Chapter Thirty
A Resolution Is Reached
Lady Amelia nodded. “Valentina and I will escort Octavia to the schoolroom. Come, my sweet.”
Octavia’s words of protest faded as Richard gave her a stern look, and she meekly took her mother’s outstretched hand. But before leaving the room, she turned and flashed an impudent grin at Gerald Rafferty.
“You are a pirate, aren’t you, Mr. Rafferty? If I promise to keep your secret, will you take me on your next adventure?”
Lady Amelia sighed in exasperation and pulled her reluctant daughter out of the room. Valentina followed, but not before giving a reassuring smile to Fiona.
Fiona attempted to smooth over the tension in the room. “Athair, Lord Richard and his family welcomed me when I was alone and without prospects. He didn’t ask to be my guardian.”
“A highborn lass like you without prospects? I know I left you without a dowry, but you had my sister’s townhome and a reasonable portion.”
She stared at her lap. “Aunt Muriel died in debt. She lived beyond her means, I’m afraid, Athair.
To settle those obligations, I had to sell her house.
Most of the money you left went toward my tuition for the music conservatory, and the rest paid for the passage here.
Perhaps twenty pounds remained in Mr. O’Cleary’s care, but that’s all. ”
“And what of the new clothes I see? Your entertainments and furbelows?”
“The earl has generously provided an allowance.”
“Oh, has he now? Is that how you convinced my daughter to marry you, Lord Seldon? Enticing her with expensive gifts? You are a good bit older than Fiona, and far more experienced, I warrant. Did it occur to you that you might gain advantage of her youth with your extravagant lifestyle and means?”
“Have you forgotten that the law appointed me as your daughter’s guardian, Mr. Rafferty? I had no say in the arrangement.” Richard answered coldly. “By law, her care became my responsibility. I provided for Miss Rafferty in the same way I look after all the members of my family.”
“And would you marry one of them as well?” Gerald Rafferty asked in a silky voice.
Richard took an involuntary step forward. “If you were any other man, I would have you answer for that remark.”
“Would you indeed, Lord Seldon? You took an unprotected girl under your wing and seduced her into marrying you, isn’t that so?” He made no effort to temper the sneer in his voice.
Richard blanched; the words had struck home. Resolutely, Fiona stepped between the two men—her father’s cheeks were as ruddy as Richard’s were pale.
“There was no coercion involved, and nothing ungentlemanly in Lord Seldon’s intentions, Athair. The Merricks have been nothing but considerate and kind. They took me into their home and treated me as a member of the family.”
“You are a Rafferty,” he hissed, “not a Merrick.”
“Athair…Father…please. I accepted Lord Richard’s proposal willingly. I love him.”
She turned to Richard, waiting for him to reciprocate her declaration. He needed only to confirm the return of her affection and his intentions.
When he finally spoke, his icy words reverberated in the tense room.
“You need not fear, Mr. Rafferty.” A muscle ticked in his lean cheek.
“I won’t damage your daughter’s name in a marriage where my motives are questioned.
I release Fiona from any future obligations to me, and that includes our engagement and any responsibilities as my ward.
You may take her back to Ireland and be damned to your insinuations. ”
Fiona took a step backward. “R-Richard…you don’t mean that.” Their topsy-turvy relationship might rival a Drury Lane melodrama, but she believed in the emotions behind it. His words cut her to the quick.
“I do,” he said gently. “Despite your father’s insulting manner, I admit there is truth in his words.
You were under my protection, and I violated that trust. Return home with your father, Fiona—Miss Rafferty—with my sincerest apologies, and put my attentions behind you.
Do not look back, I beg you.” He executed a stiff bow, quite lacking his usual elegance.
“I think that’s best for all concerned.” Her father extended an imperious hand. “Come, Fiona Kathleen. I will arrange for a room at my hotel. Thank you for your guardianship of my daughter, Lord Seldon, but I will take over that duty now.”
