Ravishing the Heiress

by Sherry Thomas

  Not so soon, not with Isabelle’s wedding breathing down his neck. There was no long engagement, as he’d secretly hoped; the nuptials would take place before the end of Captain Englewood’s home leave. The honeymoon would be spent in France and Italy, en route to India, where Captain Englewood was posted.

  Fitz would have married her when he was Captain Fitzhugh, on home leave from his regiment in India. And they would have passed through France and Italy on their way to their new life together, completely wrapped in each other, completely thrilled to be married at last.

  She was doing her level best to claim the life for which they’d planned—without him.

  He still had her letters, the photograph with the entire gang, and the various small presents she’d pressed into his hands over the years. But those were static things, representing only certain moments of the past, whereas Alice was a living, breathing embodiment of all that they were and all that they’d hoped to be. As long as Alice lived, a part of their connection remained unbroken, time and distance be damned.

  But without Alice, beautiful Alice…

  All around him, life went on. The finishing touches were being put to the restored manor: new floors laid, new wallpapers hung, and shiny, blue enamel commodes installed one by one. His wife seemed to have terribly ambitious plans for the flower garden: Thickets and brambles were cleared; Peruvian guano arrived by the railcar-ful, along with enormous sacks of bulbs, for those first splashes of color in spring.

  Sometimes he’d see her in a wide-brimmed hat, conferring with the gardeners, consulting the master plan in her hand as they measured out new flower beds to be built and new paths laid.

  And despite his panic, he would gather up Alice and head down to his study, to meet with his steward, his architect, and his foreman; receive his tenants and mediate their problems; and write his weekly report to Colonel Clements on the discharge of his numerous responsibilities.

  He was becoming like his wife in some ways: the stoicism, the determination to carry on no matter what.

  Alice, however, could no longer carry on.

  “I always thought you’d pass away in your sleep,” he told her, adjusting the bed of soft cotton batting he’d made for her. “And it would be so easy you wouldn’t even know it.”

  She wheezed another arduous breath. Her eyes were closed. One of her little feet twitched from time to time, but otherwise she’d become too weak to move.

  “I want to have you in my pocket all of my days. And I’ll wager you want the same. I’ll wager you wish you were just having a hard time falling asleep, that when you wake up, it will be spring again and you’ll be strong and healthy and ready to eat your weight. But we can none of us have everything we want, can we?

  “You are going to a beautiful place, where it is always spring. I won’t be there, but I’ll remember you from here. And I’ll think of you surrounded by fresh buds and hazelnuts—hungry again, young again.”

  She stopped breathing.

  He wept, tears falling unchecked. “Good-bye, Alice. Good-bye.”

  An invitation to Isabelle Pelham’s wedding came for the Fitzhughs, but neither Millie nor Lord Fitzhugh attended.

  Or rather, Millie assumed her husband did not attend. She was home alone in the country and he off somewhere. She had not asked about his whereabouts. In fact, she did not even keep count of how long he’d been gone—except to know that it had been more than seven days and less than ten.

  He came back two days after the wedding. She expected to hear the sledgehammer again. But through her open window came only the sound of the wind, and of the grounds staff as they went about their duties.

  Her curiosity outweighed her resolve not to care. She slipped into a room that overlooked the ruined wall. He stood before the wall, still in his traveling clothes, one hand braced against it. Then slowly, he began to walk, his palm sliding across the wall, as if he were a student of archaeology, examining the ruins of Pompeii for the first time.

  She went on her afternoon constitutional. When she came back, he was still there, leaning against the stonework, a cigarette dangling between his fingertips.

  He raised his chin in acknowledgment of her approach. Somehow the pensive, wistful expression on his face told her everything.

  “You went to the wedding,” she said, without further preamble.

  “No and yes,” he said. “I didn’t go inside.”

  “You waited outside the church while she was inside exchanging her vows?”

  Such a forlornly and stupidly romantic gesture—another reason to not love him. Yet all she felt was her heart tearing apart.

  “I watched them come out from the church, get into the waiting carriage, and drive away.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “No, she didn’t,” he said softly. “I was but a face in the crowd.”

  “She must have made a beautiful bride.”

  “Yes, very beautiful. Her groom was thrilled; she looked happy.” He tilted his head up. “I’ve been dreading the day of her wedding. But now that it has come and gone, I feel almost…relieved. It has happened at last: She has become another man’s wife. I need to dread it no more.”

  “So—you are actually happy for her?”

  “I wish I were him: I envy him and I will never not envy him. All the same, when I saw her smile at him, it was as if a load fell from my shoulders.”

  He looked at Millie. “It is good to know that I’m not as selfish as I thought I might be.”

  Don’t you dare do this to me. This is no time for you to act noble and generous.

  He reached into his pocket and drew out a package wrapped in silk and tied with a length of ribbon. “This is for you.”

  “You already gave me a birthday present.”

  “We both know that it was Venetia who remembered to give you a birthday present from me. You have been a steadfast friend. I have not expressed my appreciation very well up to this point, but please know that I am grateful to you.”

