Leslie Lafoy (30 page)

“I believe we are concluded, Lady Fiona.”

She handed the money back to Ian’s mother and then dipped her chin in acknowledgment. “Good day then, Your Grace. I’m glad that we had the opportunity to meet.”

“Good day, Lady Fiona,” she said, bowing her head slightly before turning and sweeping out of the room every bit as regally as she’d entered it.

Fiona watched her go, her heart growing heavier with every beat. The woman wasn’t the ogre everyone had painted her to be. Yes, she was distant and frosty and formal. But given the world in which she lived, the world in which she’d been a young woman, a wife and mother … Ice was often a good thing; Nature’s way of protecting tender growth from the ravages of harsh, uncaring winter winds. It was sad, though, that spring had never come for Ian’s mother. Perhaps, if the two of them could have traveled down the road of life together for a while …

Fiona dragged a breath deep into her lungs and squared her shoulders. There was no point in wishing, in hoping for a road she couldn’t take. The ruts of social expectation in it had been worn deep, and she knew that, in time and despite her every effort, she’d fall into them and never be able to climb out. In time, married to Ian, she’d become just as lonely and empty and angrily impotent as his mother. And Ian would be so busy with his life that he’d never notice that in her tiny, limited world it was always winter.

Swiping away the tears, Fiona left the parlor to find some packing boxes.

*   *   *

His head was in pieces. He could feel the air whistling between them. God, it was loud. Loud enough to make him wince. And that made all the pieces throb and ache all that much more. Actually, they weren’t so much aching as they were wailing. Well, some were wailing. Others were growling about needing a drink, but it was hard to hear them over the frantic blubbering.

“Ahem.”

Damn. He wasn’t alone. Someone was there. Someone who probably thought he was capable of opening his eyes and carrying on a conversation. What a mean expectation. Then again, it might be Harry. And Harry might have another bottle of whiskey. Ian cracked open an eye. If his lashes weren’t in the way … No, even with his lashes in the way, it was his bedroom ceiling. And now that the blubbering and growling in his brain wasn’t so bad, he could smell plaster dust. Definitely his bedroom.

“Ahem.”

All right, he’d managed to get an eye open. He could probably gather up his wits enough to turn his head and glare for a gulp of the whiskey.
His
whiskey. God knew Harry never bought any. His hair scraping over the linen of the pillow created a god-awful racket that vibrated all the way … He pushed his tongue up between his teeth and his upper lip. Somebody had knitted little sweaters for his teeth.

“Ian.”

His eyes flew open. Sunlight flooded in and stabbed what few functional brain cells he had left. He threw an arm across the top of his face and groaned. He heard his mother sigh. Her heavy, greatly pained and irritated sigh. “Where’s Harry?” he asked, desperately hoping that a rescue was imminent.

“I ordered him out hours ago. I have no idea where he went. More importantly, I do not care.”

He swallowed a whimper. “Why are you here?”

“I am here to ensure that you are well and truly miserable.”

“I am,” he admitted. “You may leave now.”

“I will not leave until I have expressed my opinion on several matters.”

God. Someday he was going to arrive at the gates of hell and find that his mother was the head guard. “Go ahead. Get it done.”

“I insist that you be reasonably sober before I start, Ian.” Her skirts rustled like a plague of locusts as she stood up. “Your valet is preparing your bath and your shaving mug. A tray of bread and cheese and black coffee will be arriving shortly. When you are presentable and capable of reaching the parlor without breaking your neck along the way, I will be waiting there for you.”

The plague rustled toward the door, mercifully sounding softer and softer as it went. Maybe, if he took forever, she’d get tired of waiting and go away. But probably not. She’d probably come back to his room and beat him with something. He cocked a brow and winced.

“Conners?” he whispered. Nothing. Ian lifted his hands and held the sides of his head. “Conners?” he called softly.

“Here, Your Grace.”

Thank God. If he’d had to make his voice any louder, what was left of his brain would have exploded. “Slit my throat for me.”

“Your bath is ready, Your Grace. Do you need assistance in getting to the tub?”

“No.”

