by Cheryl Bolen
His hand splayed over the soft, smooth sphere of her buttocks, and he groaned. “But I have the pleasure of knowing you’re my wanton woman. And I couldn’t be happier.” My woman. The words were like a soothing balm. No possession could ever be more precious.
He offered up a prayer of thanks to the bandits who had brought her into his life.
Despite her exhaustion, she could have made love to him all night long again. But tonight his soft snore told her he had gone to sleep immediately after their lovemaking, his hand still splayed over her bare hips. She truly did belong to this man, but instead of resenting his possession, she found it strangely satisfying. A contented smile on her face, she sighed deeply, snaked an arm around his rock-hard back, and lay in the darkness, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
How could she have lived six and twenty years and have no clue about what went on in a married couple’s bedchamber? And how could she have gone six and twenty years without the lovemaking she had begun to crave so thoroughly?
She wondered if she truly was a wanton woman. Would she have been so ripe for any other man’s possession? She fleetingly thought of Edward. Just a year ago she had wanted him to make love with her, but those feelings she had felt for him were not as powerful as what she felt for Nick. Not that she loved Nick, of course.
But the very idea of Edward lapping at her body as Nick had done was repellant. The idea of Nick burying his shaft within her made her glow. Like a candle in the dark.
She pressed soft kisses into the mat of dark hair on Nick’s sturdy chest and went to sleep with a smile on her face.
Still naked, still linked to one another like a pair of doves, they woke the next morning and made love once again before dressing for their morning ride. Nick had instructed the groom to have Midnight and Missus B saddled so they did not have to wait when they arrived at the mews.
After a quick gallop over the rolling meadow behind Camden Hall, Nick reined in at the top of a gently sloping hill. “I wish we didn’t have to leave today,” he said as she drew up beside him.
Her face fell. So did her heart. She did not want to return to London. Once they returned to The City, her husband was sure to obsess over his beastly business and exclude her from his life. He wouldn’t even allow her to speak of his wretched business. She wondered if they would still share a bedchamber in their London home. Would they continue to make love every night? Good Lord, was she becoming an absolute slave to passion? “Must we return so quickly?” she asked, trying to rein in her disappointment.
He grimaced. “I’m afraid so.”
She stopped short of cursing his business. Hadn’t she promised him she would not speak of it? She proudly flicked up her chin. “I shall miss Camden Hall.”
He brought Midnight up beside her and leaned over to kiss Fiona’s cheek. “So shall I, but we must return. The kidnappers will be trying to communicate with you.”
How could she have forgotten all about Randy’s wretched circumstances? Was she that self-absorbed? Perhaps she did need to return to London.
“Where did you receive their last letter?” he asked.
“At Agar House.”
“Did you learn who delivered it?”
She shook her head. “It was brought by a lad who’d been given a shilling. That’s all I know.” It suddenly occurred to her that she did not know where they would live until they moved into the new house on Piccadilly. “Will we stay there until the new house is ready?”
“We’ll live at my house,” he said sternly.
“The new one?”
“The new one’s ours.”
He was behaving most arrogantly. “Then where is your present house, sir?”
“Actually,” he said with a softening in his voice, “I live in my father’s former lodgings south of the Thames.”
South of the Thames? She had never known a single Londoner who resided south of the Thames. And she was not at all sure she wished to reside there, even if it would be for only a few weeks until they could move into the new house. Good Lord, would gin-stupored prostitutes and pickpockets be running amuck there?
He eyed her with amusement. “I assure you it’s a most proper neighborhood. Not Mayfair, but nice.”
She was ashamed of her initial reaction. Of course Nick wouldn’t live in a hovel. “I’m sure it is.”
A lazy grin spread across his face. “And why are you so sure?”
“Because you’re possessed of remarkably good taste.”
He leaned over and kissed her again. “Especially in wives.”
Oddly, she thought that was the nicest thing anyone had ever told her.
The first thing Nick and Fiona did upon returning to London was to query the servants at Agar House to see if a second ransom note had come, but after questioning them and rifling through the posts she determined there had been no word from the kidnappers. His brows lowered with concern, Nick faced his wife and drew her hands into his. “Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll have Randolph safely returned in no time. My brother’s ready to be dispatched to Portugal at a moment’s notice.”
How could she not worry? True, a week had not yet passed since she received the first letter, but she still feared the silence. Could Randy have been gravely injured? She squeezed Nick’s hand. “Though I can’t not worry, I’m grateful that you’re helping me shoulder this. It truly does help.”
He gave her a lopsided grin before confronting the butler. “I wish for you to write down my address,” Nick told the servant, “and see to it that any correspondence for Lady Fiona is dispatched there at once.”
After giving the direction to the butler, Nick offered his arm to his wife. “Come, love, let’s go see if our new house is indeed finished.”
Fiona felt wretchedly guilty that the prospect of seeing her new house relieved some of her glumness.
When they arrived at the Piccadilly mansion she was surprised that not a single worker was there, even though it was three in the afternoon.
“They really are finished,” Nick said as he strolled over the threshold, his hand set possessively at her waist. “Now you will need to get busy.”
