One Golden Ring. Cheryl Bolen
the man who would possess this woman.
But that man could not be him.
He had no desire to spend the rest of his life with a woman who hated him, and nothing could rouse hatred more easily than a forced marriage. By her own offer, she had confirmed the deep disparity in their stations. Because she was the daughter of a viscount, she expected Nick to be so honored over her offer that he would be thankful to part with twenty-five thousand dollars.
The pity of it was that were it not for the class system, he thought Lady Fiona and he might have dealt rather well together. He would have enjoyed lavishing her with grand estates and fine jewels and beautiful gowns. He would have been proud to walk into a room with her on his arm, proud to have her bear his children. His attraction to her was impossible to deny.
That she had scarcely been able to remove her gaze from him last night at the theatre added some credence to the notion she found him not detestable. With all due humility, Nick was aware of his attractiveness to the opposite sex. And even though he and Lady Fiona were not really acquainted, she seemed to understand how utterly ripe Nick was for matrimony. Now that he had tripled the fortune his father left him five years ago, Nick was ready to set up a house with a woman of breeding and beauty—qualities this woman possessed in spades. His chest tightened. How could he ever settle for another woman now that he’d had a fleeting chance at Lady Fiona Hollingsworth? With bitter regret, he realized no other woman would ever do.
But he could not allow himself the sheer luxury of marrying her. She would never be able to forget that she had stooped low to marry him.
“I would be honored to have you as my bride . . .” Nick began.
Her solemn face brightened.
“. . . were I inclined toward matrimony,” he added, “which I’m not.”
It pained him to see her proud countenance seep away, to watch as those rigid shoulders went slack, as the flicker of mirth in those steely eyes dulled. Her fingers laced together tightly, and she met his gaze with false bravado. “Forgive me for troubling you, then, Mr. Birmingham.” She went to rise.
“Please don’t go yet,” he said in a gentle voice.
She slumped back into the chair, her eyes locked with his.
“I’d like to know why you came to me today,” he said.
Her voice went cold. “Because you’re rich.”
“But you’re acquainted with many wealthy men, men far more eligible to be your husband than I. Have you offered yourself to any of them?”
“Until today, Mr. Birmingham,” she said in an icy voice, “I had offered myself to just one man—and he refused me.”
Warwick. Damn the man! Had Warwick’s perfidity driven her into the arms of an unworthy suitor? “I think, my lady, that one man’s stupidity will be another man’s greatest joy.”
She gave a false laugh.
He picked up his pen and began to write. When he finished, he handed the letter to her.
She extended a shaking hand. “What’s this?”
“I wish you to take this to my brother’s bank. It instructs him to give you twenty-five thousand pounds.”
Her eyes went from dull to fiery in the space of a blink. She snatched the letter and ripped it into shreds, then hurled the slivers of paper onto his desk. “I will not accept your charity, Mr. Birmingham !” She sprang from her chair and spun around to leave, but he rushed to stop her before she reached the door.
He reached her just in time to clasp both her shoulders and spin her around to face him. “What about your brother?”
She wrenched herself free. “Don’t waste your concern on us. I’ll find someone who’s willing to accept the bargain I offer.”
Then she stormed from his office.
After she was gone his pulses pounded with fury. Arrogant, proud, maddening wench! He sank into his chair and tried to interest himself in his ledgers but was unable to shake the delicate beauty from his thoughts. His stomach knotted as he realized that by this time tomorrow she might very well be pledged to another man.
He sent a fist crashing onto his desk.
As Fiona flung herself into the carriage outside Mr. Birmingham’s Threadneedle Street office and swiftly covered her shivering limbs with the rug, Trevor sadly shook his head. “I perceive the Cit turned you down.”
Fiona sighed as her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve never been more humiliated—even when Edward . . .” She need not finish. It seemed everyone in England knew about her failure to hold Warwick’s affections.
Putting Warwick aside, she could not precisely determine which was the more humiliating—brazenly offering herself to Mr. Birmingham or his curt refusal. At least with Edward, she had saved face by crying off herself. Not that anyone would remember that. All that was whispered whenever she entered a room was that poor Lady Fiona had been spurned by Lord Warwick. Such a pity, it was said, after all those years of being promised to one another, and the poor lady wasn’t getting any younger!
Of course Fiona didn’t give a farthing what was said about her. She didn’t even think it so utterly humiliating that she had brazenly offered herself to the dashing Mr. Birmingham—even if he was a Cit. What was humiliating was that the man had not been remotely interested in having her for his wife.
Her thoughts flitted to the beautiful Diane Foley. She wondered if Mr. Birmingham was actually in love with the actress who was his mistress. For some unaccountable reason, Fiona’s heart thumped with an unexpected burst of jealousy. Not jealousy of Miss Foley but of envy to experience the fulfilling relationship the actress and Mr. Birmingham must enjoy, a relationship Fiona would never know.
Trevor scooted across the seat and patted her hand. “I simply must learn to become a swashbuckler so I can call out any man who dares affront you, but for the life of me I have no idea how one becomes a swashbuckler.”
She giggled through her tears.
“I don’t suppose,” Trevor asked tentatively, “you asked who his tailor was?”
She giggled some more, and the tears that had been threatening to gush remarkably vanished.
“I honestly don’t understand how the man could have turned you down,” Trevor said with complete gravity. “You’re absolute feminine perfection.”
“I prefer to think his refusal had more to do with the fact he has no wish to marry than that he finds me repulsive.” What she preferred to think and what constituted the truth, however, were two completely different matters. Deep in her breast she was convinced Mr. Birmingham was not in the least attracted to her. What a fool she had been to believe he would salivate at her presumptuous offer.
“The R word is never ever to be used in conjunction with you!” Trevor’s voice softened. “Wish you’d have let me come with you to that awful man’s office.”
“He’s not really an awful man,” she defended. “He actually offered to give me the twenty-five thousand pounds.” Oddly, she found Mr. Birmingham’s remark about her being another man’s greatest joy even more welcome than the fortune he offered.
Trevor gulped. “Give?”
She nodded.
“Surely you didn’t turn him down?”
“Of course I had to turn him down! I couldn’t possibly accept the arrogant man’s charity.”
Trevor’s brows lowered. “Would that not have been preferable to marrying a man you don’t love, a man you don’t even know?”
Oh dear, Trevor was right. Why had she not considered Mr. Birmingham’s generous offer in that light? She’d been so set on negotiating a reasonably fair exchange with him that she had been unable to