She rued the day she had allowed herself to become his wife. Marriage to Nick had profoundly changed her life. And not for the better. Because she had married him, she had lost so much. She had lost her brother's affection; lost her own pride; and most of all, lost her heart, completely and irrevocably.
Yet had she to do it all over again, she would still marry him, still give him her body and her heart. Despite the near-debilitating pain that now consumed her, she had never been more alive.
She would not go to his room tonight. Even though he had said he wished to sleep with her every night, he must not have meant it. He'd been so utterly short tempered with her earlier tonight she was convinced any shred of affection he might have had for her had now been destroyed.
But why? Why had he been so angry with her? She had done nothing to deserve his wrath. And what had happened to his big heartâthat she'd once told Emmie was big enough to embrace all those people he cared about?
Ever since Hortense had begun to throw herself at Nick, he no longer seemed to hold Fiona in affection.
She lay there on her bed, listening to but not really hearing the sounds of the fire crackling, of the wind howling beyond her windows. She tortured herself by imagining her husband languidly making love to Hortense. Would they make love all through the night like he had done with Fiona in the early days of their marriage?
As she lay there she thought she heard his footfall on the corridor outside her door, and she jerked up, the counterpane slipping from her bare shoulders. She held her breath as she listened. It couldn't be Nick forâat just past eleven o'clockâit was far too early. She crept from her bed and quietly went to their adjoining dressing rooms to assure herself that the sound she had heard was Nick. As much as she wished to rush to him and feel his lips on hers, feel his arms closing around her, she wished to maintain some semblance of control over her racing emotions, to maintain some semblance of pride.
When the door to his dressing room eased open, though, she found herself staring into her husband's flashing black eyes.
“Have you come to sleep with me, my dear?” he asked in a brittle voice that was at odds with the genial man she knew him to be. He had just shed his coat and was still holding it as he faced her.
Her glance skimmed over the lean planes of his distinctly male body. “I . . . I don't believe so. I was merely assuring myself that you've made it home safely.”
He snorted. “Forgive me if I doubt your concern.”
She stiffened. “Suit yourself.” She went to turn around, to return to her bedchamber, when she felt his hand banding around the flesh of her upper arm as he whirled her to face him.
“Come, my dear,” he said in an icy voice, “have a glass of brandy with me. I have not had the opportunity to ask you about your day.”
Pain seared through her arm. “There's nothing to tell, Nick.”
His hands relaxed. “Humor me.”
She saw that he had brought a decanter with him. “As you wish.” She came to sit in one of a pair of chairs near the fire.
“I hope you don't object to sharing my glass,” he said.
“We share everything else,” she said with a shrug, taking the snifter he handed her and sipping from it.
“So what did you do today?” he asked, sinking into the chair beside her.
Nick's voice was so altered she wondered if he might be drunk. She recalled Randy telling her there were good drunkards and bad drunkards. Nick, she admitted ruefully, was obviously a bad drunkard. She glared at him. This harsh man wasn't the man she had fallen in love with. “My day was decidedly dull,” she began. “I wrote letters this morning, then the Duchess of Glastonbury came and stayed for quite a while. After she left, it was time for me to begin dressing for dinner.”
“You did not go anywhere all day?” he asked, a single brow raised.
She could not tell him she had gone to find Randy, for she did not want Nick to know she missed her brother. An intelligent man like Nick was sure to realize he was the cause of the estrangement between the brother and sister, and this straining marriage could not sustain any more blows. Besides, she had not found Randy at home that afternoon. “No.”
He downed the rest of the glass of brandy and stood up.
A chill ran down her spine as she watched him, his back to the fire, an altogether different fire lighting his angry eyes. “Will you come to my bed?” he asked.
“I think not,” she said in a grave voice.
Â
Â
Having convinced herself any marriage would be better than spending the rest of her life buried at Great Acres, Verity Birmingham had come to London with high hopes. As much as she loved her mother, she could not say being with Dolina Birmingham day in and day out was not taxing. Sad to say, her mother had more in common with her servants than she had with her own daughter. In everything from reading material to the fabric for a new dress, Dolina Birmingham's taste was bourgeois. Her grammar was deplorable, and her temperament harsh.
In London Verity had thought to find a man whose interests mirrored her own, a man she could happily spend the rest of her life with. But after coming in contact with her blond Adonis at Hyde Park, she knew she would no longer be satisfied with a comfortable relationship when every cell in her body cried out for a grand passion.
And only one man could spur her to such an alliance: the blond lord she could never again meet.
Even though she had yet to officially come out, Verity was stunned over her own popularity. Or the popularity of her generous dowry. Fiona had, of course, been right. Women with large dowries were well sought after by gentlemen of the
ton
.
