Ravishing the Heiress

by Sherry Thomas

  They moved on to a color lithograph advertising poster for preserved cream, fresh cream being a luxury out of the reach of a large swath of the population. This one was straightforward, showing simply a crystal dish of strawberries drenched under lovely, thick cream.

  Summer is more summery with Cresswell & Graves Potted Cream.

  “They finally have the color right,” he said.

  First the cream had been the white of leaded paint, then it had been almost currylike. But now it was a pale yellow, full-throttled richness.

  She regarded the poster with a critical eye. “I suppose I’d better let it go. Or we won’t be able to use it until next summer.”

  They dispatched several other posters—for jams and jellies, ox tongues, and curried chicken—and now it was time to discuss ideas for advertising the new chocolate bars, several of which sat on a plate on his desk.

  He handed her an orange crème, her favorite, and chose a raspberry delight for himself. They sat in silence for a minute, busy eating.

  “We could do something like this,” he said, the tart sweetness of the raspberry delight lingering on his tongue. “A man and a woman, sharing chocolate.”

  Immediately he regretted the suggestion. Of course she’d guess what he really wanted was to kiss her with the chocolate still melting in her mouth.

  Her brow knitted and unknitted. “We could, starting with the gentleman offering the lady a chocolate.”

  She rose and began pacing. This meant a Tremendous Idea had struck—she would not even realize until a few minutes later that she’d left her seat in the excitement. His true intentions remained safe for now.

  She stopped midstride. “The gentleman should offer the lady chocolate on a number of occasions, at a tea, at a picnic, on a rowing excursion—fewer and fewer people around them as their acquaintance deepens.

  “We should intimate the first time he offers her a chocolate to be the occasion of their first meeting. They will both be a little shy and the chocolate offers a good excuse to exchange a few words. At the picnic they will know each other better. Their postures will be less stiff, they will lean into each other without quite noticing that they are doing so. By the third image—on a rowing boat—they know each other even better, but they have never been in such close proximity for so much time. It is as exciting as it is taxing: They’d like to be closer, but of course they must restrain themselves.”

  He wondered now how he’d ever thought of her as bland and bloodless, when she was both quick-witted and inventive. “We can run these first three images together—in the same magazine issue, for example, separated by a few pages of text each. We should make it clear, by the end of the third image, that we intend to tell a story, this couple’s story. And that it will continue in future installments.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Yes, you read my mind: I did intend it as an ongoing story. But your idea is marvelous; a quick succession of vignettes would achieve greater interest faster. After that, we will present new developments in the courtship at regular, but not too close, intervals. And of course our young lovers must overcome a gauntlet of challenges on their way to happiness. But at each step along the way, our chocolates are there to help cement their attraction, comfort their heartbreak, and eventually, celebrate their happiness.”

  “We will introduce new varieties when our couple’s children arrive one by one,” said Fitz. He was invariably swept away by her enthusiasm and her barrage of interesting ideas. “And should our chocolates be a success, they will also accompany those children through the ups and downs of childhood and adolescence.”

  “Not to mention each milestone anniversary of our couple.” She smiled. “Chocolate is such fun. Would that asparagus were half as enjoyable to think about.”

  “The last asparagus advert was quite genius, if you ask me.”

  The advert had shown individual asparagus spears in tartans and plaids, in a good-natured parody of the images of the Highland regiments famously used to advertise Huntley & Palmers biscuits. People had chuckled all over Britain and the sales of preserved asparagus had jumped sky-high.

  “You’ve always been very uncritical of me,” she murmured.

  “The very thought of those bagpipe-playing, bearskin-wearing asparagus still makes me snort.”

  She blushed and bent her neck, a gesture of immense modesty. If he hadn’t experienced it, he’d never be able to imagine her thrashing beneath him, her hand between his legs. But it was all he thought of these days, her heat, her temerity, her abandon.

  “I think we did well today,” she said. “You can pass on the ideas to Mr. Gideon and I’ll be glad to look at the first sketches when you have them.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she rose. He rose, too, and walked her to the door.

  He’d meant to open the door for her, but instead he blocked it. Before she could say anything he took hold of her face and kissed her, pressing her into the nearest wall.

  All these years. All these years.

  Her mouth was chocolaty, her tongue eager and nimble. She dug under his waistcoat and dragged at his shirt, pulling it free of his trousers. He flicked open the buttons on her bodice, pushed down everything in his way, and captured her nipple in his mouth.

  His trousers, her skirts, all obstacles were shoved aside. He lifted her and drove into her. The sounds she made, rough, beautiful, sounds of the loveliest distress. And her face, her exquisite face.

  “Open your eyes,” he ordered.

  She only squeezed her eyes shut tighter.

  “Open your eyes or I’ll stop.”

  He did stop. She whimpered in protest. Her eyelids fluttered then raised—slightly. She kept her gaze down.

  “Look at me.”

  Reluctantly, she did.

  And in the depth of her eyes were all these years—seasons they’d known, paths they’d trod.

  Slowly he entered her again. Everything reflected in her gaze: shyness, yearning, ripples of pleasure.

