One Golden Ring

by Cheryl Bolen

  So the duchess must have seen Warwick’s intimacy with Nick’s wife, too. Then, with a lurch in his gut, he wondered if Fiona had confided in her old friend. “But you must realize,” he said, “you more than anyone, that physical appearances aren’t the most important factor in selecting a mate.”

  She flicked her fan against his sleeve. “I believe physical appearances must have figured strongly in your—and Mrs. Birmingham’s—decision to marry.”

  “I do find my wife the loveliest of women. And I do think Warwick a fool.” Except now Warwick realizes what he lost. Nick scanned the table to see where Warwick sat, pleased that he was nowhere near Fiona—and pleased that he was giving a great deal of attention to his countess.

  “Perhaps not as foolish as you think. I can’t help but to wonder . . . The countess captured any number of men’s hearts before . . . before she caught Warwick. One wonders if the earl was forced into the marriage.”

  “A man is not obligated to offer marriage merely because a woman has been ‘obliging.’ Surely I’m proof of that.”

  The duchess stiffened. “I think Lady Fiona most obliging indeed to allow your little ‘mistake’ to live under her roof.”

  Nick glared at her. “My wife is not so insensitive as to call an innocent child a mistake.” Tossing down his napkin, Nick rose, nodding at the duchess on his right and the marquis who sat at his left, then left the table.

  Later that evening—or morning—he and Fiona said farewell to the last of their gushing guests. “You must be very tired,” he said to his wife, offering his arm as they mounted the stairs to their bedchambers.

  She shrugged. “It’s been rather exhilarating.”

  With each step that brought them closer to his bedchamber, he remembered Fiona’s invitation earlier that night. How he wanted to take her up on the offer.

  When they reached her door she paused and looked up at him.

  “Good night, my dear,” he said curtly, brushing his lips against her temple. “Sleep well.” He darted toward his own room without allowing himself a glimpse of her lovely face.

  As much as he wanted to make love to her, he could not dispel the horrifying vision of her lying beneath Warwick. As much as he wanted her, he could not share her body with another man.

  Chapter 23

  Perhaps it was his guilty conscience that kept Randolph from sleep. Fiona, his sweet sister who had given up so much for him, had asked so little. She merely wanted his presence at the first ball in her new home. And he had let her down. He’d told himself he could not go to the ball because he had to rise early the next morning for his journey to Yorkshire to oversee his properties, but he could have postponed the trip for another day.

  The most likely reason for his staying away was that he could not bear to see her with Birmingham, could not accept that his sister had married a Cit. Because of him. Not only had she wed Birmingham, but she had married into his vulgar family. Randolph’s lovely sister was presenting the undoubtedly brash offspring of the uncouth Jonathan Birmingham. Because of him.

  He shuddered to think of Fiona gracing the same ballroom as Miss Birmingham. He tried to console himself that Nicholas Birmingham conducted himself as a gentleman. Except, of course, for the fact the man never missed a session at the ’Change. No races at Newmarket for him. No afternoon rides in Hyde Park. No outings to the Egyptian Hall. He toiled by day as steadily as an ironmonger.

  Miss Birmingham was no doubt some social-climbing hoyden who was not fit to be Fiona’s sister.

  Another reason Randolph could not sleep was the ruckus in the corridor outside his rented chambers. What was that damned Sir Reginald up to now? Sir Reginald’s and another man’s voices were raised in anger.

  “I beg that you give me a few more weeks to repay you,” Sir Reginald said.

  “That’s what you asked last month, and still you’ve not come up with the money.”

  “But now I have the opportunity to marry a great heiress—if you’ll but give me a few more weeks.”

  “Why would an heiress wish to marry you?” the other man asked with a snort.

  “The lady will have no choice in the matter, once she is compromised. She’s to be among my party at Vauxhall tomorrow night, and I assure you that once the night’s over, the lady’s fortune will be mine.”

  “One week. And that’s all,” the other man barked.

