Tears pricked at her eyes, but her father’s expression didn’t soften. “Francesca, you’re young. You must understand there are some matters best left to your elders to decide. I can see no alternatives at present.”
She swiped at her eyes, then turned away and walked rapidly toward the garden door, not wanting Papa to see the anger twisting her face. She was closer to hating someone than she’d ever been in her life. Not him, because he couldn’t possibly comprehend the depths of her feelings for Fitz—but her stepsister. Alicia, who’d cast a dark shadow of despair over what should have been one of the most joyful days of her life.
One thing was for certain—she never wanted to speak to her again. She’d rather cut out her own heart and offer it up to the crows.
Chapter Nine
Fitz spent the rest of the day pacing around the grounds of Beaulieu Manor, racked with regret. He must be in the middle of some cruel nightmare, but no matter how often he struck his knuckles on the rough trunks of the lime trees, the pain failed to wake him from it.
His offer for Cesca had been refused, and all hope was hemorrhaging out of him.
He dreaded to think what she must be going through and wondered if there was anything more he could have said, anything more he could have done, to protect her from hurt.
Eventually, he decided that having failed with Cesca's father, he would confront his own. Surely the earl would understand he couldn't possibly marry Alicia. Papa could put pressure on Heathcote—in a friendly fashion, of course—to allow his elder daughter to marry first, as would be expected. And of course, they must be allowed to marry, for Cesca loved him truly, whereas Alicia was just deluded.
If indeed Cesca loved him. After his failure earlier in the day, he could well understand if she no longer did. The pain of that was fiercer than anything he could imagine, so he stalked back into the house and burst into the morning room, where his father reclined on the chaise longue, reading.
Fitz took a calming breath. “Papa, how do you feel this afternoon?”
His father folded up his newspaper. “Weak, confused and tired. Very tired, after yesterday’s events.”
“I understand. A regrettable incident. But please, can we talk about it further? I have something important to say.”
“Only if it’s to tell me Heathcote’s accepted your request to court Miss Alicia. Anything else can wait.”
This was not an auspicious beginning. Fitz sharpened his determination, pulled up a seat and recounted his conversation with Heathcote. But if he’d been hoping for support from his father, he was much mistaken.
The earl’s countenance darkened with annoyance. “You were to ask for Miss Alicia’s hand, not Miss Francesca’s. I made myself absolutely clear on that score.”
Damn it—Papa had become increasingly fractious since his stroke and had a tendency to treat him as if he were still in leading-strings. Fitz licked his torn knuckles, relishing the sting; it helped him keep his temper, for he couldn't afford to alienate his father. Nor did he want to exacerbate his condition.
“You need to understand what happened yesterday was entirely engineered by Miss Alicia. It seems she’s nursed a tendre for me for some time. But it is Cesca whom I wish to marry, not Alicia.”
“But Heathcote won’t let you. I quite comprehend him—he wishes to avoid a scandal.”
Fitz bit his lip. There wouldn’t be a scandal if his cousins hadn't broadcast the news at the first opportunity. “I appreciate that. But I will have Cesca, and she will have me. Although we may have to wait until one of us can change Heathcote's mind."
"So, to clarify, Heathcote wants an engagement between you and Alicia.”
“He does.”
“And this engagement is to last at the very least six months until the gossip has died down?”
Fitz nodded. His father dabbed at some stray saliva with a handkerchief, then subjected him to an angry glare. "You do realize if you don’t plan to marry Alicia Heathcote, it will be a long wait before you can court another woman without seriously embarrassing me.”
This was true. “I’ve no wish to embarrass—”
“It’s a wait neither of us can afford. You must continue the line, my boy, and sire a son as soon as possible. I could have died a couple of months ago. There was no warning—I was simply struck down by the hand of God. How do you know the same thing won't happen to you? A sharpshooter on a battlefield, a cannonball, a sword? If Heathcote won’t let you marry the older daughter, then you must marry the younger. And the sooner the better, so you can set up your nursery.”
