One Golden Ring

by Cheryl Bolen

  “Your brother was in Spain?” Nick asked.

  She nodded.

  “Why did you not take this letter to Warwick?”

  “If you must know,” she said proudly, “I’m out of charity with his lordship.”

  “So you expect a stranger to give you the twenty-five thousand pounds?” At the wounded look on her delicate face, he wished he could retract his insensitive words. Lady Fiona was under a great deal of strain. She was extremely close to her brother and quite naturally worried about him. “I’m sorry for being so brutally blunt, my lady. I’m flattered that you’ve come to me, but you must realize this is an exorbitant amount of money.” He stopped short of reminding her that the Agar fortune had gone the way of powdered wigs. It was Nick’s business to know everyone’s financial business. The late Lord Agar had lost vast sums in African mines, and that loss was followed with a huge blow on the market. The man had been forced to sell all his ancillary properties and much of his renowned library and art collection just to meet present pecuniary demands.

  “To me, yes, it’s a great deal of money,” she said. “To most people, it’s a great deal of money, but not to you, Mr. Birmingham.”

  “If it’s a loan you seek, you need to see my brother Adam. He’s the banker of the family.”

  “I don’t wish to speak with your brother,” she said, her blue eyes glittering defiantly, her spine ramrod straight. “It’s you I wish to deal with.”

  “Why am I to be so singularly honored, my lady?”

  “Because you’re not a complete stranger.”

  “You think one brief meeting gives you access to my money?” Damn, but he was behaving abominably to the poor lady! “Forgive me for my shockingly bad manners.”

  Two perfect, little white teeth nipped at her lip as she watched him. God, but she was exquisite!

  But of course he wouldn’t give her the money. “I must tell you, my lady, that in order to obtain a loan, one must secure it by pledging property or belongings of equal or greater value than the amount borrowed. What do you propose to use as collateral?”

  She did not answer for a moment. Her hands folded and unfolded nervously as she stared at him. Then she finally cleared her throat, stared at his neck, and said, “I mean to offer myself as your bride, Mr. Birmingham.”

  Chapter 2

  Never in his two and thirty years had Nick been more stunned. Never before had he dared even to entertain the unvoiced thought of marrying a woman of Lady Fiona’s pedigree. As he sat there staring at her porcelain perfect face, at the wisps of silvery blond hair that escaped her Grecian coif, a feeling of profound elation swept over him. His gaze lazily traveled over her elegant figure, over her modest, heaving bosom and the graceful fingers that kept clasping and unclasping. He admired her proud effort at composure. God’s teeth, but he envied the man who would possess this woman.

  But that man could not be him.

  He had no desire to spend the rest of his life with a woman who hated him, and nothing could rouse hatred more easily than a forced marriage. By her own offer, she had confirmed the deep disparity in their stations. Because she was the daughter of a viscount, she expected Nick to be so honored over her offer that he would be thankful to part with twenty-five thousand dollars.

  The pity of it was that were it not for the class system, he thought Lady Fiona and he might have dealt rather well together. He would have enjoyed lavishing her with grand estates and fine jewels and beautiful gowns. He would have been proud to walk into a room with her on his arm, proud to have her bear his children. His attraction to her was impossible to deny.

  That she had scarcely been able to remove her gaze from him last night at the theatre added some credence to the notion she found him not detestable. With all due humility, Nick was aware of his attractiveness to the opposite sex. And even though he and Lady Fiona were not really acquainted, she seemed to understand how utterly ripe Nick was for matrimony. Now that he had tripled the fortune his father left him five years ago, Nick was ready to set up a house with a woman of breeding and beauty—qualities this woman possessed in spades. His chest tightened. How could he ever settle for another woman now that he’d had a fleeting chance at Lady Fiona Hollingsworth? With bitter regret, he realized no other woman would ever do.

  But he could not allow himself the sheer luxury of marrying her. She would never be able to forget that she had stooped low to marry him.

