Ravishing the Heiress

by Sherry Thomas

  She was so interesting, Isabelle, and so interested. Her eyes shone like stars, but her beauty was the winsomeness of morning, bright and glorious, full of heat and verve. And when he looked upon her his heart was weightless with joy, rising to the sky like a balloon.

  “I need to speak to you, Lord Fitzhugh,” she said.

  Lord Fitzhugh? Lord Fitzhugh was his third cousin twice removed.

  “What is it?”

  “You cannot go on like this.”

  “Why not?” He was bewildered. This was exactly how he’d like to go on, a carefree young man, with the girl he loved by his side.

  “If you won’t think of yourself, then please think of your family. Your sisters will be devastated.”

  He opened his eyes. Strange, had he been holding a conversation with his eyes closed all the while? And when had the room become so dark, so full of shadow and gloom?

  He was lying down. And she, above him, was as close as the reach of his hand. He lifted his arm and touched her face. She shivered. Her skin was softer than the memory of spring. He’d missed her so. It was her. It was always, always her.

  Very gently, so as not to startle her, he pulled her down and kissed her. God, she tasted so sweet, like spring water at the source. He slid his fingers into her hair and kissed her again.

  It was as he undid the top button of her dress that she began to struggle.

  “Shh. Shh. It’s all right,” he murmured. “I will take care of you.”

  “You are delusional, Lord Fitzhugh! I am not Miss Pelham. I am your wife. Kindly unhand me.”

  Shock spiked through him. He scrambled into an upright position—Christ, his head. “What the—why are you talking to me in the dark?”

  “Last time I lit a lamp your eyes hurt.”

  “Well, light one now.”

  The light came, stinging his eyes, but he needed the prickling, burning sensation. His wife had fled to a far corner of the room. How in hell had he mistaken her for Isabelle? They could not be more different, in height, in build, in voice—in every aspect.

  “Perhaps it is time to rethink being so inebriated that you mistake your wife for your beloved,” she said coldly.

  He lay down again. The light of the lamp flickered in circles of diminishing brightness upon the ceiling. “It helps me forget.”

  “What good is that when you must remember everything anew the next day?”

  Of course it was no good. The drink was a weakness—his father would never have countenanced such a show of unmanliness. But then again, his father, at nineteen, had everything to live for. The rest of Fitz’s life stretched endless and barren before him. Only pain was a certainty: His classmates from Eton would receive their commissions as officers; Isabel would marry another man and bear his children.

  What did he have to look forward to? Roof repairs at Henley Park? An intimate knowledge of the preservation of sardines? Lady Fitzhugh, with her primly disapproving face, sitting across the table from him at ten thousand breakfasts?

  “Continual sobriety is unappetizing,” he said.

  Sometimes he was amazed he could even withstand an hour of it.

  “You don’t always remember to close your door. I have seen you clutch your head in agony; I have heard you retch. Is it not enough that your heart aches? Must you ruin your health while you are at it?”

  “I will stop when I am inclined to do so.”

  His hand, by habit, reached for the fresh bottle of whisky by his side, only to encounter nothing at all. Strange, even if he’d poured its contents down his throat, the bottle should still be here.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to stop sooner,” said his wife. “I disposed of the whisky.”

  Damned interfering woman. He’d been somewhat thankful that she hadn’t tried to cheer him up or censor his drinking—guess that was too good to last. No matter, she’d emptied one bottle; he still had half a crate left.

  Using the arm of the sofa for support, he struggled to his feet. Walking had become hazardous. He’d stumbled and bruised his shoulder the other day—the perils of being a sot. A sot, a lush, a man who drowned his troubles in his cup—or tried damn hard, at least.

  He usually had ten or fifteen bottles stocked in the cupboard next to his room. The cupboard was empty. He swore. Now he had to take himself all the way outside.

  He lurched and staggered to the shed behind the cabin. He wouldn’t have kept the whisky so far away, but one night, as he smashed things in his room, he’d damaged several unopened bottles. The next day he’d moved the whisky for its own protection.

