Leslie Lafoy (28 page)

But only, he reminded himself at the swishing sound of approaching skirts, after she understood that she was never ever again going to put him through the wringer as she had that afternoon.

“Good evening, Lady Ryland,” he said, offering her polite bow as she came to a stop just inside the room. He glanced past her, expecting to see his errant fiancée in tow.

“Fiona isn’t here.”

This was not part of his carefully crafted plan. He cleared his throat. “Is she all right?”

Caroline shrugged. “She’s unharmed physically. Emotionally … She’s very angry and very, very hurt.”

Hurt? Of all the … He stuffed down his own anger and dredged up what he hoped would be considered a diplomatic response. “I’m afraid that I didn’t handle the situation this afternoon as well as I could have. I should have used a bit more tact than I did.”

“That’s certainly the impression I’ve been given,” Caroline said softly, nodding. She reached into her dress pocket and then stepped forward, her hand extended, saying, “I sincerely hope that you find some tact and perhaps a bit of grace to deal with the consequences of it.”

Ian stared disbelievingly at the glittering object in the palm of Fiona’s sister’s hand. “She’s breaking our engagement?”

“I do believe that’s what returning the ring traditionally means,” she replied evenly, still holding out the ring for him to take back.

Because he’d yelled at her? Because he’d been angry because she’d scared him? Well, he wasn’t going to take the ring back. “Where is she?”

“She doesn’t want you to know and we’ll abide by her wishes.”

“But—”

“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said coolly, stepping forward and dropping the ring into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Thank you for calling to inquire after my sister’s well-being. I will relay your concern the next time we speak.”

Ian stood there for a long moment after she swept out of the room, his anger flaring white hot. And then, as suddenly as it had engulfed him, it was extinguished. His heart slowly sinking into the pit of his heaving stomach, he turned and left before his quivering knees could give out on him.

*   *   *

A man had a right to be angry, he told himself as he poured himself another glass of whiskey. When a woman did something foolhardly and reckless, he had every right—no, obligation!—to point out her mistake and insist that she not do anything so thoughtless again. For her to be indignant about such a perfectly logical and considerate reaction was beyond ridiculous. And then to break an engagement over a little tiff like that …

God, he was really lucky to have discovered this inexcusable flaw in Fiona’s character now rather than after they were married till death did them part. Yes, lucky. Beyond anything he deserved.

He tossed the whiskey down his throat and reached for the decanter again. And maybe, by the time he got to the bottom of the cut crystal bottle, he’d be rid of the inexplicable feeling that he was lying to himself. And with it would be gone the infuriating, maddening, niggling notion that it was all his fault. God, what she’d done to his mind … It should be criminal. Maybe, once he sobered up, he’d think about sponsoring a law in Parliament that would forbid women from making men feel guilty about being reasonable, rational, logical and commanding creatures. Yes, that was a bloody good idea. He’d call it Fiona’s Law in honor of how badly and thoroughly and forever she’d mangled his heart.

*   *   *

Someone was stealing his whiskey. Ian opened one eye and glared—as best he could, given how little of the whiskey there was left to steal—at his cousin.

“Good Lord,” Harry drawled, filling a glass, “what a long face. Did your favorite horse die?”

There was no point in lying. She’d probably taken out an advertisement in the evening paper to announce the crushing of his every hope. “Fiona broke off our engagement.”

“Oh, well. There are plenty more fishes in the sea.”

Fiona wasn’t a fish. And there weren’t any other like her. “Harry, you’re an idiot.”

“No, Ian. I’m a realist.” He sat down on the arm of the other wingback chair. “You’re not a prince with world alliances and the fate of a kingdom to consider. Your pockets have plenty of coins in them. For you, one woman will do just as well as any other when it comes to taking a wife. There’s nothing terribly special about Lady Fiona Turnbridge.”

Harry wouldn’t think that if he really knew her, had he ever seen the little wicked edge to her innocent smile. “Go away, Harry.”

“Let’s go clubbing,” his cousin said brightly. “It’ll take your mind off this little setback. We’ll find some pretty skirts and—”

“I don’t—”

“By the time the sun rises you’ll be saying, ‘Fiona who?’”