Her admiring gaze swung from the gleaming marble floors to the gilded cornices and over the heavenly ceiling. “I’ll begin contacting the various tradesmen this afternoon while you go to your office.”
“And what makes you think I’m going to my office today?” he asked, peering down at her with a devilish grin.
“Because I’ve been your wife for three days. Give me credit for knowing something about the workings of your mind.” She had the oddest desire to tell him she would know him as no other woman ever would but realized Diane Foley might have the advantage over her. How long had the two of them been lovers? Good Lord, would Nick go to the actress now?
Fiona’s heart sank. She knew most married men had their lady birds, but she didn’t like to think of her husband as being one of those men. She didn’t like to think of his bare, smoothly muscled body poised over the actress’s, of him intimately caressing her as he had caressed Fiona. She visualized the flame-haired actress and was filled with intense jealousy, a jealousy even more profound than what she had once felt toward Edward’s countess.
As they swept from room to room she marveled at how easily she had begun to picture each of them with the proper furnishings. “I think the drawing room would look perfect with pale yellow damask wall coverings and gold silken draperies,” she told her husband.
“I shall have to trust you on that, my dear. I haven’t a clue what damask is.”
“Well, I do, and I shall adore making all the selections—with Trevor’s help, of course.”
Nick rolled his eyes and muttered something about Trevor she could not understand.
“You are aware that most women have a best friend?” Fiona asked.
He eyed her curiously for a moment. “Do you mean to tell me Trevor Simpson is your best friend?”
She nodded.
“Bloody hell!
”
“Once you get to know him, you’ll love him as I do.”
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know how I like my wife loving another man.”
Her heartbeat skipped. Love was never part of their bargain. Could Nick wish for her to fall in love with him? Her shoulders sagged. Of course Nick—the great accumulator of possessions—would wish to possess her heart, soul, and body. Marrying her had been rather like acquiring the crowning piece of his vast collections. She shrugged. “I suppose Trevor’s the only man I know with whom I can be alone without having to worry about the damage to my reputation. Surely you’ll not object if Trevor’s forever in my pocket?”
His grin pinched one cheek. “I don’t like sharing my possessions.”
She stiffened, then began to mount the central stairway. Of course, that’s all she was to Nick. A possession.
They strolled down the broad hallway to his bedchamber. “We’ll move in here first,” he said, his voice husky, his jet eyes glittering as he watched her. “And I don’t give a damn if your bed ever arrives.”
Her gaze flicked below his waist. He was aroused. A feeling of power, of sheer lust swept over her. She moved closer to him, lifting her arms to circle his neck as his head bent to taste her lips.
He crushed her to him, cupping her hips and grinding her into his erection. Her breasts felt heavy, her breath seemed nonexistent, and she tingled low in her torso. She had never been so sexually aroused. She thought she might die of excruciating need if he did not take her right here in this huge empty room.
Nick had the same idea.
He backed her into the door and began to lift her skirts. She fumbled to free him of his pantaloons. When she saw his engorged need jut out over the lowering waistband, her breath caught.
“Widen your legs,” he rasped.
As she did, he stepped between them and eased himself into her. Almost instantly, spasms began to rock through each of them as they bleated heated exclamations of pleasure and murmurs of affection.
Fiona was vaguely aware that sunlight from twenty casements poured into the big, echoing chamber. She was vaguely aware that they were alone in the large, empty house, rutting like dogs in heat. But all else was a blur of excruciating physical pleasure.
A moment later it was all over and, drenched and panting, she sagged into her husband. “You do seem to bring out the trollop in me,” she murmured. She thought she should be ashamed over her behavior, but the pleasure far outweighed any embarrassment.
He wiped her brow, set gentle lips to it, and said, “Precisely what I wish for in a wife: a trollop in the bedchamber and a lady in the drawing room.”
The sudden memory that men suffered acute exhaustion after lovemaking made her happy. Surely now he would have no desire to find and bed Diane Foley. Perhaps if she could keep her husband sexually sated, he’d never return to the actress’s bed. “Oh, dearest,” she said with a sigh, “will we always take such pleasure in each other’s bodies?”
He held her close and let out a long sigh. “It’s unlikely.”
She pouted.
“You vixen!” he growled. “Do you realize if we continue at this pace, neither of us would ever get anything done?”
“Because we’d never get out of the bed!”
They crossed the Thames at Westminster and a few minutes later were entering his house. “Allow me to present you to your new mistress, Mrs. Birmingham,” he said to the butler, housekeeper, and downstairs parlormaid who gathered in the entry hall. Introducing Fiona as his wife filled him with pride. “Mrs. Hill is the housekeeper.” He nodded at the middle-aged woman. “Biddles is the butler, and . . . ?” He eyed the housekeeper for assistance in naming the maid.
“Lottie,” Mrs. Hill said.
Fiona nodded to the curtseying girl.
“My wife,” he said proudly, “may be referred to as Mrs. Birmingham or as Lady Fiona.”