  The crates were neatly stacked in the shed, the bottles dully glistening. His heart trilled with relief. He grabbed one bottle by the neck and yanked it toward his parched lips. Something was wrong—it was too light. The bottle was empty. He threw it aside and pulled up another bottle. Again, empty.

  Empty. Empty. Empty.

  I disposed of the whisky.

  She’d been thorough.

  He kicked the stack of crates and almost lost his balance completely, banging heavily into the wall of the shed.

  “Are you all right?” said her bloodless voice somewhere behind him.

  Was he all right? Could she not see with her own eyes that he’d never be all right again?

  He tottered out of the shed. “I’m going to the village.”

  He was going to have his drink if it killed him.

  “It’s going to be completely dark in half an hour. And you have no idea where the village is.”

  He hated her reasonableness, her do-good ways, and her stupid assumption that she was helping him.

  “I can’t stop you from leaving tomorrow. And I most certainly can’t stop you from falling on the next delivery of liquor. But for tonight I strongly advise that you stay put.”

  He swore. Turning—his heart thumping unpleasantly—he went back into the shed and pulled out an empty bottle, hoping that there might be a drop or two at the bottom. But the only thing left was the sweet, alcoholic fume.

  Her voice came again, flat, inexorable. “I know the sky has fallen for you, my lord. But life goes on and so must you.”

  He threw the bottle against the back of the shed. It didn’t break, but only thudded against the wall and fell with a plop onto a mound of burlap sacks. He stormed out to face her.

  “What the hell do you know about the sky falling? This is the life for which you’ve been preparing for years.”

  She raised her eyes to him. It was stunning, the intensity of her gaze set against her practically nondescript face.

  “Do you think you are the only one who has lost someone you love because of this marriage?”

  She did not bother to explain her cryptic statement, but pivoted on her heels and returned to the cabin.

  It seemed all right at first, no worse than the bad heads he’d become accustomed to when he woke up. But as the evening ground on, his headache turned ugly, doubling, then doubling again in viciousness. His hands trembled. Perspiration soaked his nightshirt. Waves after waves of nausea twisted his innards.

  He’d never ailed so badly. For the first time in his life, pure physical misery drove everything else from his thoughts—except the lovely amber-hued nectar for which he yearned so desperately. He prayed to be given a glass of it, an inch, a sip. It didn’t need to be top quality whisky: brandy would do, as would rum, vodka, absinthe, or even a dram of common gin, the kind adulterated with turpentine for flavor.

  Not a drop of distilled spirit sallied forth to his aid. But from time to time he’d vaguely realize that he was not alone. Someone gave him water to drink, wiped away the beads of sweat from his face, and might have even spread open clean sheets beneath him.

  At some point he fell into a trouble sleep, his dreams full of thrashing monsters and forced good-byes. Several times he jerked awake, his heart pounding, convinced he’d just fallen from a great height. Each time there would come soothing murmurs at his ear, lulling him back to sleep.

  He
opened his eyes again to a dim room, feeling as if he’d just recovered from a raging fever: His tongue was bitter, his muscles feeble, and his head annihilated. Sheets had been tacked to the window, making it difficult to judge the time of day. A kerosene lamp cast a dark orange glow on the walls. And was that—he blinked his sore, crusted eyes—a large bouquet of daisies in an earthenware pitcher? Yes, it was, small daisies, with crisp white petals and yellow centers as vivid as the sun.

  Behind the daisies dozed his wife on a footstool, her sandy hair in a simple braid that hung over her shoulder.

  Pushing himself up to a sitting position, he saw that next to his pallet on the floor was a tray with a fat-bellied teapot, slices of buttered toast, a bowl of grapes, and two boiled eggs, already peeled, covered under a pristine, white handkerchief.

  “I’m afraid the tea is quite cold,” came her voice as he reached for the teapot.

  The tea was quite cold. But he was so thirsty it barely mattered. And he was hungry enough that his queasiness didn’t prevent him from eating everything in sight.