One gentleman in particular had determined he must secure her hand: Sir Reginald Balfour, who now sat across from her and Fiona in the blue saloon.
She knew him to be Nick's age because he had been at Cambridge when Nick was there. She knew, too, that Nick was not particularly fond of the baronetâmost likely because he was a blatant fortune hunter. It was no secret Miss Glenda MacTavishâheiress to her father's immense beer fortuneâhad spurned him last month.
As Fiona engaged him in conversation, Verity studied him. He was of medium height, which gave him almost no advantageâmore's the pity. His complexion was so fair she was convinced his brown hair had likely been blond when he was a youth. He dressed with excellent taste, influenced by his friendship with Brummel, a connection he never failed to mention.
Since the first time he had danced with her at Almack's, Sir Reginald had made no secret of his desire to secure her handâand her fortune. He scowled at and disparaged any other man who deigned to seek her for a dancing partner. His excessive flattery of her extended to writing exceedingly bad poetry in her honor, and he persisted in boasting of his lofty connections, both familial and social.
She told herself she should be flattered over Sir Reginald's interest in her. After all, many young ladies at Almack's had been attracted by his fair good looks.
But not Verity. It was not just Nick's pronouncement that Sir Reginald did not have a feather to fly with that made her skeptical of his devotion. Try as she might, she could not like the man. Even if she had not lost her heart to her mysterious peer, she could never have been comfortable with the pompous Sir Reginald.
She wistfully thought of her single meeting with the man who owned her heart. She had never been so comfortable, so relaxed with a man before.
“I'm getting together a party of twenty or so to go to Vauxhall Gardens next Thursday night,” Sir Reginald told Fiona. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than having you and Mr. Birminghamâ” He turned to smile at Verity. “And Miss Birmingham among my party.”
Fiona's brows lowered. “My husband is not fond of Vauxhall.”
He shrugged. “I admit it has an unsavory reputation, but I give you my word as a gentleman that we shall keep to the well-lighted paths.”
If she heard him declare himself
a gentleman
one more time, Verity would gag.
Before she could comment about Vauxhall, Biddles showed in a pair of young men who were no older than Verity, one of whom brought her flowers.
After introducing the men to Sir Reginald, Verity lifted her newly received nosegay to her nose for a deep whiff. “How very kind of you,” she told Mr. Merriweather, who had given it to her.
Sir Reginald looked down his aristocratic nose at the younger men. “Thoughtful lads, aren't they? I'm sure that when I was that young I couldn't think past the next race at Newmarket.” Then he flicked his gaze to Verity. “Now all I seem able to think about is settling down at Stoneleigh and starting a family.”
She did not believe him for a moment. From everything she had heard about him, the races at Newmarket still held vast appeal.
Thank goodness she had Fiona to masterfully direct the conversation and miraculously keep the three visitors from drawing daggers on one another.
Meanwhile, Verity's thoughts drifted to her handsome soul mate. She could not deny there had been something special between them. She would vow he had known it, too.
A pity she could never see him again.
Chapter 22
This was the night of his sister's come-out, the night his wife had been laboring toward for weeks, the night he would be hung on display like a new portrait at the National Gallery. Drawing in his breath, Nick stepped up to Fiona's dressing room door and tapped it with his knuckle.
“Nick?” she asked.
He still had not become immune to the possessive rush he felt at the intimacy of his Christian name on her lips. “Yes.” He opened the door and strolled into her bedchamber, his careless arrogance belying the tumult within him. This was his first visit to his wife's chambers in several weeks.
She flicked a quizzing glance at him, then quickly dismissed her maid. “You can finish buttoning me,” she said to Nick once Prudence was gone.
As he came closer, his pulse accelerated. His wife had never looked lovelier than she did tonight in the blue gown that was shot with silver threads throughout and with ermine inserts around the bodice, a bodice he found indecently low. He did not like other men to see any part of those delectable breasts, breasts no man had ever touched before him. Thinking of Lord Warwick's hands on Fiona's bare flesh brought him almost unbearable pain.
His heated gaze skimmed over her. No monarch could have looked more regal, no woman more graceful.
And it had been far too long since he had allowed himself the luxury of holding her in his arms.
She twirled around to present her back to him, and with trembling hands he began to fasten the remaining buttons, cursing himself for buttoning her when all he really wanted was to unbutton her, to bare her milky flesh and feel his lips upon it, to feel himself sinking into her luxurious warmth.
When he finished, she turned to face him, her gaze dropping to his bulging crotch, a casualty of her devastating effect upon him. “I'm so glad you've come,” she whispered huskily, moving closer to him.