  Randolph heard the door to Sir Reginald’s chambers close, heard the other man’s steps descend the stairway. Randolph had never liked Sir Reginald, but his dislike was now intense. The contemptible man was planning to rape a maiden.

  Throwing off his blankets, Randolph leaped from his bed and, with a great deal of agitation, lit a candle. He had a good mind to rush to Sir Reginald’s chambers and give the man a good thrashing. Randolph jammed his bare legs into limp pantaloons and began to pace his wooden floor, seized with an unwavering urge to protect the heiress. But how could he warn her when he did not know who she was?

  Any number of ideas sprang to Randolph’s mind as he paced the floor. He thought of threatening the pompous baronet. He considered coming right out and asking the man who his heiress was. He even foolishly considered nailing shut Sir Reginald’s door tomorrow night so he would not be able to meet the lady at Vauxhall Gardens. But any such action would only postpone the dirty deed. What was needed was for the lady to be informed of Sir Reginald’s evil intentions. But how could Randolph do that when he did not know her identity?

  As dawn filled his chambers with murky sunlight, Randolph came to a decision. He would postpone his trip to Yorkshire.

  And he would go to Vauxhall Gardens that night.

  Nick should have talked to Fiona last night, but he did not want anything to detract from the success of her ball.

  Tonight, though, he would speak with her before they left for Vauxhall. Warwick would be among their party tonight, and Nick would not endure another night of humiliation.

  Once Ware had finished with his cravat, Nick stormed into his wife’s bedchamber, not bothering to knock. She stood before her looking glass, a peach-colored gown molding to the soft curves of her body. Her hair was dressed in the Grecian mode with a jeweled band circling her soft whitish curls. The sight of her loveliness and the depth of his love for her sent a gaping ache hammering through his body.

  She faced him, a brow lifted in query. He remembered the pleasure that had softened her face the previous night when he had surprised her while she was dressing. He thought of her husky offer to make love to him. He had swelled with pride and other profound emotions when she had called him “dearest.”

  No such offers, no such endearments, would come tonight. She looked frightened. Even angry.

  Which was fine with him. This conversation called for sternness.

  She watched him warily as he came to sit in an armchair near the fire. “Do you recall, Mrs. Birmingham,” he said in an icy voice, lifting his cold gaze to her, “the day I went down on my knee in the drawing room of Agar House?”

  Her eyes wide, she nodded.

  “Do you remember when I told you I should not like to marry you if you were still in love with Lord Warwick?”

  She nodded.

  “You told me that you no longer loved the earl.”

  “That’s true.”

  His heart raced. “Can you still make such assurances?” He did not wish to hear her declare her love for Warwick. No pain could be greater.

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “Of course! Lord Warwick’s a happily married man, and I have no romantic feelings whatsoever toward him.”

  She’s lying. With his own eyes, Nick had seen them together. His face a dark mask, Nick said, “I realize love was not something either of us wished from this marriage, but I want to stress that I will never tolerate infidelity from my wife.”

  “I’m very glad that you value fidelity, sir,” she said with a defiant lift of her chin, “for I do, too. I should not like it if you were to carry on with another woman.”
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  Her words were as unexpected as a slap in the face. “I assure you I’m not only too busy to have time for another woman, but I have no respect for men who are unfaithful to their wives.”

  A knock sounded at her door, and Verity hurried into the room. “Think you that I will need a wrap tonight?” she asked Fiona.

  Fiona dismissed her husband with a glare. “I’m taking a shawl.”

  Sir Reginald could not have ordered a finer night for his excursion to Vauxhall Gardens, Verity thought. The night was warm, with only a slight breeze coming off the Thames. She had to school herself not to act the country oaf in her exclamations over the delights of Vauxhall. The colored lights strung through the lush tree branches, the orchestra, the dazzling fireworks all vied to make this a most enjoyable evening.

  A pity Sir Reginald was so utterly attentive to her. One would think kneeing the man in his groin would have alienated him toward her, but no such alienation had occurred. Indeed, the man was more steadfast than ever in his attentions.

