by Cheryl Bolen
Only one other day in her life had Fiona been a captive to passions like those roused in her that day on the moors with Edward: Today. When Nicholas Birmingham had kissed her.
Mama would roll over in her grave if she knew what a strumpet her daughter had become! Was there some kind of prurient bent in her that made her behave so wantonly? So unladylike? What must Mr. . . . Nick think of the hungry way she kissed him?
When she recalled his satisfaction, her breath grew ragged. He had not seemed at all displeased over her passionate nature. Could it be that the man she would wed tomorrow was not averse to marrying a woman who so eagerly looked forward to learning about carnal pleasures?
Carnal pleasures Diane Foley would know all about.
For the first time in her life Fiona regretted she had been born an aristocrat. She envied the slack morals of a woman of Diane Foley’s class, morals that smoothed the way for her to take Nick into her bed without the sanctity of marriage. Just thinking about Nick making love with the actress made Fiona’s breath come hot and heavy, made her sting inside.
Then the sudden realization that Nick would continue sharing a bed with Diane Foley after their marriage sent Fiona into a deep funk. Not because she would be embarrassed for the ton to know of her husband’s lady bird. And certainly not because she possessed any romantic feelings for Nicholas Birmingham herself. But because she was jealous.
She wasn’t jealous for the usual reasons. Fiona was well satisfied with her own appearance (which she knew to be far above average), so she wasn’t jealous of Miss Foley’s beauty. She did not resent that Nick was likely in love with his paramour. How could Fiona possibly care when she had no intentions of claiming his affection for herself?
Her jealousy was for the affectionate intimacy Nick and Miss Foley were sure to share, an intimacy that would always be denied Fiona. She wanted affection, and she wanted intimacy—and she most especially wanted both those things with the same man, a man who would reciprocate her feelings.
She had hoped for such intimacy that day on the moors, but even if Edward had made love to her, the affection would have been only on one side: hers.
And now she would be intimate with a man who was a stranger, a man who had no more affection for her than she had for him. They would have the intimacy without the affection because his affections would be lavished on the beautiful actress.
So Fiona sulked.
As she lay there in her bed, the vision of Nicholas Birmingham, tall and lean and dark—and seductive—pushed every other thought from her mind, sent searing heat thundering through her, arrested the thin breath struggling through her lungs.
This time tomorrow night she would be lying with him, no longer a virgin.
Liquid heat pooled between her thighs.
Chapter 5
He had not expected to be so moved by his own wedding. When he saw Fiona solemnly strolling down the nave of the chapel in her pale pink gown, her eyes never leaving his, something inside him melted, filling him with an overwhelming tenderness for the slender woman who was going to pledge her life to his. She looked so forlorn it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and assure her he would never let anything thwart her happiness.
Instead, he enclosed her trembling hand within his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She did not let go as she turned to face the curate.
That fop Trevor Simpson stood up with her, Nick’s brothers with him. Before the ceremony started, Nick turned around and winked at his plainly dressed daughter who sat with her governess on the third row. They were the only attendees.
Were he pressed to do so, Nick could not have recalled a single word uttered by the cleric. All his thoughts were on Fiona and the onslaught of powerful emotions she summoned in him. Most powerful of all was his need to take care of her for the rest of their days.
He fleetingly thought of how well pleased his father would have been today to see his firstborn marry into one of England’s oldest aristocratic families. Two obsessions had guided the brilliant and ever-demanding man who had been Nick’s father: making a vast fortune and grooming his son to tread where he himself had been forbidden. The relationship between father and son had been curiously cold. Though Jonathan Birmingham directed all his energies on Nick, Nick was merely an instrument Jonathan used to fulfill his own dreams. The father’s fanatic demands alienated the son; the son’s cultivated gentility later alienated the father. In the end Jonathan had been strangely in awe of the son he had created.
