Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) (19 page)

She threw her hands into the air, frustration overwhelming her, making it impossible to speak calmly. “It’s hopeless. I accept my fate. What else can I do? I’m cursed, jinxed, or maybe just plain unlucky. Whether you choose to believe it, or not, my lord. The
ton
believes it. They find me vastly entertaining—a novelty. Why shouldn’t they? Am I any different from a bearded lady at the fair, or a two-headed calf?”

She stopped for a moment and lowered her voice. “I’m just another spectacle like—like that horrid snake charmer.” Tears ran down her cheeks, and she lifted her hand up to cover her trembling mouth.

Tyrell’s heart lurched uncomfortably. He gathered her into his arms, and she sobbed against his chest. He smoothed her hair and stroked her back, and wondered what he should say. The moonlight wrapped them in a comforting silence. He said nothing. After some time, she stopped crying.

Fiona grimaced and whispered self-consciously. “I’ve flattened your cravat.”

He lifted her chin up and rubbed it with his thumb. “Yes, I expect you’ve given it a good wash, too.”

“It seems I’m always ruining your clothing.”

The curve of her lips in a hesitant smile made his insides tumble, and the familiar heat began to rise.

“Fiona, you must not look at me like that.” His gaze washed over her, lapping up her beautiful face and lithe form. “You have no idea how tempting you are.” He kissed her cheek and stroked the inviting curve of her back.

Fiona sniffled again. “How can you say I tempt you, my lord, when I have been nothing but an annoyance to you?”

“True,” he murmured into her neck, as if these were love words rather than insults. “You
do
annoy me. You drive me mad. You couldn’t possibly know how much you annoy me.” He whispered against her ear and gently brushed her wayward curls away from her cheek. “You even bother me in my sleep. You refuse to leave my dreams, and you haunt my waking mind. It is all very, very annoying.”

She pushed back, looking up at him, to gage his expression, trying to understand what he meant, but that only brought them face-to-face.

 “Yes, Fiona, that’s it—push away. Run while you can. I’m about to behave like that idiotic poet I wanted to drown.”

She felt his warm breath on her face, and as he held her firmly in place, he slowly covered her mouth with his. His restraint quickly vaporized. Unleashing a ravenous hunger on her lips, he kissed her again and again, this time with an open searching mouth as if he wanted to devour her.

Fiona wrapped her arms around his neck. He was right, she ought to run away as he had ordered her to do. But, just now, she couldn’t. She wanted to kiss him forever, she wanted to melt into him, to wrap herself around him. She pressed closer and kissed him as wildly as he kissed her.

It was happening again. That sweet all-consuming euphoria was overtaking her. Fiona remembered the lake, and how he had kissed her senses into sweet oblivion and then hated her for it later. She had to stop him this time. Better to suffer without his kisses, than to suffer the disgust he would feel later. Fiona slid her hands onto his chest and gently pushed away.

Tyrell stopped and looked into her downcast eyes. “I’m sorry.” His voice came out husky and sounded harsh in the quiet night air.

Her response was barely audible. “Are you?”

“No.” He cleared his throat and stepped back from her. “No. Yes. No! The truth is I’m not sorry. I wanted to do that and more. Much more. I get near you and a kind of insanity takes over. It’s all I can do to keep from throwing you down and having my way with you right here in the garden. I can’t explain it. You are like a strange wine, one taste, and I am drunk to the point of madness.”

He raked his hands through his hair. “Fiona, I’ve known you since you were a child, I’ve no desire to hurt you.”

She studied the pathway stones as they reflected the whiteness of the moon. A cool breeze blew against her hot face, sending gooseflesh down her arms. His words were a pretty way of saying he could not offer her more than momentary satisfaction.
He would not be leg-shackled
. She prayed her voice would not choke. “In that case, my lord, I think we should return to the house.”

He nodded and offered her his arm. She accepted quietly, and they headed toward the noise and lights of Honore’s soirée.

Fiona stopped. “I would prefer to make a less public entrance. My aunt’s study is just down this side path. I’m certain the doors are unlocked. You needn’t accompany me. I can find the way without help.”

“Undoubtedly.” Tyrell’s voice sounded gruff even to his own ears. “If it’s all the same to you, I will make certain there are no more inebriated poets lying in wait. Regardless of how capable you are, I shall see you safely into the house.”

