One Golden Ring (20 page)

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Authors: Cheryl Bolen

BOOK: One Golden Ring
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“Yes, I'm a bachelor.”
She could have swooned with relief.
They walked along in silence, her senses never before so alive to the chirping of birds and the wind slapping at the petals of spring flowers.
A moment later he said, “Surely you've come out?”
“In a little over a month, actually.”
He muttered something under his breath. If she wasn't mistaken, he was blasting the men who would fall at her feet.
If only he knew
. She still believed she would be a dreadful wallflower, her brothers and Trevor Simpson her only dancing partners. She fleetingly wished herself brazen enough to invite this stranger to her ball, but she was mindful of her need for propriety. It was vital that to this man she be indistinguishable from the upper born.
“You live near the park?” he asked, smiling down at her.
“For the Season. I'm staying with my brother and his new wife.”
“And the rest of the year? You live where?”
“In Kent.”
“Is that where you learned to ride?” His blond hair ruffled in the wind.
“Actually I learned to ride right here in Hyde Park. As a child I lived in The City. After my father died, my mother was granted her wish to live year-round in the country.” Verity hated to see that the fog was beginning to lift, for that would mean He would be going.
“So that explains why you haven't been snatched up.”
For the first time in her life, Verity Birmingham acted the coquet. “Pray, sir, whatever do you mean ‘snatched up'?”
“I mean that as soon as you're presented you'll be besieged with offers of marriage.” His brows plunged and he sounded quite grumpy.
Which was wonderful.
“You're much too kind.”
“It's not kindness,” he snapped. “You're entirely too lovely.”
On the spot, Verity decided this was the most wonderful day of her life. Her dark lashes lowered and she whispered, “Thank you.”
They had come back to where their horses were tied, and he turned to her and spoke with disappointment. “I regret that I must go now or I will be late for a meeting with my brother-in-law—a man one does not keep waiting. Would I be too ill mannered if I asked permission to ride with you tomorrow morning?”
Would she be too ill mannered if she agreed to? After all, genteel young ladies did not meet with men—especially strange men—unchaperoned. Her desire to be with him was stronger than her desire to preserve respectability. “Only if you promise to tell me about yourself tomorrow,” she said. “You asked all the questions today.”
He bowed and took her hand, settling soft lips on her gloved fingers.
That was when she saw the signet ring.
She recoiled as if she'd been struck by a viper. She only vaguely heard his words: “Be assured that I shall look forward to furthering my acquaintance with you.”
Her heart thundering, she nodded as she allowed him to help her mount.
“Are you certain you're unhurt?” he asked with concern.
“Yes, quite,” she snapped, digging in her heels and letting the pounding horse whisk her away from Him. Her blond Adonis was a peer! Why, out of all the men in London, did she have to fall in love with an aristocrat? Once he found out who she was, he would no doubt treat her as one would a leper.
Her knuckles white from her harsh grip on the reins, she realized there would be no more morning rides. She could not meet him tomorrow—or ever again.
 
