The viscount shrugged. “She’s a Malcolm, and the old besom’s heir. Ask them.”
Drogo groaned mentally and surrendered the struggle. He’d lost any choice in whether or not he would marry Ninian in a month’s time. He’d ruined a flower of aristocracy, and he knew the penalty, even if his intended bride did not. He would worry about how to tell her later, when his head quit screaming. He bit down hard on a candy.
“I’ve already applied for the license.” Drogo forced himself to speak calmly. “We’ll be married in four weeks’ time, so Ninian may prepare her bride clothes. I’ll be happy to discuss the settlements.”
Viscount Siddons brightened.
He might as well make peace with his prospective father-in-law. The viscount might be the only ally he’d find in a marriage with an unwilling bride from a matriarchy containing both a duchess and a marchioness.
***
No wonder Siddons never had any money, Drogo concluded as he wandered the dark halls to his bedchamber later that night. The man didn’t know a valuable when he saw one, and he couldn’t drive a bargain to save his life. The viscount’s only interest had been obtaining whatever amount he’d felt his mother-in-law had deprived him of by keeping it in trust rather than giving it to him upon his wife’s death.
Since Drogo had no idea what funds Ninian possessed, he’d told the old man they’d have to wait until they’d located her solicitor. He’d seen how Ninian lived. She couldn’t have much. Good thing the viscount didn’t seem to realize Drogo would willingly pay half his fortune for a wife who carried his child. His brothers would strangle him did they know the depths of his obsession. Fortunately, it looked as if he’d acquired her cheaply.
But as things stood, he had no choice but to take Ninian for wife, even if she carried no child. He could feel his last chance of progeny seeping away, his only hope hanging by the bare thread of Ninian’s honesty.
He didn’t think he’d tell her of their impending marriage just yet. Let her formidable aunts break the news that they would wed, will they, nil they.
On impulse, he stopped at Ninian’s chamber door. Sarah had taken her shopping, he knew. They’d probably run up his accounts in every shop in the city, most of it for Sarah. It was a game she liked to play, helping out with their brothers and helping herself at the same time. She knew he knew it. She knew he’d make her pay in other ways. He hadn’t figured out how to make her pay for a disaster of this proportion.
Drogo knocked, and received a vague acknowledgment he assumed meant welcome. He’d never kept a woman in this house, not with his brothers appearing unexpectedly at inopportune times. He was trying to adjust to the idea of having a woman at his beck and call. He opened the door without further hesitation.
Bareheaded, hair curling in wild lengths over her linen chemise, Ninian stood on the cushions of the window seat, staring over the London rooftops. She didn’t even turn to see who entered.
“The fog is like an unhealthy wraith stealing down the chimneys,” she observed. “It’s a wonder anyone survives the air. Are you ready to send me home yet, my lord?”
Drogo reached for an unlit candle. “If you’ll climb down from there and pull the draperies, I’ll light this, and you’ll find no fog in here.”
She crossed her arms and didn’t move. “I don’t need light to know what’s here. Has my father convinced you that I am a ruined woman and you must marry me and turn over all my funds to him?”
“Your father couldn’t convince a cat to drink milk,” he observed wryly, as the kitten leaped from a chair to wrap around his ankles. “We’ve sent for your grandmother’s solicitor to determine the legality of the trust. You needn’t worry. The money will remain yours, no matter what they decide. I don’t have need of it.”
Gazing upon voluptuous curves silhouetted in the window, Drogo wanted her with an urgency so potent he almost crossed the room and dragged her from her perch. If he had to marry her anyway, what difference did it make if she carried a child or not?
Because he’d never trust her out of his sight until he knew her safely bearing his seed, and that could mean never.
Ninian climbed down from the seat of her own volition. He could barely discern her silhouette against the fading light of the moon, but she was round in all the places he craved, curved in all the places he wanted to hold. Like some pagan fertility goddess, she exuded sexuality, and he was drawn to her like a condemned man to freedom.
“I’m to trust your word as you trust mine?” she asked sweetly.
