One Golden Ring (6 page)

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Authors: Cheryl Bolen

BOOK: One Golden Ring
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The coach door swung open, then Nick was assisting her from the carriage. He continued to hold her hand as they walked through the front courtyard, up four steps, and through double doors into the mansion. It was hard for her to believe it was not finished. From the vast entry hall she could see four rooms, one with scaffolding erected beneath a clouded ceiling of nymphs and seraphs. Though she could not see the artist, she knew that was the room he was now finishing. Highly polished marble floors stretched as far as the eye could see, and an array of huge crystal chandeliers suspended from every ceiling except in the room with the scaffolding. The walls were painted in vibrant colors and trimmed in stark white with heavily gilded cornices and pilasters.
When Trevor had called the mansion disgustingly opulent, he had once again exaggerated. It was tastefully opulent, she decided. She could not wait to show it to Trevor, who would be sure to appreciate its classically elegant lines. It reminded her of Lord Burlington's house in Richmond, but on a larger scale. “It looks ready to move in,” she said.
His hand settled at her waist. “It will need your touch, Mrs. Birmingham. We'll need furnishings and draperies and . . . well, you'll know. Vases and such.”
Mrs. Birmingham.
She could scarcely credit it! She really was this man's wife. “You will permit me to make the selections?” she asked.
“I'll be grateful for you to make the selections. I rather fancy architecture, but I assure you I'd be hopeless at selecting draperies and things.”
As would most men. Except for Trevor. Trevor was devilishly clever about decorating. In fact, she would value Trevor's help. “Then I think I would need to start immediately. It takes time to fashion draperies and build furniture.”
“How lucky that I've taken you for a wife, then.”
“Oh, somehow I think you would have managed with Mr. Sheraton or some such authority had you not been saddled with me.”
“I'm not saddled with you, Fiona,” he said in a serious voice, gazing down at her. “I'm a most fortunate man to have wed you.”
Her heart fluttered. “It's I who am fortunate,” she whispered.
He showed her all the entertaining rooms on the ground floor, then paused to speak to the Italian painter who told him he would be finished by week's end.
Smiling, Nick turned to her. “Then we can begin moving in as soon as we return from Camden Hall.”
She smiled back at him. “This is very exciting.”
Together she and Nick walked up the broad terrazzo stairway to the second floor, where high-quality oak floors replaced the marble floors that were downstairs. An asparagus green drawing room was at the top of the stairs. The hallway was studded with classically pedimented doorways, the middle one opening to Nick's bedchamber, which was painted royal blue. To one side of his bedchamber a study was located, on the other, a dressing room. They walked through the dressing room and found themselves in another dressing room that was all ivory and gilt. “This one will be yours,” he said.
She had never given much thought before to her parents' dressing rooms being adjacent, but that hers and Nick's were next to each other sent the blush to her cheeks.
They continued through the dressing room and came to her bedchamber, which was also painted in ivory and gilt. “Feel free to change it,” he said.
“Ivory's perfect! I can bring another color in with the draperies and bed coverings.” She wondered if they would make love in her room or his.
And her cheeks turned even more scarlet.
After he completed the tour she said, “The house is truly wonderful, Nick.”
“Not
the
house,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Our house.”
“Perhaps one day I'll be able to think of it as ours, but now it speaks of your magnificent vision. You should be very proud of yourself.”
He shrugged. “I'd best get you back to Agar House so you can pack for Camden Hall.”
So he did not like to be praised.
Once they were back in the carriage for the short ride to Cavendish Square, she asked, “Did you know that little girl who was at St. George's today?”
He did not answer for a moment. Then he said, “That was my daughter.”
“I didn't know you'd been married—” She stopped as if she'd been stung by a wasp. Of course he hadn't been married before! Hadn't Trevor said Nick allowed his bastard to live with him? Only Fiona had not thought that a bastard would be a little girl. A lovely little girl with plaited brown hair, a much lighter shade of brown than her father's.
“She's my illegitimate daughter, Fiona.”
Fiona studied the lapels on Nick's frock coat. “And she lives with you?”
“She does.”
“That seems rather . . . unorthodox. Her mother has died, then?”
“As far as I know, her mother's alive.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“Because her mother would not have been a good influence on a daughter I had come to care about.”
“Then I cannot help but to wonder if the mother was so inferior why you would have . . .”
Have been attracted to the woman, have made love to her?
He raked his long fingers through his thick, dark hair. “I've asked myself the same question thousands of times.”