  “I would be honored to have you as my bride . . .” Nick began.

  Her solemn face brightened.

  “. . . were I inclined toward matrimony,” he added, “which I’m not.”

  It pained him to see her proud countenance seep away, to watch as those rigid shoulders went slack, as the flicker of mirth in those steely eyes dulled. Her fingers laced together tightly, and she met his gaze with false bravado. “Forgive me for troubling you, then, Mr. Birmingham.” She went to rise.

  “Please don’t go yet,” he said in a gentle voice.

  She slumped back into the chair, her eyes locked with his.

  “I’d like to know why you came to me today,” he said.

  Her voice went cold. “Because you’re rich.”

  “But you’re acquainted with many wealthy men, men far more eligible to be your husband than I. Have you offered yourself to any of them?”

  “Until today, Mr. Birmingham,” she said in an icy voice, “I had offered myself to just one man—and he refused me.”

  Warwick. Damn the man! Had Warwick’s perfidity driven her into the arms of an unworthy suitor? “I think, my lady, that one man’s stupidity will be another man’s greatest joy.”

  She gave a false laugh.

  He picked up his pen and began to write. When he finished, he handed the letter to her.

  She extended a shaking hand. “What’s this?”

  “I wish you to take this to my brother’s bank. It instructs him to give you twenty-five thousand pounds.”

  Her eyes went from dull to fiery in the space of a blink. She snatched the letter and ripped it into shreds, then hurled the slivers of paper onto his desk. “I will not accept your charity, Mr. Birmingham !” She sprang from her chair and spun around to leave, but he rushed to stop her before she reached the door.

  He reached her just in time to clasp both her shoulders and spin her around to face him. “What about your brother?”

  She wrenched herself free. “Don’t waste your concern on us. I’ll find someone who’s willing to accept the bargain I offer.”

  Then she stormed from his office.

  After she was gone his pulses pounded with fury. Arrogant, proud, maddening wench! He sank into his chair and tried to interest himself in his ledgers but was unable to shake the delicate beauty from his thoughts. His stomach knotted as he realized that by this time tomorrow she might very well be pledged to another man.

  He sent a fist crashing onto his desk.

  As Fiona flung herself into the carriage outside Mr. Birmingham’s Threadneedle Street office and swiftly covered her shivering limbs with the rug, Trevor sadly shook his head. “I perceive the Cit turned you down.”

  Fiona sighed as her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve never been more humiliated—even when Edward . . .” She need not finish. It seemed everyone in England knew about her failure to hold Warwick’s affections.

  Putting Warwick aside, she could not precisely determine which was the more humiliating—brazenly offering herself to Mr. Birmingham or his curt refusal. At least with Edward, she had saved face by crying off herself. Not that anyone would remember that. All that was whispered whenever she entered a room was that poor Lady Fiona had been spurned by Lord Warwick. Such a pity, it was said, after all those years of being promised to one another, and the poor lady wasn’t getting any younger!

  Of course Fiona didn’t give a farthing what was said about her. She didn’t even think it so utterly humiliating that she had brazenly offered herself to the dashing Mr. Birmingham—even if he was a Cit. What was h
umiliating was that the man had not been remotely interested in having her for his wife.

  Her thoughts flitted to the beautiful Diane Foley. She wondered if Mr. Birmingham was actually in love with the actress who was his mistress. For some unaccountable reason, Fiona’s heart thumped with an unexpected burst of jealousy. Not jealousy of Miss Foley but of envy to experience the fulfilling relationship the actress and Mr. Birmingham must enjoy, a relationship Fiona would never know.

  Trevor scooted across the seat and patted her hand. “I simply must learn to become a swashbuckler so I can call out any man who dares affront you, but for the life of me I have no idea how one becomes a swashbuckler.”

  She giggled through her tears.

  “I don’t suppose,” Trevor asked tentatively, “you asked who his tailor was?”

