Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  “Where is my uncle?” he asked.

  “I came alone,” Anna said.

  Alistair swallowed convulsively. “Dear God. Why?”

  The room was over warm, the fireplace piled high with coals. A dizzying wave of heat lapped up from her toes, swirling around her ears. Anna stared at the cracking plaster behind the bed, wishing she could simply dissolve, shimmering out of sight like a desert mirage. “Griggs sent me your letter.”

  “I think I know the one,” Alistair murmured. “It was never meant to be seen. Forgive me. I’m just—surprised. You came from London alone?”

  “I brought Henry, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said weakly.

  “We hired a manservant in Oporto. Bartolome. He’s quite invaluable.” He’d brought her here, so he could bring her back, presumably.

  “I’m sure.” He seemed to choke, unwillingly drawing Anna’s eyes from her inspection of the scarred walls. Alistair was leaning forward, hiding behind his hand, his shoulders shuddering as he cursed softly, desperately. Perhaps it was her own extremity that made her reach for—or fall on—familiarity.

  “Save the Lord’s name for prayer,” she said, shocked at how exactly she sounded like her mother.

  “I am,” Alistair said, looking up at her with wet eyes. “This is as good as I can manage.”

  His hands were clutching the sheets like he meant to shred them. She was too afraid to touch him. His eyes were strange and glassy, and he’d never looked at her like this before.

  “Why did you come?” he asked.

  “You were dying. And you’d asked me to marry you.”

  “That letter.” Instead of cursing he exhaled. Somehow he managed a smile, but it was mocking, unkind. “Thought you’d be sensible. Dismiss my ramblings. Suppose you’d arrived only to find me at death’s door?”

  “I would care for you until you mended. I’ll do it now, if you’ll let me,” she said, defiance setting her spine.

  “I’d no idea romance was so catching,” he said softly. “I should never have written that.”

  “Are you withdrawing your offer?” she demanded, stung and burning.

  He looked away, smoothing the edge of the sheet with his fingers. “I think you should choose a man with better symmetry. Coming here . . . I’m honored by your sentiments. But it’s a declaration I can’t accept. No one would hold you to it.”

  Anna set her teeth, clinging to pride, trying to forget the aches of long days in the saddle, thick mountain fog with icicle fingers, the vile substance she had downed when one innkeeper claimed it was stew.

  “So you lied.”

  He opened his mouth, but she didn’t let him speak. She couldn’t stand another word of protestations or abasement. “You don’t love me.” The words of his letter echoed in the pause, his promise that he loved her to madness.

  “I don’t think how I feel matters anymore. I could have found a way to support a wife with two legs, but not as a truncated cripple. You wouldn’t want—”

  “Don’t tell me what I want,” Anna snapped. “I came to you. Doesn’t that say enough? Of course I’d rather marry a whole man, but I don’t have that choice. I want to marry you. You weren’t thinking about money when you wrote me that letter.”

  “It’s different now.”

  “Of course it is!” Her fingers were shaking, so she pressed them against her skirts. She would never watch him ride again, secretly admiring the shape of his leg. He would never again sweep her around a room to the tune of a waltz—that one long ago dance was all they would ever have. A cruel twist, for back then she hadn’t even known she would love him. Well, life seldom unfolded as you wished it.

  “Only a cold heart could make you an ineligible husband,” Anna said, trying not to let her lips quiver. “I know. The rest doesn’t matter as much as you think.” She’d come, undeterred, to this gritty room in a war-shattered town—and he thought he could deter her with warnings of twice-turned dresses, bargain cuts of meat, and the puny deprivations of the shabby-genteel? You should know me better than that.

  Of course, it was one thing for her to forsake pride—by now she had very little. For him, it was all he’d ever had. Without money or a pedigreed lady-wife, he could scarcely be considered a gentleman, and without his leg he couldn’t be a fighting sword. “You are enough for me. More.”

