One Golden Ring (9 page)

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Authors: Cheryl Bolen

BOOK: One Golden Ring
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He gave her a lopsided grin before confronting the butler. “I wish for you to write down my address,” Nick told the servant, “and see to it that any correspondence for Lady Fiona is dispatched there at once.”
After giving the direction to the butler, Nick offered his arm to his wife. “Come, love, let's go see if our new house is indeed finished.”
Fiona felt wretchedly guilty that the prospect of seeing her new house relieved some of her glumness.
When they arrived at the Piccadilly mansion she was surprised that not a single worker was there, even though it was three in the afternoon.
“They really are finished,” Nick said as he strolled over the threshold, his hand set possessively at her waist. “Now you will need to get busy.”
Her admiring gaze swung from the gleaming marble floors to the gilded cornices and over the heavenly ceiling. “I'll begin contacting the various tradesmen this afternoon while you go to your office.”
“And what makes you think I'm going to my office today?” he asked, peering down at her with a devilish grin.
“Because I've been your wife for three days. Give me credit for knowing something about the workings of your mind.” She had the oddest desire to tell him she would know him as no other woman ever would but realized Diane Foley might have the advantage over her. How long had the two of them been lovers? Good Lord, would Nick go to the actress now?
Fiona's heart sank. She knew most married men had their lady birds, but she didn't like to think of her husband as being one of those men. She didn't like to think of his bare, smoothly muscled body poised over the actress's, of him intimately caressing her as he had caressed Fiona. She visualized the flame-haired actress and was filled with intense jealousy, a jealousy even more profound than what she had once felt toward Edward's countess.
As they swept from room to room she marveled at how easily she had begun to picture each of them with the proper furnishings. “I think the drawing room would look perfect with pale yellow damask wall coverings and gold silken draperies,” she told her husband.
“I shall have to trust you on that, my dear. I haven't a clue what damask is.”
“Well, I do, and I shall adore making all the selections—with Trevor's help, of course.”
Nick rolled his eyes and muttered something about Trevor she could not understand.
“You are aware that most women have a best friend?” Fiona asked.
He eyed her curiously for a moment. “Do you mean to tell me Trevor Simpson is your best friend?”
She nodded.
“Bloody hell!”
“Once you get to know him, you'll love him as I do.”
Nick's eyes narrowed. “I don't know how I like my wife loving another man.”
Her heartbeat skipped. Love was never part of their bargain. Could Nick wish for her to fall in love with him? Her shoulders sagged. Of course Nick—the great accumulator of possessions—would wish to possess her heart, soul, and body. Marrying her had been rather like acquiring the crowning piece of his vast collections. She shrugged. “I suppose Trevor's the only man I know with whom I can be alone without having to worry about the damage to my reputation. Surely you'll not object if Trevor's forever in my pocket?”
His grin pinched one cheek. “I don't like sharing my possessions.”
She stiffened, then began to mount the central stairway. Of course, that's all she was to Nick. A possession.
They strolled down the broad hallway to his bedchamber. “We'll move in here first,” he said, his voice husky, his jet eyes glittering as he watched her. “And I don't give a damn if your bed ever arrives.”
Her gaze flicked below his waist. He was aroused. A feeling of power, of sheer lust swept over her. She moved closer to him, lifting her arms to circle his neck as his head bent to taste her lips.
He crushed her to him, cupping her hips and grinding her into his erection. Her breasts felt heavy, her breath seemed nonexistent, and she tingled low in her torso. She had never been so sexually aroused. She thought she might die of excruciating need if he did not take her right here in this huge empty room.
Nick had the same idea.
He backed her into the door and began to lift her skirts. She fumbled to free him of his pantaloons. When she saw his engorged need jut out over the lowering waistband, her breath caught.
“Widen your legs,” he rasped.
As she did, he stepped between them and eased himself into her. Almost instantly, spasms began to rock through each of them as they bleated heated exclamations of pleasure and murmurs of affection.
Fiona was vaguely aware that sunlight from twenty casements poured into the big, echoing chamber. She was vaguely aware that they were alone in the large, empty house, rutting like dogs in heat. But all else was a blur of excruciating physical pleasure.
A moment later it was all over and, drenched and panting, she sagged into her husband. “You do seem to bring out the trollop in me,” she murmured. She thought she should be ashamed over her behavior, but the pleasure far outweighed any embarrassment.
He wiped her brow, set gentle lips to it, and said, “Precisely what I wish for in a wife: a trollop in the bedchamber and a lady in the drawing room.”
