One Golden Ring

by Cheryl Bolen

  When he eased open the door to his bedchamber he was astonished to see Fiona lying in his bed.

  Fiona had told herself that a man recently sated by lovemaking had little desire to repeat the action with another woman the very same night. But she was powerless to stay away from Nick. Where he was concerned, she was rapidly losing her pride. Even if he didn’t want her, she needed to lie beside him.

  He met her gaze. “Still mad?”

  “I wasn’t mad,” she said, sitting up. She had worn a soft blue nightshift because Nick liked her in blue. “I was disappointed.”

  He came to sit on the bed beside her, his hand molding to her cheeks. “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured.

  Her voice purred like a contented cat. “Now?”

  His head dipped to hers. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

  Their lips met, gently at first, but the tenderness quickly ignited into a searing passion that swept them up into its roaring tide. She was stunned by his own rapid breathlessness, by his eagerness that matched her own. He quickly tore off his clothing and just as quickly yanked off her nightshift.

  It was as if their need was so desperate neither of them could spare a second for gentle foreplay or tender words. He rolled with her across his wide bed until she was flat on her back and he was poised over her, spreading her thighs and murmuring heated exclamations. Then he plunged into her and rode her faster and harder than he’d ever done before.

  Explosions rippled within her as he trembled, called out her name, then stilled. Her arms were a vice across his rock-hard back as she lifted her hips to meet him, pulsing with the most extraordinary pleasure she had ever experienced.

  In his most heated moment, Nick cried out, “Oh, my love, my Fiona.”

  Long afterward, they lay in each other’s arms, completely spent and totally sated. And long afterward she remembered his words. Oh, my love, my Fiona.

  Chapter 19

  Fiona missed Randolph dreadfully. She kept telling herself she should be used to his absence since he’d spent the last year in The Peninsula, but it was the knowing that he was in London and refused to see her that hurt so keenly. That they had always been exceptionally close made the estrangement even more difficult to bear.

  From Randy’s frank talks with her, she had learned much about men and their desires. Now, more than ever before, she wished to pick his brain in order to better understand the enigmatic man she had married. But now, more than any time in their lives, her brother was completely inaccessible.

  More than once she had stopped herself from initiating a meeting with Randolph. Though she wished to alleviate her fears over his recovery from the injuries he’d sustained in captivity, she was too out of charity with him to make the first move. Going to him would condone his shabby treatment of Nick.

  Such blatant hostility toward her husband could never be accepted.

  She was plagued with worries that Randy and she would never reconcile. As painful as that prospect was, it was a separation she could live with were so forced to do so. A separation from Nick, though, was unthinkable. Unbearable. She did not know how she could continue to draw breath if she ever lost her husband—or lost his affection.

  She wondered if she would have agreed to marry him had she known she would fall so madly in love with him that every separation from him would torment her. This marriage was so different from what she had prepared herself for. She had expected to be mildly infatuated with him, to be content to spend his money and bear his children, but she’d never anticipated such a crushing, choking, debilitating love to consume her.

  Last night’s agony of worry that he was in Diane Foley’s arms was as great as the deepest grief she’d ever known.

  Just when she was in the depths of despair, Nick had come and swept her up into the heavens in his arms. She tingled inside and grew breathless every time she recalled his words. Oh, my love, my Fiona.

  She had gone through the morning cloaked in a fuzzy warmth induced by recalling the mesmerizing touch of his hands on her bare body, the sound of his husky voice, the feel of his powerful body stretched out over hers. Surely he could not have wanted her with such hunger had he just come from Diane Foley’s bed, could not have spoken so tenderly.

  Could he?

  That was one of the things she would liked to have asked Randy. That, and if words uttered during passion were truthful or merely an accouterment to overwhelming physical pleasure. For only in his bed did Nick’s guarded reserve drop. Only in his bed did he treat her like a flesh-and-blood woman and not an untouchable peeress.

  Later that afternoon Trevor came to take her for a ride in Hyde Park. The Misses Peabody and Birmingham were walking there, but owing to Fiona’s still-mending leg, she chose to ride instead. It was a lovely day, brisk and blazingly sunny, and a variety of colorful spring flowers relieved the long stretches of green. Because the weather was so fine, they had to wait with a long procession of conveyances before they could enter the park gates.

  Not long after entering the park in Trevor’s phaeton, Fiona cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever made love to a woman?” Being a married woman had made her brazen. Three months ago she would have been unable to speak of so intimate a subject with a member of the opposite sex.

  Trevor’s grip on the ribbons tightened. Looking straight at the barouche in front of them, he said, “Had to try it. Once. When I was at Cambridge. There was a most exceedingly willing little wench who lifted her skirts any number of times on any given night.”

  “I don’t suppose men—under such circumstances—would be obliged to utter any passionate declarations of a romantic nature?”

  “The only thing a man would be obliged to do—under those circumstances—would be to open his purses,” Trevor said with a wicked laugh.

  “Would you think that . . . if a man makes romantic declarations during passion, his words are colored by ‘the moment’?”

  He nodded to a lone horseman passing by. “If it’s Birmingham you’re asking about, the man is besotted over you.”