 
“How are you liking Almack's, dearest?” Fiona asked Nick.
He looked down into his wife's face. “Waltzing with the most beautiful woman here is most enjoyable. Everything else is as dull as I'd been told.”
She pouted. “But you must admit Verity has taken quite well.”
“For that I'm grateful. Do you find that she's attracted to any of her suitors?”
“While she's all that's amiable, I don't think any man has captured her heart.”
When that set was finished he went to procure lemonade for his wife and sister, but upon his return Lord Warwick was leading Fiona onto the dance floor. Another bloody waltz!
As painful as it was to watch his wife with the man she had been in love with, Nick was unable to tear away his gaze. They made such a stunning couple, Fiona delicate and fair, Warwick dark and powerful. Warwick was smiling down at Fiona, and they gave the appearance of enjoying each other's company excessively. Damn Warwick.
“They make a lovely couple, do they not?” asked the Duchess of Glastonbury, who had come to stand beside him and followed his gaze.
He glared down his nose at the beautiful redhead. “To whom are you referring?”
“To your wife and Warwick, of course. Even as a young girl Lady Fiona was mad for him, and I think he was mad for her, but since he had no hope of inheriting a fortune and title—at that time—he merely worshiped her from a distance. I always thought they would spend their lives together.”
As did everyone else in the ton
. Nick tensed. “Then it's my good fortune that Warwick has found love and fatherhood with another woman.”
“I thought he had,” she said, still staring at the couple swirling across the dance floor, “until I saw him with Fiona again tonight.”
Nick's thoughts exactly. He had often wondered how Warwick could ever have preferred another over Fiona. “Surely you realize they have been lifelong friends,” he said. “It's not like
my wife
to turn her back on old friends.”
“Of course you're right,” said the duchess, placing a hand on his sleeve. “Lady Fiona is one of the dearest people I know.” She lowered her long lashes, “Forgive my boldness, Mr. Birmingham, but I should love to waltz with you. I adore waltzing with tall men. You know my Glastonbury is exceedingly short.”
And absent.
Nick could not bloody well refuse this brazen woman.
 
