Miss Fiona's Fancy (The Royal Ambition Series Book 3) Read online

  The wedding had caused a great deal of speculation and comment in society. Many tried to obtain an invitation to this curious wedding and failed. In the week before it, Mr. Harry Gore was feted and dined, for he was to be bridesman and many people wanted to be sure of a firsthand account. The odd rumor that Fiona was pregnant and therefore had to be hastily married was soon quashed energetically by Mr. Gore. He tried to find who had started the rumor, but came up against a blank wall and decided at last that probably no one person had started the malicious gossip. It was only the sort of thing that usually got about when a couple rushed to the altar.

  The question most people wanted answered amused Mr. Gore. It appeared all the ladies and some of the gentlemen wanted to know if Fiona was going to wear a wedding veil. The veil had been out of fashion for a long time, being considered a primitive custom, and had only just started to come back into favor.

  On the great day, Mr. Gore set out for the Grant mansion armed with a small notebook and pencil tucked away in the pocket of his tails. The man of fashion never had his pockets anywhere else but in the tails of his coat. Mr. Gore did not trust his memory and planned, during the festivities, after his duties were over, to find a quiet corner and make notes so that he could sing for his supper at all the dinners and suppers he had been invited to the following week.

  Despite the Duchess of Gordonstoun’s wishes, Lizzie was not to be bridesmaid. A small six-year-old, Eileen Grant, who was on a visit to London with her parents, distant relatives of the Grants, had been chosen. She was a pretty little moppet with a head of thick red curls. Fiona was relieved not to have Lizzie’s disapproving presence behind her at the ceremony, although she did feel that old stab of guilt that Lizzie’s accidental birth should bar her from a position in the ceremony that would otherwise have been hers.

  Shyness had made Fiona agree to wearing a veil. Her gown had been made from a ball gown, already ordered from the Misses Hatton. It had originally been a slip of white slipper satin. A train had been added and rich pearl and silver embroidery stitched over the skirt and bodice of the gown to give it a special wedding richness. A fairylike diamond tiara ornamented Fiona’s head. The tiara had been loaned by the duchess, who said that although diamonds were exploded—everything that was not fashionable was said to be exploded—they were still deemed suitable for special occasions such as weddings.

  The marquess resigned himself to the fact that his bride was to be piped to the makeshift altar in the drawing room by Angus.

  The vicar, an old friend of the marquess’s from his Oxford University days, performed the ceremony with style and affected not to hear the Duchess of Gordonstoun’s remarks that a bishop would have been more in order.

  Mr. Harry Gore found himself awed by the wedding couple. The bride was so very beautiful and the groom so stately in a wedding coat of blue silk embroidered with gold that the sentimental Mr. Gore found it all very moving and tried very hard not to disgrace himself by crying in the middle of the ceremony.

  Fiona had not rehearsed the ceremony with the marquess because he had been too busy at the House of Lords to spare any time before the wedding, but her parents had schooled her well and she made her responses in a clear firm voice.

  None of the fright at taking such a monumental step appeared in her eyes. As most of the servants were members of the Clan Grant, the festivities after the wedding were a very democratic affair, with the servants dancing with the lords and ladies. Mr. Gore thought it all very charming and entered into the spirit of the thing by leading a kitchen maid onto the floor for a Scottish reel.

  It was perhaps unfortunate that Polly should have been allowed to come into contact with so many jewels and fine silk handkerchiefs, but Christine and Angus took her out into the hall before the guests left, and “shook her down,” as Angus put it, and returned the valuables to the guests.

  It was only when she was up in her room, looking at her corded trunks and waiting for Christine to put the finishing touches to her carriage dress, that Fiona began to panic. She had not stopped to think, she realized, anytime during the past week of all that this marriage entailed. She might never see her home in the Highlands again. She was going off alone with this new husband, a strange man, who, despite his kindness to her parents, had shown a liking for slums and sleazy masquerades at the Pantheon.

  There had been a waltz during the festivities and he had held her too close. The feel of his hard body against her own had done very uncomfortable things to Fiona. There was a whole world of sexual relationships between men and women she did not understand and of which she was becoming increasingly afraid.

  Christine looked at her tense face and said gently, “I shall be with you, my lady. My lord is a man of honor. He will do nothing to upset you.”

  “Are you sure, Christine? I do not even know where we are going.”

  “To Lord Cleveden’s town house. He plans to take you on a honeymoon much later.”

  Fiona sighed. “I never even thought to ask,” she marveled. “At least you will be with me, Christine. I do not think I could bear it otherwise.”

  She put her arms about the maid and Christine held her close.

  “If it does not work out,” said Christine softly, “you have only a year of marriage to endure. Only a year. And then somehow we will find the way home.”

  The marquess’s town house was in Curzon Street. His staff was waiting in the hall to greet her. Fiona was introduced to them all, and knew she would find it hard to adjust to living with these correct and formal servants after living in the company of easygoing Highland ones.

