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Authors: Cheryl Bolen

BOOK: One Golden Ring
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“Then tomorrow is agreeable to me.”
“You know,” he said with an atypical lack of confidence, “you don't have to marry me to save your brother. I could negotiate some sort of loan to secure his release.”
She shrugged. “Marrying you is not repugnant to me, Mr. Birmingham. At six and twenty, I'm too long on the shelf not to leap at the chance of marrying—and I'm no longer the adolescent idealist who longs for a passionate love match.”
His flashing eyes narrowed as he silently regarded her. She had the feeling he was carefully choosing his words. “You'll never convince me,” he finally said, “that your being on the shelf is not of your own choosing. Any man in the kingdom would be only too happy to make you his wife.”
“But not the one man I had hoped to wed,” she whispered ruefully. She had to bring up Warwick. Everyone knew how thoroughly besotted she had been over the man, how humiliated she had been when he married another. If Mr. Birmingham was to become her husband, he had the right to know everything about her past.
Mr. Birmingham stiffened, and he spoke sternly. “I don't think I'd like being wed to a woman who's in love with another man.”
“Please be assured, Mr. Birmingham, I'm no longer in love with Lord Warwick. I'm just wounded enough to be wary of giving my heart to another man.”
His jaw tightened as his lazy gaze flicked over her. “And what of giving your body to another man?”
Her heart nearly pounded out of her chest. She could not believe he was bold enough to speak to her of so delicate a matter. Then it suddenly occurred to her that in a day's time she would belong to this man. He would have the right to possess her body. The very thought stole her breath and suffused her in a warm tingling sensation. “If I'm to be your wife,” she said, drawing in a deep breath, “I shall belong to you in every way.”
“I shouldn't like for you to close your eyes and pretend I'm someone else, Fiona.”
Her insides trembled. He had called her by her first name—a gesture she found as intimate as a kiss. Just as intimate was his allusion to closing her eyes . . . closing her eyes while they made love. At the vision of their two bare bodies entwined, heated blood thundered through her veins. “There is no other man, Mr. Birmingham.”
“Nick,” he growled. “You're to call me Nick.”
How intimate
Nick
seemed. Nicholas would not have been nearly so personal. “I vow . . . Nick, I'll make you a good wife.”
He began to slowly peel off her glove as she sat there stunned. Once it was removed, he pressed moist lips into her palm as his hungry eyes locked with hers. Liquid heat gushed to her core. “I hope you'll never regret your decision, my lady,” he said in a deeply seductive voice. Then he settled an arm around her shoulders and gathered her into his chest. For a long time he held her before his lips eased lower until they softly touched hers.
The sheer delicacy of his restrained power snapped her own reserve. She opened her mouth to him as the kiss instantly transformed from sweet to potently passionate, the pressure of his lips from light to crushing. The firmer his pressure, the more intense her pleasure. Her arms circled his granite-hard back, and little murmuring sounds came from her throat. She experienced an aching, throbbing need to feel his hands stroke her in places no man had ever touched.
It was as if he were privy to her innermost thoughts, for his hand began to cup her breast, to knead it, his thumb feathering over her now-hardened nipple. Her moans grew deeper, the motion of her own hands tracing circles on his back, firmer. Though she knew her behavior utterly brazen, she refused to alter it for she gloried in this man's touch.
Yes, she told herself, Nick Birmingham was infinitely preferable to bald old Lord Strayhorn.
Then Nick Birmingham straightened up, gently cupped her face in his palms, and said, “Forgive me, my lady, for my presumptuousness.”
When he went to get up, her cheeks grew hot. What an utter trollop he must think her! She eked out a feeble smile. “I'm afraid I was the presumptuous one, M-m- . . . Nick.”
Her heart raced as he watched her with vivid intensity. “I think, my dearest Fiona, we may both be getting more than we bargained for—and for that I shall be exceedingly grateful.” He moved toward the door, then turned back to her. “I shall call for you at eleven tomorrow morning. Is St. George's Hanover Square agreeable to you?”
Unable to summon her voice, she nodded. In less than twenty-four hours she would belong to Nick Birmingham. The very thought of it arrested her breath.
Chapter 4
He made it to the bank before it closed for the day, demanding that Adam—and not one of Adam's employees—personally handle his sizeable withdrawal.
“You want FIFTY thousand pounds?” an incredulous Adam asked.
“Half of it to secure the release of my future brother-in-law—”
Adam's eyes rounded. “Then . . . you're going to marry the lady?”
“Tomorrow. St. George's Hanover. You're invited.”
A slow smile spread across Adam's admiring face. “I shall be there. Felicitations and all that, dear fellow. I'm convinced you've made the right decision.”
“Would that I were,” Nick mumbled. Of course, if Lady Fiona was half as passionate in bed as she was in the drawing room in a few minutes earlier, then he had struck a very fine bargain indeed. The very memory of her lips opening beneath his caused his breath to grow short.