  “How did you manage to make tea?” A lady might pour tea in her drawing room for her callers, but she never boiled the water herself. And certainly she would not know how to build a fire for her kettle.

  “There is a spirit lamp and I’ve learned to use it.” She came forward, lifted the empty tray from his lap, and looked at him a moment, as if he were a shipwrecked stranger who’d washed up before her. “I’ll let you rest.”

  She was on her way out when he remembered to ask, “What are the daisies doing here?”

  “The chamomiles?” She glanced back at the riotous bunch. “I’ve heard chamomile tea helps one fall asleep. I’ve no idea how to make chamomile tea, so I hope you like looking at them.”

  The chamomiles were so bright they hurt his eyes. “I can’t say I do, but thank you.”

  She nodded and left him alone.

  Night was falling—without quite knowing it, Fitz had slept most of the day away. It was too late to set out, find the village, and secure himself a new supply of whisky. But even if he had plenty of daylight left, he was still far too depleted to make the trip on foot.

  Although, had he known that his second night would be as wretched as the night before, he might have made an attempt. The headaches roared back; tremors, palpitations, and roiling nausea, too, returned en masse. An eternity passed before exhaustion overtook him. He slept, holding on to someone’s hand.

  His third night was far better, his slumber deep and dreamless. And when he awakened, more or less clearheaded, it was morning, not afternoon or evening as it had been lately.

  The sheet still blocked the window. With one hand shielding his eyes, he yanked it off and let light stream into the room. What the sun illuminated was not pretty. All the walls were splattered with gouge marks, some large, some larger, as if a rabid beast with spikes and yard-long tusks had been penned in, desperate to get out. He rubbed his fingers against some of the rougher gouge marks, vaguely surprised that he’d been capable of such violence.

  The chamomiles, droopy but no less cheerful, were still there; his wife was not. She had, however, left behind another pot of tea that had gone cold. Since he was well enough to move about on his own, he went out of his self-made prison cell to look for the spirit lamp that she’d mentioned.

  He found it, but it had run out of the methylated spirits used as fuel. So he started a fire in the grate, pumped water into the kettle from the pump outside, and put it to boil—the first thing a junior boy learned at Eton was how to make tea, scramble eggs, and fry sausages for his seniors. While the water heated, he set chunks of bread on a toasting fork.

  When he had tea and toast both ready, Lady Fitzhugh was still nowhere to be seen.

  He found her in bed, fully dressed—walking boots included—sleeping facedown on top of the covers, her arms at her side, as if she’d reached the edge of the bed and simply pitched forward into it.

  He hadn’t meant to spy, but as he turned to leave, his gaze fell on an unfinished letter on her desk. It was addressed to his sisters.

  Dear Mrs. Townsend and Miss Fitzhugh,

  Thank you for your warm missive of last week. I apologize for our late reply: Your letter reached us only three days ago, along with our other semiweekly supplies from the village of Woodsmere.

  The weather here remains delightful. And of course the lakes are ever so blue and lucid. I find myself constantly astonished by the beauty of my surroundings, even though it has been weeks since we first arrived.

  Lord Fitzhugh had every intention of writing himself but alas, in the last few days, he has been under the weather—due to something he’d ingested, most probably. But he has bravely faced the rigors of his ailment and is now very much on the mend.

  To answer Miss Fitzhugh’s question, I do plan to drive out and see Mr. Wordsworth’s house in Grasmere, as soon as Lord Fitzhugh is fully recovered.

  With the exception of his intention to write—he hadn’t even known they’d been receiving letters—she’d managed not to lie, no mean feat when this honeymoon must have been some of the grimmest days she’d ever known.

  He glanced back at her and noticed that her left hand bore several deep scratches. Alarmed, he approached the bed and lifted her hand for a closer look.

  She stirred and opened her eyes.

  “What happened to your hand? I hope I didn’t—” He couldn’t imagine he’d harm a woman, drunk or not. But there were some gaps in his memory.