“Very well, I know it’s of little use to attempt to change your mind, my lord.” She walked briskly up the path, and he matched his steps to hers.

The doorknob of the study turned easily, and the door opened. Fiona and Tyrell slipped into the dimly lit room. A scuffling noise came from the corner. Tyrell held his finger to his lips, signaling Fiona to silence.

An indignant gasp followed a woman’s voice. “Get off me, you great oaf. Stop!” A loud thwack resonated through the room.

“Slap me, will you! You mean to make this difficult, eh my little courtesan? I’ll teach you not to tease a man. Parade around like a doxy and you’ll get—”

The man never finished his sentence. Tyrell jerked the fellow up by his collar and slammed his fist squarely against the offender’s chin.

Fiona sucked in her breath and covered her mouth with her hands. The flickering candlelight illuminated the face of the woman lying on the floor. Aunt Honore jumped up, her features twisted with rage. She grabbed the fireplace shovel and walloped her attacker on the back.

“You arrogant, thick-witted, pig! Roast in hell—” She raised the iron shovel over her head preparing to club the brute, but Tyrell grabbed it midair.

“My lady, murder is still a hanging offense. I will gladly take the miscreant outside and punish him further for you. But you ought not hit him again with the shovel. Think, my lady. Your neck is far too beautiful to want stretching at Tyburn. Aside from that, consider how this worthless cur’s blood would stain your lovely carpet.”

The man in question rubbed his bruised jaw, and sat in a daze, staring up at the upraised shovel, awaiting judgment. Honore’s arm remained positioned to strike.

Tyrell still held the iron rod firmly in his fist. “I await your direction, my lady.” His voice was calm and soothing.

Honore’s features cooled slightly. “You’re right,” she relaxed her arm. “He’s not worth it. Take him out and thrash him.”

Tyrell bowed to her. He removed his coat and handed it to Fiona. The other gentleman remained on the floor. Slowly, with resignation, he stood up and struggled out of his coat. Tyrell grasped him firmly by the collar and shoved him outside.

The two men circled each other, squaring off. Tyrell sized up his opponent. The man was broader, bulkier, but not taller, and probably not quicker. The fellow flashed out with his right. Tyrell neatly dodged it, boxed him on the nose, and heard the sound of cracking bone. The man yelped in pain. It took a moment before he regrouped and faced Tyrell.

“Get on with it!” screamed Honore. “Don’t wait for him to recover. He’s no gentleman. Punish him!”

The culprit shot out again with his right, leaving his middle section unguarded. Tyrell blocked with a left and sent his right slamming into his opponent’s belly. The man doubled over, and Tyrell followed through with a left to the man’s jaw. A stream of blood arced through the air, as Honore’s assailant twisted under the impact and collapsed in a senseless heap on the grass, blood running out of his mouth and nose.

Tyrell rubbed the knuckles on his left hand and watched warily as Honore walked over and stared down at the prone man. The reprobate’s white shirt was splattered with red blood. He moaned, and lifted a hand up to his face. His jaw had already begun to swell. Honore stomped him viciously in the ribs with her slippered foot. He groaned, and his eyelids fluttered as he tried to focus.

“Good, you’re awake. Now listen to me, you gutless worm.” She drove her foot into his side once more. “I never want to see your repulsive face again. Should you ever cross my path anywhere, I will tell the entire
ton
what a vulgar piece of pig dung you are, and then I will send men after you who will not be nearly as gentle as Wesmont was. Now get out.”

Honore held his finely tailored coat up by two fingers, as if it was infested with lice. She let it drop onto his chest and face where it would surely pick up bloodstains. “Come, Fiona, Wesmont. There’s a foul odor in the shrubbery. I’ll send a footman to make sure the stench is removed.” Honore strode majestically back to the house. She locked the study doors after them and turned to Tyrell. “Neatly done, Lord Wesmont. I am indebted to you.”

“Not at all, my lady. You have provided me with some much-needed exercise this evening.” Tyrell used the mirror above the fireplace to straighten his neckcloth. “My cravat is a sad mess. However, if you ladies are not too ashamed to be seen with me, I would be pleased to escort you back to the ballroom.”

He turned to take his coat from Fiona and noted her ashen complexion. She stared out of the window at the bloodied man lying in the grass. Her brow was furrowed when she handed him the coat. Tyrell put it on, studying her face the whole time. “Are you unwell, Fiona?” he asked in a low voice.