Even when he had first taken up with Diane, her kisses had not affected him as profoundly as did Lady Fiona's. It suddenly occurred to him that bedding Diane would hold no allure after making Lady Fiona his wife. “Actually,” he added, “I'll need ten thousand more.”
“Surely you don't mean SIXTY thousand?” Adam said.
Nick directed an impatient glance at his brother. “Surely I do.”
“But I thought the ransom was for only twenty-five.”
“My dear brother, I wish you wouldn't use the word
only
in connection with twenty-five thousand pounds!”
“You know what I mean. What's the other thirty-five thousand for?”
“Twenty-five for William to purchase francs when he travels to Portugal.”
“So you're sending Will to negotiate with the bandits? And you've decided to help Lord Warwick after all?”
“Yes to both,” Nick said. “You don't think I'd trust fifty thousand pounds with someone who wasn't family, do you?”
“Have you told Will yet?”
Nick flicked a glance at the clock on the wall behind Adam's well-ordered desk. His brother's business establishment with its fine walnut wainscoting, tasteful decor, and stunning brass chandeliers bore no resemblance to Nick's austere office that had been his father's before him and that Nick had no desire to change. “Not yet. I expect him here at any moment.”
“What's the other ten thousand for?”
Nick's lips went taut. “For Diane's settlement.”
Adam gave his brother yet another incredulous look. “You're going to spurn the loveliest actress on the London stage simply because you're going to marry a blueblood? How . . . puritanical.”
“I don't take vows of any kind lightly.”
Adam's eyes narrowed. “I believe you're smitten with Lady Fiona.”
“Believe what you will,” Nick said with a careless shrug. “It's nothing to me. I merely felt I owe my wife-to-be a clean slate.”
“Does she know about Emmie, then?”
Nick cursed. “I should have told her! I had so much on my mind I completely forgot.”
“Yes, you should have told her.” Adam eyed his brother warily, then shrugged. “I suppose you could send Emmie off somewhere.”
“You think I should send the child back to the whore who gave birth to her?” Nick asked angrily.
“I know how distasteful that is to you. What about one of those girls' schools around Bath?”
“I should pretend my child does not exist rather than acknowledge her to my aristocratic wife?” This was the first time he'd voiced the word
wife
in connection with Fiona, and it gave him a not unpleasant feeling of possession.
“Now, don't get so ruffled! I'm only trying to prepare you, to warn you. Lady Fiona will not have an illegitimate child under her roof—much less take on the role of mother to the child.”
His brother was likely right, Nick realized, his gut roiling. As far as the child was concerned, he had already gone over and above that which was expected of a gentleman toward his bastard. Still . . .
The door to Adam's office flew open, and the third and youngest Birmingham brother stormed in. It was as if the mold that created the two elder brothers had been retired when William Birmingham was conceived. Where the two elder brothers were tall and dark, William was only barely past medium height, with golden hair and a more muscular torso than his lean brothers. “What the devil was so important that you sent a messenger to Newmarket to fetch me?” William demanded. “Do you know how much I could have won on the final race?”
“You'll get no sympathy from Nick,” Adam said.
“If you did a decent day's work,” Nick chided, “you'd have no need to throw away your money at gaming hells and horse races.”
Adam shrugged. “You know what Nick always says. His livelihood provides all the risks he needs.”
“I don't believe Nick's ever thrown dice in his entire life,” William said.
Nick's brows nudged down. “Why would I want to? I lose and win fortunes every day—no dice or pasteboards needed.”
Dust still clinging to his Hessians, William sank into a chair. “What's so bloody urgent?”
“Nick's getting married tomorrow,” Adam announced.
William bolted up. “The hell you say!”
“He truly is,” Adam said.
“But tomorrow's Christmas Eve!”
“A perfectly good day for a wedding,” Nick said.
“Who are you marrying?” William asked.
Adam met his younger brother's gaze. “Have you ever heard of Lady Fiona Hollingsworth?”
“I don't believe you . . .” William shook his head, his shocked gaze darting from one brother to the other. “She's a viscount's daughter. And she's beautiful. I don't care how legendary Nick's bedchamber prowess is, he couldn't coax an aristocrat—an aristocrat I'll vow he doesn't even know—into his marriage bed.”
The very thought of sharing his bedchamber with Lady Fiona sent blood thundering to Nick's loins. Had someone told him yesterday that he would be marrying Lady Fiona Hollingsworth he would have thought that person a raving lunatic. Yet here he was on the eve of their wedding—oddly with no regrets. In fact, tomorrow couldn't come soon enough to please him.
“It wasn't his bedchamber charms—but his pockets—that attracted the lady,” Adam explained.
“Why Nick?” William asked. “She could snare any peer of the realm she wanted—except Warwick.”
Damn.
Did everyone know of that scoundrel Warwick's mistreatment of Lady Fiona, Nick wondered. He did not at all like to be aiding the man. But Warwick was foreign secretary. And Nick was a patriot.
