One Golden Ring

by Cheryl Bolen

  The woman did not smile as Fiona stepped forward and curtsied. “Please don’t address me as ‘my lady,’” Fiona said. “Call me Fiona, and I hope you won’t object if I call you Mother.”

  Still glaring, the woman shrugged, then snorted. “Now why would Quality like yerself go callin’ me Mother? People would think I was trying to be too high in the instep.”

  “I don’t care what others think,” Fiona said. “You will be as a mother to me, for you gave birth to my dear husband.”

  The “dear husband” seemed to please Mrs. Birmingham, for she finally allowed a sliver of a smile. “Sit down,” Mrs. Birmingham commanded.

  “Where are my brothers and Verity?” Nick asked after he and Fiona sat at a brocade sofa across from his mother.

  “Yer brothers are riding.” Mrs. Birmingham rolled her eyes. “Yer sister’s off at the vicar’s, and ye’ll never guess what that peculiar sister of yours is doing there.”

  Nick arched a brow.

  “She’s payin’ the vicar to teach her Latin!” Mrs. Birmingham faced Fiona. “Have you ever heard of a woman who wanted to read and write Latin? I’ll wager even a fine lady like yerself don’t speak Latin.”

  “My brothers learned, but I confess I never did,” Fiona said.

  “Why does she wish to learn Latin?” Nick asked.

  “Something about wishing to read certain authors at the ‘source,’ whatever that means.”

  Smiling, Nick shook his head. “A pity the poor girl had no sisters. I’m afraid three brothers weren’t the best influence on a young lady.”

  “There ye go, wantin’ to make yer sister a lady, like that high-flying wife of yers.”

  The lady they had been discussing strolled into the room at that moment. Had Nick been a girl, Fiona thought, he would have looked exactly like Verity. Like him, his sister was tall and lean, and her hair was the exact shade of brown as his—a deep mahogany. Even her eyes were so dark they looked black. Just like Nick’s. Her dress was of excellent quality but exceedingly drab, a deep beige with no trim. Only her hair separated her from the average country miss. Cut in the latest fashion, it was short and curly and very attractive. Already Fiona could picture her in a stark white ball gown. With her height, she would cut a dashing figure.

  When Verity saw Nick, a smile lighted her face and her step quickened. “Nicky!”

  He stood up and came to brush his lips across her cheeks. “You’re looking fit, Verity,” he said with affection.

  She clutched his hand, then turned to Fiona. “Your wife?” she asked shyly.

  “Indeed it is. Lady Fiona, allow me to present my sister Verity to you.”

  Fiona stood and curtsied. “I am so very happy to make your acquaintance—and so very happy that at long last I shall have a sister.”

  A smile tweaked at the corners of Verity’s mouth. “You, too, have only brothers?”

  Fiona nodded. “Two brothers. No sisters.” She hoped Verity would share her enthusiasm for finally having a sister, but Verity said nothing as the three of them sat down.

  The butler brought tea, and Mrs. Birmingham served.

  Verity obviously did not possess her brother’s self-confidence, Fiona decided. As they sipped their tea and spoke of village occurrences, it occurred to Fiona that Verity’s reluctance to embrace Fiona’s idea of sisterhood stemmed from her perception of the disparity in their ranks. That wouldn’t do at all. Verity would be a sister to her, and Fiona was willing to do whatever it took to force the notion on Verity.

  “We’ve a fine goose for Christmas dinner,” Mrs. Birmingham said. Turning to Fiona, she added, “Don’t expect one of those fancy meals like fine lords and ladies are used to. We’re simple country folk.”

  “Then you must know,” Fiona said, “I’ve spent most of my life in the country, too. In Yorkshire.”

  Mrs. Birmingham glared some more.

  Verity, obviously embarrassed over her mother’s rudeness, said, “I’m so happy Nick’s brought you here, my lady. I was dying to meet you.”

  “Please,” Fiona said, “call me Fiona. Sisters have no need to use titles.”

  Verity’s cheeks flushed.