He’d go to his grave whispering Fiona’s name. “Harry, I’m not nearly as shallow as you are.”

“Yes, you are,” his cousin shot back with a shrug. “You just like to pretend that you’re not. It’s all that education, service to the Crown, and higher purpose falderal. Scratch past it and you’re a man with the same sorts of needs and wants as any other.”

“I’m a duke.” Why the world swayed when he announced that …

“All that means is that you get your wants and needs met without working nearly as hard for it as the rest of us.”

The world was really getting wobbly.

“How about a suggestion?” he heard Harry say from somewhere that sounded far enough away to be … Africa?

“You send Lady Fiona some pretty things along with a note or two professing your regrets for whatever it was that you did wrong and ask her to reconsider marrying you.”

“Fiona doesn’t care about pretty things.”
She gave me back my ring.

“She’s female. She cares.”

His head fell against the padding at the back of the chair. The impact was still rippling around in the front part of his brain when he observed, “It’s no wonder you’re single, Harry.”

“And even if she doesn’t particularly care, those around her are bound to be impressed and might be inclined to observe that there are worse fates than being a wealthy duchess. If she has even the slightest regrets about so rashly throwing you over, their influence might be enough to tip her back to exercising good judgment.”

That made sense. In a way that required a bit of peculiar twisting. And the Rylands were a peculiar lot.

“All right, Ian,” Harry said, droning ever on. “Consider it groveling for forgiveness in an aristocratic, dignified way.”

What was
it
? What were they talking about? Oh, yes, groveling. “I need to grovel in person.”

“Then do it and get it over, one way or the other.”

“She won’t see me.”
She hates me. I don’t know why.

“Well, then sending her an unending stream of expensive gifts and well-crafted notes is your only other choice, isn’t it? Other than shrugging and going out to find someone to replace her.”

“I don’t want to replace her.”

Harry balled up his fist and struck himself in the forehead while moaning, “God, I’m getting a headache.”

Ian winced. “You
are
a headache.”

“You’ve never been a very happy drunk, you know.”

“So?”

“So things aren’t really as bad as you think they are,” Harry asserted from an ocean and a continent away. “Your outlook and decisions aren’t as much a matter of fact as they’re the reflection of the level of whiskey left in the bottle.”

“That might make sense in the morning. Maybe.” How interesting. When he cocked a brow, the whole side of his face moved. He tried it again. And the top of his head moved, too.

“In the meantime, let’s go out. There’s nothing more pathetic than a man sitting around, drinking himself blind, and sobbing about having been thrown over.”

“I’m not sobbing.”

“But you look pathetic. For God’s sakes, at least have some pride, Ian. Do you want everyone to think that you let yourself get wrapped around her little finger?”

“No.” He was going to write Fiona’s Law to prove it.

“All right, then,” Harry said, taking away his whiskey glass and standing up. He set both their glasses on the side table and then held out his hand. In a way a bit like Caroline had held out hers when she’d been giving the ring back. He shouldn’t have let her put it in his pocket. A ring that wasn’t returned meant … meant …

“Give me your hand, Ian, and I’ll help you get to your feet.”

“If I can’t stand on my own,” he protested, rocking slightly forward as he swayed back and forth, “I have no business going out.”

He had no recollection of getting to his feet, but Harry beamed and called “Ta-dah!” so he must have done it when he’d been thinking about the possibility of going over to the Rylands’ and seeing if maybe Fiona had come home yet.

“Now come along,” Harry said, handing him his jacket. “There’s no reason for you to put yourself on a shelf while you wait for fickle Fiona to come to her senses.”

“If she hears of me going out—”

“Maybe she’ll be bitten by the green-eyed monster.”

“And take me back. So others can’t have me.” There was something he wasn’t seeing, a facet he wasn’t considering. He should be able to. It was obvious. He could sense it right there, but just out of reach. “That is a possibility, isn’t it?”

“Well, I’d certainly think so.”