She had him there. He didn’t light the candle but admired the shimmer of a golden curl. “We’ll learn. I’m a patient man.”
She laughed lightly, a fairy breeze more than human sound. “You’re a stubborn man, my lord. I may not be able to read you as I read others, but I know that much.”
She would be his wife. He didn’t know what to expect of one. He certainly didn’t know what to expect of one as fey as this. One moment, she glittered with moonlit seduction, the next, she teased like a child. He’d seen her tears and heard her laughter. Wary, he remained where he was. “I have found that I accomplish my goals better when I give up no ground,” he admitted.
“It seems that you stubbornly kept trying until you found the right woman,” she acknowledged. She stood within reach, tempting him. “You will be a father come the new year, I promise. But you must promise to return me to Wystan before the snow flies.”
“One thing at a time, moonchild,” he answered gravely, keeping his distance and promising nothing.
Sixteen
Given the freedom of Drogo’s absence while he conferred with his men of business, Ninian spent the next morning exploring his world. Apparently the Ives family didn’t believe in selling property just because it was no longer in a fashionable neighborhood. The old house rambled through dark rooms with narrow windows much as the old castle did, but without a woman’s touch, this one harbored drafty fireplaces, soot-coated carpets, and doddering furniture.
The library contained not only books, but bridles, saddles, and a sadly worn pair of boots. She’d sought the room hoping to find a book on water or blights. There had to be a reason, and a solution, besides her superstitious legends, but after an hour of fruitless searching, she could find nothing.
Her eye caught on a faint light glimmering through the shabby draperies in a connecting room, illuminating entire villages of small wooden buildings scattered across the fading carpet. Drawn to investigate, she discovered each represented an architectural work of art. Some were of churches she recognized, some of solid buildings she assumed were the houses of Parliament or other official edifices. The ones she liked best were of lovely homes with gracefully arched windows and pediments and delicate porticoes.
“That’s the house I want to build.”
Startled, Ninian nearly dropped the model in her hand as she swung to face still another man without any discernible presence. She breathed easier as she realized this one was considerably younger than Drogo and not nearly as formidable. Still, the shock of midnight hair, planed jaw, and wide shoulders marked him as an Ives.
He shrugged diffidently as he sauntered into the room, but Ninian recognized his curiosity as his gaze swept her from head to foot. She guessed him to be younger than herself but still very much a forceful male animal.
She held out the model of a Palladian mansion. “It is quite lovely. Did you make it?”
He took the model and held it up to the spare light from the window. “They’re easily done. Most of them are copies. I want to design buildings of my own, though.” As if realizing his rudeness, he dropped the hand holding the model and looked at her again. “I’m Joseph, the eldest of the bastard brothers.”
Ninian blinked in surprise at this introduction. She was beginning to believe the danger of Ives men was their power to turn Malcolm women into stunned puppets. Too many shocks and the nervous humors departed. S
he nodded tentatively in greeting. “I’m Ninian Siddons.” She didn’t dare introduce herself as a witch, although the shock value seemed relevant.
“I know. Sarah told us.” He set the model on a table with half a dozen others. “Women don’t last too long in this family. My mother refuses to live here. Drogo’s mother left long ago.”
Ninian’s gesture swept the dismal room and included a dying palm. “I can’t imagine why. I thought the harp with harpsichord keys very inventive, and I’m certain that contraption in the dining parlor has an excellent purpose.”
Joseph fought the beginning of a grin as he glanced around at the chaos of toy models covering the sofas and chairs. “Ewen wanted more sound out of the harp, and William thought he could speed delivery of meals with the contraption. I prefer building things to tearing them apart.”
She nodded as if she understood completely. “An excellent philosophy, I’m sure, given the state of things around here.” She didn’t remember Sarah mentioning a William, but if all the brothers were this imaginative, perhaps one of them could shed light on the dilemma of the fouled burn. “William?” she inquired.
Embarrassed, Joseph shrugged. “Ummm, our half brother by the dairy maid.”
Ninian thought that was more than she needed to know and changed the subject. “Are there servants, or is someone building them also?”
