A Well Favored Gentleman: Well Pleasured #2

by Christina Dodd

  She saw the gray hairs, the wrinkles around his eyes, and realized he spoke the truth. He was in his prime now; in ten years he would not be, and the pact was too important to allow sentiment to disable it. “Have you picked one of your children t’ take your place?”

  “Ellie. She’s only eight, but she’s honest and can be trusted t’ keep her word.” His chest puffed with pride. “And, m’lady, there’s ne’er been a child who could shadow a man like she can. She’s the despair o’ her mother, but she’s perfect for ye.”

  “Take her along to Edinburgh, then.” She opened the box with breathless attention. “When you come back, and if Ellie desires, we’ll have Mr. Lewis teach her the first of her vows.” Peering inside, she saw the fiery glitter within, and as always, she gave a sigh of relief. The stones were there, they were warm, they were bonny, and they would save Fionnaway as they had done so many times before.

  Gripped by the same tension that always bound her, she picked out four large, variably shaped stones. “This leaves only two,” she said.

  “Save them. We’ll have them in case o’ emergency.”

  The stones’ smooth yet rippled surfaces glimmered as she brought them into the light, and even in the brief moment she held them, they began to change. The delicate sea-green lightened to blue, then gleamed as the fire inside danced. Carefully she placed three in the rough wool bag lined with satin which Armstrong held open. But the last she cradled in her palm, and she asked the question she had sworn she would not. “Do you know anything about the ring Mr. Ian wears?”

  “No, m’lady. It’s one o’ ours, for sure, but I dunna recognize it.”

  Each stone was distinctive, so Ian’s gem must have originated in some early generation. “He said it was his mother’s.”

  “Did he now?”

  Armstrong offered no more enlightenment, so she handed the bag to him, and he tucked it next to his skin.

  Bowing, he backed toward the door. “I well remember my own vows. I’ll na let anyone discover the origin o’ the stones.”

  Then his head lifted like a wolf’s sensing danger. Swiveling on his heel, he stalked toward the door on silent feet. He ripped it open, leaped into the corridor, and ran.

  She limped to the door, but before she got there, he returned.

  She could barely breathe for tension. “What was it?”

  “Someone was listening. I didna catch him, but he was there, I assure ye.”

  Swallowing in dismay, she asked, “How much did he hear?”

  “Nothing. The door’s too thick for eavesdroppers, but it doesn’t matter, does it?” Armstrong’s face was grim. “If someone was listening, then someone knows there’s a secret t’ be learned. Ye be careful, m’lady, while I’m gone. Ye watch yerself, for there’s treachery afoot.”

  Chapter 13

  Ian was annoyed.

  “Where do you suppose they are?” Alanna glanced at the empty doorway as the outside light faded.

  “We should start eating,” Ian said again. The dining table ran the length of the chamber. Polished silver gleamed and the tablecloth sparkled white. Everything was prepared for a special supper to welcome Alanna home, yet Alanna waited because Leslie and her cousins weren’t courteous enough to arrive on time.

  The women were in the alcove by the fire while he stood by the liquor cabinet on the other side and poured glasses of ratafia for both of the ladies. He delivered one to Wilda as she sat in a chair beside the blazing hearth.

  “Put it on the end table, dearest.” Pulling an embroidery thread free of a tangle, she threaded it onto a needle. “I’ll get it in a minute. And you know Lady Fionnaway is right. We can’t start supper until we find out if Uncle Leslie is well. He was on his deathbed only yesterday.”

  Alanna appeared to be at ease, but as Ian handed the other glass to her, he noted she stood by a chair opposite Wilda rather than sitting in it.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, not meeting his eyes.

  She was very good at not meeting his eyes. But that made it easier for him, in a way, to appreciate her. She had changed, with Wilda’s help, into a grass-green Grecian robe. The skirt gathered beneath her breasts, and Wilda had draped it in one of those damnable ways she knew. Not that he didn’t usually appreciate Wilda’s efforts. He enjoyed nothing better than to look upon an attractive woman whose assets were attractively displayed.

  But this was Alanna, and he didn’t look upon her. He stared.

