part of the truth he was willing to give her or anyone else. “I doubt you’d find the daily activities of a surgeon all that interesting. It tends be rather gory and, more often than not, depressing.”

“If it’s part of your world, Ian,” she countered immediately and with obvious sincerity, “then I’d find it interesting.”

He nodded and, knowing that nothing would be either gained or resolved by pursuing the course any further, chose to change the subject of their conversation. “Where is Charlotte this afternoon?” he asked, looking about—stupidly—as though she might be hiding behind a door. “I know she’s not out in the garden because Genghis Jack met me at the front door. Only Mrs. Pittman’s timely arrival saved another pair of my trouser legs from destruction.”

Fiona bit the inside of her cheek and swallowed down the miserable lump in her throat. As long as she was being bubbly, he was happy. As long as she was decorating his home and managing the care of his ward, he was willing to tease and joke and talk to her. But the moment that she stepped beyond the roles of caretaker and adornment, the moment she asked to be let into the world he knew outside of this house, he closed down and all but physically pushed her away.

There was no denying that it hurt to know he considered her only a small part of his life. The part that had nothing to do with anything important. Telling herself that it had only been a few weeks since they’d met didn’t assuage her wounded pride all that well. A few weeks was enough to have a sense of someone’s true feelings.

Especially considering how much time they’d spent together in just the last week and a half. Yes, he still went riding in the morning and off to oversee the construction of the hospital after lunch, but in their sharing of the midday meal … And in all that time, he’d never come close to expressing any desire to know her better.

“Fiona?”

“Charlotte is with Madame Evaline,” she supplied, lacing her trembling fingers behind her and trying to sound crisply efficient and not at all hurt.

“And who is Madame Evaline?”

“She’s considered to be the premier coiffure stylist in London.”

“Charlotte is having her hair styled?”

“Washed, cut and styled,” Fiona clarified, dutiful in her role of caretaker. “This morning she said she hated her hair and asked if I’d shave her bald. I sent a servant for Madame Evaline with a note about the desperate need for her services. She dropped everything and rushed over.”

He cocked a brow and smiled. “You don’t think she’ll let Charlotte talk her into anything rash or extreme, do you?”

“No, Ian,” she assured him, moving toward the bedroom door. “Charlotte was actually delighted at the idea of being pampered and treated as though she were valued and special.”

“Women do like that sort of thing,” he observed as he followed her down the hall.

“Even the unpaid help and the strictly ornamental,” she muttered under her breath.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

“Nothing,” she assured him, reaching the bottom of the stairs, “of any importance.” If he replied, she didn’t hear him, not over the scrambling click of rapidly approaching canine toenails. For a scant second she thought about not warning him, but her conscience got the better of her. Pausing, she turned back just in time to see Jack slide around the corner of the stairs and launch himself at Ian’s leg.

“Look—” was all she managed to get out before it was too late.

Ian stopped in his tracks, swore under his breath, and tried to shake Jack loose. Fiona arched a brow and wondered if he had any idea that Jack considered the shaking to be not only approval of the game, but active participation in it. As for all the Spawn of Satan comments … She couldn’t help but wonder if Ian had ever had a dog of his own. He clearly had no idea how their minds worked, how they heard only their own names and considered everything else the equivalent of
Oh, let’s play!

“Your Grace?”

Ian stopped moving to meet his butler’s gaze and ask over the growling, “Is the postal carrier here?”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

Good,
Fiona thought,
at least I’m not the only one who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Jack’s feet slid on the marble floor as he unsuccessfully tried to brace himself to better whip his head and shred fabric.

“What is it, Rowan?” Ian asked over the sound of growling.

“A messenger from Dr. Mercer arrived just a moment ago. There has been a crash in an underground portion of the city’s railway and many severe injuries. He asked that you come as quickly as you can.”

Fiona watched the color drain from Ian’s face and his jaw turn to granite. She snapped her fingers and said quietly but crisply, “Heel.”

The dog instantly ended his game and came to sit beside her, looking up at Ian hopefully. Whether or not the dog even crossed Ian’s mind, Fiona couldn’t tell, but she could clearly see the steely resolve in his eyes and the grim determination in the tightness of his lips as he turned to her.

“I’m sorry, Fiona,” he said, his mind obviously miles away. “I doubt very much that I’m going to be able to attend the ball tonight at … at…”

“Lord and Lady Egan-Smythe’s,” she supplied.

He nodded and walked off, saying, “I’ll take my horse, Rowan. It’s faster. Have him saddled while I get my medical bag.”

Jack started after him, but she snapped her fingers again and he circled about, came back and sat down beside her as the butler raced off to the rear of the house to have Ian’s mount prepared.

Alone with the dog in the foyer, Fiona pursed her lips and arched a brow as she contemplated the situation. Drayton had begged out of the ball at breakfast this morning, saying that he had an important meeting concerning a law he was trying to get through Parliament. Simone had arrived at the house ten minutes after that to announce that Tristan had a ship coming into port and that he considered unloading it more important than going out for the evening. For her sisters, the lack of an attending husband actually made a difference in terms of their companionship for the evening. For her, though …

What difference did it make that Ian wasn’t going to be there? She didn’t dance, and since the day he’d proposed, Ian hadn’t either. He came into the ballroom, got himself a glass of champagne, found her right away, and then after a few polite but utterly empty words that wouldn’t offend anyone or provide the least bit of grit for the gossip mill, he offered to get her a cup of punch.