The sudden memory that men suffered acute exhaustion after lovemaking made her happy. Surely now he would have no desire to find and bed Diane Foley. Perhaps if she could keep her husband sexually sated, he'd never return to the actress's bed. “Oh, dearest,” she said with a sigh, “will we always take such pleasure in each other's bodies?”
He held her close and let out a long sigh. “It's unlikely.”
She pouted.
“You vixen!” he growled. “Do you realize if we continue at this pace, neither of us would ever get anything done?”
“Because we'd never get out of the bed!”
 
 
They crossed the Thames at Westminster and a few minutes later were entering his house. “Allow me to present you to your new mistress, Mrs. Birmingham,” he said to the butler, housekeeper, and downstairs parlormaid who gathered in the entry hall. Introducing Fiona as his wife filled him with pride. “Mrs. Hill is the housekeeper.” He nodded at the middle-aged woman. “Biddles is the butler, and . . . ?” He eyed the housekeeper for assistance in naming the maid.
“Lottie,” Mrs. Hill said.
Fiona nodded to the curtseying girl.
“My wife,” he said proudly, “may be referred to as Mrs. Birmingham or as Lady Fiona.”
“Mr. Birmingham has assured me of your great competence,” Fiona said to the group.
“By the way,” Nick added, flicking his gaze over his servants, “we shall be moving shortly. The new house is finally ready.” Then he turned to Fiona. “Allow me to show you around, my dear.”
She placed her arm in the crook of his as they strolled each of the spacious rooms on the ground floor, and as they returned to the stairway, she asked, “Where is the child?”
His breath hitched. “Should you like to meet her?”
Please say yes.
“Of course.”
“The nursery's on the third floor,” he said as they began to mount the stairs.
“How old is she?”
“Eight.”
“Then you were . . .”
“Four and twenty when she was born.” Old enough to take responsibility for his actions.
“An how old was she when she came to you?”
He shrugged. “Three or four months.” He had never told anyone of the harrowing act that had precipitated his removal of Emmie from Ruby's home. From a friend of Ruby's who was out of charity with her, he had learned that Emmie was not the first babe Ruby had given birth to—even though she was but eighteen when she came under Nick's protection. Her first child—a healthy son—had the life strangled out of him by his own mother a few minutes after his birth.
Nick's ever-expanding knowledge of his mistress convinced him the only reason Emmie was still alive was because Ruby planned to use the child as her milk cow to drain Nick's pockets. Not that money entered into his decision to take the child. The very notion of the volatile Ruby losing patience with the babe and killing her in a sudden fit of anger preyed on him so heavily he could not sleep until the babe was safely under his roof, her mother happy to collect a lifelong settlement from Nick.
“What's her name?”
“Emily, but she's always been called Emmie.”
They began to mount the stairs. “What shall the child call me?” Fiona asked. “She can hardly call me mother, and Mrs. Birmingham's much too stuffy.”
They reached the landing and began to mount a second stretch of stairs. “What about Lady Fiona?” he asked.
Just then, Fiona's foot slipped. Her scream was followed by the sickening thump of her body tumbling down the stairs.
His heart thundering in his chest, he whirled to her and lunged, hoping to stop her descent.
He watched in horror as she bounced down half a dozen steps before her left leg jammed into the space between the banister's spindles, jerking her to a painful stop—right after he heard the harrowing sound of her bone snapping.
Chapter 9
Floating between dream and reality, Fiona was not precisely sure where she was when she heard her husband barking orders. “You will use a sedan chair to convey Mrs. Birmingham anywhere she desires to go, inside the house. Under no circumstances is she to put weight on her leg.”
Had Nick's mother injured her leg?
Fiona wondered.
“And Biddles,” he said to the butler, “see to it that the laudanum stores are replenished. She took a devilishly large amount of it.”
“As you wish, Mr. Birmingham.”
Laudanum?
Fiona had only taken the opiate once before, and she had felt . . . exactly as fuzzy as she felt right now. She suddenly remembered stumbling down the stairs. She also remembered the stab of pain so excruciating that unconsciousness was the only relief from it.
She tried to move her injured left leg and found that not only was it immobile but it was also considerably heavier than it had been earlier that afternoon. She lifted her head to look at it. The movement attracted Nick's notice. He rushed to her bedside, clasping her hand within both of his. “How do you feel, love?” he asked in a gentle voice.
“Woozy.” It was difficult to get the words out, and when she did, her voice seem strangely detached. In her mind's eye she saw elongated letters forming the single word she had uttered.
“The surgeon's just left,” he explained. “He set your leg and cautioned me to see that you stay in bed at least for the first week.”