“Why does the child not reside with your mother?”
He stiffened. “My mother, being religiously evangelical, vehemently disapproved of my daughter.”
“Her own grandchild? That doesn't seem terribly Christian to me.”
He shrugged.
Fiona tried to remember what Trevor had said about Mrs. Birmingham's origins. Oh yes, he had said she was crass. Fiona could not in her wildest dreams believe a gentleman as fine as Nick could be the spawn of a crass woman.
They sat in silence the next few minutes, her thoughts a jumble. She was disappointed that Nick had been involved with a woman who must have been a whore, yet she was oddly pleased that he had risked personal censure for the sake of rescuing an innocent child. She sucked in her breath. If they were to have children together—and she did so desperately want to have children—Nick would be a fine father.
But surely he would not expect her to be a mother to his illegitimate child! Her hands dug into the plush velvet seat. She wasn't ready to discuss this further with him. It would take time for her to adjust to the disappointing reality.
 
 
They spoke hardly at all during the three-hour ride to Camden Hall. His bride was obviously distressed to learn of Emmie's existence. Perhaps he should have taken Adam's advice and stuck the child away in a boarding school. Such an action would have indicated his wife was more important to him than his own child. He had not wanted to live in a world where he would have to rank those he cared about, where he would have to choose one loved one over another. Nick was a great believer in harmony. Why could Fiona not embrace his daughter? Surely she could repay him in some way for the fortune he was putting up to make her his wife.
Then he remembered she planned to repay him tonight. A smoldering heat began to burn inside him as he thought of what lay ahead for them that night. He lifted her hand and began to peel off her glove, finger by agonizing finger until the glove was removed. He filled with pride as he eyed the golden ring, then pressed a lingering kiss into the cup of her palm as his fiery eyes met hers.
“Nick,” she whispered softly as her other hand lifted to stroke his face.
He pulled her into his arms for a hungry kiss. The kiss was harsh and wet and unbelievably intense as her lips parted beneath his, as she began to make little whimpering sounds. His hands began to move possessively over her, stroking her creamy shoulders, splaying over her back, then cupping her small breasts, his thumb feathering along the tip of her nipple.
Who would ever have thought his delicate little wife capable of such passion? Her reaction to him was more intoxicating than an entire bottle of champagne.
The coach lurched to a stop, and he lifted the curtain. He had not been aware that it had turned dark outside or that they were already at Camden Hall.
Chapter 6
He was hungry, but not for the food served to them shortly after they arrived at Camden Hall, which his servants had thoughtfully strewn with Christmas greenery. As he and his bride sat facing one another across the dinner table, he was unable to remove his gaze from her. It seemed almost incomprehensible that this exquisite creature was his wife, that in a few hours he would completely possess her. He drank in the way the candlelight played on her delicate features as she sucked a spoonful of turtle soup into her mouth. Good Lord, it was hot in here!
Remembering the taste of her tongue mingling with his, he grew winded and began to tug on his cravat. Once more he began to get aroused. As he spread the butter on his roll he thought of slowly stroking every inch of her smooth flesh. His lids lifted and he hungrily watched her tongue nip at her lower lip. He was not at all sure he could make it through the dinner without leaping from his chair, hauling her into his arms, and carrying her upstairs to his bedchamber.
“Is your cravat too tight?” she asked. “I must say they look beastly uncomfortable.”
How could a cravat that had fit perfectly since ten o'clock this morning now be so wretchedly uncomfortable? “Indeed they are,” he said. For the first time he noticed the metallic glints in her blond hair. She really was exquisite. Warwick was an idiot. “You looked lovely today, my dear,” he said. “You still do.” She wore the same pink gown she had married in that morning. It displayed her creamy shoulders and swept low at the bodice to reveal her delectable decolletage.
When he had filled his hand with her breast, he had been pleasantly surprised that someone as slender as she possessed any breasts at all. Remembering the feel of her plump little breasts thinned his breath.
“Thank you, Nick,” she said, then she sipped her wine, her long lashes lowering seductively.
On her lips, his name became an endearment. Did she have any idea how acutely she aroused him? Could she possibly understand how tormented he was, how desperately he wished to peel off her clothing, spread her legs wide and embed himself within her?
Would this blasted meal ever come to an end?
“Did you find your chambers satisfactory?” he asked.
“Yes, they're very nice. It was as if they were just awaiting your wife.”
“Thanks to the previous occupant, Lady Hartley,” he said. “Of course, you're welcome to change anything you like.”
