Ravishing the Heiress

by Sherry Thomas

  Had he a better understanding of his own heart, when Isabelle asked whether it was too late to reclaim some of what they could have had, he’d have answered differently. She’d have been disappointed, but not overcome. Now, after he’d raised her hopes with his pledge for a future together, she would be furious—and heartbroken.

  He could not bear to break her heart again.

  He could not bear to lose Millie.

  Millie had said that he always did the right thing. He clung to that praise like a poor fisherman to his tattered net. But was there a right thing to do here? And if there was, how would he know it?

  Doyle’s Grange was a pleasant surprise from the first sight: The property was separated from the country lane that passed before it by a hedge of rhododendron, in raucous, purple bloom.

  The gate was whimsical and charming: finials in the shape of grape leaves; wrought iron vines meandering across the pickets. Pines lined the gravel drive. Somewhere in the distance, a stream babbled.

  The house was constructed of brick, with large bay windows and gabled dormer windows. Ivy climbed over the portico. The interior, full of books and low furniture upholstered in creams and yellows, was bright and comfortable.

  Isabelle was clearly enchanted. But in every room, she’d cast an uncertain glance at him, gauging his reactions. After they’d inspected the interior, they went out to the gardens. The roses had faded but the pinks and the delphiniums were going strong. Bees buzzed. The air was English summer at its finest, a dash of warmth, a hint of hay, and a garden in bloom.

  “Can you picture yourself here?” she asked.

  Suddenly the right thing to do was there in front of him. To keep Isabelle happy, he would have to lie, and that was no way to begin a life together. She deserved better. She deserved a man who was thrilled to share her house and her life, a man in whose heart she would always be first and foremost.

  He was not that man. And he hadn’t been for a very, very long time.

  “I’m sorry, Isabelle, but I picture myself elsewhere,” he said.

  The corners of her lips quivered. “You mean you’d like to look at a different house?”

  There was such fear in her eyes he almost could not continue. “No, I picture myself at Henley Park.”

  Some of her old fire came back. “That hovel? I never told you but I went to see it before you married. It was a horrible place.”

  “It was. But it isn’t anymore.”

  Her face took on an obdurate set. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Then come with me,” he said gently. “And see it for yourself.”

  When had Fitz fallen in love with his house? A long time ago, most likely. But he’d realized it only the year before, coming back after a London Season.

  They’d never stopped working on Henley—decades of accumulated neglect could not be reversed by any single bout of renovation. The renewal of the estate was steady and ongoing.

  Perhaps because there were always works in progress, something else in need of attention, perhaps because the two previous years his return to Henley Park had taken place at night, but it was not until that particular day that Fitz had a long, continual view of Henley Park, as if he were a tourist, seeing it for the first time.

  Double rows of hazel trees hugged the drive. Through their canopy fell a light almost as green as the leaves, a clear, cool light with flecks of gold that shook with the rustling of the branches.

  There, at the turn of the drive, he’d come across the eyesore that was the dilapidated Grecian folly—and not fallen into ruins in a rustic, isn’t-it-quaint manner, but dumpy and ugly, promising to reek of things one couldn’t mention in mixed company.

  But no, the restoration was at last complete. Gleaming white and slender columned, the folly seemed not to touch the grassy slope on which it had been built, but float above it, its reflection rippling in the man-made lake below.

  And the lake, once reed choked, was now clear as a mirror. The jetty, so long falling into the water, had been rehabilitated. Tied to the jetty was a rowboat painted a brilliant blue, a pair of oars laid across the bow.

  The road rose, dipped, and rose again. And spread before him were the lavender fields, a sea of purple spikes swaying in the breeze.

  “My God,” he murmured.

  “I know,” said Millie, in the carriage with him. “I love coming back to it.”

  He was struck by a fierce gladness. This beautiful place belonged to him and he belonged to this beautiful place. He would never again think of it merely as the estate he’d inherited. It was home now—and would be till his dying day.

  Henley Park was as lovely as Fitz had ever seen it. The drive, the lake and the folly, the lavender fields, and at last coming into view, the house he shared with Millie, a trim, compact Georgian, its walls faintly lavender from the fading of the bricks, asymmetrical from the demolishing of the north wing, and yet, harmonious in every aspect.

  “This is where I picture myself,” he said to Isabelle, “my favorite place on Earth.”

  He’d come to it by fate; but now he held it by love.

  He signaled the driver to stop. They alit and walked in silence, arm in arm, until they came to the new bridge crossing the trout stream: a Japanese bridge made of stone, perfectly arched.

  A pair of swans glided past the bridge.

  “I should have realized it sooner, but I’ve been a fool. We have built this place together, my wife and I. And we have built a life together. She is a part of me now, the greater part of me, the better part of me.”

  Isabelle turned away. He caught her by the shoulders. “Isabelle.”

  “I understand now—and it is not as if I haven’t felt the future I’d imagined for us slipping away these past weeks,” said Isabelle, her voice breaking. “It’s just that I—”

  “You will not be alone, Isabelle. I cannot be your lover, but I am your friend. And I am far from your only friend.”