“But—”
His father waved a dismissive hand. “If you can’t change Heathcote’s mind, who can? I’m not well enough to get involved in all of this. I thought you understood.”
Fitz shivered. He couldn’t risk precipitating another seizure in his father. “Forgive, me, Papa,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll go away and think on what you’ve said. Please don’t worry.”
“I shan’t.” His father picked up the newspaper again. “I know you’ll do the right thing in the end. Now bring me a cushion for my neck and leave me be.”
Fitz did as required, then left. If only he could think of a solution—this uncertainty was frustrating him past all endurance. Stepping outside into the gardens, he set off down the gravel path leading to the rhododendron grove, where the bushes were coming into glorious bloom. Gazing at their exotic beauty, he pictured Cesca's face and knew he couldn't give up. He'd sleep on it, and by the morning, he’d know what to do, and everything could be sorted out before he had to return to his regiment.
But sleep refused to come. If he lay on his back, he just stared at the ceiling, worrying. When he rolled onto his side, he stared instead at the spare pillow and imagined Cesca lying there beside him, with her golden hair spread across the pillow as she gazed at him lovingly with her long-lashed hazel eyes, smiling that sweet smile of hers.
When dawn sunlight invaded the shutters, the incessant song of a chaffinch drove him out of bed, newly-determined and buoyant, despite his lack of sleep. He'd head for Fernley Place early, before the family was up, and whisk Cesca away. They'd be married, as originally planned, and she'd accompany him to Flanders if she had a mind to, putting her well out of the reach of Alicia and their respective fathers. Cesca would leave a note to say she was upset and had gone to visit a relative—they'd decide who later—and he'd write to Papa to say he'd been called back to his regiment urgently and regretted not having had a chance to say farewell.
By the time their deception was discovered, the earl would be physically much stronger and less likely to fall prey to another seizure. Heathcote would have had time to see sense, so there was every hope they would be forgiven for their precipitous flight.
Their families would have to bear any resulting scandal as best they could. So long as his father didn’t disinherit him, all would be well. Besides which, the earl had said he wanted grandchildren, so disowning his son would amount to an act of lunacy.
It was barely ten miles from Beaulieu to Fernley, but the ride seemed to take forever. Finally, Fitz reached the drive at the front of the house, leaped from Hector's back, and strode to the door where he knocked as quietly as possible.
The door was opened after some delay by a sleepy footman whose wig was askew. He responded to Fitz’s request to be permitted a private audience with Miss Francesca with some puzzlement. Fitz resisted the urge to shake the fellow, and put his request again, more forcefully this time.
Looking startled, the footman drew himself up straight and announced that Miss Heathcote was not at home but had departed the previous evening to stay with a friend.
Fitz steadied himself against the doorframe, shaking his head in disbelief. She’d gone?
Aware that the servant was staring, he quickly recovered himself and inquired, “Did she say with whom? Has she left a note, perhaps, containing her direction?”
“I’m not certain, my lord. I did
see Miss Alicia pick something up from the hall table late last night, but I may have been mistaken. She could have been leaving a letter out for the post. I regret I am unable to help you. Shall I rouse Mr. Heathcote, that you may speak with him, sir?”
Fitz digested this news in grim silence. Alicia. What game was that little harpy playing now?
“No, indeed, I wouldn’t wish to disturb him.” Though he’d like to disturb Alicia. She did not deserve to sleep soundly. “No, it was only a few moments speech with Miss Francesca I wanted, that was all. Good day to you.”
As he walked away from the front door to where he’d tethered Hector, his mind was buzzing. Cesca was gone. Yet another delay, yet another obstacle to his plans. And it had to be his fault she’d gone, for not agreeing to her idea of eloping. He’d been a complete fool.
He was just about to mount up when a tapping sound penetrated his gloomy thoughts. Looking around, and then up, he saw Alicia's face staring down at him from a first-floor window. He returned her look with an angry one of his own—here was the cause of all his trouble. Undaunted by his scowl, she waved a folded piece of paper at him, then raised her eyebrows significantly, and jabbed a finger at the paper.