But never mind that today. Nick looked down at Fiona and swelled with pride. He had never seen a woman exude such grace or such delicate beauty. Everything about her was dainty, from her small stature to her slenderness to her exceedingly fair coloring.
He realized at once the ring he had brought was much too big for her slender fingers. Lacking the time to commission a special ring for the occasion, he had decided upon the simple gold band that had belonged to his favorite grandmother. When the time came, he slipped the ring on Fiona’s finger and murmured, “This was worn by my father’s mother.”
Her eyes sparkled when she looked up at him and said, “I’m very touched.”
He had been right. The band was too big. But no piece of jewelry had ever been lovelier. Of course he would replace it later with something more grand, something more befitting a lady of Fiona’s stature.
After the ceremony he feted the guests to a meal at Claridge’s, where he and Fiona sat together at the head of the small table that was squarely beneath a glittering chandelier.
“Your resemblance to my husband is remarkable,” Fiona told Adam. “Are you sure you aren’t twins?”
My husband. It had taken Nick a few seconds to realize she was speaking of him. Then a satisfying warmth spread over him.
“Nick’s eleven months older,” Adam answered.
“And would you look at the little one—though he’s really not so little!” Trevor said, his glance whisking over William. “Pray, where did you get that luscious golden hair?”
William looked uncomfortable when he responded. “My mother’s possessed of blond hair. At least it used to be blond before it turned gray.”
“Then I take it your father was dark—like your older brothers,” Trevor asked.
“Yes, my brothers resemble our late father,” William said stiffly as he scooped prawns onto his plate.
Fiona turned to Nick. “Your mother’s still alive?”
He nodded. “She hates The City, therefore she spends all her time in Kent.”
“You have an estate there?” she asked.
“My mother and sister live at Great Acres, the estate my father built. I had the opportunity to purchase a neighboring estate for my own.”
“What’s it called?” Fiona asked.
“Camden Hall.”
“I’ve been there!” she exclaimed, a smile brightening her face. “Was it not one of Lord Hartley’s country properties?”
“It was.”
“It’s quite lovely there.”
“I’m glad you like it. We shall honeymoon there.”
Her brows lowered. “We’re going today?”
Why in the deuce did she look so puzzled? “We are.”
“But I thought The Fox never played when there was money to be made.”
Of course she alluded to the fact the stock exchange would reopen the day after Christmas. What other truths had she learned about him? He leaned toward her, settled an arm around her, and spoke in a husky voice. “That was before I was a married man.”
A hint of a smile tweaked at her rose petal mouth. “I’m most relieved to learn you’re not all business all the time.”
“Don’t be too relieved,” Adam said. “Nick’s incapable of turning his back on his business.”
Nick wondered if Fiona’s comments meant she actually wished to spend time with him. Had she not married him solely to secure the money to free her brother? “I must assure you,” Nick said to his wife, “only half the things you hear
about me are true.”
“Do I believe the good half or the bad half ?” she asked with a little half laugh.
“Oh, only the good.”
A moment later, she asked, “How old is your sister?”
“Nineteen.”
“Is she out yet?”
Did this wife of his not realize that the daughter of Jonathan Birmingham couldn’t just come out like women of Fiona’s class? Besides, like him, Verity straddled two worlds and wasn’t fit for either of them. He shrugged. “No, she hasn’t.”
He looked into Fiona’s pale blue eyes and saw a flicker of dawning alight them. “I would be delighted to sponsor her,” Fiona said. “Actually, I’ve already promised to bring out Miss Rebecca Peabody, so the two can come out together. I should love it above all things.”
“Who, pray tell, is Rebecca Peabody?” Nick asked.
She stiffened. “The sister of the new Countess Warwick.”
“They’re from the colonies,” Trevor added.
Nick had a difficult time believing Fiona was friendly with the woman who had stolen Warwick from her. “I didn’t know you and Lady Warwick were friends.”
