Chapter 13
Richard says I must stop hanging about Harry so much. That I will make him uncomfortable! Cheers, I say. Why should he be any more comfortable than I?
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I Phillips Ltd.
London, England
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“Thank you, Mr. Phillips, and again, I do apologize for the rush.” Fiona smiled at the tailor as he courteously held the door to his shop open for her.
“The rules of apparel are ever-changing at the Royal Wimbledon and at the Commons course, and I wanted to take advantage of the new concessions to the ladies' uniform in time for the Open.”
“It is my honor, my lady,” Phillips told her. “I am most appreciative of your business. The ensemble will be quite perfect for you.”
“And you’re certain I will have it before the tournament in two weeks’ time?”
The tailor nodded. “It will be on time, my lady. I promise.”
The bell sounded and dulled as the door closed behind Fiona.
Regent Street buzzed around her, with shoppers going every which way about their business.
Unfortunately, the maid who had accompanied her was nowhere in sight.
No, there she was. She spotted her a street away and frowned.
The silly girl flirtatiously twisted a curl around her finger and smiled coyly at the burly man hovering over her.
She would have to speak to Hobbes about the maid’s lax behavior.
Turning to go after her, she was caught by the arm as she passed an alley and turned in indignation to soundly scold the ruffian who would manhandle her so.
“Hello, darling!”
“Lord Ramsay, you gave me a start,” she berated him. “I was about to beat you over the head with my parasol. Perhaps I might yet. What are you doing here?”
Ramsay chuckled. “Other than surprising you, you mean? Did you get my flowers?”
She nodded. In fact, she had several deliveries that morning.
From Temple, a bouquet of white and scarlet zinnias for goodness and constancy with some blue violets for faithfulness mixed in.
It had been a sweet, friendly gesture. On the other hand, Aylesbury had sent an enormous arrangement of yellow roses and azaleas, which meant forgive, forget, and temperance in the language of flowers.
She didn’t know whom he thought was in self-denial, him or her.
Either that or he didn’t know the meaning of the flower, but Fiona somehow thought he had done it on purpose. Had Ramsay done the same, or was he ignorant of the fact that his small bouquet of rosebay rhododendrons warned the receiver to beware? Most likely, he hadn’t thought much of it at all.
“I did, thank you,” she said at last, looking up at him and noticing the cut across the bridge of his nose and a black eye.
With a roll of his eyes, Ramsay rubbed a finger lightly across the cut at the bridge of his nose. “I went to find your brother at his dammed club since that butler of yours wouldn’t let me in, I might add. I petitioned him for your hand, and he hit me!”
Wincing, she recalled Eve mentioning that Ramsay had done just that. “What were you thinking? I asked you not to do that at all, did I not? You shouldn’t have pressed the issue when I already told you I would wait out the season as Francis asked.”
He scoffed at that. “All I hear from you is Francis this. Francis that. What about me? Am I to wait out the season while you forget me? Every time I turn about, you are there with another man. Who was that chap you went riding with?”
“Lord Temple is just a friend,” Fiona assured him, taken aback by his jealous display. “A friend of the family.”
“Yes, he looked very friendly,” he offered snidely. “And the other one?”
She blinked. “Other one? You mean at the park last week? You were there?”
“Yes, hoping for a moment with you,” he said, then sighed dramatically.
“Ah, Fiona, don’t you remember all the good times we had before you left Scotland?
I still think I can best you on that seventh hole on the New Course one of these days.
Imagine how lovely it would be to play every day. We could do anything you want.”
When he said it like that, it all sounded quite delightful. He offered a future on her terms. Control, when lately Fiona felt she was losing the reins of her own life.
“We could begin straight away...”
The rest of his unspoken request was simple enough to assume, and Fiona was hard put not to sigh impatiently. “Lord Ramsay, please do not.”
The question, thankfully, remained unasked. “Can I at least offer you a ride home?”
“That’s very kind, but I have a carriage waiting up the street,” she said. “Perhaps you would like to ride with me and come in and visit with my family for a while?”
“I don’t think we are ready yet for polite conversation,” he said, fingering his nose again. “I will see you another time then.”