  The wedding celebrations had gone on until late in the evening and so the question of bed loomed large in Fiona’s mind. The room that had been prepared for her was very much the room of the lady of the house. There was a vast double bed, but it was draped with a canopy of white lace. The furniture was delicate and feminine, and large vases of flowers scented the air.

  Christine prepared her mistress for bed. “Do not worry, my lady, they have given me a room next door to yours. You have only to call out if you need me.”

  “Address me as Fiona when we are alone together. I would have liked a sister like you, Christine.”

  “Then we shall be sisters in private,” said Christine. “Sit down and let me brush your hair.”

  Fiona sat down at the toilet table. Her green eyes, shadowed and wary, looked back at her from the glass. Her nightgown, a miracle of lace and fine muslin, was as finely fashioned as any ball gown and almost as elaborate.

  The door opened and the marquess walked in. Christine stopped brushing Fiona’s hair, curtsied, and then stood to attention.

  The marquess was wearing a silk dressing gown over a nightgown and his bare feet were thrust into red morocco slippers.

  “Leave us, Christine,” he said, softening the order with a smile.

  Christine curtsied again and withdrew. She went to her own room and softly closed the door. She wondered whether to listen at the door in case Fiona needed help and then decided against it. Fiona was a married woman now, and the marquess was her husband. Christine undressed quickly, plunged into her narrow bed, and pulled the pillows over her ears.

  The marquess sat down in a chair beside the fire and surveyed his bride.

  “Come and sit down, my love,” he said. “Would you like something to drink before you retire?”

  “Oh, yes, please,” said Fiona dismally. She was sure he did not mean to keep his promise, that he meant to share her bed.

  “And what would you like? Warm milk?”

  “No, wine, I think.”

  The marquess rang the bell and then ordered a footman to bring wine and glasses.

  Fiona sat down opposite him, blushing a little because she was only wearing a nightdress and mentally telling herself not to be silly, that the nightdress was less revealing than most of the fashions one wore during the day.

  “That went off well, I think,” said the marquess, stifling a yawn. “Very ene
rgetic family you come from, my love. All those wild dances! I saw that peculiar cousin of yours, Lizzie Grant, was present, very finely gowned, too. Now there is someone I do not wish you to have anything to do with.”

  “I agree gladly to that,” said Fiona, “for I cannot like her.”

  “Now, as to the matter of your servants…”

  “Do not ask me to dismiss Christine,” said Fiona, appalled.

  “No, no,” he said soothingly. “But do you remember that waif, Polly, that you rescued? I am afraid my butler and housekeeper have taken a dislike to her after only a few minutes in her company.”

  “She is difficult,” said Fiona. “Let me see her tomorrow and I shall try to make her behave better.”

  “I doubt it. Here is our wine.” He dismissed the footman and poured her a glass and then watched as Fiona drank the contents in one gulp. He gently took the glass from her and said, “You have no reason to wish Dutch courage this night, my sweeting. Now, as to the matter of Christine. She bears the same name as you.”

  “She is what we call an ‘accidental daughter,’” said Fiona. “Christine is very dear to me.”

  “So I have noticed. Do you have many such accidents in your family? I suppose it is the long northern winters that are at fault. I suppose your relatives have nothing better to do.”

  “At least they acknowledge their accidents,” said Fiona.

  “As to Christine’s future…”

  “I meant to ask you about that,” said Fiona hurriedly. “Christine is in love with our piper, Angus Robertson. I hope to be able to settle them someday.”

  “Why the piper?” groaned the marquess. “Anyone else I would gladly have admitted to my household. For the year of our trial marriage, I suggest you elevate Christine to the position of your companion. Lady’s maids are easily found. After the year is up, we will discuss her future.”

  “Thank you,” said Fiona.

  “Tell me about your home in Scotland,” he said abruptly.

  And Fiona did—shyly at first until she warmed to her subject, not knowing she was betraying a great deal of aching homesickness.

  The marquess watched her carefully, plotting his next move.

  When she had finished, he thought, I could cope with a human rival better. ’Tis hard to have to compete with a home. But he said aloud, “Fiona, I am going to be a great deal occupied for some weeks with my affairs in London and then I must travel to Gloucester to put my estates in order. Would you like to visit your home? You may take that wretched piper away with you and leave him there. And the thieving Polly.”

  “Oh, my lord,” said Fiona, tears of gratitude spilling out of her eyes.

  “Don’t cry,” he said softly. “Your eyes are so green, I am amazed to see your tears are like crystal. I would have expected pure emeralds to drop from them.”

  Fiona tugged a small handkerchief out of the sleeves of her nightgown and gave her nose a vigorous blow.

  He watched her with tender amusement. “You may leave in a week’s time. Of course society will tattle and assume we have quarreled, but I never paid any attention to what anyone said in the past and I do not mean to start now. Talk to that Polly creature tomorrow and warn her if she continues to thieve, then she may not go with you but will be returned to the streets.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Yes, Charles.”