Could it be a note from Cesca? Hope awoke anew.
Alicia pointed past his shoulder, then held up five fingers. After the briefest of pauses, he nodded his understanding, patted Hector on the neck, and stalked over toward the old overgrown ice house she’d indicated. As he pushed open the door and stepped into the gloom beyond, he vowed to be doubly on his guard this time. It was highly improper that he should be alone with Alicia in such a secluded place, and he was damned if he’d let her take advantage of it.
She arrived, breathless, disheveled, and bearing a candle, which thrust the shadows to the edges of the ancient building and illuminated the cobwebs dangling from the domed roof.
“Ah, Fitz, I was afraid I’d miss you! What do you mean by sneaking over here before everyone’s up, only to sneak away again directly?”
He ignored her question. “What do you want to see me about?”
Why so stand-offish? I only wanted to greet my savior and thank him once again. And I wondered if there was something you wanted to ask me. After the other day.”
“All I have to say is that your behavior was despicable, making a public spectacle of both of us like that. But I’d hoped your papa would realize that and take you to task himself.”
She pouted. “How unkind! I like you far too much to ever speak to you like that.”
“You needn’t have spoken to me at all,” he pointed out, then indicated the paper in her hand. “But I assume you’re keen to show me that, whatever it happens to be.”
Her voice hardened as she said, “It’s a letter from Cesca, addressed to you. I found it at the bottom of the post.”
He held out his hand for the letter, his heart pumping hard. Perhaps there was still time to find Cesca and get married before he had to go. Hope kindled afresh.
Alicia whisked the letter behind her back. “I’ll let you have it on one condition.”
“And what’s that?” he asked, frowning. He didn’t have time for childish games—he needed to find Cesca.
“That you announce our betrothal to all your friends and family.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
"Oh, but we are going to be married, aren't we? Both our fathers desire the match. I know you like Cesca better, but you barely know me. I'll make you a far more thrilling wife than she ever could. You'll only need to court me for a while, and you'll realize."
"I've no intention of marrying you, as I'm sure you're aware. Give me the letter, if you please.”
She jutted her chin, then took a step backward. “I won’t let you see the letter,” she hissed, “unless you do as I ask.”
"Don’t play games," he warned, but as he reached for the paper to wrest it from her, she turned her back on him and stuck it in the candle flame.
“Little idiot, you’ll burn yourself!”
She danced away from him, the flaming paper dangling between two fingers. “I’m not afraid,” she sang out, waving it at him. “Oh dear, I’ve dropped it!”
He was there in an instant, stamping on the burning paper, but when he lifted his riding boot, there was nothing beneath it but blackened fragments and ash.
“Viper!” he growled. “What did it say? Did you read it?”
“I’m not telling you. Unless you change your mind and start courting me. You might as well, as you don’t know where Cesca’s gone.”
“But you do.” He advanced on her, drawing himself up to his full height. “And now you’re going to tell me.”
“Oh, no, I’m not,” she squeaked, circling toward the ice house door. She was enjoying taunting him, and the urge to throttle her almost overwhelmed him.
He paused. It would be better to try persuasion rather than threaten her. More softly, he said, "Please, Alicia. You have nothing to gain by withholding her whereabouts. You will lose your sister's goodwill as well as mine. Is it worth it? You know I'll never marry you."
"Oh, but you will! Papa wants us to be engaged, and I'm going to tell everyone. So, you'll have to marry me." She hovered by the doorway now, the warm candle-light illuminating her features. He took in the sight for a moment. She looked so pretty, so innocent, so fresh—any man would be proud to have such a bride at his side. But only if he knew nothing of her true nature. There was a canker on this English rose. Selfishness, cunning, and greed were her prime characteristics, and he already knew about the temper tantrums she was wont to throw if her wishes were ignored.
