Design for Love Read online

  Design for Love

  Nina Coombs Pykare

  About the Author

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  Chapter 1

  Spring had come to England. Hedgerows were fragrant with bloom and the meadows seemed to have greened overnight. In the backland groves little leaf buds slowly unfolded and crowds of un­seen daffodils thrust golden trumpets toward the sky.

  But Robert, Earl of Dreyford, was not impressed by spring. Nor by the undoubtedly ex­pensive garden in the formal style of Capability Brown that lay before his jaded gaze.

  The earl had just driven cross-country. His closed curricle was of the newest and most com­fortable design, so he wasn’t tired. But he was ex­ceedingly irked. The fact that the whole debacle was due to his own lack of foresight did nothing to mitigate his anger. And he was further irritated by the knowledge that he had made such a trip at the whim of a fat mushroom.

  Dreyford took a calming pinch of snuff, auto­matically nicking his wrist in the proper manner. With graceful ease he replaced the snuffbox in his paislied ivory waistcoat and adjusted his coat of superfine. He was well aware that his tall, lean form was shown to advantage by his fawn inexpressibles and still gleaming Hessians. He was also pleasantly aware that though Charles Hinckley’s clothing had obviously cost plenty of blunt, they only served to make the merchant look fatter and greasier.

  The earl sniffed, perhaps a little louder than was necessary, and his green eyes grew icy. The Dreyfords disliked being trifled with. The present earl had only deigned to undertake this journey because of a particular piece of Irish land that had long eluded him.

  But he was not the sort to marry for land. He was not the sort to marry at all. The earl’s face darkened and the thrust of his chin and his hawk-­like nose grew more pronounced. His eyes rested on the formal greenery outside the window, but it was her he was seeing.

  The laughing green eyes, the mop of curling red hair, the freckles on her pert nose. He had felt for Katie Howard all the passion of a boy fast becom­ing a man. And his love had been returned, in all innocence, until that day long ago when death had snatched her away.

  The earl straightened the broad shoulders under his well-fitted coat. Any hope of his mar­rying had died with Katie Howard, as many a hopeful mother had since learned to her disap­pointment. For him, as for his long-dead parents, marriage meant love. And there would never be another Katie.

  It was not that he disliked women. Au contraire. In his three and thirty years he had known many women. And he had used them well. But, as he would be the first to admit, use was the appropri­ate word.

  To none of these women had he vouchsafed even a glimpse of his soul. For none of them had he felt even a start of tenderness. He treated them well because he was a man of honor. But he did not love. He had learned early that love meant too much pain.

  He turned to face Hinckley, noting again how the beady eyes sunk in the corpulent cheeks gave the man the look of a fat boar. A small smile tugged at the earl’s thin lips. Hogarth could have made quite a caricature of the merchant. Stuck on a spit, with an apple in his mouth, turning over a slow fire. in his present mood, the earl found such a picture very gratifying.

  “So, milord. What do you think?”

  Hinckley’s oily voice irritated Dreyford only slightly less than the merchant’s annoying habit of rubbing his fat hands across his even fatter middle.

  “I think you have bungled this matter badly,” the earl said. He narrowed his gaze and Hinck­ley’s pink face paled. “Any person in London could have told you that I do not take kindly to tricks.”

  “Tricks, milord?” Hinckley seemed genuinely surprised. “There are no tricks here. This is a mat­ter of business, pure and simple.”

  Dreyford’s expression darkened and Hinckley took a step backward. Tales of the legendary Dreyford temper had evidently reached his ears.

  “You brought me here under false pretenses,” said the earl, in a tone that even his peers feared. “You offered me a piece of land that is not yours to dispose of.”

  “Indeed, milord,” replied the distraught Hinckley. “That is not . . . exactly right. That is, I am Cousin Fiona’s guardian. And as such I am enti­tled to choose her husband.”

  Dreyford felt a twinge of regret for the un­known girl. With Hinckley as guardian she was devoutly to be pitied. “That may be so. But that man will not be me.”