She looked back and forth between the two men, whom she loved with all her heart. “I…c-can’t just leave…my belongings are upstairs, and I must say goodbye to Lady Amelia…and Valentina will be so upset…oh, what shall I tell them?”
“Your things can be sent,” he said impatiently. “You will accompany me immediately, Fiona.”
“No, Athair, I will not.” Anger replaced indecision. She was exasperated with her father and with Richard, whose face was set in a silent mask of indifference. They had both forced this abysmal situation on her.
“I won’t be so rude to the family who have treated me as a daughter and a sister when I had no one.
You sent me back to Dublin alone, Father.
I was fourteen years old and still missing Mháthair.
You packed me off to an elderly aunt whom I barely knew and left me to grow up alone while you sailed off to your adventures in Barbados and traipsed about the jungles of South America. ”
Her father’s brows snapped together. “Fiona—”
“I’m going to my room now. I will come to your hotel tomorrow, but not without a proper goodbye to those I care about. Good night.” Fiona dared not look at Richard again but fled the drawing room as hot tears filled her eyes.
*
Richard watched Fiona’s emotional exit with an aching heart.
What had he expected? That she would throw her arms around him and refuse to return to Ireland with her one living relative?
Recklessly, and blind with anger at Gerald Rafferty, he had broken their engagement.
Did he think she would protest her dismissal and refuse to comply?
She loved him. His heart leaped at hearing those words.
God knows he had waited long enough for her to say them.
Was she simply placating her father? It had taken every bit of self-control not to plant a facer in Rafferty’s livid countenance—more so because the man’s accusations held a ring of truth.
Clinging to his tattered pride, he didn’t say he loved her.
Instead, he sent her back to Ireland. He was an utter fool.
Hansen appeared at the door with impeccable timing.
“Please fetch Mr. Rafferty’s hat and cloak, Hansen,” Richard ordered, still furious. “Our guest is ready to leave.”
Rafferty looked as though he might protest, but he tightened his lips and gave the briefest of bows before following the majordomo out of the room.
Richard escaped to his study before his mother or sister could return.
He recognized the tightness in the back of his head and the pounding in his temples.
The beginning of a colossal headache. He couldn’t remember the last time he had suffered one.
If ever there was a night to prompt a headache, it was this miserable evening.
His valet materialized as he reached the door and followed him into the room.
“Let me take your coat, sir. I will snuff the candles and leave the fire.”
Numbly, Richard allowed John to ease the tight-fitting garment from his shoulders and slide each sleeve down his arms. After carefully laying the coat over the desk, John returned.
“Your boots, sir.”
The earl waved him away irritably. “You’re dismissed.” He grimaced.
“My lord,” John stood firmly in place. “It is obvious that you are not feeling well. Let me remove your boots and loosen your cravat, and I will leave you in peace.”
The candlelight flickered, and Richard sat in the overstuffed armchair by the fire, shutting his eyes against the dancing glare.
He extended one leg, then the other, as John struggled to pull off the molded leather.
When he finished, Richard’s head fell back against the cushioned headrest, and raising a hand to refuse any help, he pulled at the intricate knots in his snowy cravat, releasing them and throwing aside the fabric.
Sighing in relief, Richard undid the first few buttons of his thin lawn shirt.
“Are you happy now?” he growled at the hovering valet.
“Let me bring some brandy, my lord, and a carafe of water.”
“Whiskey,” the earl muttered. John slipped out to return a short time later with a tray, which he set down on the small mahogany table by Richard’s chair. He moved quietly about the room, dampening the tapers with a snuffer.
Richard opened his eyes. “You should have brought a bottle.”
“Nonsense, my lord. A glass will do. And water is the best thing for you, not spirits. There is also some laudanum.”
“If I agree to take it, will you leave?” The firelight exposed the older man’s grave concern and Richard regretted his churlishness.
“Thank you, John. I shall doze here for a while, and it will be fine. Please don’t wait up, and send word that I won’t attend supper.”