He stood completely still and answered her with a single word. “Never.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You can't stop me. You'll be in France or Flanders, and I'll have sown the seed in everyone’s mind by the time you come back again. I very much want to become a countess.”
“You’d be wasting your time,” he answered, trying to keep the lid on his fury. “You can’t keep me and Cesca apart.”
“No, you’d be wasting yours.” She stepped out through the doorway. “Because Cesca’s note to you didn’t say where she was going. It just said ‘goodbye’. So, you see, I’m the only one who cares for you now.”
Before he could react, she’d scurried up the drive and into the house, slamming the front door behind her.
In a daze, he left the ice house, walked over to Hector and mounted up as jerkily as a badly-manipulated puppet, fumbling with the reins. Alicia was lying. She had to be. Cesca would never have despaired so soon, and she would never have abandoned him with just a note of farewell.
Would she?
Chapter Ten
Cesca had decided to spend the rest of the summer with a cousin up in Yorkshire. Having given Fitz her direction before fleeing Fernley Place, she was surprised when she received no word from him, especially as she hadn’t given up hope he might change his mind and elope with her. Once she was away from home, it couldn’t be easier for them to run off together.
But as the days passed without a letter, puzzlement gave way to numb disbelief, which was, in turn, replaced by misery.
Perhaps he'd been too busy with military matters to correspond. Worse still, he might have been injured or even killed. How appalled she'd been, when the news of Waterloo had reached her in June—there'd been significant loss of life, despite the battle ending in victory over Napoleon. When the casualty lists were published, she'd hardly dared look. She couldn't bear to think of Fitz dead—for how could she contemplate continuing to exist without him?
In August, Papa had written to say Fitz had been promoted to major after his bravery at Waterloo. The news made her heart swell with pride. But her father had then ruined the excellent news by repeating his insistence that Fitz be engaged to Alicia. Now he was a war hero it was even more critical that the masquerade be continued, for he was very much in the public eye. The earl would be appalled if Fitz were to break off the engagement now.
&
nbsp; Was this why Fitz hadn’t written? Was he ashamed at being brow-beaten into doing what both their fathers wanted? Dare she risk writing to him? But she didn’t know where he was living since his return home, and she couldn’t rely on the earl forwarding any letter she sent to Beaulieu Manor.
Realizing how agonizing it would be to return to Fernley and watch Fitz forced to court Alicia, Cesca exchanged the cousin in Yorkshire for an old family friend in Oxford, where she stayed for much of the autumn. There was no pleasure to be had in going home if her father was still in stubborn mood, and all Alicia wanted to do was crow over her.
The more she thought about it, the more Cesca knew that she never wanted to see Alicia again. She stayed in Oxford as long as she could but realized she’d have to move on before bad weather made travel treacherous; otherwise, her friend might be forced to put up with her for a few more months. There wasn’t anywhere to go now, except home.
She’d just about steeled herself to do this when Fate gave her a stay of execution, in the shape of an invitation to visit Lady Widbrook. She puzzled over this for a long time, all kinds of imaginings fluttering through her mind, tempting her leaden heart to spring to life again. Lady Widbrook was Fitz’s great aunt. Surely, she’d only extend an invitation to Cesca if Fitz had asked her to? And if this were the case, it might—just might—mean that he wanted Cesca close to him, for Mountney Hall, Lady Widbrook’s home, was a mere fifteen miles north of Beaulieu Manor.
She thought long and hard about whether or not she should accept. Could she cope with seeing Fitz again? For he was sure to be home on leave for Christmas. He might not even be with the army now—she’d no idea, for Papa wrote rarely mentioned him in his letters.
Deep in her soul, she knew it was high time she faced her father and stepsister—only then would she be able to value herself. But it would be prudent to see Fitz first—hopefully at his great aunt’s house—to ascertain the lie of the land. So, she wrote and accepted Lady Widbrook’s invitation, making it clear she could only stay a few days, after which she’d return to Fernley Place in time for Christmas Eve.
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