Design for Love

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  “So that is why you wanted me.” Her voice had not risen, but he disliked the look in her eyes.

  He nodded, careful to keep his own features calm. “I judged it time to take a wife and saw no harm in pursuing my best interests in the matter.” He had no intention of ever revealing that a mo­ment of sentimental weakness had sent him charging into the fray, rather like a knight in shin­ing armor. Though upon reflection, the fat Charles made a better pig than a dragon.

  Dreyford eyed the woman beside him. He sup­posed she had some right to fly up in the boughs. But the dowry had been useless to her without a husband. And considering the circum­stances . . .

  The habit of long years in which Fiona had as­siduously suppressed her temper deserted her in one short second. “Your interests!” she cried, in a voice that caused the earl to regard her with sur­prise. “What of my interests?”

  He shrugged. “I cannot see that being the Countess of Dreyford is so disadvantageous, most especially considering your previous position.”

  “You tricked me!” she cried. “You and that abominable Charles!”

  Dreyford’s mouth tightened. “I must warn you, Fiona, that I find your coupling of my name with that of the abominable Charles most distasteful.”

  “As if I cared!” she retorted, aware that she was being unfair, aware that she should stop this ti­rade. “A gentleman would have told me,” she continued. “Let me know everything before I made my choice.”

  “And how would you have chosen?” he asked in carefully polite tones.

  “I would have gone back to my homeplace,” she cried, her voice breaking into a sob. “And looked for a husband who could love me.”

  “A futile undertaking,” replied the earl. “The Irish are notoriously poor husbands. Good lovers, yes. But husbands . . .” He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Besides, love is only cause for pain. You’re better off without it.”

  Fiona’s anger helped her conquer a tendency to tears. “Just because you choose not to love doesn’t mean others don’t want to.”

  His Lordship considered this for some mo­ments. Finally he shook his head. “I really had thought you a woman of understanding. I did, after all, take you out of the clutches of the loath­some Charles. Did I not?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed!” Her former gratitude had turned to bitterness. She knew it was not really his fault, but he was there. And Charles was not. “For a price, of course. But what is that between gentlemen?”

  The earl’s brows lifted threateningly. “I hope you do not mean to legitimize that miserable mushroom by applying to him the term ‘gentle­man.’ ”

  Fiona was past thinking rationally. All those years of servitude when she had had the means to be free! If only she had known. She and Lonigan . . .

  She turned to Dreyford. “How is it that my in­heritance has survived to come into your hands? Charles is not the most honest of stewards.”

  “Your grandfather was a wise man,” the earl replied. “He hedged your portion about with so many restrictions that none of your father’s rela­tions could touch it, not even if they should marry you.”

  “Nevertheless, I’ve no doubt Charles profited well from your match to me,” she retorted. “He would not have allowed it otherwise.”

  The earl sighed still again. It was plain he was finding this matter wearisome. “I hope I shall not regret my decision to be honest with you. Under ordinary circumstances I would never deal with your cousin. But in this case no one else had what I wanted. I suppose he will trade on his connection to me. His sort does.” He shrugged. “Life is such that circumstances sometimes force us into unpleasant situations.”

  His eyes bored into hers and she had the un­comfortable sensation that he considered their al­liance a prime example of such a situation.

  “If you had told me,” she persisted, “we could have worked something out. I might have sold you the land.”

  His Lordship shook his dark head. “No. It was specifically stated that neither you nor your male relatives could dispose of it. A further precaution against Charles, no doubt. Only by marrying could you have access to it.”

  Her temper flared again. “You seem to have all the answers.”

  The earl took this statement at face value. “I believe I have been rather longer in the world than you,” he observed. “And it appears to me that you have little cause to cavil. All in all, I should think congratulations are in order. Becom­ing my countess is not exactly negligible.” He had a momentary thought of the numerous mothers who had dangled their daughters before him with that express purpose in mind.

  Fiona cast him a fiery look. “Nor, I suppose, is acquiring my land in Ireland.”