“Yes, my lord.” He bowed and softly closed the door behind him.
Richard downed half the whiskey and sank into the upholstered cushions as the spirits warmed his throat and settled in his stomach.
Eyeing the carafe of water and a fresh glass beside it, he expelled an impatient breath and filled the glass, adding two drops of the opiate.
He drank that and another glass of water.
Although the bands of pain around his head and neck persisted to throb, it was easier to bear after the numbing effects of the whiskey and the near darkness of the room. Soon, the laudanum would take effect.
Richard ran a hand through his tousled hair, drawing a deep, unsteady breath. It always amazed him how quickly the headaches attacked. Eventually, they abated, leaving him groggy and unbalanced. Usually, a bit of solitude in a quiet, dim room and mindful breathing stilled the warning signs.
But tonight had almost broken him. Gerald Rafferty’s accusations were true.
He had taken advantage of his daughter. The seductive skills gained from his meaningless affairs had succeeded only too well.
Fiona believed she was in love with him.
How could he be sure he hadn’t just dazzled her with his wealth and status?
She was a wealthy woman now. How could he hold her to an engagement that he had coerced her into accepting? She was young enough to recover from a broken heart. Unfortunately, he could not say the same.
Finally, the dim room and crackling of the dying embers lulled him into a restless sleep.
Richard awoke with a start, his mouth dry, and sat up too quickly.
A wave of lightheadedness engulfed him. He reached for the water carafe and poured a glass with unsteady hands.
Gradually, the room righted itself. Groaning, he rubbed his temples, rose from the chair, staggering slightly, and went over to stoke the smoldering fire. A dim flame flared up.
Perhaps he had just dreamed the music. Richard opened the study door to listen, but the house was quiet. If it were the piano, that would mean Fiona was awake. He had to know for certain.
His heart quickened as he opened the adjoining door to the bedroom where a heavy silk dressing gown lay on the bed.
He shrugged it on. Tying the cord around his waist, he passed back through the study and stood in the doorway listening.
He rubbed his forehead, perplexed—had he imagined the piano because he wanted to believe it was Fiona? Resolutely, he went to the music room.
*
Fiona lay her head on the shelf of the piano to cry as the final notes of the Schubert impromptu lingered in the air. The No. 3 always made her melancholy and lonely and tonight was no exception. She had to stop at several points as her emotions bubbled to the surface.
Sleep had been elusive, broken by grief and the full moon outside her window, spilling across the floor to her bed. The clock indicated one when she gave up, drawn inexorably to the Broadwood.
Her swirling thoughts demanded an outlet and she instinctively reached for the Schubert.
With each measure, each poignant note, this is my last day here echoed in her mind.
She would never see Richard again. The thought was agonizing, and at the end of the piece she collapsed, the beautiful wood damp with tears.
It was instinct, more than a sound, that made Fiona raise her head. Richard stood in the doorway, dimly illuminated by the single taper she placed on the top of the piano.
His mahogany locks were loose and disordered, and he wore a dark-blue dressing gown, loosely tied. His white shirt gaped to the waist, revealing a sprinkling of dark hair and sculpted muscle. He seemed disoriented and hesitant.
“Fiona.” His voice was thick, almost hoarse.
Below Richard’s creased breeches, his calves and feet were bare. He looked nothing like the polished, elegantly dressed man she knew. Hastily, she wiped at the tears with her sleeve. She was far more clothed than he in a cambric night shift buttoned to her throat and a satin wrapper.
“Fiona…are you crying? Is it—oh Christ, I’ve fucked things so badly.” His voice trailed off uncertainly and he glanced down at his exposed feet. “Good God. I must be mad.”
Richard looked as if he might flee at any moment. And tomorrow she would be gone; she might never see him again. Fiona leaped up, and the piano bench made a grating noise as it slid backward.
“I have to know…was it wrong to send you away? Are you…” His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “Did you mean what you said? Fiona, do you love me?”