  He studied her for a long time with wet eyes. “Our children will be poor,” he said.

  “Henry will help them.” He had money enough. It was an uncertain future, but was there really any other kind?

  “He’ll have to keep me too.”

  “You’ll be his papa. He’ll like nothing better,” Anna said. Henry had a warm heart, once you found a way in.

  Alistair stared at the place beneath the covers where his foot should have been. “I’ve always been superfluous. A hanger-on. I’ve never been able to snap my fingers at the world, and I suppose now I never will. It isn’t easy, consigning yourself to leeching from a stepson.”

  Anna reached for his hand. “But we need you. I’m not made to be alone. And Henry needs a papa to teach him.”

  “Anna, you could find someone else.”

  She shook her head, willing to be as stubborn as needed. He was weakening. “You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

  He swallowed. “You’re a fool, Anna.” But he was reaching for her shoulder and there was a wobble in his voice. Before he could move too far, she inserted herself in the warm hollow by his side.

  “At least I’m a pretty one.”

  He took her hands and pressed them to his stubble-roughened cheek. “What kind of lady goes traipsing through Portugal alone?” he muttered. His cheeks were damp, but she preferred him using her hands to a handkerchief.

  “I’m not a lady.” Thank goodness, because ladies probably didn’t demand to be kissed and she was about to. But before she could speak, Alistair pulled her close, hiding his face in her hair. Her fingers tightened on his and her heart skipped, even as her eyes burned with tears. Whole or broken, he was hers, and she wanted him.

  “You’ll marry me tomorrow,” she said. No excuses.

  “Today,” he whispered back, his chin rasping her cheek and making her laugh.

  It was delightfully impossible. She chuckled and shifted closer, her knees sliding onto Alistair’s lap as she raised herself to be level with his eyes. He pulled his face away. Winced.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Anna said, horrified.

  “Stitches are still oozy. And the—the stump is swollen. Bruised.”

  Anna swallowed. She would ask to see it, but not now, when all she wanted was to hide her face and leap back behind the chair. She’d hurt him. “Is it agony?” she mumbled, hiding behind her falling-down hair.

  “A special kind,” he said, pulling her closer. “It hurt when they cut the leg off too. I was too fevered to understand. Thought I was in hell.” His words were light, but she’d never seen his face so shadowed, or felt so desperate and powerless to smooth away pain. She wanted to hide his hurts away in gently-cupped fingers, but they were too vast and formless to fit in her hands. As the first stirrings of fear shifted in her stomach, Alistair traced a finger down her cheek along the curve of her bottom lip. “If you’d look up, I think you’ll see I’m blushing too.”

  He was, but it showed in his ears more than his face. It made him look younger and foolish, so Anna kissed him. He tasted faintly medicinal, but she liked it, continuing until she was breathless and almost raw from whisker burn. She’d never kissed an unshaved man before, let alone considered the hazards. Her face was probably redder than a case of the measles.

  Perhaps if I kissed him only on the lips . . . .

  “I’m a broken fumbler,” he cautioned.

  “Maybe at first,” she grinned, taking his mouth back. Wounds healed, even the kind beneath the skin.

  “Where’s Griggs?” Alistair asked.

  “On holiday? I don’t care,” Anna said.

  “Well,
we should fetch him. Or someone. Before I really do ruin you.”

  It would be more comfortable to laugh at him or simply ignore his words and enjoy the feeling of resting against his warm chest. This was an opening though, and she must take it.

  “I’m sure traipsing here—you make it sound much easier than it was, you know—has done that already. But you see, I was ruined years ago—I warned you I was a bad bargain, remember? You needn’t fear for my reputation. I deserve none.”

  “What do you mean?” Alistair asked, unconvinced and more interested in playing with her hair.

  She paused before beginning, working moisture back into her mouth. This confession was essential, something she’d practiced, but no easier in spite of it. Anna flattened her slick palms against her skirts. Tell him. You’re done with secrets.