  She had tears in her eyes. “I hope you are right, Fitz. I wish you all the joy in the world.”

  He enfolded her in his arms. “And I wish the same for you. I love you and I always will.”

  But the love of his life was the one with whom he’d built his life.

  Millie walked, hoping to find solace, but what solace she found was lanced through with a painful longing, for imprinted on every square foot of Henley Park was their collaboration: She and Fitz had massaged every last nook and cranny of this land, to soothe the tantrums of an estate made temperamental by neglect.

  They’d once stood not fifty feet from this path, discussing what to do with a vast quantity of cleared underbrush—eventually discarding a bonfire in favor of making mulch. At the next bend she’d come upon Fitz a good many years ago, tossing small bulbs out of his pocket—she’d bought too many for her garden and he’d wanted to see whether some of them might naturalize in the woods. Some of them had, piercing the soil every spring to bloom afresh, dots of yellow and purple and white against the previous year’s fallen leaves. And of course, farther ahead was the spot where the trout stream had overflowed on the eve of their Italian holiday, flooding the old bridge and a greenhouse in the process. They’d spent the days before their departure trudging up and down the banks, debating the merits of widening versus straightening.

  Sometimes she’d been harried. Many times she’d been resoundingly annoyed by yet another creaking wheel needing her attention. They’d both marched in on each other, demanding the purchase of dynamite to blow up a particularly irksome part of the estate.

  But looking back, she could see nothing but wonderful moments, the threads of two separate lives gradually, imperceptibly weaving into one.

  The path turned. The new bridge came into view. She stopped, her heart falling into an abyss.

  A man and a woman stood on the bridge, in a tight embrace. And then, even after they drew apart, he kept his hand on her shoulder, and she leaned her head on his.

  Millie slowly backed away. And when she was
sure they could not hear her, she turned and ran.

  She ran until she could no longer run. Then she walked—until she could no longer walk. And when she sat down on a mossy rock, her tears overcame her at last.

  She would be all right in the end, she supposed. She was an enviably rich woman, and still quite young. And if a place as wretched as Henley Park could be brought back to life, anything could.

  But she could not see the future, she could only weep for her loss. Day by day, year by year, kindness by kindness they’d built this life together, its foundation an unshakable affection, its walls partnership, and its pinnacle passion. All she wanted was to add to it, strengthen it, and cherish it.

  Now she would have to leave it behind to disintegrate and fall into ruin.

  Her tears streamed anew.

  As daylight faded, she started for home—she would never not think of it as home.

  Not wanting anyone to see her, she entered through the door that opened to the side terrace and slipped upstairs via the service stairs to her bath. In the mirror, her face was almost livid in its splotchiness.

  She splashed her eyes with cold water, toweled her face dry, walked into her bedroom and lit the lamps. She didn’t believe Fitz would invite Mrs. Englewood to dine at Henley Park, but she was not about to take herself down to the dining room to find out. She’d have her dinner upstairs, by herself.

  The sound of running feet stormed down the passage toward her room. Her door blew open. Fitz braced one hand on the doorjamb, breathing hard, as if he’d run across the breadth of Henley Park.

  “You idiot. Where the hell have you been?”

  “I was—out on a walk.”

  “Mrs. Gibson told me you left for a walk in the morning, before eleven o’clock. It’s half past nine at night now. We’ve been searching for you for the past four hours. God, I just gave the order to dredge the lake. I was afraid—I was afraid that—and then I saw your light come on—”

  She was suddenly lifted up and pushed against the bedpost. He kissed her as if the entire world had become a vacuum and she its last remaining conduit of oxygen.

  “Don’t ever do this to me again,” he growled, when he pulled away for a minute to pant.

  “But Mrs. Englewood, you are—I saw you, the two of you together.”

  “What?”

  “On the new bridge. You were holding her—tight.”

  “Of course I was. I’d just told her that I belong here—with you.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  He had chosen her in the end. She could not help it. She wept again. “And was Mrs. Englewood all right?”

  “I think so. She said she’ll return to her sister’s place in Aberdeen—her children are still there. She didn’t want me to accompany her back so I cabled Hastings to wait on her when she got off at London. He already cabled back. They’d had tea together and he’d seen her off at the rail station.”

  “I hope she’ll be happy,” Millie said through her tears. “I hope she’ll be as happy as I am now.”

  He crushed her to him. “I’ve been such a fool.”

  “So have I. If I’d let on earlier, if I hadn’t been so afraid—”

  His kiss swallowed the rest of her words.

  “Let me go and call off the search, so people aren’t stumbling about in the dark looking for nothing.” He kissed her again. “Better get some rest now. After I come back I’m not letting you sleep a wink.”

  “All right, go,” she said, a great big smile on her face, tears still falling.

  Oww,” said Fitz.

  “Are you all right?”

  He’d returned some time ago and she’d pushed him into bed and leaped on top of him. She was still on top of him, running her hand over his arm, nipping him on his shoulder.

  He dug out a framed photograph from under his back. “I must have left this on your bed when I was here earlier, waiting for you to come back from your walk.”

