Taming the Barbarian (3 page)

She tried to pull her gaze from the statue but found she could not quite manage it. There was something about it, something that spoke of honor and duty and virtues lost long before her time. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose you could say that he does.”

“Then ye should take him home with ye.”

“What?” She jerked her gaze toward the old man. She was certain he was joking, but his expression suggested otherwise. It was as somber as a stone.

“I have been visiting the Celt for nigh on sixty years now. And afore that me da did the same.” He nodded ruminatively, then sighed. “Me own time grows short. But ye…” He eyed her askance, then nodded as if deep in thought. “Aye, he would do well in yer care.”

She laughed, startled and breathless. “I am certain his curator has no wish to see him gone from this place.”

The old man squinted as he gazed up at her from his wizened height. The light from the sinking sun gleamed in his marble-bright eyes. “Certain of that are ye, lass?”

“Ancient art as fine as this is not easily parted with,” she said, and motioned toward the statue. It called to her, and she stepped nearer. The hound seemed to be laughing, its pitted eyes rolled up to watch her approach. The stallion all but quivered on the brink of release. And the warrior… Dear Lord, the warrior… Reaching up, she touched his solid arm. It still held the heat of the sinking sun. She smoothed her fingertips along the corded muscle. “I doubt any would part with such a piece,” she breathed, but even as she said the words, she imaged him in her own gardens, imagined him watching over her at night, shielding her from the world beyond her windows. “He would not be easily replaced. Indeed,” she added, skimming along his massive forearm to his hand, fisted tight about his etched sword, “I doubt if there is another like him in all the world.”

A dove crooned at the oncoming night, but the old man remained silent. She pried her gaze from the Celt. “Don’t you agree?” she asked, but when she turned, the old man was nowhere to be seen. “Sir. Sir?” she said. Nothing answered but the sound of the wind in the nearby willow. Its trailing branches waved gently as if moved by unseen hands.

She tightened her grip on the Celt’s fingers. They were as solid as forever, as unyielding as the earth beneath her feet, and for a moment, for one brief lapse of time, she felt truly safe.

But someone giggled from a path nearby, snapping her from her reverie. Feeling girlishly foolish, she pulled her hand from the Celt’s hewn grip and slipped unnoticed from the garden.

“L
ady Glendowne.” Mr. Finnegan bowed over her hand, squeezing her fingers and placing a sloppy kiss somewhere in the vicinity of her knuckles. “You look absolutely bedazzled this evening.”

She could only assume he meant dazzling, for despite the mind-boggling amount of work and the nightmares that had plagued her since her return from Paris, she herself had thought she’d looked quite fetching when first she’d seen her reflection in her bedchamber mirror. Her gown was made of salmon brocade, beribboned at the hem and laced tight below her bosom. Tessa had used her magical skills to sweep her hair into an intricate coiffure embedded with faux pearls. Small ringlets cascaded to her breasts, which, though humble in stature, had been persuaded by somewhat deceitful means to reside just below her chin.

She looked quite charming, Fleurette admitted silently. And she wanted nothing more than to return home and toss the entire ensemble into the cook fire.

“Thank you,” she said instead, and, smiling prettily, pulled her fingers firmly from his grip. Mr. Finnegan was short, as round as a turnip, and married to a woman who could wither an adversary with one glance. He was also sloppy drunk. “You look enchantingly besotted yourself.”

He beamed at her. “You’ve noticed.”

” ‘Twould be impossible not to.”

“You’re too kind,” he said, and staggered a little. He was sweating like a draught horse, but he owned a small fleet of ships that regularly carried Fleur’s coveted carriages across the Channel and beyond.

Shortly after Thomas’s death, Fleurette had sold off everything but Briarburn’s floor tiles and bought a floundering company. Eddings Carriages, as it was now called, was, to date, her greatest success. “Have you lost weight as well?” she asked.

“A bit perhaps.” Finnegan patted his expansive belly. “One has got to watch his figure, or the maids will surely not, aye? Why just last week I—”

His voice droned on like a pesky insect. Fleurette smiled, glanced up, and caught Stanford’s attention from across the room. The slightest widening of her eyes had him easing away from Deacon to come to her aid.