Fiona nodded and watched as he turned and walked away.
In a way, she felt terrible for putting him off so.
Her rejections had wrought an undeniable rift in the pleasing companionship that had been a hallmark of their interactions.
Still, his repeated insistence that she run off with him willy-nilly and leave an unseemly hullaballoo in their wake was just as displeasing to her.
The issue would need to be addressed if she were to continue to hold him as her primary avenue of escape, as Ilona put it. Especially when there seemed to be others who might be willing to take his place.
With a sniff, Fiona turned on her heel, determined to find her maid and be on her way, only to walk straight into a broad male chest.
“Oh!” she cried, scrambling to catch her parasol and reticule before they hit the muddy walk. “Blast it!”
“Easy there.” With a low chuckle, Aylesbury steadied her with a hand under her elbow, still managing to catch her reticule by the chain. It dangled from one finger a foot above the ground. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She snorted at that. His presence on a random street in London on a Thursday afternoon was no more startling than his appearance at every event she attended, every outing she went on.
He infuriated her even more by being entirely too amiable as well and not even mentioning the hard slap she’d delivered.
Contrary to her wishes, Harry had not left her alone.
Instead, he seemed determined to do quite the opposite and the women in her family were in collusion with him.
It hadn’t taken her long to realize her jest that he was a far better choice than Ramsay in her family’s eyes wasn’t far off.
Subtlety wasn’t even a factor in their scheme to throw them together.
Eve invited him to dinner again. Moira, to share their box at the theater.
Whether she was riding with Moira, bicycling with Temple or punting on the bloody Thames, he was there.
There, offering compliments and pretty words, smiling in that way he had as if being so bloody nice could wash away the past.
Conner had even offered to have him round out their foursome for a round of golf at Wimbledon Commons, the course played by the Royal Wimbledon Golf Club where the British Ladies Open Championship would soon be held.
Fiona had wanted to familiarize herself with the nine-hole course the ladies played on and hadn’t been happy to have Aylesbury there to serve as a distraction.
Admittedly, he had looked rather fine in his knickers, plaid tweed jacket, and cap.
He even impressed her by playing well, telling her it was not his first time.
His performance on the links had softened her enough to go against her better judgment and converse with him normally—or as normally as a sordid past such as theirs would allow.
They argued over Miss Pearson’s introduction of a handicap, how it evened the playing field for groups of variable skill sets, and the qualities of the Commons course recently designed by Tom Dunn when compared to her beloved St. Andrews.
That flash of amiability did not mean she was happy to see him.
“Well, you did startle me! And you nearly made me ruin my favorite parasol.”
Aylesbury eyed the frilly concoction with interest. The parasol was an elegant ivory silk affair reduced to frivolity by the overabundance of black gauze lace hanging from the edges.
Cleverly done, though, with a crook added at the peak of the dome, allowing it to be carried, in all its glory, upright so that the lace hung below the silk as intended rather than draping over it as it would if carried upside down.
It occurred to him then that all the parasols he had seen her with were constructed the same way and always carried like a walking stick instead of over her head.
A decoration, that was all. And very dissimilar to the simple styling of her walking suit.
The ivory silk of her jacket bore a faint black pinstripe, fitting in well-tailored lines from her shoulders, nipping in at the waist with a trio of jet buttons before falling smoothly over her hips to be carried out by the matching skirt in straight lines to the ground.
Other than the black buttons, some black cording and a cameo at the throat of her high-necked blouse, nothing about her screamed the femininity of that parasol.
Nor the heavily beaded and fringed black reticule, he noted as he handed it back to her.
There was something of a sensualist hiding beneath Fiona’s severe exterior. In more than one aspect, he imagined. The revelation was a tease to discover what else might lie beneath, a lure Aylesbury was all too willing to fall prey to.
“What are you doing here? Are you following me?”
“Not at all,” he assured her with a broad smile but did indeed follow as she pivoted abruptly around him.
Employing the frivolous parasol jauntily with each brisk step, Fiona continued down the walk.
“I was just across the way at my haberdashers selecting a new straw boater for summer. What has you out?” He looked back at the plank hanging over Phillips’ door. “A new habit?”