Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 1

by DeLand, Cerise

  "Yet you knew she'd be here, didn't you?"

  "I wasn't certain. I know she is a distant relative to Northington and I accepted your invitation to accompany you because I purposely came to see him. But I hoped I might keep my distance and let her enjoy her friends, Esme and Fifi and the others."

  Charlton liked her funny little name. It was as she should be, always. Happy. "Fifi, is it?"

  Bridges turned wistful. "Fifi is what her friends call her."

  "It suits her."

  Bridges laughed. "And you, I see."

  "Pardon my intrusion, sirs." Another footman stood in the entrance.

  "Yes?" Charlton looked up.

  "The ice, the tea and bandages await you in the lady's rooms, my lord."

  "Well, then." He rose. "I'm off to do my doctoring."

  "Get to it, Charlton. I'm off to join the party."

  "To explore new possibilities, I do hope."

  Bridges winced, uncertain. "We shall see."

  Chapter 5

  “Feeling any better?" He stood on the threshold, the cut glass brandy bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.

  "I will when you pour me a bit of that." Less anxious for her injury after her rest, she could appreciate him even more. Plus she'd donned her hated glasses. And oh, my. The earl of Charlton was a handsome creature. With or without her spectacles, she could see that. He had kept on his frock coat, no concession to comfort abandoned, she surmised, in the interest of keeping up propriety. It wouldn't do to tend a lady in her rooms in his shirtsleeves. Fifi had her imagination to offer her impressions of how muscular his arms were. How sturdy his thighs. In the fine navy wool of his coat, he seemed as broad in the shoulders as the Bath blacksmith. And in the contrast between his silver blue silk waistcoat and the soft cambric of his shirt, he was kissed by the sun. If she longed to run her fingers through the wealth of his dark brown hair, she put that to how close she'd come to such advances while secure in his arms.

  He gave a chuckle and strode forward. His legs were long, his stride certain. If she had not experienced the generosity of his care, she would have said he looked assertive. Or perhaps, just very pleased with himself...and her.

  He poured her a hearty measure of the aromatic liquid and put it in her outstretched hand. "Drink up. You can. No one will know except you and me."

  She took a sip and savored the warm delight as it slid down her throat. The relief that swept through her was not due to spirits but because he was near and smiling at her fondly. "I will be well foxed if you ply me with liquor often."

  "Never to worry, Lady Fiona. I would never do anything to lure you to what you do not want."

  Disappointment flashed through her that he'd not tempt her to more intimacies of caresses or kisses. Of necessity, she said, "I applaud your devotion to my care."

  He ran his gaze from her eyes to her lips and back again. "I wager you do not often stray from any prudent path."

  That prickled. Did he know that she should not even speak to him, let alone discuss breaches of etiquette or...drinking alcohol to excess?

  "What did I say to distress you?" He took the chair opposite and leaned forward. "I meant only to make you smile. Yet you frown. It seems I make a muddle of trying to enchant you. I apologize."

  His words made her giddy. "Are you?"

  "What?"

  "Trying to enchant me?"

  He considered the brandy in his glass. Then locked his marvelous mellow grey eyes on hers. "Might I have a chance to do that?"

  Despite the way she'd mistaken him for Northington and the way she'd reacted like a missish schoolgirl to his ministrations, she wanted his attentions. Even though she played with a fire that could consume her if and when she learned the reasons her father banned her from uttering Charlton's very name.

  Her silence had given him reason to rise. His expression was forlorn. "Forgive me, my lady, I will go and leave you to—"

  She caught his arm. "Please don't. I enjoy your company."

  He halted, but peered down at her as he fought a frown. "I don't wish to prevail upon your good graces."

  "You don't. It is I who... I am not used to a man's attentions."

  "I find that hard to understand."

  She rolled a shoulder and bit her lip. He was so kind, so complimentary. "I don't attend many functions."

  He sat down again and took one hand in his. "I haven't been in many drawing rooms, either. But I'd like to learn how to navigate one."

  She tipped her head. "You must not fear in that regard. You are kind and you like to laugh."

  "Do I?" His words were whispered caresses as he laced his fingers in hers. "I am most pleased you noticed."

  "Oh, I have noticed much—"

  A spark of mischief lit his eyes. "Oh? Such as?"

  "Your strength." She was so forward to utter that. But like a girl uncaring of consequences, she rushed onward. "Your resilience. Your gentleness with me."

  He lifted her hand to his lips and once more sent ripples of heat through her body as he kissed each fingertip. "You deserve it. My father taught me that ladies are worthy of the finest regard."

  Had he? How noble. She blinked. So opposite was his father's lessons from the teachings of her own father.

  "You are a lovely young woman of humor and fortitude. No tears for your injury."

  "Ah, yes. Just biting words to my physician."

  He shrugged a shoulder. "Forgivable. When one is hurt, one can be blunt. It is allowed. You were allowed."

  "How did you become so profound a philosopher?"

  His features fell, sadness lined his mouth. "One learns to read the faces of those in pain. And one excuses much in the interest of saving another and restoring them to health."

