A Gift for Fiona (The Love Letters Series Book 2)

by Rogers, Suzanne G.

The gentlemen stood as the ladies departed. Fiona cast one final glance over her shoulder as she left. Sir Harry was preoccupied with selecting a cigar to go with his brandy, but Rory was gazing at her with a sweet smile.

  Chapter Eight

  Games

  WHILE RORY SAVORED a snifter of brandy, Sir Harry blew a waft of cigar smoke in his direction. “Mr. Braithwaite, might I inquire after your sister?”

  “She’s well, thank you. I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Iris.”

  “We’ve not been formally introduced, but I overheard her mention her engagement at the Quarterbury ball.”

  “She’s had a change of heart. In fact, she’s looking forward to visiting relatives in America at the end of the summer.”

  “America?” Sir Harry chuckled. “How dreadful.”

  Miles gave the man a level glance. “I’d like to visit America someday myself.”

  “I have relatives in Chicago. They claim it’s actually quite civilized.” Mr. Robinson drained his brandy and poured himself another.

  Another puff of smoke. “Nevertheless, if you send Miss Braithwaite off to America so soon after a failed affaire de coeur, tongues will wag. Society may presume her to be ruined.”

  Mr. Robinson shifted in his chair. “Come now, Harry.”

  Rory gritted his teeth. Whatever disagreements he might have with Iris, he’d never countenance anyone besmirching her reputation. “My sister’s virtue is beyond reproach, I can assure you.”

  The older man waved his hand, dismissively. “Of course it is, and I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. It’s just that many a girl has been whisked off to the country to hush up a scandal involving a bas—”

  “Sir, I must protest!” Miles had gone rigid.

  “So must I,” Mr. Robinson said. “Harry, that’s entirely inappropriate.”

  “I demand your apology, sir.” Rory’s tone was even. “No gentleman would ever suggest such a thing about a lady!”

  “Tut, tut. Naturally, I apologize if you think I was casting aspersions. Let’s change the conversation to something else.”

  Had he been in any other social setting, Rory would have taken his leave and retired for the night. He was looking forward to spending time with Fiona, however, and refused to allow Sir Harry to spoil the evening. The man might be rich and powerful, but how could she contemplate marriage to him?

  For the remainder of the time at the table, Rory was forced to listen to Sir Harry query Mr. Robinson about his investments. Rory found the conversation boring in the extreme, and from the somewhat glazed look on Miles’s face, he probably did as well. Nevertheless, Rory feigned polite interest and counted the minutes until it was time to rejoin the ladies.

  While the gentlemen stayed behind in the dining room to indulge in male conversation, drinks, and cigars, Fiona and her mother returned to the drawing room. Although Mrs. Robinson picked up her embroidery hoop, she ignored it in favor of gossip.

  “You’ve made a conquest, I wager.”

  “Well…Sir Harry has already declared himself.”

  “No, silly girl. Mr. Braithwaite seems taken with you. He sang your praises quite loudly at the dinner table.”

  “I caution you not to read too much into his compliments.” Fiona was unsure if she spoke for her mother’s benefit or for her own. Since overestimating Lord Moordale’s affection for her, she wasn’t eager to make the same mistake again. “As I informed Papa earlier, Mr. Braithwaite’s sister was unforgivably rude to me and I’m sure he feels obliged to make up for it.”

  Her mother laughed. “Sir Harry felt the need to talk himself up over dinner, so he obviously sees Mr. Braithwaite as a rival.” She paused. “Do you like him?”

  “I don’t know him very well.” Fiona tried and failed to keep a smile from her lips. “I confess, however, I find him exceedingly attractive.”

  “Just as I thought. Well, we’ll have to play this carefully. It wouldn’t be wise to turn down Sir Harry’s proposal until Mr. Braithwaite makes you an offer of marriage.”

  “You’re getting too far ahead of yourself, Mama. Mr. Braithwaite has no such intentions, I’m sure. And at any rate, I can’t keep Sir Harry waiting forever!”

  “Mark my words, it won’t take forever for Mr. Braithwaite to declare himself.”