“Lady Glendowne,” he said, and bowed elegantly at the waist. His hair glowed like autumn wheat in the bevy of candles that graced the width of the ballroom. “I have been searching for you all this long evening.”

“Truly?” She feigned surprise, “My apologies. Had I known, I would have sought you out straightaway. Please excuse me, Mr. Finnegan.”

“Oh.” The Irish merchant scowled at the intrusion, his mouth still open from his ongoing soliloquy. “Very well. But you must promise me a dance before you leave.”

“Most certainly,” she said, and, taking Stanford’s arm, eased into the milling crowd of revelers. Well out of earshot, she clasped her companion’s hand as he led her into a waltz. Stanford settled his fingers comfortably against her waist and held her gaze with his own. He was a fine dancer, well tutored, considerate, and graceful. “I am, once again, entirely in your debt. Whatever would I do without you?”

“I am certain you would do very well on your own,” he said, and swept her about an elderly couple near the towering double doors that led to the formal gardens beyond. “In fact, that is something I had hoped to speak to you about.”

“Oh?” She tried not to stiffen with apprehension and prayed quite fervently that he had no hopes of furthering their relationship. She adored Stanford like a brother, and he had been a tremendous support to her in the months following Thomas’s death, but she had no desire to marry again. As it turned out, independence suited her far better than she had dared hope.

He studied her face for a moment, and she felt her breath hitch.

“I wish you would not drive so much alone, Fleurette,” he said. “Especially to Hampstead.”

She laughed with relief and he scowled.

” ‘Tis no laughing matter,” he assured her. “It can be quite dangerous, even during the day. I know your business endeavors are important to you, and I applaud your success. Truly I do, but you must implement caution.”

She gave his hand a grateful squeeze, ” ‘Tis sweet of you to be concerned for my welfare,” she said, and leaned back slightly so as to study his face more closely “But you needn’t be. Truly. If I feel there is the slightest risk, I make certain to have Mr. Benson accompany me.”

“Mr. Benson,” he said, spinning them around a drunken gentleman who seemed to be dancing alone, “while a formidable overseer, is the approximate age of the equinox.”

She laughed despite the fact that her slippers were pinching and her head was beginning to pound. “I would disagree, but I’ve no idea what the equinox is.”

He gave her a charming smile. “Neither do I, but I’m quite certain Mr. Benson was present at its birth.”

The music led them easily across the marble floor. She sobered somewhat. “You always make me feel better, Stanford. I want to thank you for that.”

“You should not spend so much time alone, Fleurette. Indeed, despite Deacon’s deplorable…” He paused as if searching for a kindly euphemism, then said, “self. I must agree with his sentiment. You should consider marriage again.”

She stared at him. Thomas and Stanford had been as close as brothers. So close, in fact, that it was difficult for her to believe he was prepared to see her put his death behind her. “I’m not yet ready,” she said. “Surely you can understand that.”

“Fleurette—”

She interrupted him quickly. “Thomas was…” She paused, fighting to give him a misty smile. “It would be impossible to replace him.” The young baron of Glendowne was well-bred, elegant, and intelligent. He had been a fine catch for a young lady with no one to see to her future. She’d been no more than fifteen when her parents had died in a carriage accident. Alone and utterly lonely, she had been thrilled when Thomas began his courtship. The days had been filled with picnics and laughter. The evenings had been afloat with dancing and earnest conversation.

He was charming and witty and irresistible.

Unfortunately, he had also been a devout gambler. But his hobbies were no hardship, for she’d inherited a modest fortune, one she was more than happy to turn over to the charming baron who asked her to be his bride. They’d had money and to spare. Or so she had thought.

The devastating truth had come quickly upon the startling news of his untimely death.

But she had been unable to bear making the news of their financial failure public. Thus she had emptied every room in Briarburn, the only property she’d been able to retain, and quietly sold the goods overseas. Except for the parlor. Into that one chamber, she had poured every bit of remaining treasure. It was, after all, the place where she most often entertained guests— friends and business acquaintances alike. And she was not foolish enough to allow others to glimpse too much truth. No matter how much she trusted them.

Stanford was watching her with the slightest scowl marring his elegant brow. She caught his gaze, and he sighed. “You know I loved him as a brother,” he said “But he was not perfect.”