Well, actually, he probably did, he admitted to himself as he slid off the bed and his legs threatened to buckle under him. He grabbed the headboard post to steady himself and waited for the world to stop spinning so damned wildly. Perhaps … No. The idea of asking Conners to walk him to the tub, to help him undress … No. He’d get to the bathing room and into the tub on his own or die trying. The latter being a distinct and highly likely possibility, he allowed as he let go of the bed post and staggered forward.

*   *   *

It might have been the effects of the hot bath water. Or time. Or food. But he was inclined to think that the thick black coffee had done the best job of dragging him back to the edge of the real world. Yes, he could see the outlines of it from here. And while it wasn’t at all pretty, he suspected that where he’d been of late was even worse.

“Conners?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“How long has the binge been?”

“Three days.”

Three? Jesus. He didn’t remember a thing. Well, not after Harry had shown up and suggested that they go clubbing and skirt … His stomach twisted in dread. A liter of coffee sloshed upward. “Have I brought any women here?”

“
You
have not, Your Grace.”

He
hadn’t. Good news in a way, but not quite what he’d been hoping to hear. “Somebody else brought the women?”

“Lord Bettles has been … entertaining … during your incapacitation.”

All right, Harry had been the procurer. Not surprising news. “Just how incapacitated have I been?”

“Severely, Your Grace. In fact, Mrs. Pittman summoned Dr. Mercer last night out of fear that you might be close to death.”

Ian nodded, one part of his brain stunned and amazed that he could do it without the whole world moving, and the other half of his brain calmly assuring him that
severely incapacitated
implied that he’d been utterly incapable of even the least bit of carnal frolicking.

“It was at Dr. Mercer’s suggestion, Your Grace,” Conner went on, “that the remaining spirits were placed where you couldn’t reach them.”

“Forcing me to travel the road back to consciousness.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

It would have been nice if someone had thought to drag him to the edge of the road to let him sober up instead of leaving him lying in the middle of it to be run over by every horse cart in the Empire. God, he ached in places he didn’t know he had. The last time he’d hurt this badly had been the day after Lady Baltrip’s assault. It was going to be a while before he rode a horse again. Hopefully Char—

“Uh-oh,” he drawled as a particularly unpleasant possibility bloomed in his awareness. “Miss Charlotte. Has she been aware of…”

“The debauchery?”

He tried not to groan out loud. “It was that bad?”

“It was confined to this level of the house, Your Grace. Rowan posted a footman at both the main and servants’ stairs to keep Lord Bettles and his companions from dubiously enlightening Miss Charlotte.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Miss Charlotte is, however, very much aware of your wedding to Lady Fiona having been called off, Your Grace. She has been discussing with your solicitor the possibility of taking up residence elsewhere.”

Fiona. His chest tightened and his throat thickened. “Damnation,” he said, forcing himself to think of something else. He’d intended to tell Charlotte himself. To explain. Now it was going to be one helluva fence to mend. “Anything else I need to know about before I face the dragon in the parlor?”

“Lady Fiona has returned all of your gifts,” Conners said, running the razor up and down the strop.

Gifts?
“What gifts?”

“I have not inventoried them, Your Grace.”

“A general description will do.”

“Flowers, candies, jewelry, perfumes. The usual things, Your Grace.”

Flowers. He had a vague recollection of clutching some roses to his chest and talking about steel fairies and wicked beds deep in the woods. There were a few other bits and pieces of odd scenes tumbling around with that one in his brain. “What about clothes?”

“I am not aware of any larger boxes, Your Grace.”

Which didn’t mean a damned thing if the foggy memory was anywhere near accurate. The way he remembered it, the little white wisp of a peignoir would have fit inside the average tea tin. God, she would look utterly delectable in it. Well, for as long as she’d have the thing on before he tore it off of her. Maybe …

“Can you tell if she opened the boxes?”

Conners brought the shaving mug and the razor to the side of the tub, replying, “They appear to have been returned unexamined, Your Grace.”