  “Yes, Charles.”

  He got to his feet. “Then good night, Fiona.”

  Fiona turned and looked at the bed and then at the marquess. “You mean you are not going to… to…”

  “Not until the decision is yours. I am sure I can keep my slavering masculine lusts in check for a little longer.”

  Fiona rose and curtsied. “Good night, Charles. And, oh, thank you.”

  “You may kiss me, if that is not too much to ask,” he teased.

  No longer afraid of him, Fiona went straight into his arms. The kiss was firm and warm and comforting.

  When he drew away, he smiled at her and said, “Nothing to alarm you in that, was there?”

  “Oh, no,” said Fiona innocently. “I shall kiss you again, if you wish.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  He went out and closed the door. Too excited to sleep, Fiona burst into Christine’s room to tell her the news. They chattered on excitedly into the night, and the marquess, sitting reading in his room along the corridor, heard the murmurs of voices, sighed, and wondered whether a year was long enough for his wife to grow up.

  Fiona did not see her husband the next morning and experienced an odd feeling of disappointment to find he had left early for the House of Lords. But her parents called and were excited to learn of her proposed visit north, seeing nothing odd in the fact that a newlywed man should wish to send his bride away so soon. Sir Edward confessed to homesickness but said he hoped to complete his studies soon, and if he saw no prospect of clients, he would cut his losses by returning to the north himself.

  They had only just left when the next callers arrived—the Duchess of Gordonstoun and Lizzie.

  Fiona tried her best to be friendly and welcoming but she hoped they would not stay long. Her news of her forthcoming journey to the Highlands met with a different reception. The duchess asked anxiously if she had done anything to give Cleveden a disgust of her and looked disbelieving when Fiona said they were on the best of terms. Fiona noticed with irritation a small secret smile on Lizzie’s face and knew that Lizzie at least was not convinced that all was well and was enjoying the thought.

  Then Lizzie murmured something to the duchess, who looked sharply at Christine, who was sitting sewing in a corner.

  “Why is your maid seated?” demanded the duchess. “She should remain standing in your presence.”

  “Christine is no longer my maid,” said Fiona with a smile. “My lord has elevated her to the position of companion.”

  “How odd!” exclaimed the duchess, staring rudely at Christine. “But then the whims of the English aristocracy have always baffled me.”

  Fiona thought she surprised a flash of envy and dislike in Lizzie’s eyes as they looked at Christine, but the next moment, Lizzie’s expression was as meek and colorless as usual. She had told the marquess she would not have anything to do with Lizzie, but she could hardly forbid the girl the house when she came on a social call with the duchess.

  Fiona tried not to show her relief when the duchess took her leave.

  Then she sent Christine to fetch Polly and read that young maid a stern lecture.

  Polly wept and promised to be good. She wept again when she was told she was to accompany her mistress north, and it transpired between sobs that Polly was convinced she was being taken away to a savage barbaric land from which she would never return.

  After soothing and reassuring Polly, Fiona went out walking with Christine, only to find on her return that the elegant downstairs saloon of the marquess’s town house was full of curious callers waiting to greet the new marchioness.

  The following days were taken up with receiving and making calls. The marquess seemed to be nowhere about during the day and Fiona often sat up late until she heard him mount the stairs and go to his room. He never came to see her and she began to wonder if he had indeed taken a dislike to her.

  On the eve of her departure, she could not bear it any longer, and she made her way to his room and shyly scratched at the door.

  A deep voice called. “Enter,” and Fiona went in.

  Her lord was lying in a large four-poster bed, a book on his lap.

  Those odd yellow-gold eyes of his surveyed her curiously.

  “I am delighted to see you,” he said. “What is the reason for this late-night visit?”

  “I am to leave in the morning,” said Fiona, “and I have seen nothing of you.”

  He looked amused. “I was sure that would have delighted you.”

  “Not really,” said Fiona. “It feels very odd to be married and yet to see nothing of one�
�s husband.”

  “I shall have plenty of time for you when you return,” he said. “Do not be away too long.”

  “I shall miss you,” said Fiona politely.

  “My dear child, you cannot miss someone you do not even know. Be off with you and have a good night’s sleep.”

  Fiona hesitated. “I shall kiss you good-bye,” she said bravely, advancing on the bed.

  “As you wish.” He held out his arms.

  Fiona sank down on the bed beside him and raised her lips, hoping to convey by the warmth of her kiss all the gratitude she felt toward him.

  At first, his kiss was like the previous two, firm and impersonal. Then his lips softened and moved against her own and his arms tightened about her. Fiona clutched his shoulders like a drowning woman as a wave of passion engulfed her. Her body seemed to fuse with his own, although the blankets were between them. His passion was making her body wanton, making it move languorously and provocatively against his.