Her swirling sense of well-being was punctured by something dark and menacing. “But I've got to . . .” She could not remember what it was she had to do, but she knew whatever it was could not be done from this bed.
This bed . . . Where was she? Her eyes coming fully open, she looked around the green bedchamber that was unmistakably feminine. “Where am I?” she asked groggily.
“In Verity's room. I thought it would suit you better than Mother's.”
She collapsed back into the pillows. So she was at Nick's house. South of the Thames. “My leg?”
“Is broken,” he answered, squeezing her hand. “Are you in pain?”
“No. I perceive that laudanum has been administered.”
He tenderly swiped at her brow. “You're to take it whenever you feel the need.”
“But it makes me so . . . slow. How ever will I see to furnishings for the new house?”
“I'll send for Trevor Simpson. He'll be able to carry out your orders.”
A slow smile spread over her face. “Now I see why you're so good at business. You're able to adapt instantly to changes.”
There was one other matter that concerned her, but she was not able to remember what it was. Something important, she was sure.
“The surgeon stressed that for the first few days you mustn't get out of bed. To do so would cause more swelling.”
Bed! That was it!
How was she to share a bed with her husband? Even worse, how could they possibly manage to make love when she could not even move her leg? Her insides clenched. Her husband was a most virile man. Quite naturally, he would return to Miss Foley to satisfy his bedroom needs. The idea of him slaking his need between the actress's thighs caused Fiona more pain than her broken leg. A tear began to seep along her cheek.
“What's the matter?” Nick demanded. “Are you hurting? Shall I procure more laudanum for you?”
She swatted at her glistening cheek. “I'm distressed, dearest, because I do so want to share my bed with you.”
He sighed with relief and bent to brush a gentle kiss over her lips. “Perhaps by next week,” he murmured, “we'll be able to resume some of those . . . activities—if I'm very careful.”
The memory of everyone she had ever known who had suffered a broken leg flashed through her mind. Once the leg was properly set and once the swelling had gone down they had been able to resume limited activity. She recalled how surprised the surgeon had been when Stephen, her younger brother, fully recovered from his broken leg in a mere six weeks. Of course Mama had been alive then and had seen to it that he did not put his weight on the leg for the entire six weeks—and forbade him to ever climb another tree.
Six weeks.
Were the time in the past, it would seem fleeting, but in the future it seemed to stretch on endlessly. And she had so much to do to ready the new house and to begin planning the come-out ball for Miss Peabody and Verity.
And then there was her fledgling marriage to consider. She did not at all like to think of Nick rushing to that odious actress.
So she pouted.
“What's the matter, love?” he asked.
“I don't wish to sleep away from you.”
“But we can't—” He paused. “I understand your reluctance to sleep alone in a strange room. Would you like me to have a cot brought in so that I can sleep beside you?”
She shook her head. “This bed's big enough for both of us.”
“I can't risk that. My movements might harm your leg.”
“It's been splinted properly, I'm sure. Knowing you, I would say you procured the services of the finest surgeon your money could buy.”
“Of course, but I can't sleep in this bed, Fiona,” he said sternly. “Were I to bump your leg in my sleep, it could cause you excruciating pain—and it might even reinjure it.”
“I'll sleep on the left side of the bed. You'll be on my good side.” She met his unwavering gaze. “Are you not strong enough to lie beside me and not wish to . . . ?”
“That's not it! I'm not so shallow that I wouldn't put my wife's welfare above my own fleeting pleasure.”
Fleeting pleasure?
Was that all their lovemaking was to him?
Another tear sprouted.
And Nick sighed. “I can see the laudanum's making you maudlin. Very well, I'll sleep with you. But no kissing. No touching. Do you understand?”
She favored him with a broad smile as she nodded.
 
 
Balancing a cup of warm milk in one hand while easing open her door with the other, Nick came to her bedchamber that night. “I've brought you warm milk,” he said, moving to the bed and setting the cup on the night table. “Allow me to help you up.”
When he closed an arm around her and began to lift her upper torso, she winced.
He froze. “Am I hurting you?”
She sank back. “I believe I'll have some more laudanum, please.”
He cursed under his breath, berating himself, if she wasn't mistaken. “If I put it into your milk, will you promise to drink all of it?”
She answered him with a wan nod.
He mixed the drought and offered it to her. “Perhaps it will be more comfortable for you to prop yourself up on your right elbow. I'm devilishly afraid of hurting you.”
It took her a full minute to raise herself enough to sip the milk. After three swift sips, she stopped and met his concerned gaze. “Did you heat the milk yourself ?”