Memories knocked at her consciousness, but she honed them carefully. Thomas had been exceedingly handsome, she remembered. Everyone had said so. “But I fear he was as close as I am likely to get,” she said.

Stanford’s scowl deepened.

She squeezed his hand and gave him a tremulous smile. “Seven years is not so long a time. Is it? Say, shorter than the… equinox.”

He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head and gazed past her shoulder with disapproving solemnity. “I’m quite certain you’re using the term entirely incorrectly.”

She laughed, and he returned her smile.

“I simply want you to be happy, Fleurette. Nothing more.”

“I know you do, Stanford. And I am. Truly.”

“But for a woman such as yourself to live alone… It seems…” He shook his head, at a loss for words.

“I enjoy being alone. And when I do not, I seek the company of friends.”

“Your business endeavors… they are a strain on you. Why must you—”

“If not for Eddings Carriages, whatever would I do with my time?” she asked, interrupting smoothly. “There are only so many items one can embroider. Without my business holdings, I would have embellished everything I own by this time.”

“Honestly,” he said, watching her with wry interest, “have you ever embroidered a single article in the entirety of your life?”

She blinked, all innocence. “Of course I have.”

“When?”

“Back when I was seven I—”

“Oh for heaven’s sake!”

“Back when I was seven,” she began again, patiently stifling a laugh. “I embroidered a shawl for my mother. Gave it to her for her thirty-second birthday.” She made an expression as if she were thinking back. Her parents had been the center of her universe, always happy, always kind, and deeply, madly in love. She had somehow assumed she would be the same. “It was hideous. I use it as a rag in the stables. The horses hardly ever complain.”

“You’re looking at this with entirely too much levity.”

She watched him for a moment, feeling a sweep of fondness. “But that is how I prefer to look at things, Stanford. Better with levity than with fatalistic woe. Don’t you agree?”

He sighed. “I worry.”

“Well, you needn’t. All is well. I’m healthy. I’m happy…”

“Are you?” He searched her face.

She drew forth a careful smile. And it was not so very hard. “You are most dear to care.”

“I’m your only kin, and that by marriage. I have to worry for all those who’ve prematurely abandoned their posts.”

“And you do it well,” she said, and noticed, from the corner of her eye, that Lord Lampor was making his way through the crowd toward them. “Oh. Damn. Stanford, dance me toward the door.”

He did so without inquiry, and, once hidden from the looming lord’s view, she eased to a halt.

“Is something amiss?” he asked, and glanced surreptitiously about.

“No. I just…” She shook her head. “I’ve heard Lampor is on the prowl for a new wife.”

Stanford glanced through the crowd but seemed to see nothing alarming. “Lord Lampor would not be a hideous choice. He’s got a lovely home near Hyde Park and—”

“I have a lovely home near Earlsglen.”

He quirked his lips at her. “Which boasts what now? Two goats and a prizewinning turnip?”

“You heard about the turnip?”

He didn’t bother to respond. “Lampor is his father’s firstborn and certain to inherit the old man’s estate.”

“I don’t want the old man’s estate.”

“Very well then,” Stanford said, growing peevish. “He harvests excellent tomatoes.”

“Tomatoes.” She gave him a look. “You’re suggesting I marry a man who looms like a bent gargoyle and smells perpetually of fish oil because of his garden vegetables?”

“You seemed impressed with the turnip.”

“Well…” She shrugged. “That was entirely different. Did I tell you it has won actual awards?”

“He also makes a damnably good mulberry wine.”

“I’m lucky he doesn’t have an orchard, or you’d sell me to him as a slave.”

“Be happy,” he said, and she rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.

“If I were any happier, they’d have me committed, but just now I have a pounding headache and a bunion the size of Lampor’s lovely tomatoes. I’m going home.”

“You sound ecstatic. I’ll escort you to your carriage.”

“Lord Lessenton!” From across the room, Lord Sebastian motioned rather wildly with his lace-scalloped handkerchief. He always kept it close to hand, as his nose and eyes tended to leak on a surprisingly regular basis. “Might I have a word?”

Fleurette turned to await the marquess’s arrival, but seeing Lampor wading along in his wake, she whispered her good-nights and turned away.