  “I beg that you will allow me to stroll with you through the lighted paths,” he said to her once they had eaten.

  She lowered her voice. “Only if you give me your word you will not try to take liberties with me.”

  “My dear Miss Birmingham, you have my word. I’m most repentant over my actions with you on the balcony last night, but you must understand that your loveliness overwhelms me.”

  Not my loveliness, but my fortune. She did not believe him for a moment. She knew without a doubt he would try to kiss her, but she was confident in her ability to protect herself. Thank goodness her brothers had taught her to use her knees. “Very well,” she said, giving him her hand.

  Randolph was in no position to meet with his sister tonight. After seeing her disembark from her carriage, he hurried off down one of the dark paths of Vauxhall Gardens. Fiona’s presence meant he would have to alter his plans. He had intended to stay near the dancing pavilion, keeping his eye on Sir Reginald. Now, though, he would have to wait down one of the garden paths.

  He felt rather conspicuous standing alone as couple after couple wandered down the meandering paths, eyeing him suspiciously. On several occasions he nodded and muttered greetings to acquaintances. In the event Fiona were to come strolling toward him, he planned to duck into the bushes to avoid being seen by her.

  The atmosphere was festive with gay orchestra music and voices lifted in laughter. And the night could not have been finer. As he stood there beneath colorful Oriental lanterns where the main path intersected a trio of secondary paths, he heard Sir Reginald’s voice and ducked behind a tree.

  As Sir Reginald came closer, Randolph drew back to watch to see which fork the sinister baronet would take so that he could follow him, could save the maiden from Sir Reginald’s vile clutches.

  Then he heard her voice.

  His lovely woman in the scarlet riding habit! His heart pounding erratically, Randolph wondered if she could be the heiress. By God, he’d kill Sir Reginald with his bare hands!

  He stole a glance.

  When he saw that the woman accompanying his neighbor was indeed his lady of mystery, his pulse thundered. Instead of wearing her red, tonight she wore a snow white gown that draped off her smooth shoulders and skimmed over the slope of her breasts. He drew in his breath. She was even more beautiful, more elegant than he remembered. His heart thundered. He longed to rush to her, longed to allow his gaze to linger over her graceful beauty, but he had to squelch his desire in order to defend her from Sir Reginald, whom he suddenly wished to murder.

  He would attack the baronet. He would lash into him with untamable anger. But he must be patient. It was imperative that he wait until Sir Reginald revealed his evil intentions to the lady, allow her to know how truly vile Sir Reginald was. Then, Randolph would rescue her.

  Then he would avenge her. God help him if he killed the man.

  The pair turned onto the southern path, and Randolph followed silently at a discreet distance, not about to let them stray far from him. He must stay close. He must be ready to save the woman he loved. Like a cat on soft paws, he followed them, careful to stay in the darkness, his stomach churning with apprehension for his cherished lady.

  They chatted amiably for another hundred yards when Sir Reginald slowed down and faced a dark pocket.

  “You gave me your word,” she told Sir Reginald, “that you would behave the gentleman.” His response was to pull her against her will into the darkness.

  Once the couple edged into the dark pocket Randolph could no longer see them, but he heard her voice. “I beg that you not get so close to me, Sir Reginald!”

  Rage shot through Randolph as he heard her muffled scream, heard the sounds of their struggle. He bolted toward them, lunging into the clearing. “Get your dirty hands off the lady!” he yelled.

  Even though it was dark, there was enough moonlight for him to see two struggling forms, see the baronet drawing away from her as he whirled toward Randolph. “What in the hell are you doing here?” Sir Reginald demanded.

  “I’ve come to save the lady. Last night I heard you reveal your vile scheme to compromise her.”

  The lady shrieked.

  “How dare you!” Sir Reginald bleated as he lunged toward Randolph.

  Randolph hurled his fist into the baronet’s face. The blow sent him sprawling backward, cursing his assailant as he fell.

