One Golden Ring. Cheryl Bolen

      “How lucky that I’ve taken you for a wife, then.”

      “Oh, somehow I think you would have managed with Mr. Sheraton or some such authority had you not been saddled with me.”

      “I’m not saddled with you, Fiona,” he said in a serious voice, gazing down at her. “I’m a most fortunate man to have wed you.”

      Her heart fluttered. “It’s I who am fortunate,” she whispered.

      He showed her all the entertaining rooms on the ground floor, then paused to speak to the Italian painter who told him he would be finished by week’s end.

      Smiling, Nick turned to her. “Then we can begin moving in as soon as we return from Camden Hall.”

      She smiled back at him. “This is very exciting.”

      Together she and Nick walked up the broad terrazzo stairway to the second floor, where high-quality oak floors replaced the marble floors that were downstairs. An asparagus green drawing room was at the top of the stairs. The hallway was studded with classically pedimented doorways, the middle one opening to Nick’s bedchamber, which was painted royal blue. To one side of his bedchamber a study was located, on the other, a dressing room. They walked through the dressing room and found themselves in another dressing room that was all ivory and gilt. “This one will be yours,” he said.

      She had never given much thought before to her parents’ dressing rooms being adjacent, but that hers and Nick’s were next to each other sent the blush to her cheeks.

      They continued through the dressing room and came to her bedchamber, which was also painted in ivory and gilt. “Feel free to change it,” he said.

      “Ivory’s perfect! I can bring another color in with the draperies and bed coverings.” She wondered if they would make love in her room or his.

      And her cheeks turned even more scarlet.

      After he completed the tour she said, “The house is truly wonderful, Nick.”

      “Not the house,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Our house.”

      “Perhaps one day I’ll be able to think of it as ours, but now it speaks of your magnificent vision. You should be very proud of yourself.”

      He shrugged. “I’d best get you back to Agar House so you can pack for Camden Hall.”

      So he did not like to be praised.

      Once they were back in the carriage for the short ride to Cavendish Square, she asked, “Did you know that little girl who was at St. George’s today?”

      He did not answer for a moment. Then he said, “That was my daughter.”

      “I didn’t know you’d been married—” She stopped as if she’d been stung by a wasp. Of course he hadn’t been married before! Hadn’t Trevor said Nick allowed his bastard to live with him? Only Fiona had not thought that a bastard would be a little girl. A lovely little girl with plaited brown hair, a much lighter shade of brown than her father’s.

      “She’s my illegitimate daughter, Fiona.”

      Fiona studied the lapels on Nick’s frock coat. “And she lives with you?”

      “She does.”

      “That seems rather . . . unorthodox. Her mother has died, then?”

      “As far as I know, her mother’s alive.”

      “Then why . . . ?”

      “Because her mother would not have been a good influence on a daughter I had come to care about.”

      “Then I cannot help but to wonder if the mother was so inferior why you would have . . .” Have been attracted to the woman, have made love to her?

      He raked his long fingers through his thick, dark hair. “I’ve asked myself the same question thousands of times.”

      “Why does the child not reside with your mother?”

      He stiffened. “My mother, being religiously evangelical, vehemently disapproved of my daughter.”

      “Her own grandchild? That doesn’t seem terribly Christian to me.”

      He shrugged.

      Fiona tried to remember what Trevor had said about Mrs. Birmingham’s origins. Oh yes, he had said she was crass. Fiona could not in her wildest dreams believe a gentleman as fine as Nick could be the spawn of a crass woman.

      They sat in silence the next few minutes, her thoughts a jumble. She was disappointed that Nick had been involved with a woman who must have been a whore, yet she was oddly pleased that he had risked personal censure for the sake of rescuing an innocent child. She sucked in her breath. If they were to have children together—and she did so desperately want to have children—Nick would be a fine father.

      But surely he would not expect her to be a mother to his illegitimate child! Her hands dug into the plush velvet seat. She wasn’t ready to discuss this further with him. It would take time for her to adjust to the disappointing reality.

      They spoke hardly at all during the three-hour ride to Camden Hall. His bride was obviously distressed to learn of Emmie’s existence. Perhaps he should have taken Adam’s advice and stuck the child away in a boarding school. Such an action would have indicated his wife was more important to him than his own child. He had not wanted to live in a world where he would have to rank those he cared about, where he would have to choose one loved one over another. Nick was a great believer in harmony. Why could Fiona not embrace his daughter? Surely she could repay him in some way for the fortune he was putting up to make her his wife.

      Then he remembered she planned to repay him tonight. A smoldering heat began to burn inside him as he thought of what lay ahead for them that night. He lifted her hand and began to peel off her glove, finger by agonizing finger until the glove was removed. He filled with pride as he eyed the golden ring, then pressed a lingering kiss into the cup of her palm as his fiery eyes met hers.

      “Nick,” she whispered softly as her other hand lifted to stroke his face.

      He pulled her into his arms for a hungry kiss. The kiss was harsh and wet and unbelievably intense as her lips parted beneath his, as she began to make little whimpering sounds. His hands began to move possessively over her, stroking her creamy shoulders, splaying over her back, then cupping her small breasts, his thumb feathering along the tip of her nipple.

      Who would ever have thought his delicate little wife capable of such passion? Her reaction to him was more intoxicating than an entire bottle of champagne.

      The coach lurched to a stop, and he lifted the curtain. He had not been aware that it had turned dark outside or that they were already at Camden Hall.

      Chapter 6

      He was hungry, but not for the food served to them shortly after they arrived at Camden Hall, which his servants had thoughtfully strewn with Christmas greenery. As he and his bride sat facing one another across the dinner table, he was unable to remove his gaze from her. It seemed almost incomprehensible that this exquisite creature was his wife, that in a few hours he would completely possess her. He drank in the way the candlelight played on her delicate features as she sucked a spoonful of turtle soup into her mouth. Good Lord, it was hot in here!

      Remembering the taste of her tongue mingling with his, he grew winded and began to tug on his cravat. Once more he began to get aroused. As he spread the butter on his roll he thought of slowly stroking every inch of her smooth flesh. His lids lifted and he hungrily watched her tongue nip at her lower lip. He was not at all sure he could make it through the dinner without leaping from his chair, hauling her into his arms, and carrying her upstairs to his bedchamber.

      “Is your cravat too tight?” she asked. “I must say they look beastly uncomfortable.”

      How could a cravat that had fit perfectly