“Will we be spending much time here?”
“Not really.”
“I didn't think so,” she said. “I know The Fox does not like to be away from his den.”
The nickname he'd been proud of now took on almost sinister overtones. “I beg that you and I not discuss my business. We'll get on better that way.”
Her blue eyes regarded him with puzzlement. “I want to make you a good wife, Nick. If you don't wish to discuss business, I promise to never bring it up again.” She nibbled at that lush lower lip of hers. “I shouldn't like it if we didn't get on well.”
“Nor would I,” he said solemnly.
It was too soon to tell how they would get along with one another, but he was convinced that on the physical level they would be highly compatible. He had been stunned over the depths of her passion, and he had not yet penetrated her simmering veneer!
As much as he would like to bury himself within her, he cautioned himself to be mindful that she was a virgin, to hold back from devouring her.
Perhaps if she imbibed great quantities of wine, the losing of her maidenhead would be less painful, more pleasurable. He lifted the decanter and refilled her glass. “Drink up, my dear. It will make our . . . consummation easier on you.”
His throbbing intensified as he watched a rosy hue climb into her cheeks. Though she was obviously embarrassed over his reference to their lovemaking, she lifted her solemn gaze to his, then sipped the wine.
The candles weren't the only thing in the room giving off heat. Never breaking eye contact with her, he loosened the cravat even more. He had the damnedest feeling he and Fiona were surrounded by flames.
Still watching him, she took another sip.
He refilled his own glass and drank.
“I feel guilty for robbing you of the bachelorhood you so cherished,” she said. “I will try to please you in the bedchamber, but I shall have to be schooled. I'm told you're exceedingly knowledgeable about such things.”
“By whom?” he demanded.
“Trevor. He knows everything about everybody.”
“I told you this morning,” he said in a husky voice, “to believe only half the things you're told about me.”
“Then you're not skillful in the ways of . . . love?”
He burst out laughing. Actually, he thought lovemaking one of his areas of expertise, but he wasn't about to admit that to his bride. It was bad enough that she knew about Emmie's mother. He wondered if Trevor would have told her about Diane. “I know enough to . . . to teach you all you need to know, my dear.”
The firelight danced in her simmering eyes. “Will I be able to learn all I need to know tonight?”
Every minute he sat there talking about making love to her was sheer torture. “You'll learn enough tonight, but I shall look forward to . . . expanding that knowledge every night.” Had he known marriage would be this intoxicating, he would have taken the plunge years earlier. But then he wouldn't have won Fiona's hand. And somehow he did not think marriage to anyone else could match having Fiona for his wife.
She stared at him. He felt deuced awkward. He did not know her well enough to know if this was a good stare or a bad stare. When she spoke, that question was answered.
“Could we skip the sweetmeats,” she said in a wispy voice, “and go upstairs now?”
He began to tremble and could barely find his voice. “An excellent idea.” He shoved away from the table and came to settle his hands on her smooth shoulders, dipping his head to nibble at her graceful neck. She bent toward him and began to make little whimpering sounds. In one sleek move he scooped her up into his arms and strode from the dining room to swiftly mount the stairs.
Lit by wall sconces, the second floor was eerily quiet. He came to his bedchamber and kicked open the door, pleased to see that servants had built a fire and left a candle burning at the bedside table. Her arms clasped behind his neck as he crossed the room and set her down on the bed. “Should you like me to send for your maid?” he murmured.
When she shook her head, her eyes looked glazed.
“Will you allow me to assist you in removing your clothing?” he asked in a husky voice as he came to sit beside her.
Her eyes widened as she met his somber gaze, then nodded.
Though the idea of allowing him—a virtual stranger—to strip her bare must have shocked her, it did not repulse her.
Thank God.
He wondered how many virginal daughters of the
ton
would be as precocious as the beautiful woman he had wed. God, he was pleased he had married her! “Should you like me to fetch the wine?” he asked.
“I had three glasses.” She began to untie his cravat. “I never have that much.”
“Does that mean you're feeling mellow?” he asked, his lungs feeling bereft of air.
“I feel as if I've drunk an entire bottle of champagne, Nick.” She sounded unbelievably provocative when she said his name. “I feel all tingly inside. And breathless.”
He moved closer to her. “That's perfectly normal. I feel the very same.” His lips lowered to gently touch hers. He heard a jerky intake of breath as her lips parted beneath his and she sucked his tongue into her mouth. He tasted the wine she had drunk, smelled her lavender scent, and thought he could explode with joy.