  “Now, now, milord.” Hinckley was all aflutter. “Just give the matter a little thought.”

  “I don’t need . . .”

  But the merchant had already bustled to the bellpull. “I’ll just call the girl in, milord. Give you a look at her. After all, you’ve come this far.”

  Common sense and breeding kept Dreyford from voicing the string of curses that rose to his lips. It was abominable that for all his power as a peer he couldn’t enact a law to rid England of such parasites. But he enjoined himself to a little more patience. No amount of distaste should cause him to descend to Hinckley’s level.

  Out in the garden, the object of their conversa­tion sat unsuspecting. Fiona Byrne glanced at her charge, sitting beneath the budding linden tree. She should have insisted on a parasol for the fair-skinned Constance. Freckles were easily induced by too much exposure, and with Constance’s wedding scheduled for the day after tomorrow, she must take care.

  Fiona pushed back a tendril of gleaming auburn hair that had escaped its severe knot. For herself, she relished the sun’s warmth. Darkened skin and freckles across her nose meant little to a poor rela­tion. A sigh rose to her throat, but she swallowed it silently. Constance was young for marriage. But Cousin Charles would not thank his poor relation for saying so. Of course, she would never have been so unwise as to voice an opinion.

  Still, though Constance was young, perhaps this wedding was the best thing for her. The Vis­count Garston was a good man—a trifle dull to Fiona’s way of thinking, but essentially good. And he cared for Constance. That single fact did a great deal to elevate him in Fiona’s opinion.

  Cousin Charles was an avid social climber. Fiona was convinced that, had it been possible, he would cheerfully have sold his daughter to the highest bidder. Fortunately for her, Constance was not a raving beauty. Her features and her character were both too bland for even her father to have conceived of her capturing the ton’s admiration. Garson, however, seemed captivated by her. And he had money and a title, thus satisfying Cousin Charles.

  Fiona sighed. She was glad for Constance’s happiness, but it did not bode well for her own future. Fear quickened in her breast and her hands nervously clutched the material of her plain brown gown. Lately Cousin Charles had been making ominous remarks about her lack of usefulness after Constance’s departure. She had so few alternatives. Without references she could not hope for another position as governess-companion. Yet little else was open to a young woman of principle. If only . . .

  Her thoughts flew back in memory to the brief golden days of happiness when Lonigan had first come into her life. Dear fair-haired Lonigan had the lilt of the Emerald Isle on his tongue and the fire of love in his bright blue eyes. At sixteen she’d been unable to resist such a cheerful, loving man, whose kisses held her spellbound and whose promises of a golden future had raised hope in a heart long buried under despair.

  So strong had been his hold on her, that mad wild Irishman, that even now, some seven years later, she could remember the feel of his hot kisses and his strong arms. The rest she had tried hard to forget. To recall those long nights of joy after their runaway marriage was too agonizing. Or the torment of his disappearance and the long days of searching and not finding, of watching her sup­ply of coins grow ever smaller until it had dwin­dled to nothing.
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br />   With her money gone she’d had but two op­tions: become a woman of the streets or return to Cousin Charles in abject humility. She had cho­sen the latter course. The life of a prostitute, though appalling, would perhaps have been easier to bear. But in the beginning she had fortified herself with the thought that Lonigan would know where to find her when he returned. And by the time that hope had faded she had become inured to Charles’s sneers at her “sham” marriage.

  But the lascivious gleam in his eyes was an­other matter. Though the death of his wife had given Fiona some fearful moments, she had come to see that as long as his daughter was in the house, she could hold herself reasonably safe. But now, with Constance married off, there would be no one to stand between her and the gross bulk of her cousin and guardian.

  Though the sun still shone brightly, Fiona felt her skin prickle with gooseflesh. London’s streets looked ever better. But how would she accom­plish the journey, stranded as she was without a copper to call her own?

  “Fiona! You’re not listening to me.”