  “I wish I had your confidence of his regard,” she said. “Do you know if . . . if he’s still seeing Miss Foley?” Her heart almost stopped beating.

  “A man don’t need a mistress when his wife sees to his sexual needs.”

  Her cheeks burned. How did Trevor know that she’d become adept at seeing to her husband’s sexual needs? “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He pulled on the ribbons, coming almost to a stop, then turned to face her, his face earnest. “To my knowledge his czarness no longer ‘sees’ Miss Foley.”

  She could have clapped her hands with glee. It was a glorious day! She seemed suddenly aware of the scent of roses and freshly mowed grass. “I suspect you wouldn’t tell me if he were.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. You’re far too smitten with him for your own good.” He flicked the ribbons. “But I am being honest with you.”

  After they circled the Serpentine, nodding to acquaintances and pausing to speak with old friends, she asked, “What do you know of Randy?”

  “He’s become a hermit. No Almack’s. No Boodle’s. No gaming. I even heard he’s let Agar House and sold off the old carriage. Haven’t seen him even once. He’s become utterly unsocial.”

  Her heart drummed. “Do you think his injury . . . ?”

  He shook his head. “Harry Lyle told me your brother’s had a complete recovery.”

  “Thank goodness,” she said, every muscle in her body relaxing.

  “I know the fellow’s been beastly ill-mannered to you, but I’ve heard he’s somewhat patched things up with your husband.”

  She whirled toward Trevor. “How so?”

  “He laid his finances at Birmingham’s feet.”

  “I don’t understand why he’ll speak to Nick and not to me.”

  Trevor shrugged. “No doubt your obtuse brother feels guilty that you’ve had to ‘sacrifice’ yourself for him.”

  She gave
a bitter laugh.

  Cognizant that since she was not born to gentility she would be unduly scrutinized, Miss Verity Birmingham had spent a lifetime carefully grooming herself to be unobtrusive. Never initiating a conversation, she spoke only when spoken to. She had eschewed social situations and dressed with modest dignity befitting someone of twice her years. She had liked nothing better than blending into the pale walls.

  Until the day she donned her red riding habit. And began crossing the path of the most ruggedly handsome man she’d ever seen. For five weeks now she had not missed a single morning ride.

  Nor had he. He of the broad chest, long legs, and whitish blond hair. He who sat magnificently on his equally magnificent chestnut. His customary nod to her had extended to a smiling “Good morning,” but the acceleration of their acquaintance was entirely too slow to satisfy her.

  She must have a bit of her father in her. “Don’t wait for yer ship to come in,” Jonathan Birmingham had always said. “Swim out to meet it.”

  Today she would swim out to meet Him.

  She had roused her maid early that morning to arrange her hair in a most becoming fashion, and after she donned the elegant scarlet riding habit, she had sprinkled perfume at her wrists and beneath her ear.

  She planned to canter in the southern portion of the park where she usually saw Him, then she would jump a low hedge. Though she was an excellent horsewoman, this morning she would “fall” from her horse.

  Arriving at the park a little earlier than usual, she cantered in a circle until she caught a glimpse of him in the distance. She watched him as he came closer, her heartbeat hammering. Then she dug in her heels, hunkered down, and raced toward the hedge. She had practiced the move in her mind a hundred times, especially the night before when her excitement had kept her from sleep. As the horse began to sail into an arc, she slid from its back and with an unrehearsed scream, she landed on her backside.

  Even though her “accident” had been carefully staged, tears gathered in her eyes, and her heart pounded so loudly she hadn’t heard him ride up and leap from his mount.

  From the corner of her eye she saw him streak toward her. “Are you hurt?” he asked in a panicked voice.

  Her face lifted to his, but when she went to respond, she had no voice.

  He dropped to his knees in front of her, the features of his handsome face crushing with concern. “Can you move?”

  “I don’t know,” she finally managed.

  “Allow me to help.” He settled an arm around her, then came to his feet, tugging her with him.

  She was ever so glad to see that at her full height, she did not come past his formidable shoulders. Thank God he was tall. She was ever so glad, too, that she had thought to apply the perfume. He was definitely close enough to smell its light floral scent. In fact, this was the closest she had ever been to a man who was not her brother.

  And she decided being so close to this man was quite agreeable.

  “Try to walk,” he urged.

  Putting her arm around his waist, she took a wobbly step. Then another. Thankfully, she had not broken any bones or suffered any serious injury. Though this man would have been worth harming herself for. Her gaze locked on his shiny black Hessians. She could not believe she was actually beside Him, so close she could smell his leathery scent. They were actually touching each other!

  “Are you in pain?”

  “My dear sir, one does not fall from a horse without experiencing pain.” My, but she was not being her complacent self. This man had a most singular effect on her. And on her tongue.

  “Allow me to rephrase. Does walking hurt?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then you have been most fortunate.”

  She was pleased that he kept his arm around her. “I expect my pride’s as bruised as anything. I’m not usually such a poor rider.” Good Lord, she had even taken to boasting—which was something she had never done before.

  “I must say I was surprised when you fell, for I’ve often admired your superior riding skills.”