“Drogo threatened to disown the next one of us who tried to make a better servant. Mostly, they stay out of our way. Do you play cards?”
***
“Ninian! Ninian, where are you, dear?”
Looking up from her attempt to learn piquet from Joseph—who had an extraordinary method of counting cards she didn’t think quite fair—Ninian tilted her head and listened to the forceful vibrations racing her aunt down the hall.
“So, does she always sound like a battle-ax dripping honey or does she reserve that voice for straying nieces?” Joseph asked, raking in his winnings. They were playing for Drogo’s sweetmeats since neither of them had any coins.
“How do you know who she is?” Ninian demanded. The perceptiveness of Drogo’s half brother left her wondering if he wasn’t half witch, or warlock, himself.
Joseph grinned. “I spy.”
She kicked his ankle under the table as the Duchess of Mainwaring sailed through the open parlor doors. In these last few days she’d met three of Drogo’s half brothers, and she understood well his need to remain in London to keep the lot of them under lock and key. She was almost grateful she’d never had siblings of her own. Almost.
“There you are, Ninian, darling!”
Rising from the table, Ninian let herself be engulfed in her aunt’s sweet-powdered, rustling silk as the duchess hugged her and kissed both cheeks. The eldest of the aunts, Stella had four living daughters and several grandchildren and had learned to hug and kiss through trial and error, Ninian surmised. The rest of her family wasn’t quite so demonstrative.
“It’s good to see you, Aunt Stella.” She coughed as several pounds of powder wafted through the air between them. Apparently her aunt had decided to storm the bastions in full battle gear: powdered wig, powdered cheeks, and powdered silk, all reeking of expensive Malcolm perfumes. “How did you know to find me here?”
“A little birdie told me, of course.” Her aunt trilled with false laughter, glared at Joseph, who sat taking it in with a huge grin, then tugged Ninian’s elbow. “Come, let us have a little girl talk. Where is your sitting room?”
As if Ninian had always had sitting rooms. Sighing, she shrugged at Joseph and led the way down the hall to her chamber. She could hear laughter pouring from the attic nursery where Sarah entertained her children. Drogo was at the solicitor’s with her father—again. She supposed Aunt Stella had used her “gifts” to time this visit for a moment when her niece had no defenders. Stella didn’t precisely read minds. She just knew what everyone was doing and when. It was a distinction that eluded Ninian.
With the thoroughness of a general on a battlefield, Stella swept through the bed chamber Ninian had been assigned. She nodded approvingly at the small fire burning on the grate, raised an eyebrow at the gold satin hangings of the enormous bed, frowned at the two fireside chairs, and checked the adjoining door to both Ninian’s dressing room and the one leading into the sitting room beyond.
“Why isn’t there a fire in there?” she demanded, sweeping back from the luxuriously furnished sitting room. “And is that his room on the other side?”
“I don’t need two fires,” Ninian answered, unperturbed, “and I assume it’s his lordship’s dressing room on the other side, just as mine connects here.”
“You assume? You mean you don’t know? You’re living here in the chambers assigned for mistress of the household, and you’ve never been inside his rooms?”
Ninian wasn’t about to admit that. She’d assumed all the rooms up here had been taken and she was assigned the only one empty. She didn’t see what difference it made. She was perfectly willing—nay, eager—to share Drogo’s bed as soon as he believed her about the babe. Sharing a sitting room seemed rather insignificant in comparison.
“Aunt Stella, are you here for a reason? I know how busy you are, so I’m sure you’ll want to return to the demands of your family as soon as possible. How may I help?”
“You sound just like my mother, may the goddess preserve her.” Huffing, Stella flounced her silk and panniers into one of the fireside chairs. Her elegantly curled wig tilted slightly, and she shoved it indecorously back in place and glared at Ninian as if it were her fault. “Sit, child. I thought your letter said you preferred to stay in Wystan. Tell me why on earth you’re here.”
“Because I thought it would be nice to see my family again?” she asked disingenuously, using her best dimpled smile. “Because I was lonely all by myself?”