“Personally, I think she fancies our brother,” Adam said.
Nick remembered how she had watched him at the theatre last night and wished to God what Adam was saying were true. But, of course, it wasn't. One had only to see her this morning with that damn Warwick to know it was that man whom she still loved.
“She fancies the twenty-five thousand I'll spend to free her brother.” He turned to William to explain.
When Nick was finished telling him about the kidnapping, Will said, “So I'm to deal with the bandits?”
“You'll be well protected. You can ride your coach-and-four onto my yacht for the crossing, and on land you'll have four armed postilions, as well as four more armed men in and on the coach.” That should sweeten the pot for his youngest brother, Nick thought. Will was happiest when operating under the threat of danger. No position in an indoor establishment would ever appeal to Will.
“Sounds very much like the time I smuggled bullion out of Frankfurt,” Will said, his green eyes sparkling.
Nick smiled. “Let's hope you do as fine a job this time.”
“No one at the bank knows of the substantial withdrawal since I'm taking care of it myself,” Adam said, “so I wouldn't expect any trouble this side of the channel.”
“What's the other matter you wish me to attend to?” William asked Nick.
“I wish you to begin buying up as many francs as you can.”
William quirked a brow.
“The foreign secretary has asked for our assistance in crushing the French,” Adam said. “Actually, he approached Nick.”
Nick shrugged. “We were at Cambridge together, though not well acquainted.”
“I never knew you had such aristocratic connections,” William said. “How did you make the acquaintance of Lady Fiona?”
“Actually, I met her at Tat's.”
“The hell you say!” William gave his brother an are-you-out-of-your-mind glance. “Women don't go to Tat's!”
“She was with her brother, who was rather forced to introduce us.”
Adam directed his attention at William. “Methinks the lady was taken with Nick.”
Oddly, Nick wished his brothers were right. “Hardly,” he said. “I didn't see her again until last night, two years after the first meeting.”
“You went to her last night?” William asked.
“No. She came to me. This morning.”
Adam and William exchanged amused glances.
“It's NOT what you two think!” Nick said.
“Well, tell me this,” William said. “Are you going to sleep with her?”
Nick's heart seemed to be racing right out of his chest. “Of course I'm going to sleep with her! This time tomorrow, she'll be my wife.”
My wife.
He still could scarcely credit it.
 
 
Dismissing a mistress was at the top of the list of Nick's most hated duties. Heretofore he had managed to sever these affairs in a most amiable fashion. He was still friends with Yvonne some six years after their parting. Of course it helped that as a parting gift he had purchased her one of the finest mansions on Paris's Avenue Foch. She had been so utterly grateful to return to the city of her birth she had pledged fealty to Nick for as long as he lived. “Nickee,” she had said, “no matter how many years pass, if ever I can help you, you have only ask.”
If only Diane would be as agreeable as her French predecessor. Diane's butler had admitted Nick to the Marylebone townhouse he had set her up in, and as he climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, a heavy sense of dread surged through him.
After he tapped on her door, he drew in a deep breath and entered. Standing before her dressing table, she smiled up at him. His gaze lazily traveled over the luscious curves of her body. She wore absolutely nothing beneath the sheer, snow white gown. Before today—before he had become betrothed to Lady Fiona Hollingsworth—the sight of Diane's rosy nipples beneath the gauzy fabric or the thatch of flaming hair between her thighs would have set his pulse racing. But not this evening.
He strolled to her dressing table and plopped two sacks of coins on its gilded surface.
“What's that, love?” she asked.
“Ten thousand pounds.”
She whirled around to face him, her ruby lips lifting into a smile. “Pray, for whom?”
“For you.”
Her hands flew to her breasts. “ 'Tis a fortune! Why do I merit so much?”
“Because I've been well satisfied with you.” Would she notice his use of the past tense?
She moved to him, her eyes seductive as she began to snake her arms around him, the smell of her too-heavy perfume sickening. “I shall satisfy you tonight as you've never been satisfied before, Nicholas darling.”
He removed her arms, quickly brushed his mouth across the back of one hand, then dropped it. “Actually, the money's a parting gift, Diane.”
She gasped. Her eyes watered. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked in a quivering voice.
“I'm getting married tomorrow.”
“No!” she shrieked. Tears began to gush. “Why not me? Did I not please you?”
“You pleased me very much.”
“But it's not as if you're some lord,” she sobbed, “who must marry his own kind. I thought we s-s-s-uited.”
“We suited very well, but I cannot continue with you, to hold my wife up to ridicule.”
Diane launched herself at him, though Nick refused to put his arms around her. “I don't care about the money, my darling,” she whimpered. “All I want is you.” She draped her arms around him, planting soft kisses along his neck and moving up to his chin as he stiffened. “Can we not continue after you marry?” she begged. “I'll be discreet.”
He clasped her shoulders and held her out at arm's length. “Tomorrow I take wedding vows—vows I'll not be breaking.”

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