One Golden Ring. Cheryl Bolen

      Trevor, who seemed to hang on Fiona’s every word, nodded. “The girl absolutely adores anything to do with books.”

      “So you’re close to the girl?” Nick asked his wife.

      She appeared to give the matter consideration. “Not really. I doubt anyone’s close to Miss Peabody. She’s entirely too enamored of books to be companionable.” Fiona gave a little laugh. “She doesn’t really wish to be presented, either, since she doesn’t think she’s interested in men.”

      Nick hiked a single brow. “And how old is Miss Peabody?”

      “Nineteen,” Fiona said.

      “She’d be quite lovely,” Trevor said, “if she didn’t persist in wearing those blasted spectacles.”

      Fiona nodded. “Her sister had hoped to present her last year, but Miss Peabody would have nothing to do with it.”

      How different the two sisters must be, Nick thought. Not only had the new countess been married once before she married Warwick, but it was said she had turned down a half a dozen marriage offers from men she had bewitched. “Why does her sister not present her?”

      “The countess is not well acquainted with the ton—because she’s a colonist and because she’s been breeding ever since she wed Warwick. In fact, I’ve heard that she’s breeding again.”

      Nick lowered his voice as he addressed his wife. “Will it not be difficult for you to present Miss Peabody since your relationship with her sister is somewhat strained?” He eyed his brothers who were courteously listening to Trevor rhapsodize about the sauce drizzled on the asparagus.

      “Actually, it would be very good for me to sponsor the countess’s sister. That—and being married to you—should convince everyone that I’ve forgotten all about Warwick.”

      Would that she had forgotten Warwick. Nick’s stomach dropped. Now he understood her other reason for marrying him. She wished to assure the ton she was no longer in love with the earl who had rejected her. Damn Warwick ! “About presenting my sister . . .”

      “What’s her name?” Fiona asked.

      “Verity.” He lowered his voice again. “How do you know Verity won’t be an embarrassment to you?”

      “No sister of yours could ever be an embarrassment, Mr.—” She caught herself and smiled. “Pardon me, Nick.”

      He was oddly pleased that she did not find him offensive.

      “Your brothers are perfect gentlemen, too,” she whispered.

      “The younger one will take the money to Portugal.”

      “You’ve got the money, then?”

      He nodded. “I await instructions.”

      “Are you not worried about your brother’s safety?”

      “He’s an old hand at this sort of thing.”

      “With ransom demands?” she asked incredulously.

      “With safely delivering large sums of money.”

      “I thrive upon danger,” William said, watching Fiona with dancing eyes.

      Her gaze met William’s. “I’m persuaded you must know how to defend yourself ?”

      William looked from one brother to the other, then addressed Fiona. “All of the Birmingham brothers have been schooled in fencing and pugilism.”

      “Though, thankfully, we’ve never had to defend ourselves,” Nick added.

      “How I admire you manly types,” Trevor lamented, his affectionate gaze leaping from one brother to the other.

      Nick’s brothers went deadly silent. “I daresay fencing is not a skill one needs in Mayfair,” Nick said, giving his wife’s friend a feeble smile.

      Champagne was served, and everyone toasted the bridal couple before the gathering broke up.

      “Where are we going?” she asked her husband as she settled into his luxurious carriage.

      He tucked the rug around her. It was beastly cold today. “To Piccadilly. To see our new house.”

      Our. How odd it seemed to be on the verge of sharing this stranger’s vast wealth. “I’ve admired it from the street,” she said, thinking of its Palladian elegance. “It seems rather . . . well, rather large for a bachelor.”

      “I knew I wasn’t always going to be a bachelor.”

      Her heart drummed. No, he wanted a family. Hadn’t he made that clear to her? “When will it be ready to move in?”

      “That’s hard to say. Most of it’s finished now. It ought to be, considering that construction began three years ago. The Italian artist who’s painting the ceilings has rather delayed things.”

      “Temperamental?”

      A lazy grin lifted a corner of his mouth. “Exceedingly so. He repainted the dining room three times because his first two efforts didn’t satisfy.”

      “What did you think of the first two efforts?”

      “I thought they were magnificent. Everything the man paints is magnificent.”

      “Otherwise you wouldn’t have had him, I gather.” The little she had seen of Nicholas Birmingham had convinced her that he was possessed of excellent taste. The rich fabrics and demure styling of his clothes could only have been tailored by London’s best. His carriage was fit for a duke, and the house he was building on Piccadilly would be the most elegant address in London.

      “I am rather demanding,” he confessed with a smile.

      Good Lord, would he expect her to be perfect? “I sincerely hope you won’t be disappointed in me, then.”

      He turned to her, taking both her hands in his while those black eyes of his studied her. “I could never be disappointed in you, Fiona.”

      She felt his heat, smelled his faint sandalwood scent, and was blatantly aware of how close they were.

      Then the carriage came to a stop.

      She withdrew one hand and lifted the velvet curtain to peer out the window. “We’re here,” she murmured.

      The coach door swung open, then Nick was assisting her from the carriage. He continued to hold her hand as they walked through the front courtyard, up four steps, and through double doors into the mansion. It was hard for her to believe it was not finished. From the vast entry hall she could see four rooms, one with scaffolding erected beneath a clouded ceiling of nymphs and seraphs. Though she could not see the artist, she knew that was the room he was now finishing. Highly polished marble floors stretched as far as the eye could see, and an array of huge crystal chandeliers suspended from every ceiling except in the room with the scaffolding. The walls were painted in vibrant colors and trimmed in stark white with heavily gilded cornices and pilasters.

      When Trevor had called the mansion disgustingly opulent, he had once again exaggerated. It was tastefully opulent, she decided. She could not wait to show it to Trevor, who would be sure to appreciate its classically elegant lines. It reminded her of Lord Burlington’s house in Richmond, but on a larger scale. “It looks ready to move in,” she said.

      His hand settled at her waist. “It will need your touch, Mrs. Birmingham. We’ll need furnishings and draperies and . . . well, you’ll know. Vases and such.”

      Mrs. Birmingham. She could scarcely credit it! She really was this man’s wife. “You will permit me to make the selections?” she asked.

      “I’ll be grateful for you to make the selections. I rather fancy architecture, but I assure you I’d be hopeless at selecting draperies and things.”

      As would most men. Except for Trevor.