“I did.”
“That was very thoughtful of you, Nick.”
“I didn't do it out of thoughtfulness. Guilt, more likely. I should have had your arm when we mounted the stairs.”
“It's certainly not your fault your wife is so clumsy.” She did not like that her voice resembled that of a person in a drunken stupor.
“My wife most certainly is
not
clumsy. You're the most elegant woman I know.”
This husband of hers was most charming, especially given the fact that any physical attributes she might have possessed were sadly lacking at the present. Not only was she slurring her words, but her hair was a tangled mess, and her clothing was hopelessly wrinkled. She had no wish to peer into a looking glass. “I can't stay in this wretched dress. Did you know there's dried blood on it?”
He nodded. “As much as I disliked another man seeing your body, I asked the surgeon if we should remove it, but he said it wasn't necessary.”
“Perhaps not then, but now. I can't receive visitors like this.”
He stood up straight and glared at her. “You're not going to be receiving visitors.”
“What about Trevor?”
“I forgot about him,” Nick said with a frown. “So you fancy getting pretty for that milksop?”
“And for you.” Dear God, what was she saying? The laudanum had the same effect on her as the overindulgence of liquor. She was babbling on to this man she had married—and quite embarrassing herself.
“You don't have to wear anything to please me,” he said.
She gave him a seductive grin. “Yes, I know.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“Nevertheless, I desire to put on a light muslin morning dress. One
without
blood, if you please.”
“Should I send for your maid?”
“I don't trust her not to hurt me. I know you'll not hurt me, Nick.”
“Very well. I believe your maid unpacked your things before . . . the accident.” He walked to the linen press and opened it. “Which do you desire, my lady?”
“The one with little lavender buds.”
He took the dress and came to set it on her bed. “I'm beastly afraid of hurting you.”
“I thought perhaps you could pull me up, and I could lift away the skirts. Then you could set me back down and remove the entire gown.”
He winced. “Let's try,” he said, bending to her and cupping his hands under her arms, “but we stop if it hurts you.” Then he lifted her as easily as he would a piece of parchment.
She fumbled with her skirts, pushing them clear of her hips before she plopped back down. “Painless,” she assured him.
“I hope the laudanum's not masking your pain to the point where you'll hurt yourself.”
She fell back into the pillows. “I'll have some more. Please.”
He stood over her while she finished the cup. “Let's try removing the dress now.”
Once she had eased herself back up, he was able to remove the dress and the chemise in mere seconds.
“You can't possibly sleep in those stays,” he said in a low voice, coming closer and beginning to untie the laces. The proximity of those long fingers of his so close to her breasts sent her nipples puckering—and sent a blush to her face. Once the laces were loosened she raised her arms, and he lifted off the corset. Her gaze flicked to the pointed nubs in the center of her breasts, and her blush deepened. Nick was sure to notice.
She was powerless not to remember the feel of him weighing her breasts, of him taking them into his mouth. Perhaps it was the laudanum that magnified her sexuality. She began to throb between her legs. A pity neither of them could act upon her seductive mood. She found herself wishing the week were behind them, wishing they could lie together again as man and wife. Her gaze lifted to him, but he directed his full attention to the fresh garment.
“Raise you arms,” he instructed.
Her arms held high, she stayed as still as a rock while he assisted her into the muslin dress, then he stood back and gazed at her. “Lovely. Now, my dear, you need to go to sleep.” He moved to the bedside table and extinguished the candle.
She lay back and watched as he stood there and removed all his clothing, the firelight flickering on the solid planes of his utterly masculine body. This was the first time she had seen him naked when he was not aroused, and she admired him all the more for his self-discipline.
He slowly eased himself onto the right side of the bed. “Are you all right?” he whispered.
“I assure you I didn't feel the movement at all.” Each word she had uttered had been a struggle, like swimming against a swiftly moving stream.
He kissed the air. “Go to sleep now, love.”
Love.
She liked the way that word sounded on his lips. Even though he couldn't possibly mean it.
While she waited for sleep to envelop her, she recalled how patient and loving he had been with his mother, who was not an easy woman to admire. He was a good son. A good brother. And now a good husband.
 
 
Nick lay still beside her long after she'd slipped into a deep sleep. He was afraid to move for fear of hurting her leg, afraid to go to sleep because she might need him. A thousand times today he had cursed himself for allowing her to fall. For as long as he lived he would remember the sound of her delicate body thumping down the stairs, the horrifying sound of her femur snapping in two.
And he would never forget the paralyzing seconds when he feared she was plunging to her death. Even now as he thought about it, his stomach twisted.

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