Honore answered for her niece. “Of course, she’s unwell. Fiona isn’t used to seeing a fellow bashed about. It must be the blood and whatnot. Blast that insolent cur for upsetting her. I daresay, you’ll recover in a few minutes, won’t you my darling?”

Fiona’s jaw tightened. “No. I don’t believe I will recover. Not tonight, in any case. I have had quite a full evening. If you will both excuse me, I believe I will go up to my room and lie down.”

She turned and fled. Tyrell made to go after her, but Honore grabbed his arm. “Hold Wesmont. Let her go. Pray, tell me exactly what you have been up to this evening? Obviously, it’s more than that brawl that’s upset her.”

Tyrell looked down at the eccentric countess. She was dressed like a courtesan with orange hair mounded up like an absurd turban, yet, somehow she managed to look as severe as a Vicar’s wife, fully qualified to chastise him for mistreating her charge.

He explained nothing.

She scrutinized his face. “That’s what I thought. Hear me out, Wesmont. I appreciate how you handled yourself tonight on my behalf. You have my respect, which I don’t bestow lightly. Having said that, I must tell you, you haven’t handled my niece well at all. In point of fact, you have bungled the entire affair. Walk with me back to the ballroom. I intend to call you to task.”

With great self-restraint, Tyrell allowed Lady Alameda to lecture him regarding his behavior towards Fiona. She subjected him to completely scurrilous advice on how he ought to proceed in the future. His brows drew together in a choleric scowl as he and the Countess stood wrangling in the corner of the ballroom, completely oblivious of the music and laughter floating around them.

“Your suggestion is scandalous. Worse than that—it’s heinous!” Tyrell slapped his hand against the wood paneling.

“Do you think it’s kinder to knock the chit’s feelings around as if she were a croquet ball?”

“You know perfectly well that’s not my intention.”

“Intention or no, it is what you’ve done.”

“I’ve tried to stay away from her.”

“Made a hash of it, haven’t you?”

He shrugged. “What would you have me do? Abandon her entirely?”

Lady Alameda shrugged. “If I were you, I’d take her to bed and have done with it.”

“How can you suggest such a course? She’s your niece. She’d be ruined.”

“Bah! She won’t be ruined unless you go boasting about it at White’s, or Brook’s, or wherever the devil you fellows go to brag about your conquests. What archaic notions you have, Wesmont. She won’t be ruined at all. She’ll be seasoned. You want her. That much is obvious. I seriously doubt you’ll be able to stop sniffing about her skirts until you’ve had her properly.”

“There’s nothing proper in what you propose.” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Oh, well,” She tilted her head and dragged out, “If
proper
is what you want—court my niece and marry her?”

“You whittle everything down to the bone, don’t you?”

With a smug smile, she tossed her head as if he’d just delivered a great compliment. “I’m not one for roundaboutation.”

“Truly said.”

“You’re avoiding the question, my lord. What’s it to be? Do you intend to bed the gel, or marry her?”

“You can’t force my hand like this.”

“Oh, can’t I?” Honore’s eyebrow’s shot up. “Are you challenging me? Just see if I can’t. Make up your mind, Wesmont, or I’ll take matters into my own hands. I’ll banish you from her circle until she discovers there are other men who might please her. Perhaps her cousin, Marcus, he pants after her occasionally—”

Tyrell growled. “If Alameda lays one finger on Fiona I’ll have his bloody head on a plate.”

“How daft you are. It ain’t his finger I’m thinking of.” The Countess laughed wickedly.

Tyrell tried to moderate his breathing, his fists knotted, and he very much feared he might pummel his hostess right there in her own ballroom if she didn’t stop mocking him.

As if knowing her cue, Honore stopped teasing, smoothed down the sides of her gown and looked up at him in deadly earnest. “I see you are not pleased with the thought of Marcus with Fiona.”

He glared at her.

“Then, my lord, I have trumped you. I win. I give you two days to decide whether you intend to take her to bed or marry her. You have my permission either way. Otherwise, I tell Alameda he may do as
he
pleases with her.”

Tyrell silently consigned the woman to burn in Hades. “You ought to be locked up in Bedlam.”

She smiled, refusing to rise to the bait. “I mean what I say, my lord. Two days.”