  His Lordship raised a dark eyebrow. “Temper, temper, dear wife.” His fingers reached out to catch a strand of auburn hair peeping out from beneath her bonnet. He was experiencing an in­tense urge to touch this fractious creature. “Your Irish blood is showing. Actually, though, the land is valuable to me. It was this that constrained me to deal with your reprehensible kinsman. In the hands of the wrong person that land could have been a thorn in my side. As it is, I can feel myself safe.” He considered her blazing eyes. “In the matter of land, at least.”

  He captured her fingers, ignoring her protests as he did so, and peeled off her glove. The hand he examined was small, with slender tapered fin­gers and skin roughened by hard work. “Your hands will not suffer any longer, my dear,” he said, dropping a sudden kiss into her cupped palm.

  Fiona drew back her hand with a little gasp.

  The earl’s eyes darkened. It had not occurred to him that the chit might actually take a dislike to him. Women seldom did. And the other day, that tender little kiss of betrothal . . . “Such maid­enly modesty ill behooves a married woman, my love. You must learn to be more wifely.”

  “Must I?” she snapped.

  His Lordship’s eyes flashed. The Dreyford tem­per was stirring. Already this business had tried his patience sorely. It was unconscionable that she should turn against him in this fashion. “Lis­ten to me, Fiona. I am not regarded as a man par­ticularly versed in patience. Though in your case I have worked mightily to cultivate the virtue. It might be a good idea for you to emulate my ex­ample. I have eyes and what is considered quite adequate understanding. I did not misread the gleam in your oversize cousin’s glance, nor the evident relish with which he recounted your nu­merous charms.”

  Fiona felt the blood rush to her cheeks. He was right, of course. But why did that have to matter? Surely she was justified in her anger too. After all, she had been cruelly cheated.

  When she did not reply, he smiled quizzically. “I cannot imagine that you are so lacking in un­derstanding as to prefer that lumbering elephant to my more refined person.”

  She greeted this attempt at humor with a snort of contempt and was irrationally pleased to see lines of strain appear about His Lordship’s hawk­ish nose.

  “I see there is no question of dealing with you in such a mood,” he replied, his even tones giving no indication of the irritation she knew he must be feeling. “So I shall leave you in peace to culti­vate a better frame of mind in which to greet your wedding night.” And with that he turned his at­tention to the landscape outside his window.

  Fiona, too, turned her face to the window. Sold for a piece of land. And to a man of so little feel­ing that he counted her fortunate for the fact.

  Dimly some part of her mind recalled to her that not so long ago she had been counting herself fortunate. But the little whisper of reason was drowned in the mad clamoring of outraged emo­tion.

  She blinked carefully and swallowed a sigh. Weeping had long been a forbidden luxury. Cer­tainly, she did not want to start now, even though it seemed that the unshed tears of all those long years were dammed up behind her eyes, waiting for the moment of release. She did not intend to let this man see her cry.

  She must come to grips with herself, she thought crossly. Little as she might care for th
e prospect, she was now the Countess of Dreyford. And unless His Lordship should decide to ask Parliament for a divorce—a most unlikely possi­bility—she would remain so. Therefore she had best consider how to conduct herself.

  If only she had not lost Lonigan. Those golden days gleamed in her memory, days of love and laughter. Some mishap must have overtaken him or Lonigan would have returned to her.

  So she was doomed to this loveless marriage. To love, honor, and obey, she thought with bit­terness. The very vows she had made to Lonigan.

  With a barely audible sigh she leaned back against the velvet squabs. She was so tired. The strain of the last days had drained away much of her strength. And still before her lay a most diffi­cult night.

  * * * *

  Fiona struggled slowly up out of a haze of sleep. There was a decided stiffness in her back and one leg had fallen numb. Besides the cramping of her limbs, she was aware of a slight chill that had overtaken her right side. Her left, however, was cozily warm. For a moment she could not compre­hend where she was. Then the warmth beneath her moved and memory came racing back. Clum­sily, she jerked herself erect.