“Something’s not…”

“You know, if we hurry just a bit,” Harry said, picking up their glasses, “there’s enough time in the day to stop by a jeweler’s. And a florist shop or two. You can make the arrangements for a tidal wave of sparkly and pretty-smelling things, then sit back, enjoy yourself, and let matters run their course without giving the campaign another thought.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then you’ll be especially glad that you didn’t sit at home pining away. Women love to suckle wounded warriors to their breasts, you know.”

“Fiona,” he whispered, remembering, wishing with all his heart.

“Here,” Harry said firmly, thrusting his glass in his hand. “Finish this up and drown your false sense of nobility so that we can get on with having a good time.”

Drowning. Yes, they said that was a lovely, very peaceful way to go.

Chapter Sixteen

Fiona climbed into the waiting Ryland carriage, thinking that Simone’s bout of morning sickness had been just a bit too conveniently timed. One minute she’d been fine and suggesting new ways to get even with Ian, and in the next the note from Caroline had arrived and Simone was gagging and running out of the room.

As notes went, it couldn’t have been any shorter.
Come home. NOW.
As the threat of dire consequences went, it was all there—clearly and bluntly implied—in black and white and the firmness of Carrie’s script. There would be no more hiding, no more crying and feeling sorry for herself. No more imagining that Ian would crawl to her feet and beg forgiveness, promise her that he’d become a better man, and beg her to take him back.

Fiona plucked at the trim on her dress, remembering how at one time, seemingly so long ago, she’d intended to weave her feminine wiles and then leave Ian mourning for what he’d lost. Why she’d wanted to do that, though … It probably served her right that, in the end, she was the one alone and regretting what couldn’t be.

With a half smile, she smoothed the trim and wondered if there was such a thing as masculine wiles. Surely there had to be. What else could account for the willingness of women to forgive them so often and for so much? Not to mention to so happily assume responsibility for the smooth functioning of their worlds. She’d tamed his ward, redecorated his home, cleaned out his flower beds, and …

Fiona arched a brow. And rolled around with him in his bed. All quite contentedly, quite hopefully. All while believing that Ian would be able to see and deeply appreciate that she was more than domestically competent.

The family carriage rolled to a stop, and she opened the door and let herself out. Before her, just up the short walkway, was the same house she’d left three days ago. How perfect her life had been that morning. How blindly optimistic she’d been.

Shaking her head, she made her way to the door and inside. At least, she consoled herself as she made her way across the foyer, she’d realized her folly before the engagement ball, before she’d signed the settlement papers. Carrie and Drayton had to be relieved by the timing of it all.

“I’m here,” she announced, entering the dining room. “As summoned.”

“Thank God,” Drayton said from behind his paper. “The parlor is going to burst.”

Fiona stepped up to the buffet and picked up a plate. “What’s wrong with the parlor?”

Carrie rose from the table, took the plate from her hand and returned it to the buffet. “Follow me,” she said crisply as she walked out of the dining room.

Fiona followed, noting that her sister was wearing a walking outfit instead of her usual morning house dress. Obviously she intended to go out and pay a social call or two. Fiona frowned, hoping that she wasn’t going to be expected to go along. She wanted to crawl into her own bed, wanted to snuggle up with Beeps and tell him the whole sad tale. He’d be disappointed to hear that they weren’t going to go live with Dr. Cabott, but his heart belonged to her and he’d love her no matter what. Ian could have learned a lot from Beeps.

Caroline paused at the double parlor doors, pushed them both open at the same time, and then stepped aside, gesturing with a flourish. “It’s all from Ian.”

Fiona stared, thinking that it looked as though Christmas had come early and decidedly run amok. There were vases and vases of flowers, boxes of all sizes, all of them wrapped in green paper and tied with fluffy bows, little green velvet boxes with no bows at all. There wasn’t a single flat surface in the room that was stacked high and crowded to the point of toppling. All of it from Ian.

What was he thinking? That she’d be so dazzled and delighted by pretty things that she’d forget how he’d treated her? That she’d decide that, in exchange for things, she was willing to be a thing herself?

“Send it all back,” she said wearily, turning away.

Carrie caught her arm and stayed her. “I’m not doing anything, Fiona,” she said calmly and firmly. “You’re the one who ended the relationship. It’s your responsibility to clean up the debris that decision has created.”