  “I’ll kill you if you ever lay a hand on the lady again,” Randolph shouted as Sir Reginald staggered back to his feet, putting up his fists.

  Another swift blow from Randolph knocked him down again. Randolph stomped his shoe onto Sir Reginald’s chest, then lowered himself to straddle the struggling man. Randolph’s fury was so great, he could not stop hitting the baronet, even after he had knocked him senseless. His bloody fists relentlessly pounded into Sir Reginald’s face.

  It wasn’t until he heard her voice that he stopped. “You’ll kill him!” she said, trying to pull Randolph off the smaller man.

  Hearing her voice brought Randolph to his senses. He got to his feet and tenderly looked down at her crumpled face. “Are you unhurt?” he asked in a tender voice, setting gentle hands on her shoulders.

  Her brows lowered, she nodded and lifted one of his bloody hands to her lips to kiss it. “You’re bleeding,” she said in a voice husky with emotion.

  Feeling the brush of her lips on his hand was his undoing. He hauled her into his arms and claimed her lips as his arms tightened around her slender back. To his profound relief, she did not push him away, did not clamp her soft lips shut against the invasion of his tongue. Her body arched against him. Her arms came around him. Her tongue mingled with his as she kissed him with breathless abandon. And when one of his hands began to stroke her breasts, she did not recoil.

  But when he realized he was behaving no more gentlemanly than Sir Reginald, he recoiled. “Forgive me,” he said in a breathless voice, drawing away from her. “I would never wish to harm you or your reputation in any way. You’re too important to me.” He eased her into his embrace and sighed. “Why did you never return to me? Have you any idea how strongly I wished to be with you? How keenly I care for you? Why did you stay away?”

  She kept her cheek flattened against his chest, her arms linking around him as she sighed. “I . . . saw your signet ring. You’re a peer. I’m a nobody.”

  He drew her even closer. “Don’t ever say that. You’re lovely and elegant and cultured—and you’re everything I could ever hope for. I don’t care who you are. I know that I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  “But your family . . . Aristocrats marry other aristocrats. They would never countenance a marriage between you and the daughter of a Cit, and as strongly as I care for you, I could never countenance a love affair that did not terminate in marriage.”

  He was flooded with profound joy. She cares for me! “I would never ask you to compromise your reputation. You’re a lady. I’ve known it since the first time I saw you.�
� He stroked her face tenderly. “No one tells me what I can and cannot do. I’m one and thirty years of age and my own master.” But he was not in a position to offer for her right now. Even if he did love her. “You’re the only one who can ever send me away.”

  “You say you love me now, but were you to marry beneath you, you would soon regret such a decision.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t like to destroy what is between us.”

  “You could never destroy it. No one can.”

  Her voice was sorrowful when she replied. “But I would. I’d never be part of your world. You’d become ashamed of me.”

  “Never!”

  She twisted away from him. “I beg that you not torment me. Let me go back to my world.” She began to walk away.

  His heart sank. He could not allow her to get away from him again. He sputtered toward her. “Please! You must tell me your name.”

  She shook her head. “It’s better this way. We must forget one another.”

  “ ’Twould be easier to quit breathing.”

  “Please, my lord, don’t make this so difficult for me,” she said in a choking voice.

  “I can’t let you get away this time.”

  She clapped her hands to her ears. “No more!” Giving him one last, long, sorrowful look, she said, “If you care for me, I beg that you let me go and don’t follow me.”

  Were he in a position to offer for her, he would never let her go. But he had nothing to offer a wife at this time. He swallowed hard. “I’ll find you.”

  He heard her sweet voice hitch as she ran back to the lighted path.

  Chapter 24

  Owing to the weather turning cooler, Fiona and Verity had begun to wear heavy wool capes over their pelises as they rode through Hyde Park, mounds of autumn’s leaves crunching beneath their phaeton’s wheels. “I vow,” Fiona said, eying the nearly empty byways of London’s largest park, “there’s hardly a soul left in London.”