  Fiona forced a smile. “Yes, my dear. I fear I was doing a bit of woolgathering.” Her glance went to Constance’s white forehead, now puckered. “Don’t frown,” she cautioned automatically. “It causes wrinkles.”

  Constance dutifully relaxed the muscles of her face. But the moment she began to talk, the wrin­kles returned. “I can’t help it, Fiona. I don’t know why Papa wouldn’t listen to me. I do so want you at my wedding.”

  “No doubt he felt it was not proper,” Fiona said, trying to soothe the girl. She never criticized Charles to his daughter. Her private opinion was that he was too pinchpenny to buy her a new gown and too vain to allow her to appear without one. This was also a convenient way to remind her, if such a thing should be necessary, of how dependent she was on his charity. Added to that was the fact that a new gown might be sold if she chose to run away, a prospect that she considered with increasing favor as the day of the wedding drew closer.

  She was fully aware that running away would put her in a precarious situation, but she found that just about anything would be preferable to Cousin Charles.

  “But I want you to be there,” Constance replied petulantly, her pale face growing even paler. “I know I shall do something absolutely stupid, like falling over my gown.”

  “Nonsense.” Fiona’s smile was affectionate. “You know how much the viscount loves you. The rest doesn’t matter.”

  “But if I pull some bird-brained stunt and dis­grace Papa, he will be so angry.” Constance’s lips quivered at the thought of her father’s wrath.

  “Constance, my dear.” Fiona was used to soothing her charge. She did it almost without thinking. “You are forgetting. After the ceremony your father will no longer have charge of you. You will have a husband then.”

  Constance brightened and the hands she had been wringing relaxed. “Oh, Fiona, that’s right! You are such a blessing to me. If only Papa had seen fit to let you come with us. Everything would be top-of-the-trees then.”

  Fiona kept a smile on her face, though her stomach clenched. She knew why Charles had re­fused to let her go. And the viscount, no matter how he might wish to please his bride, could not be expected to intercede in this matter. “Those newly wed are best left to themselves,” she said softly, aware that the excuse was flimsy, that there would still be a house full of other servants. “They need time alone.”

  “Yes, Fiona, but—” Constance’s rejoinder was interrupted by the butler’s appearance.

  “Yes, Yates?”

  “Mr. Hinckley wants you in the library, Miss Fiona. Immediately.” The old butler’s eyes were sympathetic. He most probably had some inkling of the unpleasantness that lay in store for her.

  “Thank you, Yates.” She turned to Constance. “Perhaps you had better go in, too, my dear. Too much sun is not good for your complexion.”

  She left her charge inside the door and made her way toward the library. As an impressionable child she had thought this big house full of stat­ues and paintings a marvel of beauty. Now she was old enough to recognize ostentation. This was the house of a nouveau riche cit, a mush­room, as the aristocracy would say. But, ostenta­tious or not, Cousin Charles thought it perfect. And in her present situation Fiona had best ap­pear to think so too.

  Outside the library door Fiona pushed back the tendrils of hair that insisted on curling around her face. She paused only to lick her dry lips and square her shoulders. There was little point in de­laying the inevitable.

  Cousin Charles sat behind the great desk of polished oak, his corpulency exaggerated by the tight fashionable clothes he affected. “Come in, my dear,” he purred.

  “Yates said you wished to see me.” Fiona hesi­tated a few paces inside the door. Her cousin’s friendly greeting halted her more effectively than did his usual scowl.

  “Quite right,” said Cousin Charles with false cordiality. “Come in, Fiona, and take a chair.”

  Never in the long years that she had suffered under his care had she been invited to take a chair in this room. This was where she stood on trem­bling limbs, waiting for punishment to come. It was punishment she expected now, though she had no idea for what. Tentatively she looked around for a chair further removed from his desk. It was then she saw the stranger.

  He stood near the window, somewhat back and to the side, which was why she had not seen him on entering. He was taller than Charles, whose height was considerable. But this man had no need for creaking stays to conceal unconcealable rolls of fat. The stranger was a lean man, wiry and spare. Broad shoulders and narrow hips gave him the look of a sportsman, and his elegantly clad frame spoke of strength as well as substance. A hawk-like nose presided over a wide mouth grimly shut above a determined chin. His hair was black as polished jet and black brows bushed below it like fierce little hedgerows.