  “Nicky?” Mrs. Birmingham said.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Do you think I could steal you away from yer bride for a few minutes? I’ve been going over some of yer father’s papers, and I need you to tell me what needs keeping.”

  Nick flicked a glance at Fiona.

  “I would love to take a walk with Verity through the park,” Fiona said.

  A few minutes later the two ladies had donned their hats, cloaks, and muffs and were strolling across the broad lawn. “Nick and I would like nothing better than for you to come live with us in London once th—our house is finished,” Fiona said. “I’m going to be presenting Miss Rebecca Peabody, who is your age, and I’d like to present you at the same time.”

  Verity stiffened. “That’s very kind of you, my lady . . .”

  “Fiona.”

  “Fiona. But you must know I cannot be presented.”

  There was no reason an attractive young lady of wealth could not be presented. “Then, you’ve married?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then why do you say you cannot be presented?”

  Verity came to a stop. “Because I’m not of the ton.”

  “But I am, and you are my sister. Besides, you have a large dowry, and I assure you men of the ton are always seeking ladies possessed of large dowries, my viscount brother included!”

  “I shouldn’t like to marry a fortune hunter.”

  Now the blush rose to Fiona’s cheeks. She did not wish for people to think she was a fortune hunter—after Nick’s fortune. Even if it was true. Nick deserved better than that.

  She could see she was going to have to be very blunt with the proud Miss Birmingham. “You must know, Verity, that—like Nick—you would be marrying beneath you should you marry a man of the class you were born to.”

  Verity nodded shyly. “But I have no aspirations of marrying into the aristocracy as my brother has done.”

  “You don’t have to marry a peer, goose. There are any number of gentlemen in London who would make you an excellent husband.” She remembered Verity’s hunger for learning and added, “Learned men. Men with whom you would have a great deal in common.”

  “Then I vow to give consideration to your offer.”

  They walked in silence for a few more moments. By now they had strolled the park’s perimeter.

  “You must see our parterre garden,” Verity suggested. “Papa had it built just before he died.”

  “I should love to.”

  The two ladies began to stroll along the paths of the parterre that was located directly behind the house. Pebble paths crossed through the raised beds, most of which were barren this time of year.

  “This reminds me of Lord Culbertsen’s garden that was designed by Inigo Jones,” Fiona said.

  “Papa had an affinity for Inigo Jones’s work and hired a garden designer who had extensively studied Jones’s gardens.”

  Fiona wished she could have met Jonathan Birmingham. “I look forward to seeing it in the spring.”

  “You’ll have to coerce Nicky. He gets so carried away with his work he forgets to come here.”

  It seemed incomprehensible that she could ever coerce her husband into anything. Nick was a very strong-willed man.

  Verity cleared her throat and said, “I must apologize for my mother. She is neither possessed of social graces nor happy that Nick’s married an aristocrat. She thinks you’ll keep Nick away from the rest of us. And even if she’s incapable of showing her affection—to any of us—Nicky’s her favorite.”

  “Please assure your mother that I will look upon her as my own mother.” Fiona’s shoulders sagged. “Nick’s been so wonderful to me, I would never slight his family. Though Nick’s not from an aristocratic background, I know no man in the ton who’s a better prize.”

&nbs
p; Now Verity turned a full smile on Fiona. “I am so happy to hear you say that! It’s no secret that Nick’s my favorite brother, and I had so feared you were a fortune hunter who would not love him as he should be loved.”

  Fiona hadn’t said anything about love. It would never have occurred to her to use such a word in connection with their marriage.

  After dinner when they all gathered around the still-glowing yule log to exchange Christmas gifts, Fiona’s heart ached for the loss of her own family, for the loss of the Christmases that had once brought her such joy.

  Mrs. Birmingham and Verity exclaimed over the Kashmir shawls Nick gave them, and his brothers were delighted with his gift of French brandy.

  “Where in the devil did you get this?” Adam asked Nick.

  Nick smiled sheepishly. “I cannot divulge my source.”

  Verity presented each of her brothers with miniatures of herself and her mother. “I know this makes me look exceedingly vain,” she said, “but it all started when I decided to help out an itinerant painter.”