  “Alistair, what did you think when you first saw me?”

  He shifted. “I apologized for my error.”

  “You needn’t have. You were right. Or not far wrong anyway.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. I thought you were a lightskirt, remember?”

  “Not that bad, but—a fast piece, definitely. I had lovers. Henry isn’t Morris’s son. I did it to hurt him.” Her lips faltered around the words. “Of course it only made things worse. He took Henry from me. Anthony was wild before, but after that he was truly reckless. The accident was almost inevitable.” She ducked her head, unable to continue, but Alistair didn’t speak and the hand was still in her hair. No choice but to press on.

  “You picked me out of the crowd in that masquerade, and knew from a look exactly what kind of games I once played. Can you wonder that I was terrified when you discovered who I was and where I lived? I was trying so hard to be respectable, hoping to get Henry back. Not just for that, though. For myself too. Oh, Anthony deserved something, but what I did—I hurt myself and Henry as much as I did him. And I never felt any better.”

  She traced a circle on the back of his thumb. “The first time you asked me to marry you, I warned you I was no good. I should have told you the whole then, but since you said it wasn’t real . . . if you no longer want to marry me, I won’t complain.” Aloud, anyway.

  This was the safest way. Give him a chance to escape. Say the words for him so she wouldn’t have to hear them from his own mouth. But his arms tightened, pressing her close. “Good thing Morris is already dead,” he said, his tone flat. “Goodness, Anna. What did he do to you?”

  She wasn’t spurned, then. At least not yet. Anna curled her fingers, tightening her grip on his fingers. “Married me without any love. Or even liking. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, but I won’t make that one twice.”

  “No, you won’t,” he said. He pushed back her hair, dabbed at one damp eye with the loose cuff of his shirt. He kissed one eyebrow, then the other, then drew his finger down the bridge of her nose. “Anna.”

  “You don’t mind?” She needed to be sure.

  “I was playing games at that ball, too. I’m not—I haven’t always—well, love is a fine thing, and it took me longer than you to learn not to be careless with it. But I’m not careless anymore, and I won’t be with you.”

  She replied with lips but not words, learning his worn face with soft touches. His stubble was raspy, his cheeks thinner, his skin cool, but her response hadn’t changed. And though it came a little late, this was the welcome she’d wanted.

  “No more arguing then?” she teased. “Good. Kisses are better.”

  “You’re quite convincing. I’d be a fool to resist. Wish I had all my pieces, though. I’d rather you married a perfect man.”

  “Perfect!” Anna was scornful. “I couldn’t endure that. If such a man existed, just think how insufferable he would be!”

  “I’ll remind you of that,” he said. “Go get Henry. Griggs too—I expect you’ll find him lurking at the bottom of the stairs.”

  She protested, but when he threatened to hop down the stairs himself, she had to give in. Griggs wasn’t there, so Anna winged her way outside, expecting he’d gone to find Henry. Instead of a tired town she saw stars. It felt like her head might bump them.

  Just as she thought, Griggs was in the tap room, plotting with Henry while Bartolome tiredly swirled his wine.

  “How is he?” Griggs asked, looking up.

  Smiles couldn’t grow big enough to break open, could they? Perhaps so, for it seemed like bits of her own were attaching onto Henry, Griggs, to the bar keep, to Bartolome, and the newcomer nodding from the corner. Color swept into her cheeks.

  “He’s well,” Anna said.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Fidelity

  London was quiet and cold, with snow-muffled streets and frost-sharpened edges. Lord Fairchild could have gone out for a congenial evening of company, cards and hot punch, but had elected to spend the evening alone in front of the library fire, hoping Georgiana would return from a compassionate visit to her sister. It was late now. The snow would have slowed her progress, if she had set out at all. Georgiana hadn’t much fortitude for travel, even under the best conditions, and might have extended her stay.