  But it was his eyes that held her mesmerized. Green they were, like her own. And yet unlike. For she had looked in the glass often enough to know that her own were flecked with warm brown. But this man’s were hard and cold as win­ter ice.

  Though he maintained his outward calm, Dreyford’s heart was pounding. She had the same bright hair, the same green eyes, the same freckles on the bridge of her nose.

  He experienced the strangest sensation, as though Gentleman Jim Jackson had penetrated his defenses and dealt him a punishing blow to the solar plexus.

  She was not Katie, of course. His mind knew that almost as soon as it registered the resem­blance and it stopped him before he could move toward her. But he had suffered a severe shock to his nervous system.

  This was not Katie. This was Hinckley’s poor relation. She was clad in a gown of cheap bombazine that had obviously seen better days, many of them. Her rich auburn hair had been confined in a severe knot at the back of her head. That could not, however, hide its deep sheen, nor the beauty of a heart-shaped face that held jade-green eyes.

  With a moue of annoyance, the earl recalled propriety and bowed his head slightly in greeting.

  Fiona managed to acknowledge this with a nod of her own, but her teeth bit sharply into her bot­tom lip as she fought the sensation that this man was looking into her very soul. She swallowed the exclamation that rose in her throat, but she could not stop the flush that spread upward to her cheeks.

  “Fiona, Sit down.” Cousin Charles’s voice fi­nally penetrated her thoughts.

  Startled, she tore her gaze from the stranger and advanced to the chair her cousin had indicated. She did not realize that she had automatically straightened her shoulders and thrown out her chin. The stranger, however, did. A slight smile touched his lips as he folded his long length into a chair.

  Fiona, stiffly erect, fought to keep from looking at the man sitting so nonchalantly beside her. He stretched an elegant leg and lounged comfortably in his chair. It was as though he were the only genuine article in the room. And in a certain sense he was.

  “Fiona,” said Cousin Charles. “This is Robert, Ea
rl of Dreyford.”

  Turning stiffly, Fiona nodded. “Milord.” Try as she might she could not avoid the pull of those hard green eyes. Why did he look at her like that? A little shiver of hope surfaced within her. Could His Lordship be seeking a governess? Would Charles actually let her go to a new position?

  “Good day, Miss Byrne.” The earl’s expression remained distantly polite. “Fiona, I believe, is your Christian name.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “An Irish name. But I detect little brogue.”

  “I . . . My mother was Irish.” Fiona felt the words being pulled out of her. “But I’ve never seen my homeplace.” In spite of herself a wistful note crept into her voice.

  “And why not?”

  “My mother’s father disowned her because she ran off with an Englishman.” She repeated the old story in a monotone. “Papa was a commoner, and poor. He grew even poorer. Mama sickened. We went from lodging house to lodging house. Until—” She swallowed quickly. “Until she died. I was ten then. Papa didn’t want to go on. So he left me with Cousin Charles. And then Papa was gone too.”

  His expression did not change as he listened to her. To block out the painful memories, she con­sidered this strange lord. His face could not be called handsome. His nose was too hawkish for that. But he was quite striking. And powerful. She could tell that just by looking at him.

  “I see. And you have never contacted your ma­ternal grandfather?”

  Fiona’s lips drew together firmly and her chin lifted. “I do not beg, milord. He knows naught of me. And if he did, he would not care.”

  A furrow appeared between His Lordship’s black brows and Fiona wondered if she had some­how angered him. Habit made her drop her glance and so she missed the way His Lordship’s dark eyes went to her cousin’s face.

  But it was not her words that caused the bunching of his bushy black brows. Thought­fully, the earl considered his peculiar reactions to this young woman. The sight of her seemed to have addled his wits, causing him to consider pos­sibilities that under other conditions would never have crossed his mind.