  "I see that is so. You must forgive me, dear sir, for being such a child about my injury. I'm certain what you have endured on the battlefield was much worse."

  "You are a lady of society, not a soldier whose duty is to fight hand-to-hand and maim and kill another. Physical pain strikes at the core of a person's acuity. You are not used to that. You can complain and should."

  "How can I possibly thank you?"

  He smacked his lips. "You can let me re-wrap your poor ankle in a better bandage."

  She raised her glass to toast him. "I will."

  He stood, surveyed the supplies, drained his glass, put it aside and returned to her. He gazed at her, serious to a fault. "You'll have to raise your skirts once more."

  She finished her own brandy, placed the glass to the table and inched up her skirts to her knees. "Enough?"

  He smiled at her with a pure delight. "Well done."

  "Set to work, sir."

  "Rory."

  "Pardon me?"

  "My name is Rory. I invite you to use it."

  "Oh, I shouldn't."

  "Would you like to touch my bare foot?"

  She fell back, laughing. “Only if you have nice knees. Do you, sir?”

  "Rory."

  She fixed him with a frank look. "Do you have nice knees? Rory?"

  "I do. May I call you Fifi?"

  Her mouth fell open. "Who told you that?"

  "Lord Bridges...and I think I heard your friend Mary call you that."

  "Yes. Rory. I will be Fifi to you."

  "And I shall be Rory to you. Only when we are together alone."

  "Yes." His last two words sent quivers of longing through her. Years ago she had met him, valued him and felt her soul twine with his. Whatever her misperception of his identity, the commingling of her heart with his had not been wrong. Simply...postponed. Her imagination flew to what joys they might discover together in days ahead. She wished to rise up and hug him, kiss him. She cleared her throat, her cheeks burning in a blush as he sat down again before her, all his supplies of scissors and flannel, ice and burlap to hand. "Only then."

  The tenderness of his words matched the sweetness of his ministrations to her foot. She sat, for the second time in her life, enjoying the b
rush of his fingers, the delicacy of his touch. Never knowing a hug or a kiss from her father, she'd not imagined men might offer that to any woman. In fact, what had drawn her to him that night so many years ago was his jovial nature as well as his genteel respect for her. For her as a young woman. For her.

  She not forgotten it. The thrill. The compliment. The comfort. Now she had it again...and she wished to never let it disappear again. She was content to sit and let him work his magic on her, heal her ankle, heal her heartache, heal her longing for him that had dwindled...but had never lost its lustre.

  She noticed a figure in the doorway.

  "There you are, Mary! Do come in. See what Lord Charlton is doing." She pointed to her swollen foot. "He claims to be an expert at healing twisted ankles."

  Her friend approached, the wary look upon her face one of concern for her welfare. "Is that so, sir?"

  Rory glanced up at her, a rueful arc to his brows, his hands still. "We are—I assure you, Lady Mary—perfectly respectable. Do note the door is open. I have not accosted your friend. Have I, Lady Fifi?"

  "Not in the least," she said, absorbed in Charlton's wrapping of her ankle in a strip of flannel.

  "You've done this often?" Mary inquired of him.

  "Battlefield surgeons are few and far between, my lady. A commander must perform as leader, confessor, scribe and doctor."

  "Of course." Mary seemed at odds as to whether to stay or go. "Will you come downstairs, my lord, after you finish here?"

  "I will. So will Lady Fifi."

  "Oh, no, I won't. I'm not going down there like this."

  "Why not?" He paused, surprise on his face. "Does your ankle prohibit you from laughing?"

  Fifi stared him down. Was he joking? "Never."

  "Well then."

  "You are irritating, my lord." Fifi crossed her arms, delighted to be cajoled into attending the others when she should claim the vapors, a megrim at the least. But she wanted to be with Rory. Anywhere.

  She met Mary's gaze. "We'll adjourn to the salon soon."

  He smiled at Mary. "A few more minutes, then."

  Fifi smiled at her friend, hoping she'd leave them alone.

  But Welles appeared and curtsied to them. The maid provided a suitable chaperone.

  Mary dismissed herself. "I'll see you both downstairs."

  He worked for a few more minutes on her ankle, smiling to himself the entire time. When he finished and drew down her skirts, he shot his cuffs and threw her a look of pride. "Are you ready to greet the other guests?"

  "I am hungry." She tipped her head, marveling that her friends downstairs would see such a man honoring her with his attentions. "And I would say you are, too. Carrying me about must require Herculean efforts."

  "When I look at you, I feel more like Paris."

  "Paris?"

  "A man, bereft of all reason in the presence of the lady he adored."

  That set her aglow. "You are becoming much too complimentary, my lord."

  "Rory," he murmured so that Welles might not hear.

  She cocked her head and whispered, "Rory."

  "Between us," he said as he bent near to her lips, "I want only truth."

  She caught her breath. Truth could ruin so much about their relationship. Truth that she had been girlishly attracted to him the minute she met him. Truth that she pined for him and, because of her vanity not to wear her glasses that night six years ago, she'd mistaken him for another. Truth that today she appreciated him more each moment as he rescued her from a wrecked coach and from the embarrassment of being crippled by her ankle injury. Truth that she should not encourage him to pay his attentions to her. But she wanted him to do that—and she wanted that at any price.

