Page 92 of The Dangerous Lord

Her eyes shone with delight as she took the packages. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Open them before you say anything. You might not like them.”

Indeed, he found himself tensing as she reached for the small rectangular box on top. He hadn’t given many gifts to women, but somehow he’d assumed she wouldn’t be like his few paramours and wish for baubles and frills and lace. Now he reconsidered. He might have been wrong. She might hate it. But it was too late to do anything about it.

Opening the box, she withdrew a silver-plated cylindrical object. She turned it over in her hand in perplexed concentration.

James had come to sit cross-legged beside her on the floor, and now he peered over her shoulder at the object. “What is it?”

“It’s a fountain pen,” Ian explained. “A man named John Scheffer obtained the patent on it last year. It makes the ink pot unnecessary.” He took it from her and demonstrated how it worked, pushing a little button that triggered the release of ink to the nib. “I’ve invested in Scheffer’s company. I think it’ll be a great success. I asked him to make this one specially for you after we returned from the Worthings last week. See here? It’s engraved with your initials.”

After using a scrap of wrapping paper to wipe off the little bit of ink that had collected on the nib, he handed it back to her. She clasped it so silently, his throat went raw. She hated it. Damn. He should have bought her more of the fripperies in the other boxes, instead of risking such a foolish gift.

A pen was too commonplace, not passionate enough for her wild nature. But what did he know about buying gifts for a wife, especially one as unusual as Felicity?

At her continued silence, Ian muttered offhandedly, “Go on and open the others. The pen is more an experiment than a gift anyway. I thought you could use it and tell me if it works right.”

Then she lifted her head, tears shining in her eyes. “It’s the most wonderful thing anyone has ever given me.”

The look on her face made his heart leap, an unfamiliar sensation. “You like it.”

“Oh, Ian, I love it! I hate those messy ink pots. This will be so useful.” Rubbing tears from her eyes with one hand, she carefully replaced the pen in its box with the other. “I’ll treasure it always.”

He cleared his throat, unused to such effusive thanks. “Here,” he said, thrusting the second gift at her again. “Open this.”

“You shouldn’t have bought so much. I feel awful that I have nothing for you.”

Yet she opened them all with enthusiasm. The rest of his gifts were more typical—a lace fan, silk stockings, and a pair of exquisite ruby earrings he’d paid a king’s ransom for. Although she exclaimed loudly over each one, when she was finished it was the pen she took out to examine. As she stroked it, pleasure shining in her face, he thought of her hands on him that night. My God, what he wouldn’t give to have them on him again.

Suddenly she glanced up at him, her pretty face brightening even further. “Wait!” Turning to James, she whispered instructions and he ran off.

“What are you up to now?” Ian asked, raising an eyebrow.

Her smile was secretive. “You’ll see.”

James returned moments later with a framed canvas. He handed it to his sister, who held it out to Ian. “This was Papa’s favorite painting,” she explained. “I couldn’t bear to sell it. But now that we’re married ... well, I see no reason you can’t enjoy it.”

He took the canvas from her and stared at it in surprise. He could easily see why her reckless father had liked it. It was a harem painting, probably meant for someone’s collection of erotic art, though not badly done. A dusky-skinned sultan stood upon a dais with chest bared and arms crossed. Below him a bevy of scantily clad young women posed in various positions about a pool painted in lush colors.

“You’re giving me an erotic painting?” he asked.

Her quick blush and furtive glance at James, who was listening avidly, told him she hadn’t thought of it like that. “It’s not ... Well, it is, but ... It’s by a Spaniard. That’s why I thought of you. Though the artist isn’t anyone of consequence.”

“No, he wouldn’t be.” He examined the painting more closely, unable to keep the smile off his face. Only Felicity could give her husband something so patently scandalous for a seemingly innocent reason.

“Papa bought it because he admired the colors and the lines,” she persisted.

“I’m sure he admired them a great deal.” He chuckled. “Especially the flesh colors and curving lines.”

“Ian!” she exclaimed with a worried glance at James, who’d lost interest in the conversation and now examined her new pen. “The sultan is also well-done, don’t you think?”

The sultan? He looked at the figure again. Then it dawned on him why she’d thought to give him the painting. The realization lightened his mood considerably. His eyes met hers over the top of the canvas. “Very well-done indeed.”

“You can tell the artist was a Spaniard,” she babbled on. “He made the sultan look Spanish. His features are Castillian, not Turkish.”

“Yes, Castillian.” He lowered his voice. “Like mine.”

Ducking her head, she swallowed, the nervous motion of her throat doing something wicked to his insides. “Anyway, I thought you might like it. And now I’d best go help Mrs. Box oversee the preparations for dinner. If you’d keep an eye on the boys for me⁠—”