They sipped together, he looked pained, she felt pained, and they had some more inane conversation until their drinks were gone, and then Ian took the punch cup away on his way to meet his cousin at a gaming table.

That exceedingly polite, circumspect, and awkward exchange was the sum total of their attending a society event “together,” and would be all that they were permitted until she formally accepted his proposal and he could officially escort her in through the door.

And to think that, in the seconds after being summoned to a horrific emergency, he’d stopped to apologize for not being there for their nightly “interlude.” God, it had to mean a lot more to him than it did to her. Either that or he thought they meant a lot to her. Either way … Shaking her head, Fiona turned and walked back toward the kitchen to see how Charlotte was enjoying the attention and pampering. Maybe, she thought as she went, she’d see if Madame Evaline had the time to do something magical with her hair.

Or maybe not, she decided, thinking that she might be able to talk her sisters into staying home that night and enjoying the simple pleasure of one another’s company without hundreds of other people getting in the way.

Chapter Eleven

Fiona sat on the carriage seat and smoothed her skirts, silently cursing the requirements of good manners. Her suggestion that no one would think it at all strange that the three of them had come down with an illness on the same night had been met with mixed reactions. Simone had laughed and called rights to morning sickness. Caroline had frowned and said that they couldn’t cancel at such a late hour without wreaking havoc on Lady Egan-Smythe’s dinner seating arrangements.

Pointing out that Drayton, Tristan and Ian having bowed out that day had already created the problem had been met with a cool pronouncement that while men were allowed to behave rudely, women were not. It had been followed immediately by The Look. And that had been that.

“So, tell us, Fiona,” Simone said from the opposite seat as the coach began to roll down the drive. “Have you decided yet whether you’re going to marry Dunsford?”

“It depends on what time of the day it is.”

From beside her, Caroline asked, “What seems to be the sticking point?”

She looked back and forth between her sisters. “Ian.”

Simone tipped her head back and laughed outright. Carrie simply looked at her, her brows slowly knitting. “What is about him that gives you second thoughts?” she finally asked.

Fiona sighed and tweaked the fringe of her shawl.

“Do you think he’s being unfaithful?” her eldest sister pressed.

“I honestly don’t think so,” she admitted, “but I really don’t know.”

“All right,” Simone said, her always meager patience clearly exhausted. “Enough of this dancing around. You’re not accomplishing anything. Tell us what you like about him, what counts in his favor.”

“He’s handsome,” she readily allowed. “Very handsome.”

“That’s a given,” Simone countered. “So is the fact that he’s a duke and incredibly wealthy.”

“What’s important, Simone, is that he uses his wealth for good and that he’s not at all stingy. He’s building a hospital, you know.”

“No,” Carrie answered, “I didn’t.”

“It’s for the poor,” Fiona explained. “He’s having a tenement house he inherited from his father converted. Anyone who needs care will be able to get it there whether or not they have the money to pay for it.”

Carrie smiled and observed, “So you’re both very much alike.”

“Not,” she groused, “that he realizes that.”

Simone arched a brow, but it was Caroline who asked, “And therein lies the problem?”

“Oh, there are so many problems, I don’t know where to begin,” Fiona admitted on a heavy sigh. “And quite honestly, I feel positively shrewish in even complaining. He’s genuinely concerned about the welfare of his crippled ward and has freely and gladly given me a free hand to make improvements to his home so that her daily existence makes her happy. He’s well mannered and gracious, tolerant of badly behaved animals and has a wonderful sense of humor. His sense of duty and service are noble and truly inspiring.”

“And yet?” Carrie asked softly.

“He treats me as though I’m just
there
.” As they both looked at her in silent puzzlement, she went on, the words and feelings suddenly flowing freely. “He constantly tells me how pretty I am. He compliments me on even the smallest of the successes with Charlotte and on all the changes she and I are making to his decor.”

“Which was terribly dark and heavy,” Carrie quickly explained to Simone.

“And as nice as the compliments are, that’s all they are,” Fiona went on, her anger rising with every beat of her heart. “Words. Just words.”

Simone leaned forward to lay a hand on her knee. “Are you saying that he hasn’t so much as kissed you?”

“He can hardly bring himself to touch me.”

Simone sank back into her seat, her mouth forming a tiny
O
. Carrie drew a long, slow, deep breath. They were shocked? No more than she was. “When I make even a small overture,” she said, knowing and not caring that she sounded petulant, “he becomes tense and withdrawn and finds some way to end the contact as soon as he possibly can. In the one instance—just today, in fact—when he initiated a touch, he seemed inclined to take it a bit further, but then abruptly let me go and told me that decorum required ladies to order servants about and to resist climbing ladders themselves.”

“Decorum, huh?” Carrie drawled.

Simone make a
tsk
ing sound and then said gently, “Well, in all fairness, Fiona, he’s probably still in some pain from Aunt Jane’s attack on his private person. Being stimulated might not be an altogether pleasant physical experience for him.”

“And,” Carrie added, “it could also be that he’s being mindful of your innocence and restraining his natural impulses in an effort not to frighten you. In that light, what you see as disinterest might well be an indication of his respect for you.”

Respect?
“He doesn’t respect me, Carrie,” she insisted hotly. “And that, I think, is the root of all my discontents. He’s never asked me what my favorite color is.”

“It’s green,” Simone said crisply. “It’s obvious enough that asking would go into the inane conversation column. Give the man a little credit for being able to make an accurate observation on his own.”