  A thin white wrap fastened around her throat, tucked into her neckline, and discreetly covered her bosom. But the wrap was almost transparent. He could almost see cleavage.

  “Perhaps he overexerted himself today and he is even now breathing his last,” Wilda chirped cheerfully.

  Ian jumped. “Who?”

  “Uncle Leslie.”

  Returning to the cupboard, Ian poured himself a goblet of wine and reflected he couldn’t be so lucky. He couldn’t allow his father to dismantle his efforts. Not with Alanna, who stood before the fire in that diaphanous grass-green crepey skirt that showed everything.

  Well, not everything. Not nearly enough. In fact, he was sure she wore at least one petticoat beneath, and probably two. But the draft around the fire molded the fabric to her legs, and sometimes he saw the gentle rounding of her bottom.

  He had kissed that rounding the night before. He had fondled it today. He wanted to caress her again tonight. Now, in fact, and the wanting made his trousers fit much too tightly.

  Transferring his gaze to Wilda, he said, “I would venture you’re more anxious about the boy cousins than about my father.”

  Not at all disturbed by his strained disposition, Wilda smiled, and her dimple peeked out of her cream-and-roses cheek. “They are charming.” Then her tentative smile faded. “But I am, of course, more concerned with Uncle Leslie. I mean, he’s not very nice or anything, but he is my uncle, and my mother always says, ‘Blood is thicker than water,’ although it seems to me that is self-evident. I mean, when Daisy broke that glass, throwing it against the wall in an absolutely magnificent rage when Cousin Mary wed Lord Whitfield, one of the shards pierced my neck and the blood stained my shoulder scarf and we couldn’t get it out. That doesn’t happen when water drips on my clothing, although it does spot silk terribly. Don’t you agree, Lady Fionnaway?”

  Alanna glanced at Ian, and he could have sworn he detected sympathy in her eyes. “‘Lady Fionnaway’ is so formal. Please call me Alanna.”

  Clasping her hands, Wilda said, “Oh, thank you! You’re so kind, and although my mother says informality leads to a breakdown in civilized behavior, I will call you Alanna because we’re going to be related, aren’t we? You’re going to love Ian with all your heart.”

  Ian saw a breakdown in civilized behavior right before his eyes. Alanna’s clear complexion flushed, and she clasped the back of the chair until her knuckles turned white. “Did you tell her that?”

  He couldn’t help it; her agitation pleased him. But he said sedately, “Wilda makes her own deductions.”

  “There has never been a man born of woman who could entice me to take that kind of risk,” Alanna said to Wilda.

  Wilda smiled, and for once, was quiet.

  A line of servants brought candelabra lit with beeswax candles in from the kitchen. One was placed on the table between Wilda and Alanna. One was set on the liquor cabinet. Two lit the table, already set with six places. Alanna, Wilda, and Ian waited. As the seconds ticked by on the mantel clock, Wilda’s observations grew ever less logical, and even Alanna tapped her fingers on the chair’s wood carving.

  Then down the corridor, Ian heard masculine laughter and murmurs of conversation. Three men appeared in the doorway. Edwin and Brice stood on either side of a beaming Leslie, their arms hooked through his to provide support.

  “Time to eat, heh?” Leslie sounded almost jovial. “Get me in there, lads, I’ve developed an appetite.”

  The gentlemen turned sideways and drew him through the opening while Ian st
ared, thunderstruck. He’d seen his father this happy only a few times in his life, and each time had preceded a disaster of tremendous proportions.

  Leslie steered a course for the high-backed chair at the head of the table, then snapped, “Don’t just stand there with your mouth hanging open, Ian—pull out my chair!”

  It was the footman’s chore, but Ian knew better than to complain. He did not need his father reminding him of his lowly antecedents once again, and in front of so many people. In front of Alanna.

  In silence he pulled out the chair and held it as Leslie settled in.

  Then Leslie challenged Alanna. “You are the mistress here, but you don’t mind giving up your place to your old, sick guardian.”

  Embarrassment scorched Ian from the inside out. He hadn’t experienced such mortification since his adolescence at Fairchild Manor, when every one of his mistakes—and there had been many—had been a signal for the ridicule to start. This time he had only himself to blame; man that he was, he hadn’t even considered Alanna’s right to sit at the head of the table.