  She giggled some more, and the tears that had been threatening to gush remarkably vanished.

  “I honestly don’t understand how the man could have turned you down,” Trevor said with complete gravity. “You’re absolute feminine perfection.”

  “I prefer to think his refusal had more to do with the fact he has no wish to marry than that he finds me repulsive.” What she preferred to think and what constituted the truth, however, were two completely different matters. Deep in her breast she was convinced Mr. Birmingham was not in the least attracted to her. What a fool she had been to believe he would salivate at her presumptuous offer.

  “The R word is never ever to be used in conjunction with you!” Trevor’s voice softened. “Wish you’d have let me come with you to that awful man’s office.”

  “He’s not really an awful man,” she defended. “He actually offered to give me the twenty-five thousand pounds.” Oddly, she found Mr. Birmingham’s remark about her being another man’s greatest joy even more welcome than the fortune he offered.

  Trevor gulped. “Give?”

  She nodded.

  “Surely you didn’t turn him down?”

  “Of course I had to turn him down! I couldn’t possibly accept the arrogant man’s charity.”

  Trevor’s brows lowered. “Would that not have been preferable to marrying a man you don’t love, a man you don’t even know?”

  Oh dear, Trevor was right. Why had she not considered Mr. Birmingham’s generous offer in that light? She’d been so set on negotiating a reasonably fair exchange with him that she had been unable to leap on the alternate—far more palatable—scheme Mr. Birmingham had proposed. Her shoulders sagged. She found herself shaking her head. Never, though, would she have leaped on his charitable proposal. Fiona was incapable of accepting the man’s pity. “I have my principles!”

  Trevor lifted her chin. “Let me see if I understand this. You’d sell yourself but not accept a donation?”

  “I know it sounds decidedly foolish, but I simply cannot accept the man’s charity. Even for Randy.”

  “Then you’re not going to try to save Randolph?”

  “I didn’t say that! I’ll do anything to save him—or, almost anything.” Her face brightened. “Mr. Birmingham said there must be any number of men of the ton who would wish to marry me.”

  “The Cit’s right.”

  “Then I simply find another man. A wealthy man. Quickly.”

  “Now see here, I don’t like this at all. Ain’t right that you shackle yourself for life to some detestable man in order to come up with the funds.”

  “I told you, Trev, I don’t mind. Truly. Since . . . since last year I’ve known I’ll never love another man. I’ve come to accept that. So why not marry a man of wealth, a man who can save my brother?” And why not a man as sinfully handsome as Nicholas Birmingham? Her heart fluttered at the memory of his fierce black eyes lazily perusing her. She could not have felt more undressed had he stripped her bare. It was suddenly clear to her that a marriage to Mr. Birmingham would not have been so terribly repugnant.

  “You don’t need to marry at all. Go back to Birmingham and accept his offer.”

  Her brows lowered. “I can’t do that.”

  He scowled. “You’re being very obtuse.”

  “Help me think of wealthy bachelors.”

  His pointed chin thrust out. “Don’t think I will!”

  “Now you’re being obtuse!”

  Nick was in a foul temper. He had snapped at Shivers simply because his secretary had asked if Nick was going to the ’Change today. Nick always went to the ’Change. But not today. He was in such a bloody bad humor that even the prospect of making money did not satisfy him. He had torn up today’s Times because it contained a lengthy article on Foreign Secretary Warwick. He had slung his teacup into the fire. And he had enumerated and cursed every eligible bachelor in the ton. Which of them would Lady Fiona offer herself to next?

  Stalking angrily from his office, Nick gave Shivers the rest of the day off in a meager attempt to apologize for his sharp tongue, then he summoned his coach and headed to the West End. He felt like sparring with Jackson. At least to Jackson, his money was as good as the next man’s.

  But after riding for only a few blocks, Nick demanded his coachman turn around and take him to his brother’s bank.