  Don’t, she almost said. Don’t.

  “You didn’t let me drown in whisky. You didn’t leave me to face Colonel Clements alone. And you are always, always kind. I hope I can be just as good a friend to you someday.”

  She bit her lower lip. “What is in the package?”

  “A lavender cutting for your garden. I asked your maid and she told me that you are very fond of lavender. After Isabelle’s wedding I went to Lady Pryor’s place and applied for a few cuttings. I understand it’s better to propagate in spring but that it’s still doable in autumn.”

  She opened the package, and indeed, wrapped inside was a sprig of lavender.

  “More will come tomorrow, but I thought I’d bring this one in person.”

  “You shouldn’t have.” He really ought not have. Six weeks of dogged efforts to fall out of love with him—he would ruin it all with a single gesture.

  “All we’ve done here is take things down and prevent further deterioration,” he said. “Let’s grow something—something new, something that is ours.”

  You don’t know what you ask. You don’t know the terrible hopes this will ignite in me.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It will be beautiful.”

  CHAPTER 8

  1896

  Lavender honey,” read Isabelle from the handwritten label on the glass jar.

  “You like honey—if I recall correctly,” said Fitz. “We make this honey at Henley Park. Very good stuff.”

  And very beautiful, glowing golden and clear in the gingham-covered jar.

  “My goodness, to make lavender honey you must have a whole field of lavender.”

  “Acres and acres of it. It’s quite a sight to see, especially after three months in London.” Fitz felt a surge of pride and warmth at the mere thought. He missed it, his corner of the Earth.

  “You never told me about those acres and acres of lavender. I thought Henley Park was nothing but a ruin.”

  “It was. The lavender fields were sta
rted in my tenure—although most of the credit must go to Lady Fitzhugh. She is an indefatigable gardener.”

  Isabelle had been holding up the jar of honey, admiring it in the light. She set it down abruptly. “You are giving me something that comes from her garden?”

  Her voice was tinged with both suspicion and displeasure—she was reading too much into a simple gift. “Our garden,” he said firmly. “I got the first cuttings from Lady Pryor.”

  Isabelle pursed her lips. “That might be even worse, that this comes from something belonging to the both of you.”

  “You are taking up with a married man, Isabelle. Much of my life is intertwined with my wife’s.”

  “I know that.” She sighed, an exasperated sound. “But the reminder does not really help, does it?”

  He’d seen the honey at breakfast, remembered that she enjoyed honey on her toast, and asked his housekeeper whether there were any unopened jars on hand—as simple as that. But nothing, alas, was so straightforward.

  “If you don’t care for it, I’ll take it back and find you something you’ll like better.”

  “Of course I like it—I adore anything you give me.” Her lips turned down briefly at the corners. “I’m just frustrated that there is so much of your life I do not—and cannot—share.”

  “It will change now. My wife and I had nothing in common when we married.” Realizing he hadn’t given the best example, he hastened to add, “It will take time, that’s all. We must catch up on all the years we’ve been apart, and then build something new.”

  “You make it sound as if there is a distance between us that needs to be bridged.”

  He was taken aback she’d dispute him on this point. “That’s quite inevitable, isn’t it? We have changed. It will take us a while to know each other as we once did.”

  “I have not changed.” Her voice turned vehement. “Yes, I have experienced marriage and motherhood. But I remain the same person I have always been. If you knew me then, you should know me now.”

  “I do know you, but not as well as I would like to.” He sounded defensive to his own ears.

  “Not as well as you know your wife, you mean.”

  He wasn’t sure why the conversation kept circling back to his wife. “Certainly I know her daily itinerary as well as I do my own, and I know her character. But she is an opaque one, Lady Fitzhugh; I’m never sure what she is thinking.”

  “What about me? Can you tell what I’m thinking?”

  He recognized the half-defiant, half-rueful look on her face. She knew she’d overreacted, but wasn’t yet ready to admit her error. He smiled—with relief. “I think you, or part of you at least, would rather we talked about something else instead.”

  “Maybe, if I could be assured that your wife hasn’t somehow managed to wedge herself into your heart.”

  “The very idea of it is silly. If I love her, then what am I doing here with you?”

  His reasoning apparently passed muster. She smiled a little sheepishly. “Shall we talk about a honeymoon of our own? A place to go when your six months have ended.”

  “We’d be in the dead of winter, wouldn’t we?”

  “Yes,” said Isabelle, her eyes lighting up. “So we should head somewhere warm. The weather in Nice would be perfect. But Nice is so crowded in winter; we won’t wish to bump into everyone. Majorca would be just as lovely—or Ibiza, or even Casablanca.”

  An unhappy sensation stole over him. Christmas at Henley Park had become a grand tradition, an extended embrace of family and friends. He did not want to curtail the festivities to head to parts unknown—some of his fondest memories of recent years had come of those gatherings. And he could scarcely stomach the idea of deserting his wife right after Christmas.