  Her cool voice stopped his self-recriminations. “That is the only chair with arms, Mr. Fairchild, and I understand you couldn’t sit erect without them.”

  Leslie cast her a look of virulence.

  She stared back, expressionless, then asked, “Would you hold my chair also, Ian?”

  Stepping to her side, Ian lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I live to serve you.” As he looked into her eyes, her fingers trembled in his, and in a tone meant for her ears only, he added, “And to service you.”

  She jerked her hand back, and he let her.

  “Where did you get that ring?” Leslie’s voice rose querulously. “Her ring. What are you doing with her ring?”

  He was staring right at Ian, directly at his hand.

  “This ring?” Ian held up his hand and touched the glimmering stone. “It’s mine.”

  “It’s hers.” Leslie grunted and lunged at Ian.

  Ian easily moved out of reach. “Hers? Alanna’s? It’s mine. I’ve always worn it. Remember?”

  “Alanna’s? No, you fool, not—” Leslie glanced at Alanna, then at the other curious faces turned to him. “Nothing.” He waved his hand, so puffy the knuckles sank like dimples into the skin. “Sit down, all of you.”

  Sanity, and memory, seemed to have returned.

  Ian escorted Alanna to the other end and held her chair. Four places had been set on either side of the table, spaced evenly along its length. Room existed between them, but he took the place at her right hand.

  Edwin rushed to hold Wilda’s chair opposite Ian. She murmured her thanks and sat, and Brice slipped into the seat beside her.

  Edwin said, “Wait. Wait! That’s not fair.”

  “Stop sniveling,” Brice said coolly.

  “You can sit with me next time.” Wilda smiled at Edwin. “You always entertain me so.”

  Edwin smiled back, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then he walked around the table to the last remaining chair.

  “I never saw that salt cellar before,” Leslie observed sourly. “The servants must have been hiding it. Thieves, all of them.”

  Ian knew what Leslie meant. In their joy at having Alanna back, the servants had done what he believed they did not know how to do. They had set an elegant table. “Not thieves,” he said, “but fakers.”

  The butler stared impassively until Alanna said, “You may begin.”

  Merton summoned his minions with a snap of his fingers, and the first course of two soups and the accompanying dishes was brought forth and presented for her approval.

  Wilda valiantly introduced polite conversation, and Brice and Edwin listened and contributed. But no effort of the servants or the guests could ease the strain Leslie’s presence occasioned. Ian ate his way through a course of venison and pickled eel, green peas and fried sole, then a course of partridge and quails, apricot fritters, custard, and jugged hare. All the while he stoically waited for catastrophe to strike.

  Yet when the cheese and bread was carried in to finish the meal, Ian glanced at his father, gray with the effort of pretending health. Perhaps there would be no scene tonight.

  The butler presented the steaming loaf to Alanna with a flourish. “Will ye carve, m’lady?”

  And turning, Merton presented the round cheese to Ian. “And ye, Mr. Ian, will ye do the honors, also?”

  It was a sign of support from the serving staff that he had been asked. Ian understood that. What he didn’t understand was how the man had worked with Leslie and still did not comprehend that Leslie would make him pay—make them all pay.

  Taking the small, sharp knife in his hand, Ian stood and slashed through the waxy rind, keeping his gaze fixed on his work. The even yellow slices fell to the board one by one, each rich with its sour scent.

  Then the yeasty aroma of bread told him Alanna had broken the crust, and irresistibly his gaze was drawn to her hands as she efficiently sliced the bread. Her hands were broad-palmed, her fingers long—good sense and artistry combined. He didn’t want to, but he looked higher and saw again those breasts…Oh, God, she was chilly. He would warm her. Everywhere. As he had done last night.

  He stared into her face. She glanced into his.

  Once again the sea breeze swept them up. He could taste the salt, smell the freshness of air untainted by woodsmoke and age. She was his, and when they touched they could dive deep beneath the waves, ride the swells, and bask in the storm’s fury. Together they could do anything.