  William stared at his pair of miniatures. “The artist is quite talented. These likenesses are almost lifelike.”

  “I’m very glad to have them,” Nick said.

  Fiona stole a peek at the miniatures her husband held in his hand. “I know your brothers will treasure their gifts,” Fiona said to Verity. “I always carry with me the miniature of my dear brother.” Just speaking of Randy was like reopening a gaping wound.

  “Where is your brother this Christmas?” asked Verity, whose somber demeanor indicated she sensed Fiona’s moroseness.

  Nick clasped Fiona’s hand. “Her brother’s an officer in The Peninsula.”

  “How you must worry about him!” a sympathetic Verity said.

  “I beg that you not discuss it,” Nick said. “I wish for my wife to have only happy thoughts this Christmas night.”

  “I’m so dreadfully sorry I have no present for her,” Verity said.

  “Then we are equal,” Fiona said, attempting gaiety, “for I have none for you, either. But I did receive a most precious gift from my husband.”

  “Jewels, no doubt,” Mrs. Birmingham said with a snort.

  Her eyes dancing, Fiona shook her head. “Something much more useful and enjoyable than jewels. He gave me his favorite volume of poetry—which is also my favorite but which I no longer possess because I gave it to my dear brother when he left England.”

  Verity looked from Nick to Fiona. “How fortuitous that you two enjoy the same things. That bodes for a most satisfactory marriage.”

  Nick squeezed Fiona’s hand and peered at her. “I feel rather like the man who won the Irish Sweepstakes.”

  His comment made Fiona feel even more jubilant than the man who won the Irish Sweepstakes. And more than that, she suddenly realized she belonged to a new family. Nick’s family. From now on, she would share all her Christmases with him.

  She only hoped that one day she would be able to recapture the Christmas magic.

  Chapter 8

  As they drove back to Camden Hall, Nick settled into the squabs of his carriage and tugged his wife close. Today had been the best Christmas of his life. He could not have been prouder of Fiona. He was proud of her beauty and breeding, but most especially he was thankful for her tolerance of his family. It was now clear to him that his wife and sister would get along very well with one another. Fiona was possessed of the ability to appreciate his modest sister. Thank God.

  He was also grateful to Fiona for her extreme courtesy to his brash mother. Now that Fiona had conversed with what must be the most ill-mannered person she had ever spent an evening with, his wife had every reason to regret this marriage, but to his dismay she seemed not to give their disparity a second thought. Which was a relief to Nick. Crass his mother might be, but he loved her. As he was coming to love Fiona. Thank God there would be harmony among those he cared for. Now . . . if only Fiona would embrace Emmie.

  A whisper of a yawn escaped from his delicate wife. “Tired?” he asked.

  She nuzzled her face into his chest and sighed. “Very.”

  Of course she would be tired. Their vibrant lovemaking throughout the night had stolen away most of their sleep, and the day’s constant activities and the tension of meeting her new family would be sure to have taken their toll on her. “Since I’m incapable of sharing your bed without ravaging you,” he said with a little laugh, “I’ll offer to stay in my chamber tonight so you can get a good night’s sleep, my dear.”

  Her face lifted, and she met his somber gaze. “I should like to share my bed with you, Nick.”

  He drew her into his swaddling embrace and dropped a kiss on top her head. “I’m very happy to hear that.”

  As they mounted the stairs inside Camden Hall, their hands clasped, his breathing accelerated. She dismissed the maid who waited in her bedchamber, then she turned to Nick, flowing into his arms like butter to a mold and settling her face against his shoulder.

  She felt so damned good. Though she was smaller and less buxom than the women who had been his lovers, this woman he had married was sheer perfection. It seemed almost incomprehensible that four days ago he had never shared a private conversation with her, that four days ago marriage to her had seemed as unobtainable as the stars in the sky, that four days ago he had thought himself satisfied with a woman who was not a tenth the lady his dearest Fiona was.

  It seemed incomprehensible, too, that he would ever wish to lie with another woman after making love to his very own wife. She was so much more than he had bargained for. The very thought of her passionate nature sent heated blood thundering through his veins, sent blood rushing to his groin.