 
“I've never seen you more radiant,” Lord Warwick said to Fiona as he smiled down at her, their hands clasped, his other hand at her waist as they executed the steps to the waltz.
“That's because I've never been happier.”
“I wished to thank you for telling my wife your observations about ‘fate.' You've greatly relieved my conscience.”
She gave a little laugh. “I knew the minute I saw you with your countess that she—not I—was your fate. I'll admit that at the time it was painful for me. But now I can truthfully tell you I've never been happier. Nick may not be high born, but out of all the men on earth, there's not one better suited for me.”
Warwick nodded. “He's a good man. You've done well for yourself, Fiona.”
“It's not just the money, you know.”
“I do know.”
As she watched Nick sailing across the dance floor with the Duchess of Glastonbury, she stiffened. They were smiling and laughing with one another. Fiona did not at all like to see her husband with her old friend. Hortense was not only a noted flirt, but she also was known to bestow her sexual favors indiscriminately.
And if Fiona wasn't mistaken, Hortense had set her cap for Nick.
Chapter 20
The morning mist had lifted, the sun rose higher in the gray skies, and still she had not come. This was the second morning Randolph had waited for her, the second day she had not come. As each new rider entered the park, he would look up hopefully, anxious to see her scarlet riding habit, but each time nothing but disappointment greeted him.
At first he worried that something had happened to her. After all, in five weeks she had not missed a single morning ride. Until now. Had she taken ill? Then, remembering the topple from her mount, his gut clenched. He feared she had suffered injuries during the fall from her horse. He cursed himself for not more closely examining her after she had taken the spill.
Then his mind would race on and he would wonder if she might have lied to him. Perhaps she really was married. Perhaps her husband found out about their meeting and intervened. But why, he asked himself, had she concocted the story about her come-out if she was married? Cursing himself for doubting her honesty, he knew she was an innocent. She had told him the truth. She was a maiden up from the country for her come-out.
He racked his brain, trying to determine if he had said something that might have repulsed her. He'd said nothing that was not utterly complimentary. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she did not like to be praised by a strange man.
His ardent interest in her obviously was not returned. Was her absence her way of rebuking his overtures?
Looking back on their meeting two mornings ago, he wished he had done everything differently. Why had he not asked her name? Why had he not discovered where she lived? He felt like a man who'd come away empty handed from a gold mine.
No woman had ever affected him so profoundly as the elegant woman in red. Not even the countess. There was something about the dark beauty that had dazzled him, something besides her stunning beauty. She was so utterly elegant, her movements on the horse so fluid. He had never before gazed into eyes as dark or as mesmerizing as hers. When they had finally met, she was all he could ever want and more. Her voice was lovely and cultured. Her graceful figure smoothly rounded in the right places. She possessed a sense of humor.
With an acceleration in his breath, he recalled how intoxicated he felt when she had slipped her arm around his waist and had taken those first few steps after her fall. He had never before been so flooded with a sense of protectiveness, never been so close to a more desirable woman.
And now he was left with nothing.
Even though he knew how fruitless it was to wait for her, he could not stop coming here each morning. He would come every day with the hope that she would come again.
Fiona was seated at the gilded French writing desk in her study when Biddles knocked on the door. “You have a caller, madame.”
No doubt it was another young man bearing posies for Verity. With her beauty and fortune, Verity Birmingham had not lacked for suitors. A pity none of the men appealed to her. “Who, Biddles?” Fiona asked, setting down her plume.
“The Duchess of Glastonbury.”
“Show her to the saloon. I shall be right down.” Truth be told, Fiona was out of charity with Hortense. The woman—who was far too pretty—had positively thrown herself at Nick last night at Almack's.
But when Fiona strolled into the saloon a few minutes later, she concealed her displeasure. “How nice of you to call,” she told the duchess as she came to sit on a silken settee, her gaze taking in the duchess's lovely peach gown. And generous bosom.
“Where is Mr. Birmingham today?” the duchess demanded.
She could at least have had the decency to wait before acknowledging her true reason for coming today!
“My husband,” Fiona said with emphasis, “never misses a session at the Exchange.”
“I had quite forgotten. He's known as The Fox of the 'Change, is he not?”
Nodding, Fiona beamed with pride. “He's terribly clever about money and such.”
Hortense's gaze whisked over the tiny grid on the specially loomed emerald and gold carpet and along the freshly painted white columns that soared to the trompe l'oeil ceiling that gave the illusion of being a dome. “He certainly knows how to spend his money, too. Menger House is positively stunning.”
Biddles appeared with a tea tray.
“Tea?” Fiona asked.
“Yes, please.”
Fiona poured the tea into two delicate porcelain cups and handed one to the duchess.
“You must tell me how you met your husband,” Hortense said.
The woman's an open book!
“Actually, my brother introduced me to him some time ago. They were at Cambridge together, you know.”
“I didn't know Birmingham and Agar were friends.”
“Oh, they're not.” Fiona took a sip, not deigning to elaborate.
“Then however did you manage to snare the handsome Mr. Birmingham?”
He is handsome. And he's mine.
“Our paths crossed again in December, and a . . . spark ignited.” Which was something close to the truth.
A devilish look on her face, the duchess said, “He could light my spark any time.”
Bristling, Fiona shot her old friend a brazenly chilly glance. “The only spark I should like him to light is mine.” She felt like a cat marking her territory.
The duchess shrugged. “I would imagine he's wonderful in the bedchamber.”
Fiona met her gaze boldly. “He is, but we must cease this conversation at once. Miss Birmingham's expected to step into the room at any moment, and we need to be cognizant of her maidenly sensibilities.”
Before Hortense could answer, Verity joined them and came to sit beside Fiona.
“You look a great deal like your brother,” Hortense told Verity.
Verity rolled her eyes. “Exactly what a lady does
not
wish to hear.”
“But your brother is extraordinarily handsome,” Hortense said. “And you share his best features: his leanness, his high cheekbones, his piercing eyes, and the olive complexion.”
Hortense took entirely too thorough notice of Nick.
“I'm told I look a great deal like my elder brother, too,” Fiona said, “which I find exceedingly offensive, given that he's quite a large, muscular fellow.”
The duchess directed her attention to Verity. “I daresay the only thing Lady Fiona has in common with her brother is their coloring—the blue eyes and blond hair. Have you met Lord Agar?”
“I haven't had that pleasure,” Verity said.
Fiona shrugged. “Randy's become the hermit since his return from The Peninsula.”
“Yes, I've heard he's even let Agar House.”
“I thought that was quite clever of him, considering how large it is for just one inhabitant,” Fiona said.
“I wonder what he's doing with himself. He's not even been to Almack's,” the duchess said. “He will be at Miss Birmingham's and Miss Peabody's come-out ball, won't he?”
Fiona stiffened. How would it look if Randy stayed away? His absence would underscore his disapproval of Nick. For Nick's sake, Randy
must
come. “Yes, I suppose he will.” She was not about to acknowledge the rift between Randy and her to the biggest gossip in London.
The door to the saloon burst open, and Emmie, her long hair flowing behind her, rushed in, an exasperated Miss Beckham on her heels. “My Lady!” Emmie shrieked. “I fell down, and my lovely white muff got all dirty.”
“Come here and let me see,” Fiona said, hooking an arm around the little girl's shoulders as she examined it. “Don't worry, pet, it'll wash off,” Fiona said. “Remember the fur used to be on an animal, and they're always frolicking in the mud, but the rains come and bathe them, making them clean again.”
“I'm ever so glad,” Emmie said with a sigh, restuffing her little hands into the muff.
“Come along, Miss Emmie,” Miss Beckham said sternly. “Your stepmother has important visitors.”
After Emmie left, Hortense scowled at Fiona. “Stepmother? Surely . . . surely you don't allow that bastard to live here with you?”
Fiona's eyes narrowed. “That ‘bastard' is my daughter, and I shall ask that you not malign her with such a description.”
Verity's brown eyes sparkled as she flicked a smile at Fiona, then faced the duchess. “And that child is my niece. A lovely little girl, don't you think?”
Hortense looked stunned as she nodded.
 