  His Lordship’s eyes glowed mysteriously in the light of the carriage lamps. “No need to be flus­tered,” he said in that dry tone she was beginning to find annoying. “There is nothing indecorous about a wife leaning upon her husband while she sleeps.” His hooded eyes traveled over her, mark­ing her evident consternation. But his expression gave no evidence as to what he was thinking or feeling.

  Fiona busied herself with straightening her bonnet and gathering up her gloves. “Where are we?” she asked.

  “We have reached London. And Grosvenor Square. We are home.”

  Home. She had never known a real home. Only the imaginary pictures she had painted of her homeplace. Besides, without Lonigan no place could really be home.

  His Lordship eyed her critically and quite sud­denly she felt wrinkled and dusty. He, by con­trast, seemed as impeccably turned out as when he stood by her side before the altar. His hawkish nose twitched slightly and Fiona stiffened, but the earl merely patted her hand and said, “I am sorry for the discomfort of such a prolonged jour­ney, but the press of business demands my atten­tion tomorrow early. And I did suppose that you would wish to be present at Constance’s nuptials. Otherwise we might have made a more leisurely return.”

  “I am quite well,” Fiona replied, trying to match his noncommittal tone. “A trifle tired, per­haps. But a good night’s sleep should mend that.” She gave him a grave look. Apparently he was willing to forget their earlier disagreement. “I ap­preciate your concern for Constance. I was not to attend the wedding, you know. Before you came.”

  The earl’s face took on an expression of dis­taste. “So I ascertained. How fortunate for En­gland that all her cits do not manifest the miserli­ness of your cousin. I should fear for our survival as a nation.”

  Fiona managed a very small smile. “I shall add my thanks to yours. And I shall count it a great favor if we need never speak of my cousin again.”

  The earl’s smile was grim. “That is one favor I shall grant gladly. I shall never introduce his name into conversation. And now, shall we go in? Berkins should be ready. I sent a rider to alert him some time ago.”

  Opening the door, he stepped out and turned to help her. For a moment Fiona stared at her hus­band’s extended hand. Then, clutching her skirts with one hand, she placed the other in his grasp. His fingers were strong and warm, and, though she still felt some antagonism toward him, strangely comforting.

  Though life was returning to her cramped limbs, she was yet a little unsteady, and when she reached the ground it continued to move beneath her feet. Her fingers grasped the earl’s arm as she leaned against him for support. “A moment, please, milord. Until I find my legs again.”

  As she looked up at him, the glow of the link lights cast harsh shadows on his face. She felt un­easiness trembling in her breast and without thinking she pushed herself away from his sup­porting arm, setting off alone for the dark bulk of the house looming against the night sky. Sud­denly he was beside her, scooping her up into his arms. “Milord, put me down! This is unseemly!”

  The earl did not break stride. “No more so than having you go weaving up the walk like a drunken sailor. Besides,” he added, ignoring Fiona’s gasp of outrage, “this should appeal to your romantic soul.”

  There seemed little use in kicking like an angry child, though she definitely felt the urge to do so. His arms held her against him and he strode along quite easily. Fiona resigned herself to lying still, and tried to ignore the discomfiting idea that she could easily grow to like it, there against his chest.

  The front door opened silently as they ap­proached it, and Fiona glimpsed the butler’s face. A man of much service, Berkins. Not a muscle twitched as he greeted the earl and calmly closed the door behind him. “The rooms are ready, mi­lord.”

  “Very good, Berkins. The grooms will be bring­ing in the luggage. You needn’t have it brought up till morning.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  From her position in His Lordship’s arms Fiona could catch only snatches of the magnificence around her. But she saw enough to convince her that the house was truly an elegant one, a fit background for His Lordship.

  Dreyford took the stairs easily and carried her into a large room. Fiona sucked in her breath as he set her on her feet.

  His Lordship stood, a supporting arm still around her waist, while her gaze swept the room. Her eyes lingered on the huge bed, its curtained depths mysteriously dark, before they moved to what was obviously the connecting door to his room. Fear and anger mingled in her breast.