“Nonsense.” Stella sat back so hard, she raised another cloud of powder. “You’re breeding. Even I can tell that. I haven’t seen a notice in the paper. Where the devil is your father? Ives may think he’s above the rest of us, but by my faith, he’ll…”
“And a good day, to you, too, Your Grace.”
Gasping, Ninian swung around to find Drogo lounging in the doorway, his broad shoulder propped against the doorjamb, his curled eyebrows raised in devilment. She wanted to slap him for sneaking up on her like that. No one could ever sneak up on her as easily, not even his brothers. But he looked so imposing in his flared black coat and lace-frilled jabot, she couldn’t help but admire the picture. He winked.
She definitely wanted to slap him.
“There you are, you young scapegrace! And what do you intend to do about my niece?”
“Make her my wife, of course.” He strolled into the room and propped a proprietary hand on the chair behind Ninian. The lace of his cuff brushed her shoulders, and a shiver quaked deliciously across her skin. “What else does one do with the most beautiful, most talented woman in the world?”
Perhaps she would kill him. Slapping didn’t seem quite sufficient. A good sound curse to start with, then pins through his limbs…
“I’ll hold you to that, Ives. Ninian is special, as you’ve obviously discovered if it’s your child she’s breeding. If I’d known she had any interest in mooncalves, I would have brought her out and you could have met her in the usual way.”
Mooncalves? Ninian rolled her eyes. She’d hardly call the dastardly earl a mooncalf. Batting her lashes, she interrupted their mutual posturing. “I have no interest in calves, moon or otherwise, nor marriage either. Malcolms cannot marry Ives, and I cannot live in London, so the matter is quite decided.”
Hidden beneath her hair, Drogo’s fingers scratched gently at her nape. She hated the way just his touch sent gooseflesh up and down her arms. It had been well over three months since he’d taught her the pleasures of her body, and just that small touch reminded her of all that they’d
done, of what they could do again, if her aunt would just leave.
“Nonsense,” Drogo said quietly.
“Fustian!” Stella shouted. Then realizing what Drogo had said, she glared at him. “I take it the matter isn’t quite decided?” she demanded.
“I have found the most beautiful, talented woman in the world, but she’s also the most unpredictable, illogical, and thoroughly incomprehensible creature alive. You’ll have to give me time to bring her around to our way of thinking.” Drogo sounded almost apologetic.
Ninian would wager he didn’t look in the least apologetic. She started to utter a scathing reply, but his fingers squeezed her neck warningly.
“Well.” Stella threw her hands in her lap, and her panniers sailed upward. Oblivious, she focused on Ninian. “My mother has filled your head with foolishness, no doubt, but it’s best you listen to me, young lady. It’s a pity you won’t be able to give Ives his heir, but he has brothers aplenty who will do their duty in time. Your duty is to that daughter you carry. Should anything happen to you, she will need the support of all the family she can get. She’d be lost with the rest of us, just as you were, but as an Ives, she will be treated like a queen. They don’t get girls often.”
The duchess looked up at Drogo. “I hope you’ve spoken to that worthless father of hers.”
“We’ve reached an agreement,” he said solemnly. “I have the license. You are all welcome to the ceremony and breakfast, once I persuade your niece to the proprieties.”
Stella glared at Ninian. “Enough foolishness. Ives is a perfectly acceptable consort. All those legends are silly superstitions, and it’s time we put a halt to them. Have your children in Wystan, but do not let my mother’s grim prognostications stand in your way otherwise. She would have tied all of us to that uninhabitable countryside if she could have. Thank goodness our father wasn’t so backward.”
Ninian knit her fingers together. “I’m needed back there,” she murmured, not expecting anyone to understand or even listen. Even Drogo appeared to have forgotten the problems in Wystan, and he and her aunt both seemed to consider the burn far less important than this legendary meeting of Malcolm and Ives. Regardless, she’d been batted around like a ball all her life. Granny had offered her the only stability she’d known. She couldn’t just throw out everything Granny had taught her, or she would have nothing left of herself.
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