 
Later that day Fiona paid a visit to Lord Warwick's offices in Whitehall. She was pleased that after more than a year of estrangement they could now resume their old friendship, comfortable that the relationship was just that: friendship. Nothing more.
Smiling, Warwick got up from his desk and greeted Fiona. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She held out her hand while he brushed his lips over it. “I was hoping you could tell me Randy's direction.” If anyone knew where Randy was staying, it would be Warwick. They were lifelong friends.
“He's got lodgings on Marylebone.” Warwick picked up his pen and wrote down the number, than handed it to her. “He's certainly a changed man since his return from The Peninsula.”
She nodded. “I'm hoping he won't be so much the hermit that he misses Miss Peabody's and Miss Birmingham's come-out next month.”
He scowled. “He needs to be there. For your husband's sake.”
Warwick understands.
She nodded. “I must apologize for keeping you from your important work.” She waved the slip of paper. “This was all I needed from you.”
“I'm never too busy for an old friend.” He offered his arm. “Allow me to walk you to your carriage. It's devilishly difficult to find one's way back to the entrance in this maze of corridors.”
 
 
The Birmingham couriers delivered a communication from William as Nick was leaving his offices that day. He was hungry to get home, to see Fiona. All day long he had tortured himself by picturing how she had looked waltzing in Warwick's arms at Almack's the night before. Nick needed to feel her in his own arms, needed to hear the little whimper in her throat his kisses always elicited, needed to assure himself she wanted him as fiercely as he wanted her.
He tucked William's letter into his pocket to read during the coach ride back to Menger House.
In the carriage he quickly deciphered the code the letter was written in. William had been making the rounds of the major German cities, buying up francs, and was now on his way to Naples. He asked that Nick arrange a transfer of money to him from their man of business in Naples in order for him to deplete the Neapolitan coffers of francs.
Nick would see to that first thing in the morning. Tucking the letter back into his pocket, he settled back against the squabs of his luxurious carriage and leisurely looked out the window. Then his spine went rigid, his eyes narrowing. If he was not mistaken, his wife's carriage was parked just a few yards away. What could she possibly be doing here in the Whitehall area?
Then he saw her. Her arm tucked into Warwick's, she smiled and laughed up into the earl's face.
Suddenly everything became so clear to Nick. Warwick
did
regret that he had not married Fiona.
And now Nick's wife was to be Warwick's lover.

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