As the kiss intensified, his hands began to glide over her back, to cup her buttocks, to mold her small breasts. He gloried in the sound of her whimpering.
Her dress was easy to unfasten. He pushed it down to her waist and looked at her. “The stays will have to go, my love.” He began to unlace them, and when her breasts sprang free he almost lost his breath. “So beautiful,” he murmured, filling his hand with one, flicking his thumb over the rosy nipple, then bending down to take it into his mouth. She began to arch into him, her breasts flattening against his face as he sucked at one, then the other.
Over her skirts, his hand cupped her mound, squeezing at it, rubbing his wrist against her pelvis as she squirmed into his palm, moving from side to side and up and down and beginning to make moaning sounds that heated his blood.
Mindful that she wished to be taught all there was to know about lovemaking, he drew his face away from her breasts and spoke throatily. “When a woman is sexually aroused, the tips of her breasts harden into erotic points.” He throbbed as he watched her gaze drop to the nubs in the center of her nipples.
“And when a man is sexually aroused,” she asked in a low voice, lifting her smoldering gaze to him, “does something on his anatomy change?”
Good Lord! Did his wife not know about erections? He took her hand and held it to his crotch. “A man's . . . member enlarges and becomes stiff. Feel me, Fiona. Curl your hands around my shaft.”
At first her fingers were stiff, then they began to gently coil around him. “You're so . . . so big. I don't think—”
He held an index finger to her mouth. “Don't think, love. Trust me on this.” His hand went back to cupping her between her thighs, applying pressure that made her rhythm accelerate. “What you've got down here
will
accommodate my size,” he said. His other hand went beneath her skirts and inched up to her smooth thighs as he lowered her onto the bed. “One other change occurs to a sexually aroused woman,” he whispered.
“What?” she asked, her voice winded.
His voice was low when he asked, “Do you feel wet?” The hand beneath her skirts nudged up between her thighs and dipped into her slick folds. “Here?”
She looked like a woman drugged when she nodded and raised her hips into the movement of his fingers.
“This is nature's way of lubricating you for my entry.” God, he wanted to enter her this second! She was so blessedly wet. Not able to wait much longer, he sat up and began to tug her dress all the way to her ankles, then she kicked one leg free.
Like everything else about her, her body was exquisite—tiny and milky white with little fluffs of breasts and a tuft of golden hair between her thighs. Had his life depended upon it, he could not have found a voice with which to spew on ad infinitum of her beauty. But it was a beauty that would forever be emblazoned upon his memory. And on his heart.
He stood and blew out the candle, then threw off his shirt and breeches. The hearth provided enough light for him to see her as he came to lie beside her, this time tenderly settling his lips over hers. “Are you ready, love?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” she said, sifting her fingers in his hair.
“You'll need to widen your legs,” he whispered as he began to move over her.
She did as he told her, and he came to settle between those luscious lily thighs, his thumb pressing the pearly bud in the center of her, then easing one finger back into her slippery opening. “Oh, Nick,” she said with a sigh.
“I'm coming, love.” He tucked the head of his shaft into her, just until the head disappeared, then he stopped. “Are you all right?” he asked in a gentle voice.
“Yes,” she whispered as her hips raised up to accommodate even more of him.
He gently eased himself in farther. “All right still?”
She raised her head until her lips met his and spoke breathlessly. “Don't stop.”
He forced himself in still farther, this time he came up against a barrier.
The maidenhead.
He drew in his breath. “This may hurt. I've got to break through your chastity.”
Her head fell back against the pillow, and she nodded.
He was not sure what he should do next. Should he ram himself in so the unpleasantness would be quickly over? Or should he gently ease forward?
The decision was taken out of his hands when Fiona began to pulse against him. No pleasure he had ever known could equal this. She was so wet and warm and tight. And utterly willing. But his powerful emotions encompassed far more than just the physical.
When he tore through her barrier, she winced.
He stilled.
“Don't stop,” she urged hungrily, moving against him.
He gradually regained the rhythm until the rhythm itself became the master and he its slave. They were both caught in the maelstrom, carried to a place where thoughts were fleeting fragments, where intense physical pleasure leaped at them like a raging fire, consuming them. Then she arched and stilled and began to tremble as her breath became ragged. He held her tightly as the orgasm rolled over her, lapping at her like an angry tide as she clenched him tighter and made throaty exclamations.

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