  Fiona was relieved when Mrs. Robinson changed the subject to the Season. If she’d had to discuss Rory any longer, she might run the risk of embarrassing herself. As she told her mother about the many soirées, dinners, galas, and musical assemblies she’d attended with Lara, however, she wondered if she should allow herself a tiny amount of hope where Rory was concerned. No, it was foolhardy to set herself up for disappointment again unless he gave her some clear reason to expect otherwise.

  When Miles and Rory entered the drawing room, Mrs. Robinson glanced toward the door.

  “Where are Mr. Robinson and Sir Harry?”

  “Sir Harry had something he wished to discuss with Mr. Robinson,” Miles said.

  “I see.” Fiona’s mother gave her an innocent smile. “Fiona, dear, I’ve not had a moment alone with Miles since Christmas. Why don’t you show Mr. Braithwaite your artwork in the gallery?”

  “I’m looking forward to it with great anticipation,” Rory said.

  “All right.” She rose and nodded toward the archway at the far end of the room. “The gallery is in the music room, just through there.”

  He accompanied her into the next room, where a white, shiny baby grand piano angled out from one corner. Several chairs and sofas were arranged around a fireplace tall enough for Fiona to stand inside without stooping, and numerous paintings and framed sketches graced the twenty-foot-high paneled walls.

  Rory had a look of admiration on his face. “This is a lovely room and a beautiful piano.”

  “It’s Mama’s piano. She and Angelica play quite well—certainly far better than I do. Do you play?”

  “A little.”

  “Perhaps you’ll play for us while you’re here.”

  “If you wish.” He glanced at the walls. “Is all this artwork yours?”

  “No, not all, but a fair portion.” She laughed. “Growing up in the country, sometimes there isn’t much for me to do but draw and paint.”

  He was attentive as she pointed out which paintings and sketches were hers, including the ones awarded ribbons in various competitions.

  “I’m impressed. Not only are you beautiful, but you’re talented.”

  “And you possess charm in abundance.”

  “I’m very sincere in my praise, I assure you.”

  She gestured to a nearby sketch of Lara in repose, which captured the essence of her sister’s comeliness. “My sister’s the beautiful one, I freely admit it.”

  Rory shook his head. “I wish you could see yourself like I do. You’re earthy, vibrant, and untamed, like an exquisite wild tiger. Your supposed imperfections are perfection itself. Admire your sister if you like, but trust me when I tell you I could watch the flames in your eyes all night long.”

  Her mouth went dry and her heart hammered against her chest. “You shouldn’t speak that way, Mr. Braithwaite. It isn’t proper.”

  He studied her lips a moment before capturing her gaze once more. “That’s true. I haven’t earned the right. Not yet.”

  Sir Harry strode into the room. “I understand you’re giving a tour of your artwork, Miss Fiona. I’d love to tag along.”

  His arrival broke the invisible force gripping Fiona, and she suddenly realized she’d almost forgotten to breathe.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Sir Harry,” she lied. “Let me begin the tour again.”

  Although Harry made a tremendous effort to pay Fiona every compliment, as the evening progressed he could almost feel her slipping through his fingers. Several days ago, she’d been emotionally vulnerable, grateful for his assistance, and willing to consider his suit. The arrival of Rory Braithwaite, however, had obviously changed the equation. Ordinarily, there would be n
o way for him to compete with the young, handsome, and brash lad for Fiona’s affections. Nevertheless, Harry was a strong believer in the proverb that said, “old age and treachery will overcome youth and skill.” With the right strategy, Fiona would become his wife—but he would have to act decisively. The more time she spent with Braithwaite, the more she would fancy herself in love with him. Just like with Lord Moordale, a little emotional attachment would ultimately accrue to Harry’s benefit—if he played his cards right. A simple grasp of human nature and strategy had always served him well in the past.

  When Fiona had finished giving her tour of the music room, Sir Harry made his first move. “I’d no idea regarding the depth of your talent, Miss Fiona. I stand corrected if I seemed in any way dismissive at dinner.”

  She seemed pleased. “Thank you, Sir Harry. It’s wonderful to have people take an interest in my work.”