  She locked her gaze on his. Her earnestness must match his. "I want it too."

  "Marvelous!" He chuckled and scooped her up into his arms. His face, so close, elicited a grin from her. His eyes, so lively—his lips, so appealing—his cologne, so intoxicating—all combined to make him irresistible. She cupped his nape, the lure of him surging through her anew.

  "Kiss me, if you like," he murmured, his mouth a tempting morsel.

  "I'd like to." She considered the strong lines of his generous mouth. "Later."

  "Then we must hurry the evening along."

  She threw back her head and laughed as she had not laughed in years. Perhaps, not ever.

  Chapter 6

  The promise of kissing him consumed her. When he placed her in a sumptuous chair in the main parlor and the other guests appeared before her, she was happy many came to greet her. When her friends, twin sisters Ivy and Grace Livingston sat across from her to chat, she babbled about the cold weather and the misfortune of her injury. Then a footman appeared with a selection of tea or sherry, she chose tea because she needed nothing more than Rory's compliments to make her giddy.

  Minutes later, as a few other acquaintances stood before her to bid her welcome, Rory politely left her to them, but soon returned. Mary noticed. So did her former schoolmates. Esme cast an approving eye on the two of them, then winked at Fifi. At one point, her Aunt Courtland came to speak with her and brought a friend along, an elderly woman who lived down the lane in the village. In such a public setting, Fifi couldn't ask her aunt about her father's dictum and her opportunity vanished when her aunt and her friend rose.

  "I must leave you, my dear," her aunt patted Fifi's hand. "I see the butler indicates our buffet supper is ready. We will talk tomorrow. If you need anything, you must but ask."

  "Thank you, Aunt. I feel better just being here with you."

  The truth however was that her euphoria was attributable to a certain man.

  Rory reappeared and sat beside her on the settee, a glass in his hand.

  "To start your supper, a glass of sherry, my lady."

  She took it with a grin. "Do you wish to make me tipsy?"

  "A spot of alcohol is better for your pain than opium."

  She sipped and regarded him with gratitude. "The good company I keep has kept pain at bay."

  "I'm pleased to hear it. Now drink up."

  She chuckled. "Good thing I'm not walking."

  "Good thing I came along or there'd be some other fellow who'd get the privilege to carry you about."

  "No other man has ever taken the privilege."

  "Lucky me." His gaze grew fervent and she could not look away from the enchantment. "I like you. You return the sentiment. Do you not?"

  "This is too fast an attachment." It was six years ago and now too.

  "Is it?" He challenged her and it was in those two simple words, she understood that at some point, they would discuss their first meeting six years ago. Her pride would have to give way to the truth of her vanity and she could only pray her silliness would not mark her as childish and drive him away.

  "Couples should use time to their benefit."

  "A courtship has no required time. I know many who've wed, yet never met but days before."

  "Arranged marriages," she said with distaste, recalling the hideous union of her parents, filled with fisticuffs and blood. "Not all are happy."

  "I have heard of that. I intend nothing of the sort for me except joy in my union."

  "As you should," she told him.

  "And as you should also."

  She could not smile though she tried.

  "Oh, Fifi." He grasped her hand, and in this crowd, his warm fingers clutched hers for but an instant. His affection survived her shock of his breech of etiquette. "You and I have nothing of the arranged about us. On the contrary, we are the stuff of the accidental. And the fortuitous."

  Hope he was right frolicked in her head like a bevy of fairies. "Dance with abandon."

  He tipped his head. "Pardon me?"

  She'd never shared her motto with anyone. But to tell him what it was, that was novel. "Part of my personal rules to live by."

  His features mellowed, a soft surrender to the gravity of her words. "Will you share it with me?"
r />   To tell him seemed vital to her next breath. "Yes. I devised this years ago."

  "I see. For a reason, I presume."

  Oh, yes. When I could not absorb the viciousness of my father's attack upon my mother. When he hit her with a candlestick or his fist. When she threw the Ming vase at him and it shattered upon his...

  "My darling," he spoke in the darkest whisper. "Look at me. Yes, there. What shadows cross your vision, they are not real. Not here. Not now."

  She swallowed, wishing she might touch him, just skim her fingertips on his own to prove her agreement. "Thank you. I know they're not. They're old shadows. Old stories."

  "That you survived because you found the courage to live. Tell me that motto, my dearest."

  "Dance with abandon."

  His smile was all pleasure.

  "Sing in the dark."

  Fright illuminated his grey eyes like lightning.

  "Live like no one need approve."

  "My darling, Fee." He grasped her hand.

  She stared into his compassionate gaze and marveled that he seemed the only person in the world who would understand the severity of her little saying. "Like no one need approve...but yourself."

  He brought her hand to his lips. His eyes squeezed shut. And he held there for a long precious moment.

  She could not move. His homage was all empathy and comfort.

  No one had ever offered such solace.

  She heard no gasps. If others cast censure on them, she did not look up to search for it.

  With great reluctance, she inched away her hand.

  "Some day soon I hope you will tell me how and why such words define you."