  The pleasure turned fierce, then ferocious. He labored to draw breath. In the wash of her climax, she closed her eyes. He closed his own eyes and yielded to the moment.

  But even when they’d restored their clothing to a semblance of decency, he still found it difficult to breathe—an oppressive weight had settled over his chest.

  This was not procreation. This was not even simple lust. He sought something—an echo of his own heart, perhaps, a consonance—and he found it in her.

  No, no, it had been only an illusion, a moment of make-believe.

  And never mind what he thought he’d found, what made him think it was acceptable, in the first place, to look for it in his wife?

  He’d promised himself to Isabelle.

  He opened the door for Millie.

  “Booting me out now that you’ve had your way with me?” she said without quite looking at him, but with a small smile lingering at the corner of her lips.

  The very faint note of flirtation in her voice was a sharp pain through his lungs. She never flirted otherwise. He’d given her the wrong impression.

  “Just stepping aside so as not to be in your way anymore.”

  “You weren’t in my way. In me, perhaps, but not in my way.”

  She flushed and bit her lower lip, as if shocked by her own bluntness.

  He was no less shocked: He’d thought her only capable of prurience in the dark. He wanted her this way, shyly raunchy. He wanted to—

  He’d promised himself to another.

  “I need to speak to Gideon before he leaves for the day, about the changes we want to make to the advertising prints.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll make myself scarce.”

  She kissed him on his cheek—which she’d never done in the entire course of their marriage—and showed herself out.

  He closed the door quietly, shutting himself inside.

  Never mind what a man says; watch what he does, an exasperated chaperone had once said within Millie’s hearing.

 
; If she were to go by this excellent advice, then she would disregard Fitz’s stated plan—that in six months he would leave her for Mrs. Englewood—and pay attention only to what he did.

  On the surface of it, what he did might not seem so terribly significant: He’d taken their lovemaking out of her bedroom and into his study—and from night into day. But Fitz was a discreet man who understood nuances and who conducted himself accordingly. For him to be so carried away, like a balloon in a storm, was indicative of an enormous lust, at least.

  And quite possibly much, much more.

  She tried not to let her hopes get the best of her, but she burst at the seams with anticipation. Any day now, he was going to see that he had not waited eight years for Mrs. Englewood, but for Millie.

  Since Helena was under Venetia’s chaperonage, Millie had the evening free. She quite looked forward to a nice dinner at home with Fitz, an interlude to let their desires build to a new ascendancy. And tonight she would not ask him to turn off the light. She liked the undisguised covetousness in his eyes when he looked at her naked form. He could look as much as he wanted.

  For dining at home, she could have worn her tea gown. But it was a bit too brazen to wear the same dress in which he’d ravished her, so she changed into a pretty marigold dinner gown. No sounds came from his room, but she was not particularly concerned. She’d heard him in his bath earlier; he’d probably already changed and was again in his study.

  But when she arrived at the drawing room, a few minutes late, he was not there.

  “Is Lord Fitzhugh still in his study?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Cobble, the butler. “Lord Fitzhugh has gone to his club. He said not to expect him for dinner.”

  She blinked. That he’d have gone out in the evening was not so strange. He enjoyed seeing his friends at his club and occasionally dined there. But why tonight? He’d given no indication in the afternoon that he was headed anywhere.

  “Shall I serve dinner?” asked Cobble.

  “Yes, of course.”

  A minute ago she was walking on clouds, now she was in a dungeon, with screws in her thumbs. She forced herself to eat normally. She must keep a sense of calm and proportion. Chances were she had overreacted both in her earlier euphoria and her current despair. The truth was probably somewhere in the middle: Their lovemaking in his study was not as significant as she’d made it out to be; and neither was his absence this evening.

  He would be back at night. And he’d come for her again.

  Eleven o’clock. Twelve o’clock. One o’clock.

  He was having fun with his friends. She was glad.

  No, she was not glad in the least. His friends were not going anywhere. They’d still be his friends when he was old and grey. She had less than six months and he chose to spend his time elsewhere.

  Six months, dear God, not those words again. Just hours earlier she’d thought it would be a lifetime.

  How quickly happiness shrinks to nothing.

  He entered his room at a quarter past one. His lights turned off at half past one and he went directly to bed.

  She shouldn’t be too greedy. It already happened once this day. She ought not expect more.

  But she wanted more. More of the incandescent pleasures, more of the stark hunger in his eyes, more of this connection, this intimacy unlike any she’d ever experienced.

  They were good friends, weren’t they? The best of friends. She ought to be able to walk into his room and ask him the reason for his absence this evening—and the reason for his absence from her bed.

  But she couldn’t, because it was all a sham, their friendship, at least on her part, a disguise for her true feelings, an awful solace for not being his one and only.

  A thing without wings.

  CHAPTER 17

  After eight years, how did a woman take over a man’s life overnight?

  And why couldn’t it be a simple case of lust, an itch that could have been scratched on any post?

  Instead Fitz felt split in two, his other half on the far side of the door. But he couldn’t open that door, walk inside, and make himself whole again. He could only wait for the end of the night.