“I haven’t spoken to her since . . .” She faced Nick and gave a hopeless shrug. “Well, I expect you know all about it. But I am rather attached to Miss Peabody, owing to the fact that she resided with me at Windmere Abbey for half of the last year.”
“Pray, why did a colonial reside with you?” Nick asked.
“Because she was mad to catalogue our library,” Fiona said.
Trevor, who seemed to hang on Fiona’s every word, nodded. “The girl absolutely adores anything to do with books.”
“So you’re close to the girl?” Nick asked his wife.
She appeared to give the matter consideration. “Not really. I doubt anyone’s close to Miss Peabody. She’s entirely too enamored of books to be companionable.” Fiona gave a little laugh. “She doesn’t really wish to be presented, either, since she doesn’t think she’s interested in men.”
Nick hiked a single brow. “And how old is Miss Peabody?”
“Nineteen,” Fiona said.
“She’d be quite lovely,” Trevor said, “if she didn’t persist in wearing those blasted spectacles.”
Fiona nodded. “Her sister had hoped to present her last year, but Miss Peabody would have nothing to do with it.”
How different the two sisters must be, Nick thought. Not only had the new countess been married once before she married Warwick, but it was said she had turned down a half a dozen marriage offers from men she had bewitched. “Why does her sister not present her?”
“The countess is not well acquainted with the ton—because she’s a colonist and because she’s been breeding ever since she wed Warwick. In fact, I’ve heard that she’s breeding again.”
Nick lowered his voice as he addressed his wife. “Will it not be difficult for you to present Miss Peabody since your relationship with her sister is somewhat strained?” He eyed his brothers who were courteously listening to Trevor rhapsodize about the sauce drizzled on the asparagus.
“Actually, it would be very good for me to sponsor the countess’s sister. That—and being married to you—should convince everyone that I’ve forgotten all about Warwick.”
Would that she had forgotten Warwick. Nick’s stomach dropped. Now he understood her other reason for marrying him. She wished to assure the ton she was no longer in love with the earl who had rejected her. Damn Warwick ! “About presenting my sister . . .”
“What’s her name?” Fiona asked.
“Verity.” He lowered his voice again. “How do you know Verity won’t be an embarrassment to you?”
“No sister of yours could ever be an embarrassment, Mr.—” She caught herself and smiled. “Pardon me, Nick.”
He was oddly pleased that she did not find him offensive.
“Your brothers are perfect gentlemen, too,” she whispered.
“The younger one will take the money to Portugal.”
“You’ve got the money, then?”
He nodded. “I await instructions.”
“Are you not worried about your brother’s safety?”
“He’s an old hand at this sort of thing.”
“With ransom demands?” she asked incredulously.
“With safely delivering large sums of money.”
“I thrive upon danger,” William said, watching Fiona with dancing eyes.
Her gaze met William’s. “I’m persuaded you must know how to defend yourself ?”
William looked from one brother to the other, then addressed Fiona. “All of the Birmingham brothers have been schooled in fencing and pugilism.”
“Though, thankfully, we’ve never had to defend ourselves,” Nick added.
“How I admire you manly types,” Trevor lamented, his affectionate gaze leaping from one brother to the other.
Nick’s brothers went deadly silent. “I daresay fencing is not a skill one needs in Mayfair,” Nick said, giving his wife’s friend a feeble smile.
Champagne was served, and everyone toasted the bridal couple before the gathering broke up.
“Where are we going?” she asked her husband as she settled into his luxurious carriage.
He tucked the rug around her. It was beastly cold today. “To Piccadilly. To see our new house.”
Our. How odd it seemed to be on the verge of sharing this stranger’s vast wealth. “I’ve admired it from the street,” she said, thinking of its Palladian elegance. “It seems rather . . . well, rather large for a bachelor.”
“I knew I wasn’t always going to be a bachelor.”
Her heart drummed. No, he wanted a family. Hadn’t he made that clear to her? “When will it be ready to move in?”