Trying to decide whether that was good or bad, Ian extended his hand for the mug and the brush. Conners obediently handed them over. On the one hand, Ian mused as he soaped three days’ worth of beard, if she’d opened the boxes, appraised everything and then sent it back, it would suggest that none of it was to her liking and that he simply needed to find out what was. He still had a chance to mend the bridge between them. On the other hand, if she hadn’t cared enough to be even a little curious about what he’d sent her … He handed back the mug and brush, wondering if she’d shoot him if he dared to try to apologize in person.

“I can shave myself,” he protested as Conners leaned down with the razor. His valet handed it over, looking decidedly amused. Ian considered the way the sharp edge was shaking and handed it back, adding, “Tomorrow.”

The corners of the man’s mouth were definitely twitching as he replied, “A wise and prudent decision, Your Grace.”

“It’s the only decent one I’ve made lately,” Ian admitted as he leaned back in the tub and presented his neck.

*   *   *

Someone had turned his parlor into a forlorn lover’s desperation gift and sweet shop. Ian scanned the long line of floral arrangements on the sideboard and the stacks and stacks of gaily wrapped boxes on the floor in front of it. Had he sent all of this to Fiona? Good God. She had to think he’d gone insane.

“You still look terrible.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he said, dropping down onto the chair opposite the settee. “As usual, you’ve shored up my battered and flagging spirits.”

She put her teacup back into the saucer. Holding both pieces in perfect fashion, she asked, “Why have you spent the last three days drinking yourself into a stupor?”

“It seemed the thing to do.”

She contemplated that for the count of two entire seconds. “I would appreciate a serious and truthful answer, Ian.”

“It was the easiest and least painful thing to do.”

“As compared to what?”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s get to the heart of the matter, Mother, so you can be properly pleased.” He dropped his hand and met her gaze. “Fiona has returned my ring. We will not be marrying. Feel free to select whoever you’d like to be the next duchess and advise me of when and where to be for the wedding.”

“I have already made my selection, Ian.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t waste any time,” he observed testily as he watched her set her cup and saucer aside. “Do I know her?”

“I have chosen Lady Fiona.”

Oh, for the love of Christ. He snapped his jaw closed and told himself that despite the temptation, getting himself a drink was
not
a good idea.

“I called on her this morning,” his mother said, primly lacing her fingers in her lap, “determined to do whatever had to be done to end your dalliance with her. She was in the process of returning all of this to you. We had a brief and highly interesting conversation. At the end of which, I concluded that she has a considerable number of redeeming qualities. Not the least among them being a healthy sense of pride and a good measure of common sense.”

“Well, Mother,” he drawled, “it’s a little late for your approval to make a difference. I’m afraid that I have again managed to disappoint you. I find it amazing how things
always
work out that way.”

“I found myself contemplating her words long after I left Lord Ryland’s,” she went on, either unaware that he’d said anything or choosing to ignore him. “Lady Fiona is also uncommonly wise for her years. I wish that I had had a friend of her mind and self-confidence when I was a young woman. I can not help but think that my life would have taken a very different path, that I would be a person very different from the one I have become.”

Stunned, he ran her words back through his mind. Yes, it certainly sounded as though she’d just said that she’d made mistakes in her life. Surely not, though. Not the Dowager Duchess Dunsford. Either his brain had been truly pickled, or his mother had fallen and rattled hers. “You have regrets?” he asked cautiously.

“A great, great many, Ian.”

Dear Lord Almighty. If he hadn’t been sitting down, he would have fallen down. “Such as?”

“I should not have married your father without setting some very clear guidelines as to how I wanted—and expected—to be treated.”

Why he’d thought she’d talk about dresses and shoes.… “I don’t recall him as a cruel man,” Ian replied, too shocked to be capable of anything except outright honesty. “Was he an ogre in private?”

“He was an indifferent man, Ian. Both publicly and privately. I was merely a convenient ornament in his life. Had I died or left him, he would have replaced me as easily and quickly as he would have a member of the household staff.”

Ian shook his head in wonder. “That sounds like something Fiona would say.”

“Undoubtedly because she did say it,” his mother quipped. “To me. This morning. We were discussing her most fundamental requirements for entering into marriage.”