  She sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t know you were hurting all this time. I’m so—”

  He put a finger over her lips and grinned raffishly. “Trust me, I didn’t feel it at all.”

  They spent a moment looking at the photograph, with the two of them standing together at the edge of a picture that should have included only Hastings. It was her favorite—she had a framed print in every house and several unframed prints stashed in her dressing room.

  “Let’s cut Hastings out,” Fitz suggested. “So it will be only the two of us.”

  She giggled. “Poor Hastings.”

  “I’m sure he’ll volunteer to leave us alone.”

  The photograph safely out of the way on the nightstand, he kissed her. “So, this is what it feels like to be married to the woman I love.”

  The woman I love. She would never tire of the sound of it. “Satisfactory, I hope.”

  He cupped her face. “For years I’d wondered how my life might have been different—better—had I been able to go back in time and change certain crucial events. Extending the previous’s earl’s lifespan, for example, or causing the north wing to never have been built. After a while I stopped such speculations because I was busy and there was no point. But now I know: I wouldn’t change a thing, because only this life I’ve lived could have led me here, with you.” He traced a finger over her brow. “And I’m beyond glad to be here, with you.”

  Her eyes turned moist again. “I love you.”

  “I love you.” He kissed her again. “And I love everything about you.”

  Smiling through her tears, she kissed the signet ring on his hand. Then, she licked it as she’d wanted to do for years and years. “Now, Lord Fitzhugh, I give you a choice: supper or me?”

  “You, my love.” He pulled her toward him. “Always you.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Because women made many of the decisions in the purchase of household items, manufacturers and other companies had long sought to appeal to them. As a result, women achieved access and success in advertising far earlier than they had in many other professions, managing advertising agencies by the 1890s.

  And for readers who want to know what happened to Isabelle Pelham Englewood, you will find her story in Midnight Scandals, an anthology by Courtney Milan, Carolyn Jewel, and Sherry Thomas.

  Read on for a sneak peek of the next irresistible romance from Sherry Thomas

  Tempting the Bride

  Coming October 2012 from Berkley Sensation

  PROLOGUE

  January 1896

  Darkness was like a lover’s embrace, Helena Fitzhugh had heard it said.

  Bollocks.

  Nothing was like a lover’s embrace, with its warmth, strength, and passionate need. But a lover’s embrace made one look favorably upon the entirety of the universe. As Helena entered her unlit bedroom, surrounded by darkness, she sighed in contentment.

  Or rather, as much contentment as possible given that her particular lover’s embrace happened through her chemise and Andrew’s nightshirt. But still, how new and thrilling it was to kiss and touch in the comfort and privacy of a bed, almost enough to pretend that the past six years never happened and that the only thing that separated them were two layers of thin, soft merino wool.

  “Hullo, Miss Fitzhugh,” came a man’s voice out of the darkness.

  Her heart stopped. David Hillsborough, Viscount Hastings, was her brother Fitz’s best friend—but not exactly a friend to her.

  “Mistook my room for one of your paramours’?” She was proud of herself. Her voice sounded even, almost blasé.

  “Then I would have greeted you by one of their names, wouldn’t I?” His voice was just as nonchalant as hers.

  A match flared, illuminating a pair of stern eyes. It always surprised her that he could look serious—intimidating—at times, when he was so frivolous a person.

  He lit a hand candle. “Where were you, Miss Fitzhugh?”

  “I was hungry. I went to the butler’s pantry and found myself a slic
e of pear cake.”

  He blew out the match and tossed it in the grate. “And came back directly?”

  “Not that it is any of your concern, but yes.”

  “So if I kiss you now, you would taste of pear cake?”

  Trust Hastings to always drag a discussion in this particular direction. “Absolutely. But as your lips will never touch mine, that is a moot point, my Lord Hastings.”

  He looked at her askance. “You are aware, are you not, that I am one of your brother’s most trusted friends?”

  A friendship she’d never quite understood. “And?”

  “And as such, when I become aware of gross misconduct on your part, it behooves me to inform your brother without delay.”

  She lifted her chin. “Gross misconduct? Is that what one calls a little foray to the butler’s pantry these days?”

  “A little foray to the butler’s pantry, is that what one calls gross misconduct these days? Or is that how one properly refers to the territory inside Mr. Martin’s underlinens?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Should I use the scientific names?”

  And wouldn’t he enjoy doing that. But as it was her steadfast policy to never let him enjoy himself at her expense, she declared, “Mr. Martin and I are friends of long standing and nothing more.”

  “You and I are friends of long standing and—”

  “You and I are acquaintances of long standing, Hastings.”

  “Fine. Your sister and I are friends of long standing and yet she has never come to spend hours in my room. Alone. After midnight.”

  “I went for a slice of cake.”

  He cocked his head. “I saw you go into Mr. Martin’s room at forty minutes past midnight, Miss Fitzhugh. You were still there when I left twenty minutes ago. By the way, I also witnessed the same thing happening for the past two nights. You can accuse me of many things—and you do—but you cannot charge me with drawing conclusions on insufficient evidence. Not in this case at least.”