“That’s hard to say. Most of it’s finished now. It ought to be, considering that construction began three years ago. The Italian artist who’s painting the ceilings has rather delayed things.”
“Temperamental?”
A lazy grin lifted a corner of his mouth. “Exceedingly so. He repainted the dining room three times because his first two efforts didn’t satisfy.”
“What did you think of the first two efforts?”
“I thought they were magnificent. Everything the man paints is magnificent.”
“Otherwise you wouldn’t have had him, I gather.” The little she had seen of Nicholas Birmingham had convinced her that he was possessed of excellent taste. The rich fabrics and demure styling of his clothes could only have been tailored by London’s best. His carriage was fit for a duke, and the house he was building on Piccadilly would be the most elegant address in London.
“I am rather demanding,” he confessed with a smile.
Good Lord, would he expect her to be perfect? “I sincerely hope you won’t be disappointed in me, then.”
He turned to her, taking both her hands in his while those black eyes of his studied her. “I could never be disappointed in you, Fiona.”
She felt his heat, smelled his faint sandalwood scent, and was blatantly aware of how close they were.
Then the carriage came to a stop.
She withdrew one hand and lifted the velvet curtain to peer out the window. “We’re here,” she murmured.
The coach door swung open, then Nick was assisting her from the carriage. He continued to hold her hand as they walked through the front courtyard, up four steps, and through double doors into the mansion. It was hard for her to believe it was not finished. From the vast entry hall she could see four rooms, one with scaffolding erected beneath a clouded ceiling of nymphs and seraphs. Though she could not see the artist, she knew that was the room he was now finishing. Highly polished marble floors stretched as far as the eye could see, and an array of huge crystal chandeliers suspended from every ceiling except in the room with the scaffolding. The walls were painted in vibrant colors and trimmed in stark white with heavily gilded cornices and pilasters.
When Trevor had called the mansion di
sgustingly opulent, he had once again exaggerated. It was tastefully opulent, she decided. She could not wait to show it to Trevor, who would be sure to appreciate its classically elegant lines. It reminded her of Lord Burlington’s house in Richmond, but on a larger scale. “It looks ready to move in,” she said.
His hand settled at her waist. “It will need your touch, Mrs. Birmingham. We’ll need furnishings and draperies and . . . well, you’ll know. Vases and such.”
Mrs. Birmingham. She could scarcely credit it! She really was this man’s wife. “You will permit me to make the selections?” she asked.
“I’ll be grateful for you to make the selections. I rather fancy architecture, but I assure you I’d be hopeless at selecting draperies and things.”
As would most men. Except for Trevor. Trevor was devilishly clever about decorating. In fact, she would value Trevor’s help. “Then I think I would need to start immediately. It takes time to fashion draperies and build furniture.”
“How lucky that I’ve taken you for a wife, then.”
“Oh, somehow I think you would have managed with Mr. Sheraton or some such authority had you not been saddled with me.”
“I’m not saddled with you, Fiona,” he said in a serious voice, gazing down at her. “I’m a most fortunate man to have wed you.”
Her heart fluttered. “It’s I who am fortunate,” she whispered.
He showed her all the entertaining rooms on the ground floor, then paused to speak to the Italian painter who told him he would be finished by week’s end.
Smiling, Nick turned to her. “Then we can begin moving in as soon as we return from Camden Hall.”
She smiled back at him. “This is very exciting.”
Together she and Nick walked up the broad terrazzo stairway to the second floor, where high-quality oak floors replaced the marble floors that were downstairs. An asparagus green drawing room was at the top of the stairs. The hallway was studded with classically pedimented doorways, the middle one opening to Nick’s bedchamber, which was painted royal blue. To one side of his bedchamber a study was located, on the other, a dressing room. They walked through the dressing room and found themselves in another dressing room that was all ivory and gilt. “This one will be yours,” he said.