To preserve the distance between them, he edged backward and cocked a dark brow. “And why would that be, my dear?”
She stopped, a hurt look sweeping across her pale face. “Because this is a very important night, not only for Verity but also for us, dearest. It's our first grand entertainment at Menger House, the first time many of my old friends will meet the man I've married. I . . . ” Her eyes watered as she struggled for words. “I wish for them to think us happily married.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “I shall be happy to oblige. I can play the part of an attentive husband most convincingly.”
Her chest heaving, she did not remove her gaze from his. “When my leg was broken, was your concern merely an act?”
“Of course not, my darling. Your welfare is always uppermost in my mind. In fact,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “I've brought you another bauble.”
This time it was a diamond necklace with bracelet and earrings to match, and it had cost him a king's ransom. He hadn't known why he wished to purchase it for her since she had betrayed him, but he found himself strangely beholden to her for presenting his sister, for acting the attentive wife, for not being ashamed of him.
“Oh, Nick! They're beautiful! What could I ever have done to deserve such an offering?”
“You've worked very hard on tonight's fete. I thought you needed a reward.”
“Your attentiveness is all I could ever want.” She stood on her toes to kiss him.
When their lips met, all his resolve vanished. He pulled her into his arms, into his crushing embrace and kissed her, unleashing his pent-up hunger for her. He nearly dissolved when he felt her cool tongue slide into his mouth, when he heard her hungry little whimpers.
It was just like before
.
Before she betrayed him with Warwick.
His own breath harsh and labored, his hands molded to her breasts, his thumb stroking the hardened nub of her nipple. She flowed into him, and when her slender arms tightened around him, it was all he could do not to lift her skirts and take her standing up.
Instead, the vision of his wife beneath Warwick's pounding body obliterated his own blinding need.
He pushed her away.
“Oh, dearest,” she said, those soulful eyes of hers scanning his hardened face, “can you not make love to me once more? We've plenty of time before the first guests arrive.”
How could she appear so hungry for him when she loved another man? For the briefest moment he allowed himself to believe it was he whom she loved, then the torturing vision of her in Whitehall with Lord Warwick destroyed his fragment of hope. Despite that every cell in his body throbbed with need of her, he put distance between them. “I shouldn't like to mess your lovely hair.” Then, with his face inscrutable, he offered his crooked arm. “Shall we go downstairs, love?”
Â
Â
She could not cry. Her heart was being ripped to shreds, but she could not allow herself to cry. Not on this night. She owed it to Verity to play the unruffled hostess, and she owed Nick so very much more. It was not his fault he did not love her. Indeed, he'd never sought her love, never promised his. He had given her much and asked for little. All she had to offer himânow that he no longer wanted her bodyâwas her exalted standing in society. So tonight she would stand proudly at his side, a testament to his worthiness.
For Nick's sake, she would not cry.
But she was bleeding inside. She had been since the humiliating moment when her husband had refused to make love to her. The pity of it was that when she had first kissed him, he
had
responded with the same old searing hunger that had made their nights so wondrous before . . . before the Duchess of Glastonbury had swept into their livesâand stolen Nick's affection.
Later, as they stood with Miss Peabody and Verity in the receiving line, Fiona could not help but be struck over how different tonight was from what she had planned during those many weeks of heightened anticipation. How she had looked forward to standing proudly at her husband's side, her possessive hand on his sleeve as she glowed with her own incredible good fortune in landing so handsome, so worthy a man.
Now she ached from his rejection.
“How good of you to come,” she said to the Countess Lieven, who could not remove her gaze from Nick. Fiona could not remember an assemblage where more peers were in attendance.
“I'm delighted to be here,” the countess said, her glance sweeping up the magnificent marble stairway. “I've been dying to see Menger House.”
Any doubts Fiona had once secretly harbored over Nick's acceptance by the
ton
were quickly dispelled. Men stood in awe of the scion who had built this magnificent house, the scion who had captured Lady Fiona Hollingsworth for his bride. Women openly adored the sinfully handsome man of wealth.
The mammoth third-floor ballroom that Fiona had feared would look bare was crowded with ladies and gentlemen in their silken finery. Thousands of candles ringed a dozen huge chandeliers that illuminated the room as brightly as sunlight. When the orchestra began to play, Nick led Verity out for her first dance; Lord Warwick stood up with Miss Peabody. This was the first time Fiona had seen Miss Peabody without her spectacles. She was quite as lovely as her sisterâexcept for the absence of a bosom.