  Adam, his brows dipping to aV with anxiety, leaped from his desk and sputtered forward when he saw his elder brother amble into his office. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  “Nothing’s wrong!” Nick barked, plopping into a comfortable chair in front of Adam’s desk.

  “You never miss a session of the ’Change. Are you ill?”

  “You sound like my secretary,” Nick mumbled.

  Adam moved closer and bent to look into Nick’s pupils.

  “I tell you I’m fine!” Nick hissed. “Can’t a man take off a single afternoon without creating a commotion?”

  “But you never take off! I’ve seen you propped up against the plaster pillar on the floor of the ’Change burning with fever, and still you wouldn’t take to your bed. Something’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Nick insisted.

  “Shall I ring for tea?”

  “I don’t want any blasted tea!”

  “Mind if I have some, old boy?” Adam lifted a fine porcelain cup and took a drink, then sank into his own chair. “Something out of the ordinary has happened to you today,” he said.

  Nick watched his brother. It was somewhat like staring into a mirror, given that the brothers so closely resembled one another. To confound outsiders even more, there were but eleven months separating them. They were so close that Adam intrinsically knew Nick’s every mood. “As a matter of fact,” Nick said, striving for casualness, “I had two different callers today, both of them with rather bizarre proposals.”

  Adam raised a single brow.

  “The first was our foreign secretary.”

  “Warwick?” Adam asked. “You don’t mean to tell me the man came to you?”

  “The man came to me.”

  “Why in the devil would he come to you?”

  “He wants us to commit financial suicide in order to thwart the French.”

  Adam’s scowl was identical to Nick’s. “What kind of financial suicide?”

  “I believe he would like for us to buy up all the francs our fortune could buy, then glut the market with them.”

  “That would most definitely be financial suicide. What did you tell him?”

  “I told him he was a fool.”

  “Really, Nick, you could have tried to answer the man more delicately.” Though Adam and Nick shared a strong physical resemblance, they were vastly different in temperament. Where Nick was brash and single minded, Adam was diplomatic and possessed of eclectic tastes that extended to art and music—two areas that Nick abhorred. “Did you not even try to be civil to the man? He’s devilishly important!”

  “I know he’s important, dammit!” Nick said.

  “So what else did you tell him?”

  “Not much. I had another caller. Warwick asked that I think about his proposal. He’ll be back next week.”

/>   “You really must apply your astute financial brain to the task. Having the foreign secretary in our laps could be extremely advantageous to our business interests.”

  Nick grinned. “Where’s your patriotism? I thought you’d be urging me to jeopardize my fortune for the sake of crown and country and all that.”

  “It depends,” Adam said shrewdly, “how much you’ll have to stake. As it is, I know you too well to believe that you’re not going to give the proposal careful consideration.”

  “It’s rather fortunate that our younger brother has such a facility for languages.”

  Adam’s chocolate eyes sparkled with mirth. “So you’re already planning on dispatching him to other capitals to begin purchasing francs?”

  “I never said anything of the kind.”

  “Tell me, who was your other caller?”

  “You remember Randolph Hollingsworth from Cambridge?”

  “I thought he was in The Peninsula?”

  “He is.”

  “And I thought he was now Lord Agar. Wasn’t he the eldest son and did his father not die last year?”

  “Right on both accounts,” Nick said.

  “Then who in the devil came to see you today?”

  “His sister.”

  A look of stark disbelief swept over Adam’s face. “She came expressly to see you? To The City?”

  “To see me and to ask that I marry her.”

  Adam spit his tea all over his snowy white cravat. “You’re jesting me. I’ve seen the exquisite creature, and I know—even if you are considered irresistible to women—Lady Fiona Hollingsworth would never have to beg a man to marry her.”

  Nick shrugged. “It wasn’t precisely me she wished to marry. She wanted twenty-five thousand pounds with which to pay off Spanish bandits who’ve kidnapped her brother and are holding him for ransom.”

  “She really offered herself in marriage to you?”