  The man beside her chuckled, a sardonic sound to her frightened ears. “If you are to succeed among the ton, my dear wife, you will have to cultivate a less transparent countenance. Your every thought is reflected there on for the world to see.”

  Fiona’s knees trembled and she did not look up at him. “I . . .” she began, but no more words would come.

  Strong hands turned her to face him and, loos­ening its strings, he tossed her bonnet lightly into a chair. “I fancy your hair,” he said. “Candleglow makes it gleam like burnished copper.”

  Fiona summoned a little of her previous anger. “A monetary comparison quite in keeping with your character,” she said crossly.

  The earl chuckled. “This should prove a most interesting marriage. I am quite pleased.” His eyes traveled intimately over her face and she forced herself not to back away. She would not let him see that she was frightened.

  “I have acquired a woman of beauty—and spirit.” He traced the curve of her lips with a warm finger. “Yes, I believe I shall enjoy our mar­riage.”

  Somewhat to his amazement, the earl realized that he was speaking the truth. He was actually pleased that in a moment of appalling sentimen­tality he had made this intractable young woman his wife, that he had bound himself for life to a woman he scarcely knew.

  He watched her, guessing that she did not know how to answer him. “Silent, but not sub­missive, I trust.” He could not resist teasing her. No more than he could resist folding her into an embrace.

  Its effect on him was startling. Such embraces were hardly unknown to a man of his experience. But along with the familiar warmth of desire came a quite unexpected surge of tenderness.

  The earl determined to examine it at some later date. For now he smoothed back the hair from her forehead and smiled down at her gently. “Good night, lady wife. Sleep well.”

  Fiona stood there as he crossed her room and disappeared through the connecting door to his own. It had been a short kiss. More tender than demanding. Nevertheless she was still conscious of the feel of his arms, the warmth of his body, the pressure of his lips. But, even more disturb­ing, came awareness of her body’s response. Like a bird in a cage, it clamored for release, to soar upon the magic his lips promised.

  This couldn’t be, shouldn’t be, she told herse
lf numbly. This man was not Lonigan. Such special feelings should be reserved for the man she loved. Not given to a stranger, however legally he might consider them his due.

  Then, hardly knowing what she did, she hur­ried across the room to turn the ponderous key that stood in the lock. And very softly, through the thickness of the heavy door, came the sound of His Lordship’s cheerful whistling.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  The clock had struck eleven the next morning before Fiona awoke. In the dimness of the huge curtained bed she stretched her stiffened body and flushed as she recalled the events of the night before.

  Fatigue had been too much for her and she’d removed the dove-gray dress and sought the soft­ness of the big bed clad only in her chemise. She had hoped for the prompt comfort of sleep. But in spite of her exhaustion she tossed and turned for long hours, waiting for the man who had not come.

  A timid rap sounded on the door. “Yes?” she called out.

  The door creaked slightly as it opened. “It’s me, Yer Ladyship. The maid—Millie.”

  “Come in, Millie.”

  The girl advanced to the side of the big bed. “His Lordship says he’s going to take you to Bond Street. So’s you’d better up and breakfast. I need some time to make you ready.”

  Fiona was about to reply that she could get her­self ready. But remembrance of her new station in life stopped her tongue. “Of course. Has His Lordship breakfasted yet?”

  “La, Yer Ladyship. The master’s always up and about at the crack of dawn. He ain’t fashionable in that respect. Though you couldn’t find a better turned-out man in the whole of the city. And the ladies, why they—”

  Millie stopped suddenly and turned away. “I’ll just open the curtains, Yer Ladyship. It’s a rare golden day, it is. And then I’ll be bringing up your breakfast. Will you be having chocolate and rolls? Or will you be wanting more? Sure, you could use a bit of fattening up.”

  Fiona smiled. “Chocolate and rolls will be suf­ficient this morning, Millie. I will eat heavier later in the day.”