  In the morning he rode and took his time bathing and changing. She should have already left the breakfast parlor when he descended at last, but she was very much there, in her customary spot, a stack of letters and a cup of still-steaming tea before her.

  Once upon a time he’d dreaded it, the prospect of sitting across from her at ten thousand breakfasts. Today he could not think of anything more felicitous. She was daily sustenance, like bread, water, and light.

  “Good morning.”

  She looked up and did not smile. “Good morning.”

  She thought he’d rejected her. But it was not true. He’d stepped back because he could not in good conscience continue to mislead her—or himself.

  “You’ve a letter from Mrs. Englewood,” she said.

  It was to be expected. He pulled out the letter and sliced it open. “She is back in town.”

  A few days ahead of schedule. This, too, was not entirely unexpected.

  “She will want to see you,” said his wife.

  “She does. I will call on her in the afternoon.” He took a sip of his coffee. “And what do you have planned for the day?”

  “Nothing much. A call on Venetia in the afternoon.”

  How he envied Venetia. “I’m sure she will be delighted to have your company.”

  “As I’m sure Mrs. Englewood will yours.” She rose. “Good day.”

  Isabelle’s parlor suffocated.

  It shouldn’t be the case at all—Fitz had made sure that the house was well ventilated. And it had rained midmorning. The sky was clear, the window was open, the white dimity summer curtain danced in the light breeze.

  Yet he felt as if he’d been locked into a cupboard.

  She talked about her sister, her niece, her children, gesticulating with great animation—as if by the motions of her arms and hands she could stir the air enough to save him from asphyxiation. As if she knew her house was choking the air from his lungs.

  “From everything you say, you enjoyed Aberdeen very well,” he said. “You should have stayed longer.”

  Why must you return so soon?

  “I missed you.”

  She waited a beat, waiting for him to echo her statement. When he didn’t, for a brief moment, it seemed as if she’d ask outright whether he shared her sentiment. And what would he do if she did? He could not lie. He’d tried; but in the end he’d thought only of Millie.

  Millie, his mainstay, his solace, his coveted companion of the night.

  His lack of a response was a void, an absence, an empty chair at dinner that everyone tried not to notice.

  Isabelle broke off a piece of cake. “So…what did you do while I was away?”

  A less awkward question, but not by much. Slept with my wife. Which I’ve given up.

  “I’ve kept busy.”

  “Well, tell me more. I want to know how you spend your days in the course of an ordinary week.”

  But this had been no ordinary week, had it?

  “It will bore you.”

  “It won’t.”

  “Well, yesterday I looked at some advertising prints for Cresswell & Graves.”

  Of all the things he could mention, why must he bring up this particular episode? Why did he keep remembering Millie’s quick kiss on his cheek? How happy she’d seemed.

  Isabelle glanced at him with some astonishment. “You have hirelings to do that sort of thing for you, surely? You don’t need to get your hands dirty.”

  He understood her reaction: It was not good form to be actively involved in business. But he could not quite put out his irritation. “I’m not exactly working in the factories.”

  “But advertising is”—she grimaced—“vulgar.”

  “It makes a significant difference in profits.”

  “Profits are vulgar, too. Profits are what sh
opkeepers and merchants think about.”

  He understood that a preoccupation with wealth and its generation coarsened the soul. It was the reason that landed gentry had always held such sway in this country: For a long time they’d made a convincing argument that gentlemen who did not need to muddy their thoughts with the provenance of their next sou were better suited to loftier things like justice and governance.

  But it never felt vulgar when he discussed matters of business with Millie. It felt—intricate, like tinkering with the inner workings of a fine watch. And a hefty percentage of their profits went into schools, parks, and hospitals. He’d be a far richer man if he believed in improving only his own lot.

  “Then I must admit to being vulgar.”

  She turned her face one way, then the other, agitated. “Don’t be like that.”

  “I cannot pretend my land is enough for my upkeep. My houses, my dinners, the shirt on my back—everything I have is thanks to profits from tinned goods.”

  She looked pained. “Must we introduce tinned goods into our conversation? They are so déclassé.”

  He could not blame her. Once upon a time, he’d held exactly the same views. The gentry was ever dismissive of those who made their fortunes in commerce and manufacturing. And Cresswell & Graves didn’t even have the cachet of grandeur or luxury. He’d had plenty of potted chicken for his afternoon tea when he’d been a student and bottled beverages had made good inroads among the young, but there was no denying the fact that enormous quantities of tinned goods were consumed by those who could not always afford greengrocery and freshly butchered meat: the poor and the working class.

  And therefore, déclassé.

  “I oversee the management of the firm on my wife’s behalf,” he said. “By my own choice. And I quite enjoy it, advertising component included.”

  “This is so unlike you.” Her eyes pleaded with him to change his mind. “I can’t imagine the old you would ever take up something like this. It isn’t gentlemanly.”

  Gentlemanly it might not be, but it was fascinating, an ever shifting challenge. From the sourcing of the ingredients to the manufacturing processes to the allocation of capital, a hundred variables must be considered, a thousand decisions made—many of which he delegated to his lieutenants but for all of which he remained ultimately responsible.