  A rattling noise broke the communion and brought Ian’s head around.

  At the head of the table, Leslie sat, inhaling as if each breath would be his last.

  Alanna murmured, “He sounds as if his lungs are full of water.”

  A chill crawled up Ian’s spine. It was true. Leslie even had the appearance of a drowning victim, with his bloated features and the shiny cast to his skin. Ian could almost see him lying in the sand, strands of seaweed draping his shoulders and tangling his fingers…and abruptly he found himself gasping for air with the same intensity as his father.

  “Ian?” Alanna laid a hand over his. “Are you ill, too?”

  Shaking the vision away, Ian tried to smile. It wouldn’t do to alarm her. He couldn’t afford to lose another bride before the wedding.

  Leslie coughed, then inhaled again, and the rattling this time sounded louder. His eyes stayed shut, his hand rested on his chest, and Ian shoved his chair back.

  At the scrape of wood against wood, Leslie’s eyes sprang open. He coughed into his napkin, then dropped it on the floor beside him. “Pass the bread,” he said hoarsely. “I’m hungry still.”

  Ian sank back into his seat, and in silence the bread and cheese boards were passed.

  “My dear Alanna.” Leslie’s voice sounded less labored. “I would wager you haven’t told my son of our night of passion.”

  A stifling silence fell over the table.

  Alanna stared down at her almost empty plate with such attention, she might have been looking into the crystal ball.

  Wilda shuddered visibly. Brice leaned over and patted her hand.

  Determined to protect Alanna, Ian stepped into the breach. “On the contrary, Father, she did tell me. That very event convinced her I was the better suitor.”

  Leslie flicked his fingers at Ian like a horse dislodging a fly. “What does a lad like you know about such things?”

  “From what I heard…a great deal more than you.”

  One of the footmen had a coughing fit and made to leave the room, then leapt back in and pressed against the wall, his eyes wide with alarm.

  From down the corridor Ian heard a clatter of metal and a clicking against the hardwood floor. Every head turned, staring, as around the corner came the largest dog Ian had ever seen. The creature paused and surveyed the occupants of the room with the confidence of an animal who knew himself the superior of all within.

  His gaze locked with Leslie’s, and with a
n incongruously puppylike yip, he hastened to his master.

  Alanna stiffened in obvious alarm. Wilda squeaked. Brice scooted his chair away, and Edwin bumped the table with his knees as he raised his feet.

  The dog leaned against Leslie, and Leslie rubbed his giant head.

  “What is he doing in here?” Alanna demanded of the butler.

  Merton bowed, keeping one eye on the two devils at the head of the table. “No one dares stop him from going where he likes.”

  Raising her voice, Alanna said, “Mr. Fairchild, that’s a vicious animal. Does he still eat cats for pleasure?”

  “That’s right.” Leslie smiled cordially. “He did eat one of your little pets once.”

  Ian saw her flare of distress as she crushed the remnants of her bread in her palm.

  “Aye, he still eats cats, and anything else foolish enough to get in his way. He weighs more than many men. These Scottish peasants keep their brats well away from my Damon”—the dog whined at the mention of his name—“and the servants obey me with speed when he sits at my side.”

  Ian watched as the footmen shuffled slowly away from the table, and knew his father told the truth.

  “He should be on a chain,” Alanna said.

  “He was,” Leslie snapped. “I ordered him released as soon as that witch worked her magic.”

  “Witch?” Alanna stared Leslie right in the eye.

  “Aye, I was dying, for all you care, but the witch…” His words faded as he searched Alanna’s face. “The witch looked like…”

  “Aye?” She still watched him closely.

  “I dreamed…” His color faded as his voice failed him. In a whisper that pierced the unnatural silence of the great hall, he said, “I dreamed you were here one night, but you looked like….” His hand trembled before his face as he scrambled his fingers in incoherent description of her appearance. Then with a jerk, he slumped.

  Ian and Alanna both came to their feet and on opposite sides of the table, hurried toward him.

  But when Damon growled, Leslie lifted his head. “Leave me be,” he said.

  Ian stopped short.

  Alanna did not. She leaned over him and touched his cheek. “You’re clammy.”