  Perhaps in his way, he’d become as opaque as his wife. Isabelle chatted avidly on the possibilities—apparently there was a sturdy supply of scenic places on Spain’s Mediterranean coast—not once noticing that his enthusiasm didn’t quite match hers.

  But that was all right, he supposed. He had become too comfortable in his existence. All creatures of habit needed to be shaken out of their habits once in a while, so as not to become too rigidly set in their ways. He only wished Isabelle hadn’t thought to make such a major production out of the beginning of their future. He was committing adultery after all, and it seemed that they ought to go about it with more silence and discretion.

  Isabelle, however, was Isabelle, exuberant and passionate, full of insuppressible vitality. And why should he begrudge her a little speculation, or a most likely delightful excursion to a place with palm trees and a warm ocean?

  If only the thought of Millie spending January alone didn’t distress him so, as if he was about to leave the door of the greenhouse open on the coldest day of the year and would return to find all the carefully nurtured plants inside withered from cruelty and neglect.

  Helena could not believe her eyes: Andrew! He stood on the platform of the rail station, waiting, not twenty feet from her.

  She sent her maid Susie to buy a paper, and some roasted nuts from street hawkers outside the station. Once she was sure Susie had been swallowed by the crowd, she made her way to Andrew and tapped him on the shoulder.

  The ecstatic surprise on his face was almost—almost—worth their long separation.

  “Helena,” he said reverently, his quiet voice largely lost in the noise of a busy rail junction.

  His coloring was a more diffuse version of hers, his hair ginger, his eyes hazel—it had been one of their earliest topics of conversation, two redheads in families full of raven-haired siblings—hers—and blond cousins—his. He was dimpled, a little rumpled, round-shouldered from all his hours sitting before a desk, and just a hair shorter than her, something he joked about good-naturedly.

  Everything he did was good-natured and honest. In a cynical world, he was the rare creature, one of both intelligence and genuine sweetness.

  “Andrew.” She longed to take his hands in hers, but she dared not in public. They shook hands instead, holding on to each other’s fingers a second longer than was completely appropriate. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Yes, to Bodley to read some manuscripts.” He’d spent a great deal of time at the Bodleian Library at Oxford even when he’d been a student there. “And you?”

  “Venetia is officially returning from her honeymoon today. I thought I’d be on hand to welcome her back to London.”

  “How terribly exciting. I haven’t had the chance to congratulate her in person.” He bit the corner of his lips. “But I suppose she wouldn’t really wish to see me anymore.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He’d removed his right glove when he’d shaken hands with her. Now he twisted that glove uneasily. “I thought—your brother—you didn’t know?”

  “Fitz?” Her heart was already sinking. “What does he have to do with any of this? Please don’t tell me he’d called on you.”

  That was the reason Andrew had written her to cry off their affair, citing the perils to her reputation and whatnot.

  “He was very kind about it, but he is right, Helena. What we were doing was terribly dangerous. And I’d never be able to live with myself if I damaged your good name.”

  So Fitz had known—and Venetia and Millie, too—all this while. If anyone could be said to be the party responsible for the affair, it was her, yet he had chosen to go behind her and speak with Andrew instead. They’d made decisions for her while leaving her in the dark, as if she were a child, when she was barely fifteen minutes younger than Fitz—and to her face they’d pretended nothing was happening, as if one of the most significant choices of her life was but so much rubbish to be swept under the rug.

  “My good name, is that all anyone can think of? I thought we’d already agreed that there is more to life than reputation. I thought we’d agreed that happiness was worth a risk or two.”

  “I do agree still. But that was before we were found out. Thank good
ness it was only your brother. Had it been anyone else—I can’t even conceive of the consequences.”

  Damn Hastings. He must have told Fitz after all.

  “Do you really not want to see me ever again?”

  “Helena.” Andrew’s voice shook just perceptibly. “You know I would give anything to see you, but I promised your brother—”

  “Is your promise to him more important than your promises to me?”

  Andrew winced. “I—”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Susie coming back. “You will meet me again. Because you will not let me down and you will not leave me without hope.”

  She turned and walked away before Susie could come too close.

  Only to see Hastings fifteen feet away, an expression of mild interest on his face. He’d seen her and Andrew together. She did not bother coming up with a task, but only told Susie, when the latter reached her, that she was going for a private word with Lord Hastings.

  Before she could excoriate him for breaking his word, however, he said, “I didn’t tell Fitz the identity of your lover. In fact, he punched me in the face when he realized that I hadn’t told him everything.”

  “Then, who did?”

  “Give members of your family some credit. Do you think they do not remember that you were in love with him? Do you believe they cannot put two and two together? And don’t forgot all those love letters that arrived by the bushel from your beloved. They only needed to stumble upon one to learn his identity.”

  There had been the one letter she could not account for after her return from America. “Why didn’t they say anything to me?”

  “Probably because they knew you wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  “That is pure hog swill.”

  “Would you have listened to them?”

  “They would have tried to persuade me with conventional thinking—not at all the same as reason. Not all of us live by the same logic.”

  “Yet you still have to abide by the same set of rules as the rest of them. The consequences won’t be any different for you.”