  That was a start. Now if he only admired other things about her. “I’ve had the occasion to admire your riding, too, sir, which makes me exceedingly embarrassed that I’ve made such an idiot of myself in front of you.”

  He reached to gently sweep a lock of dark hair from her brow. “You could never look like an idiot.”

  “Perhaps inelegant is a better word than idiot,” she suggested.

  His eyes were the exact shade of blue as Lady Fiona’s. And there was concern in them. “I don’t believe you could ever be inelegant, either.”

  She laughed. “Oh, I’m quite sure I was inelegant when I sprawled out on my derriere.”

  He laughed, too. “Allow me to walk with you until I’m assured of your recovery.”

  “Perhaps you should secure our mounts first.”

  She felt bereft when he let go of her to tie his obedient mount to a skinny tree. It took longer for him to find hers and secure it. Something touched her soul as she watched his bent head as he secured her mount, her gaze whisking from the tip of his blond head, down his chocolate-colored coat to his fawn breeches. Everything about him bespoke power. She could see him commanding hundreds of men.

  When he returned to her, he offered his arm, and they began to walk along a path. “A well-born young lady like yourself should not be out without her groom, you know. Your . . . husband should ensure his wife is better taken care of.”

  This was good. He was obviously interested in learning if she was married. “I have no husband.”

  “I’m happy to learn that.”

  Her pulse stampeded. “Does that mean that you are unmarried?” She held her breath.

  “Yes, I’m a bachelor.”

  She could have swooned with relief.

  They walked along in silence, her senses never before so alive to the chirping of birds and the wind slapping at the petals of spring flowers.

  A moment later he said, “Surely you’ve come out?”

  “In a little over a month, actually.”

  He muttered something under his breath. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was blasting the men who would fall at her feet. If only he knew. She still believed she would be a dreadful wallflower, her brothers and Trevor Simpson her only dancing partners. She fleetingly wished herself brazen enough to invite this stranger to her ball, but she was mindful of her need for propriety. It was vital that to this man she be indistinguishable from the upper born.

  “You live near the park?” he asked, smiling down at her.

  “For the Season. I’m staying with my brother and his new wife.”

  “And the rest of the year? You live where?”

  “In Kent.”

  “Is that where you learned to ride?” His blond hair ruffled in the wind.

  “Actually I learned to ride right here in Hyde Park. As a child I lived in The City. After my father died, my mother was granted her wish to live year-round in the country.” Verity hated to see that the fog was beginning to lift, for that would mean He would be going.

  “So that explains why you haven’t been snatched up.”

  For the first time in her life, Verity Birmingham acted the coquet. “Pray, sir, whatever do you mean ‘snatched up’?”

  “I mean that as soon as you’re presented you’ll be besieged with offers of marriage.” His brows plunged and he sounded quite grumpy.

  Which was wonderful.

  “You’re much too kind.”

  “It’s not kindness,” he snapped. “You’re entirely too lovely.”

  On the spot, Verity decided this was the most wonderful day of her life. Her dark lashes lowered and she whispered, “Thank you.”

  They had come back to where their horses were tied, and he turned to her and spoke with disappointment. “I regret that I must go now or I will be late for a meeting with my brother-in-law—a man one does not keep waiting. Would I be too ill mannered if I asked permission to ride with you tomorrow m
orning?”

  Would she be too ill mannered if she agreed to? After all, genteel young ladies did not meet with men—especially strange men—unchaperoned. Her desire to be with him was stronger than her desire to preserve respectability. “Only if you promise to tell me about yourself tomorrow,” she said. “You asked all the questions today.”

  He bowed and took her hand, settling soft lips on her gloved fingers.

  That was when she saw the signet ring.

  She recoiled as if she’d been struck by a viper. She only vaguely heard his words: “Be assured that I shall look forward to furthering my acquaintance with you.”

  Her heart thundering, she nodded as she allowed him to help her mount.

  “Are you certain you’re unhurt?” he asked with concern.

  “Yes, quite,” she snapped, digging in her heels and letting the pounding horse whisk her away from Him. Her blond Adonis was a peer! Why, out of all the men in London, did she have to fall in love with an aristocrat? Once he found out who she was, he would no doubt treat her as one would a leper.

  Her knuckles white from her harsh grip on the reins, she realized there would be no more morning rides. She could not meet him tomorrow—or ever again.

  “How are you liking Almack’s, dearest?” Fiona asked Nick.

  He looked down into his wife’s face. “Waltzing with the most beautiful woman here is most enjoyable. Everything else is as dull as I’d been told.”

  She pouted. “But you must admit Verity has taken quite well.”

  “For that I’m grateful. Do you find that she’s attracted to any of her suitors?”

  “While she’s all that’s amiable, I don’t think any man has captured her heart.”

  When that set was finished he went to procure lemonade for his wife and sister, but upon his return Lord Warwick was leading Fiona onto the dance floor. Another bloody waltz!

  As painful as it was to watch his wife with the man she had been in love with, Nick was unable to tear away his gaze. They made such a stunning couple, Fiona delicate and fair, Warwick dark and powerful. Warwick was smiling down at Fiona, and they gave the appearance of enjoying each other’s company excessively. Damn Warwick.