Fiona joined the Countess Warwick, and they proudly watched their respective charges flawlessly execute their dance steps. Neither young lady had ever looked lovelier. Trevor scurried up to Fiona and the countess Warwick. “Is Miss Birmingham not breathtaking in her white gown?” he asked, his gaze sweeping across the wooden dance floor.
Thank God for Trevor! Fiona had been on the verge of tears when he had come up. She turned twinkling eyes on him. “And her gown is most stunning. I must commend the person who suggested she wear snow white.”
“ 'Pon my word,” Trevor said, gleaming, “that would be
moi
!”
“And look at Miss Peabody,” Fiona said. “Is she not exceptionally pretty tonight?” Miss Peabody, who had no interest in fashion, had obviously not selected the elegant cream-colored creation she wore.
Trevor cast a glance at the lady in question. “I declare, she looks positively stunning. I've never really taken notice of her before.” He leaned closer to Fiona to whisper, “She's about as sociable as a doorknob.”
Fiona swatted him with her fan.
After that first set Nick sought Fiona to waltz with him. She shivered as he pulled her into his arms. Then, brushing aside her own gloom, she looked up at him, forcing a smile. “I can't think of a single person who declined to come tonight, dearest.”
Except Randy.
“Youâand your magnificent houseâare a great success.”
“Our house,” he corrected.
Her heart wrenched. “I can't take credit for it when you were its driving force, you the one with the remarkable vision that created all of this.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “You and I both know my so-called vision would not have been able to fill this room with the beau monde
.
No, my dear,” he said with a shake of his head, “it's my selection of you for my bride that has made tonight's fete such a complete success.”
She stiffened. “If you'll recall, you did not precisely âselect' me.”
“Oh, but I did,” he growled, pulling her closer. “I'm not so great a gentleman that I would not have spurned you had I not decided that marriage to you would be in my best interest.”
If only he had decided that marriage to herâthat bedding herâwas what he wanted above everything! “Honestly, Nick, could you not say something a bit more flowery? I know love was never expected, but could you not pretend that I caught your fancy?” She strived for a light tone though her heart was breaking.
He chuckled. “No pretending needed. I
am
the most fortunate of men to have secured the hand of the beautiful Lady Fiona Hollingsworth. Have I not told you many times before how lovely I find you?”
Never with such brittle detachment before. He used to speak to her with warmth.
Before Hortense.
As they danced she saw the Duchess of Glastonbury watching them, a look of displeasure on her pretty face. It was, Fiona knew, the same look that would be on her own face were she watching her husband dance with Hortense.
She also saw Lord and Lady Warwick glide across the dance floor and thought she had never seen two people so much in love. A pang of jealousy stabbed at her.
If only Nick loved me as Warwick loves his Maggie.
“Does Verity not look lovely?” she asked.
“Never lovelier.”
“Are you satisfied with how well she's taken?”
He held Fiona at some distance and peered into her eyes. “The only thing that will satisfy me is her finding a man who will return her love. I don't care about the man's pedigree, and I distinctly dislike Sir Reginald Balfour.”
At least she and Nick were in agreement on the ineligibility of Sir Reginald. “I don't recall Verity ever mentioning love.”
His lips were a grim line. “Everyone longs for love.”
Dear God! Nick was in love with Hortense! “You've . . . you've never told me you felt that way before.”
“You obviously weren't looking for love when you expressed your desire to marry me.”
If only she had known then what she knew now, known how passionately she would come to love this man she married. If only they could go back and start over again. If only they could make this a real marriage.
Later that night Warwick asked her to stand up with him. No sooner had they reached the dance floor than Nick asked the Duchess of Glastonbury to be his dance partner. As Fiona watched Nick's smiling face bent to Hortense's, tears gathered in her eyes.
“Fiona, are you unwell?” Warwick demanded, his brows lowered, his hand softly stroking her pale cheek.
“If you must know,” she said, “I'm distressed over Randy's absence.” A lie was better than the bitter truth of her marriage's failure.
“You've spoken to him?”
“No. He wasn't home the day I went to see him. I left an invitation for Miss Peabody's and Miss Birmingham's ball, but he obviously chose to ignore it.”
Warwick squeezed her hand, smiling tenderly at her. “Reserve judgment until you talk with him.”
“I don't think Randy wishes to talk with me.”
“You're wrong,” Warwick said as the dance came to an end and he restored her to her glum husband.
Anyone here would think tonight's ball a great success, but Fiona had never felt so low. She had hoped that when Randy received the invitation, he would come because of tender feelings for his only sister. Obviously she did not elicit tender feelings. In anyone. Her brother did not want her companionship and her husband did not want her body. She was an utter failure.