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Nicholas yawned. He stretched extravagantly, then wedged his feet under Fiona’s bum.
“Do you mind?” she said, staring at a clutch of paint swatches fanned out across the ottoman.
“Not in the least.”
“They’re cold,” Fiona fretted, shifting a little so that she could lift Nick’s feet into her lap and rub them. “Why are your feet always so cold?”
“You know what they say, Fee…cold feet, warm heart.”
“Do they?” she absently asked, her attention still on the swatches.
Nick frowned. Fiona looked as if she hadn’t slept. There were dark smudges under her eyes. Her cheeks were wan, her mood subdued. He decided to see if he could jolly her out of it.
“Do you know what else they say? Cold feet, devastatingly handsome face. Cold feet, sparkling wit. Cold feet, godlike physique. Cold feet—”
“Modest and humble personality,” Fiona finished, shooting him an arch look.
Hmm , Nick thought. This is going to take a bit more effort than I anticipated .
They were curled up on the overstuffed couch in their sitting room.
The day was cloudy and unusually chilly for June, and Fiona had made a fire.
The room was comfortable and beautiful, furnished elegantly but simply, so that nothing competed with the artwork.
Nick had picked out the furniture and the fabrics himself.
He’d selected a warm white color for the walls and had hung several of his favorite works on them—paintings by Van Gogh, Monet, Pissarro, and Seurat.
“Is there anything better than a lazy Sunday afternoon?” he asked now, trying again to engage Fiona.
“A profitable Monday morning,” she replied.
Nick rolled his eyes at that conversation-killer. “What are you doing with those colors, anyway?” he prodded.
“Trying to decide on a paint color for the shop.”
“But I thought you had.”
“I thought so, too, but now I’m worried that it’s too dark. I have to get it sorted out before the painters start.” She turned and looked at him. “You did drop the deposit off…”
“Of course I did. They’re coming on Tuesday after the shop closes. Just as you requested.”
He leaned forward and looked at the swatches, about to ask her which color she preferred, but his words were cut off by a shout. It was muffled somewhat by the windows, but still quite loud.
“En garde, pirate scum! It is I, Captain Seamus Finnegan of His Majesty’s navy!”
“Why is he in the backyard?” Nick asked.
“I banished him,” Fiona said. “He broke another vase this morning practicing his fencing. That’s the third one this week.” As she spoke, she rubbed her left temple, wincing slightly.
Nick saw it, and decided to take the direct route. “What’s the matter, Fee? Tell me. You haven’t been yourself this past week.”
Fiona sank into the crook of the sofa’s curved arm and leaned her head back against it. “Same thing that’s been the matter ever since Milton Duffery appeared on the scene,” she said, staring up at the ceiling. “Michael…”
“…and Mary,” Nick finished.
He remembered how Fiona had returned home from Michael’s flat in tears last Saturday.
When she’d told him what had happened, Nick had felt his own eyes sting with sadness.
He’d never expected that Fiona would fail at her plan to unite Michael and Mary; she so rarely failed at anything.
He hadn’t known what to do then to make things better, and he didn’t know now.
Milton Duffery had offered Mary an engagement ring and she’d accepted it. What else was there to do?
“We could always kidnap the Duffery and send him off in a hot air balloon,” he ventured, trying for a laugh. “And hope that it crashed someplace far away.”
“It wouldn’t, though,” Fiona said glumly. “He’s so full of hot air himself, he’d keep it aloft and make his way back.”
“Do you know what’s strange about all this?” Nick said, his brow wrinkling. “An entire week’s gone by, and Mary still hasn’t told any of us about the engagement. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“No, I don’t. Because she doesn’t love Milton Duffery, Nick. She’s resigned to him,” Fiona said disconsolately. “Do you remember when William McClane asked me to marry him? Do you remember the ring he gave me?”
“Certainly do,” Nick said. “It was a jolly great carbuncle of a thing.”
“I didn’t put it on at first. I kept it in its box.
It never seemed meant for me, even after I started to wear it.
Not because it was ugly, but because I didn’t love the man who gave it to me.
” Fiona raised her head. Her eyes found his.
“Michael and Mary missed their chance. And now it’s too late.
” Fresh tears threatened; she blinked them away.
Nick’s heart clenched. He hated for Fiona to be unhappy, more than anything in the world. “Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I could give it a go,” he said. “I could try talking to Mary or Michael.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. You were right and I was wrong. You scolded me for meddling back when we first found out about Milton Duffery and I should have listened to you. Instead, I barreled ahead and got Michael’s hopes up and now he’s heartbroken and it’s all my fault.”
“You only tried to help, Fee,” Nick said, taking her hand. “To make things better for two people whom you love very much.”
“And instead I’ve made things worse,” Fiona said with a sigh. “Maybe it’s time to learn my lesson and stop meddling once and for all.”
As the words left her lips, they heard a loud, startling crash, and then the sound of tinkling glass.
Fiona shook her head, incredulous. “How does he do it? How does that boy always find something to break?” She stuffed her feet into a pair of slippers lying by the sofa and stalked out of the living room.
“Seamus Finnegan!” she bellowed, pounding down the stairs.
“The better not have been the back window!”
Nick watched her go, a heavy sadness settling over him.
He wanted to tell her that he’d been wrong, and she’d been right—one should meddle.
He wanted to tell her that if she hadn’t meddled when she arrived in New York two years ago, Michael would by lying in a gutter, drunk.
He would have lost his shop, his entire building.
Nell would have lost her father, the Munros their home.
And he himself? He would have lost his life.
They were all here, all well, all together, because Fiona cared enough to yell and cajole and prod and nag and fight for the people who mattered to her.
A log tumbled noisily in the grate. Nick looked at the fire and thought about adding another. Instead, he remained where he was, his gaze fixed on the flames, his fingers softly drumming on the sofa’s back. After a moment, his brow smoothed and he nodded, as if he’d come to a decision.
“Perhaps you are right, old girl. Perhaps one shouldn’t meddle in others’ affairs,” he said quietly. And then he smiled. “But when have I ever done what I should? ”