  To Harry’s annoyance, Rory spoke up. “I consider myself fortunate you’ve chosen to share it with me.”

  “I feel the same way.” Harry flicked him a level glance. “If you’ll excuse us, Braithwaite, I’d like to speak with Miss Fiona for a moment.”

  “By all means.” Rory bowed and returned to the drawing room.

  When Harry was alone with Fiona, he took her hand in both of his. “Your father has given me permission to marry you. All that remains is for you to accept my proposal.”

  “But I—”

  “I’m planning a European tour for our honeymoon. We’ll visit Rome, Florence, Venice, Paris, Vienna, Dresden, Zürich, and Madrid, and stay at the finest hotels. In fact, we can travel anywhere you want to go. I intend to treat you like a princess.”

  He kissed her hand.

  “You’re uncommonly generous, Sir Harry, but please understand I haven’t yet decided whether or not to accept. There is a great deal for me to consider.”

  He studied her. “Miss Fiona, I must start a family as soon as possible. If you don’t wish to marry me, let me go. Although my heart will be broken, I would at least be able to return to the Season to seek another bride.”

  Her eyes widened, and a slight look of panic ensued. “I understand.”

  His smile was, he hoped, kind. “I’m going to London first thing tomorrow, and I’ll be back in a few days. Might I expect an answer then?”

  She gulped. “Yes. You’ll have my answer when I see you again.”

  A nod. “Now, I’ve said good night to your parents, so I’ll take my leave.” He paused. “I can make you happy, my dear. I promise.”

  “Thank you, and good night.”

  In the carriage on the way home, Harry devised a strategy to deal with Rory Braithwaite. In cases such as this, knowing one’s enemy was of inestimable value. The young man had unwittingly revealed so much about himself tonight that Harry’s battle plan was relatively easy to formulate. There would be the possibility of failure, of course, but the risk made the whole thing much more amusing.

  Twenty minutes later, Harry entered the drawing room of Sheepfold Abbey and found his elderly mother dozing in a chair. He patted her hand, and she awoke with a start.

  “Oh, you’re back?” Mrs. Wren blinked up at him. “How was dinner at the Robinsons? Did you manage to acquire a fiancée?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll have Miss Fiona’s answer soon. I’m heading to London tomorrow morning. While I’m gone, I’d like you to invite her to a formal luncheon two days from now. Pull out all the stops and spend whatever you like.”

  “May I invite Mrs. Robinson as well? I enjoy her company very much.”

  “Have them both to lunch, if you desire, but I want the event to take up most of the afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  He paused long enough to invent an excuse. “To impress Miss Fiona, of course. I wish her to understand what her life could be like if she becomes my wife.”

  Mrs. Wren clasped her hands together in delight. “What fun! You know how much I love to entertain.”

  “Good.” Harry leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I’m going to turn in now, and I’ll be gone at first light. Just remember, the luncheon must be for the day after tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Harry. Leave it to me.”

  As he left the drawing room, he could hear his mother humming. Her happiness removed any small guilt he might have otherwise felt for involving her in his plot. It was often best to utilize the innocent in these sorts of schemes because their earnestness helped to allay suspicion. Besides which, his mother had reached an age where she needed to feel useful. In this particular case, she would prove to be very useful indeed.

  Slightly shaken, Fiona perched on the piano bench for a few moments to consider Sir Harry’s ultimatum; she must accept his proposal within days or lose him forever. Oh, this was a dreadful pickle! She’d thought she would have several weeks to decide, if not the rest of the summer. With no other prospects, what else could she do but accept? Yes, Rory had flirted with her earlier, but flirting was not a serious declaration of love. To think he might propose to her before Sir Harry returned was the height of foolishness. What if she turned Sir Harry down only to have Rory depart for London with a wink and a smile? Prudence dictated she decide in Sir Harry’s favor.