  “No, not at all. I cut myself a few times when I was learning how to use the tin opener.”

  He’d opened tins for her in the beginning, when he opened tins for himself. But lately, bedridden, he’d forgotten that task altogether.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, ashamed.

  “It was nothing at all.” She pushed herself off the bed. “Are you better?”

  He was still tired and sore, but it was a cleansing fatigue. “I’m all right. I came to tell you breakfast is ready if you want it.”

  She nodded, this girl who’d seen him at his very worst, who’d remained a rock of sanity and good sense when he’d nearly given in to a self-indulgent wretchedness. “Good. I’m hungry.”

  Over breakfast, he read the accumulated letters, three from his sisters, two from Colonel Clements, two from Hastings, and a half dozen from other classmates. “You replied to all of them?”

  “I’m not quite finished with the latest letter to your sisters, but the other ones, yes.” She glanced at him. “Don’t worry, I didn’t say you were deliriously happy.”

  There was a mutable quality to her face. Every time he looked at her he was disconcerted: She never quite looked like what he thought she looked like.

  “They wouldn’t have believed you anyway.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, her tone calm, matter-of-fact.

  Something about her composure defused tension, even when the subject was highly flammable.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Me?” His question surprised her. “Yes, I’m well—well enough at least.”

  “Why aren’t you crying over your fellow?”

  “My what?”

  “The one you had to give up to marry me.”

  She added another spoonful of milk powder to her tea—they were out of fresh cream. “It’s different for me. We did not have any history—it was largely wishful thinking on my part.”

  “But you love him?”

  She looked down into her cup. “Yes, I love him.”

  The pain that had been dulled by an excess of whisky came roaring back. “We are in the same boat, then—neither of us can have the one we want.”

  “It would seem so,” she said, blinking rapidly.

  It was a shock to realize she was holding back tears, even as he adjusted his opinion of her from bland deference to quiet strength: When he’d lost all his bearings, she’d been the one to guide him back from the wilderness.

  “You’ve conducte
d yourself far better than I have,” he said, his words awkward and tentative, at least in his own ears. “I don’t know how you do it, putting up with me when it has been just as difficult for you.”

  She bit her lip. “Don’t tell anyone else, but I am secretly a laudanum fiend behind your back.”

  It took him a moment to realize she spoke in jest. He felt himself smiling faintly. The sensation was strange: He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled.

  She rose. “I’d better finish the letter before Mr. Holt from the village arrives. He will be”—she hesitated—“he will be coming with whisky.”

  Millie would have liked to decline the whisky for her husband. But she had told him the day she poured out every bottle—the aggressiveness of her action still astonished her—that the choice was his.

  So it must be.

  She took delivery of milk, bread, eggs, butter, fruit, and salading. There was a box of tinned sardines, potted meat, and tinned plum pudding—everything manufactured by Cresswell & Graves. And there was the whisky.

  “The spirits are no longer needed,” said Lord Fitzhugh.

  Millie had become accustomed to the bearded, wild-haired, slovenly drunkard. The young man who stood before the cabin was clean-shaven and sharply dressed. He was still too gaunt and too pale—behind his eyes was a grief as old as love itself. But Millie had to force herself to tear her gaze away: He had never been more striking, more magnetic.

  “Very good, sir,” said Mr. Holt. “I’ll carry the rest inside. And—I almost forgot—there is a cable for you.”

  Lord Fitzhugh took the cable and opened it. His expression changed instantly. “There is no need to unload anything. If you could wait half an hour or so and take us down to Woodsmere, I’d be grateful.”

  Mr. Holt touched the brim of his hat. “Anything, milord.”

  Millie followed him back into the house. “What’s the matter? Who sent the cable?”

  “Helena. Venetia’s husband has passed away.”

  “Of what?” Millie was incredulous. Surely her kind, beautiful sister-in-law could not have been made a widow so young. Mr. Townsend had been in perfect health at the wedding. And in Mrs. Townsend’s recent letters there had been no mention of any illnesses on his part.