  Whimpering seductively, she lifted her face to his. Stirred by her simmering eyes set in a flawless face and by the feel of her body nestled against his, he lowered his head to hers for a kiss that was at first tender, then passionate. Her mouth opened to his for a wet, breathless, thoroughly wrenching kiss. When he finally managed to stop and hold her at arm’s length, she surprised him by untying his cravat, then moving deft fingers to the buttons of his fine linen shirt, never removing her sultry gaze from his.

  Her back was to the fire, and the firelight glancing off her hair looked like a halo. He drew in a deep breath and cupped one of her breasts, bending to kiss it reverently. Then he cupped the other.

  And she began to moan, arching toward him.

  The very idea of stripping her bare in front of the fire sent his pulse pounding. He came closer and gently lowered the bodice of her dress, skimming its shoulders over her arms and allowing it to pool on the floor. With trembling hands, he began to unlace her stays, and when her smoothly rounded, little breasts sprang free, he growled his satisfaction and stepped even closer. Her breasts brushed against his shirt as he cupped her derriere, urging her against his erection in a staccato rhythm.

  The sound of her harsh breathing was an aphrodisiac. A sudden need to free her of those silky drawers, to trace his finger against her moist seam, consumed him. He began to lower the drawers slowly, and when they slipped over her smooth ivory curves and revealed the golden curls guarding her entrance, he nearly lost his breath. “So lovely,” he murmured like a man drugged as he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the turned-down bed.

  She scooted to its center as he flicked off all the bed coverings. “We won’t need these tonight.”

  As he had done the night before, he gazed at her while he stripped himself bare, but unlike the night before, tonight she lazily perused him with simmering eyes—from his shoulders, skipping down his chest to his waist, and lower still. The way the corners of her sweet mouth almost imperceptively lifted with satisfaction heated his blood.

  This night he left the candle burning. He could not deny himself the pleasure of feasting on her luxurious body.

  She whimpered as he stretched out beside her and began to trace feathery kisses from her ear down to her delicate neck. When he went lower and drew a nipple into his
mouth, she let out a breathy sigh and arched into him. He felt like a unencumbered child frolicking in a field of lavender. Fiona’s scent. And he felt unbelievable pleasure.

  He strayed from her breasts and pressed a trail of kisses along her silky flesh as he came to settle himself between her legs, widening them still further with his shoulders as he nudged his head down to taste her fruity essence.

  At the first thrust of his tongue, she nearly came off the bed. “Nicholas Birmingham!” she called in a shrill voice.

  He lifted his head and gave her a sheepish grin. “Yes, love?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing I’ve invented, my love.”

  “You mean . . . ?” Her eyes rounded.

  He nodded. “There may even come a time,” he said in a husky voice, “that you will put me in your mouth.” As he spoke, his finger replaced his tongue. She watched him with heavy-lidded eyes and spoke in a quivering voice. “People . . . other people really do that?”

  “They do.”

  “Then continue. Please.”

  Once more he parted her with his tongue, flicking and thrusting as she squirmed into the pressure of his mouth. Closing his eyes, he imagined her warm mouth closing around his shaft.

  Spasms of pleasure rocketed through her. She gasped. She moaned. She trembled violently. A fine mist slickened her smooth body.

  Deeply satisfied at how easily he could bring her to climax, Nick eased his body over hers and plunged into her in one sure thrust as she arched her hips to meet him, thrust for thrust. “Oh, Nick,” she whispered, her hands digging into his back. “How can you keep making me so crazy for this?”

  He stilled, then shuddered as his seed came bursting into her, as he soared to a place he’d never been, a place of swirling motion and sparkling lights and almost unbearable pleasure. A place inhabited only by him and his precious wife. “Oh God, Fiona,” he finally sputtered as he sank back into the soft mattress, “I could die right here in your arms.”

  She gave a satisfied little moan and snuggled up against him, her head pillowing in the dark hair that centered on his chest. “You, my dear husband, make me a wanton woman.” She still struggled to breathe.