“Mr. Birmingham has assured me of your great competence,” Fiona said to the group.
“By the way,” Nick added, flicking his gaze over his servants, “we shall be moving shortly. The new house is finally ready.” Then he turned to Fiona. “Allow me to show you around, my dear.”
She placed her arm in the crook of his as they strolled each of the spacious rooms on the ground floor, and as they returned to the stairway, she asked, “Where is the child?”
His breath hitched. “Should you like to meet her?” Please say yes.
“Of course.”
“The nursery’s on the third floor,” he said as they began to mount the stairs.
“How old is she?”
“Eight.”
“Then you were . . .”
“Four and twenty when she was born.” Old enough to take responsibility for his actions.
“An how old was she when she came to you?”
He shrugged. “Three or four months.” He had never told anyone of the harrowing act that had precipitated his removal of Emmie from Ruby’s home. From a friend of Ruby’s who was out of charity with her, he had learned that Emmie was not the first babe Ruby had given birth to—even though she was but eighteen when she came under Nick’s protection. Her first child—a healthy son—had the life strangled out of him by his own mother a few minutes after his birth.
Nick’s ever-expanding knowledge of his mistress convinced him the only reason Emmie was still alive was because Ruby planned to use the child as her milk cow to drain Nick’s pockets. Not that money entered into his decision to take the child. The very notion of the volatile Ruby losing patience with the babe and killing her in a sudden fit of anger preyed on him so heavily he could not sleep until the babe was safely under his roof, her mother happy to collect a lifelong settlement from Nick.
“What’s her name?”
“Emily, but she’s always been called Emmie.”
They began to mount the stairs. “What shall the child call me?” Fiona asked. “She can hardly call me mother, and Mrs. Birmingham’s much too stuffy.”
They reached the landing and began to mount a second stretch of stairs. “What about Lady Fiona?” he asked.
Just then, Fiona’s foot slipped. Her scream was followed by the sickening thump of her body tumbling down the stairs.
His heart thundering in his chest, he whirled to her and lunged, hoping to stop her descent.
He watched in horror as she bounced down half a dozen steps before her left leg jammed into the space between the banister’s spindles, jerking her to a painful stop—right after he heard the harrowing sound of her bone snapping.
Chapter 9
Floating between dream and reality, Fiona was not precisely sure where she was when she heard her husband barking orders. “You will use a sedan chair to convey Mrs. Birmingham anywhere she desires to go, inside the house. Under no circumstances is she to put weight on her leg.”
Had Nick’s mother injured her leg? Fiona wondered.
“And Biddles,” he said to the butler, “see to it that the laudanum stores are replenished. She took a devilishly large amount of it.”
“As you wish, Mr. Birmingham.”
Laudanum? Fiona had only taken the opiate once before, and she had felt . . . exactly as fuzzy as she felt right now. She suddenly remembered stumbling down the stairs. She also remembered the stab of pain so excruciating that unconsciousness was the only relief from it.
She tried to move her injured left leg and found that not only was it immobile but it was also considerably heavier than it had been earlier that afternoon. She lifted her head to look at it. The movement attracted Nick’s notice. He rushed to her bedside, clasping her hand within both of his. “How do you feel, love?” he asked in a gentle voice.
“Woozy.” It was difficult to get the words out, and when she did, her voice seem strangely detached. In her mind’s eye she saw elongated letters forming the single word she had uttered.
“The surgeon’s just left,” he explained. “He set your leg and cautioned me to see that you stay i
n bed at least for the first week.”
Her swirling sense of well-being was punctured by something dark and menacing. “But I’ve got to . . .” She could not remember what it was she had to do, but she knew whatever it was could not be done from this bed.
This bed . . . Where was she? Her eyes coming fully open, she looked around the green bedchamber that was unmistakably feminine. “Where am I?” she asked groggily.
“In Verity’s room. I thought it would suit you better than Mother’s.”
She collapsed back into the pillows. So she was at Nick’s house. South of the Thames. “My leg?”
“Is broken,” he answered, squeezing her hand. “Are you in pain?”
“No. I perceive that laudanum has been administered.”
He tenderly swiped at her brow. “You’re to take it whenever you feel the need.”
“But it makes me so . . . slow. How ever will I see to furnishings for the new house?”
“I’ll send for Trevor Simpson. He’ll be able to carry out your orders.”
A slow smile spread over her face. “Now I see why you’re so good at business. You’re able to adapt instantly to changes.”
There was one other matter that concerned her, but she was not able to remember what it was. Something important, she was sure.
“The surgeon stressed that for the first few days you mustn’t get out of bed. To do so would cause more swelling.”
Bed! That was it! How was she to share a bed with her husband? Even worse, how could they possibly manage to make love when she could not even move her leg? Her insides clenched. Her husband was a most virile man. Quite naturally, he would return to Miss Foley to satisfy his bedroom needs. The idea of him slaking his need between the actress’s thighs caused Fiona more pain than her broken leg. A tear began to seep along her cheek.
“What’s the matter?” Nick demanded. “Are you hurting? Shall I procure more laudanum for you?”