  Furthermore, she couldn’t deny the prospect of a Grand Tour was seductive. Her father was not adventuresome and had never seen the need to take his family beyond the borders of England. As Sir Harry’s bride, she would visit the Louvre, shop for clothes at the House of Worth, and marvel at all the artistic treasures of Rome! It would be as if her dreams had come true…even if the man at her side didn’t quicken her pulse or make her mouth go dry. Yes, she ought to accept Sir Harry and put an end to her prevaricating, once and for all. She would be the toast of Europe, with many wonderful stories to tell her friends and family after her honeymoon. The envy of all her friends, she’d be accepted socially in the highest levels of society. Wasn’t that the life she’d always wanted for herself?

  When Fiona returned to the drawing room, Miles and Rory were playing jackstraws at the table in the corner, her father was reading, and her mother was embroidering a colorful floral pattern on black linen. Fiona sank down on the chair directly opposite her.

  “Your embroidery is coming along well, Mama.”

  Mrs. Robinson glanced up. “Oh, thank you dear. Sir Harry has gone, then?”

  “Yes, it seems he’s off to London tomorrow.”

  “So he said.” She lowered her voice. “Have you settled anything?”

  “Only that he expects an answer when he returns.”

  Her mother gave her a sympathetic glance. “A difficult dilemma, I’m afraid.”

  “Not really. I’d be a fool to refuse him, wouldn’t I?”

  Rory’s voice rang out. “Please join us for a game of jackstraws, Miss Fiona.”

  She stood. “Thank you, I shall.”

  Rory smiled as she drew near, and Fiona suddenly felt bathed in warmth…as if she’d just stepped out from the shadows into the morning light. She tried to ignore her feelings and gave him and Miles a stern look instead.

  “I warn you, as far as jackstraws is concerned, I’ve a frightfully steady hand.”

  Rory chuckled. “More skillful players make for a more challenging game.”

  Miles looked at him, askance. “Come now, Rory. You don’t mind being beaten by a lady?”

  “Not if she wins fair and square. Besides which, hasn’t anyone ever told you the truth of the matter? Sometimes you must lose to win, particularly when the fairer sex is involved.” Rory winked.

  “Hear, hear.” Mr. Robinson didn’t even glance up from his book as he spoke. “You’re wise for your years, Mr. Braithwaite.”

  Miles gathered up the slender carved ivory straws and let them fall into a pile on the table. “Who goes first?”

  Rory gestured toward Fiona. “Why, the lady, of course.”

  She flexed her fingers. “Gentlemen, prepare yourselves for defeat.”

  Chapter Nine

  Effervescen
ce

  SUNLIGHT WAS STREAMING THROUGH the windows when the butler showed Moordale into the library of Sir Harry’s Belgrave Square townhouse. The viscount scowled and blinked at the light.

  “It’s too bloody bright in here.”

  Harry gestured toward the tea service on the table in front of him. “Would you care for tea?”

  “No! What the devil do you mean by summoning me at the crack of dawn?”

  “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, lad.”

  “I rarely rise before noon.”

  “A result of perpetual late-night debauchery, no doubt. Since I was up early to catch a train, spare me your complaints.”

  Albeit grudgingly, the viscount sat down. “What do you want?”

  “That’s hardly a gracious attitude for your generous benefactor.” Harry sipped his tea. “I need you to perform a service for me regarding Miss Iris Braithwaite.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes. This time, you’re to elope with her.”

  “You must be joking! I’ve no interest in marrying her at all, as you’re well aware. Her father did me an inestimable service by paying me off.”

  “It won’t get as far as marriage. My sources tell me the girl has canceled her social engagements and has been confined to the house for some reason. I can’t think why, unless it’s to prevent her from slipping out to meet you. She’s besotted.”

  “If she only knew the facts, she’d realize her mistake immediately.”

  “Be that as it may, you’re to write a letter begging her to meet you at midnight tonight, ostensibly to elope.”

  “How on earth am I to get this lurid communication past her father? I doubt if he’ll let me speak with her, and he most certainly would intercept any letter.”

  “You’ll use a Trojan Horse.” Harry nudged a slender tome which lay on the table next to the tea tray. “Call on Lady Quarterbury this afternoon with a romantic tale of woe. Tell her you’ve written Miss Braithwaite a billet doux secreted in this book of poetry, and ask her to deliver it for you.”