  He shouldn’t begrudge the visit. Lady Ruffington’s husband was dying, and her son ailing in Spain. There was no one else to help her since Cyril, her eldest son, was traveling to help his brother. Hysterics were a habit with his sister-in-law, invariably over the least consequential issue at hand; it surprised no one that she’d gone into a tizzy about Anna Morris getting her hooks into Alistair when he lay at death’s door. If it were up to William, he’d slap some sense into Louisa Beaumaris, but Georgiana would mix up possets and listen, trying to reconcile her to the idea of Anna as a daughter-in-law. It wouldn’t be a prudent match, but she loved him. Besides, with Sophy wed to Tom Bagshot, it might not be a bad thing to have one more shop-stained person in the family. It would give Bagshot someone to speak to at dinners, at any rate.

  He was beginning to hope that perhaps there would be some—dinners that is, with Sophy and her lanky husband. Jasper too, sophisticated and discontented, and Henrietta and her Percy, if he could be coaxed away from his books. May as well have Alistair and Anna too—poor, but handsome as a match pair of horses. They’d never lack for conversation. Georgy might pretend to disapprove of whatever unspoken currents swirled around the table, but she’d thrive on it. And if she played at being miffed, then he’d have the pleasure of coaxing her out of it later. He liked this game of theirs, this secret happiness. William sighed and stretched his feet to the fender, smiling because it was good for a man his age to have dreams that might even happen.

  He missed her. She’d been gone a fortnight, and—glancing at the clock—it seemed he must await her return at least one more day.

  Above the clock, a new oil painting, still smelling of varnish, hung on the wall. He wasn’t used to it yet. Every time his gaze flew that way, his eyes stuck on it. The old watercolor was on the floor, propped against the other armchair. He’d wrap it and send it to Sophy. Jasper was visiting her this Christmas—he’d refused flat out to go to Spain.

  “Let the Morris woman do it. Not my affair.”

  It was the only thing William and his son had agreed on for months. William wasn’t sure how to fix matters with Jasper or Sophy, but he hoped sending this painting would be a start. He would miss it, though. The picture was an old friend, but it was past time. If he loved his wife, he couldn’t cherish this memento of Fanny.

  You understand, don’t you?

  Of course there was no answer. Just an image in his mind, half Sophy, half her mother. They had the same thin little shoulders: sculpted, birdlike, delicate but determined. Though short-lived, it had been a joy to press his lips into those hollows in Fanny’s skin and then look up into her astonished eyes.

  Yes. I must think about you before I can put you away.

  Fanny was young back then, of a family both genteel and poor, connected to a friend of Georgiana’s. He and Georgiana both terrified her. She was comfortable with ch
ildren though, having a tribe of siblings herself. He got used to the sound of her laughing with his children as they came in from the park, hushing as they walked up to the nursery, where the happy sounds resumed again. It made him glad, that muffled evidence of contentment and childhood pleasures—captured frogs, perfect pebbles, running barefoot, and laughing for no reason.

  Then Julius died and all turned silent. Henrietta and Jasper recovered first because of Fanny. Occupied with his own torn soul and the nasty assignment of blame between him and his wife, William was mostly blind to the way his older children took shelter under Fanny’s thin arms. Then one day, half-angered, half-drawn by their happy noise, he found them in the nursery, crooked paper crowns on their heads and snips of paper littering the floor. Jasper and Henrietta wore untroubled smiles, though Fanny Prescott’s vanished the minute she lifted her eyes to his. She said nothing, too afraid to apologize for laughing. That moment, he wanted to shelter in her warmth too.

  He and Georgiana weren’t a love match, though until Julius died they’d liked each other well enough. She was beautiful and charming, and since he had no brothers, he had to marry relatively young. Georgiana danced delightfully, had a nice-sized fortune, and was brought up to be a gentleman’s wife. It didn’t matter, much, that they had so little in common. Jasper was born less than a year after their marriage, Henrietta soon after. Three more years and they had another son. They knew how to be polite, to behave as they ought. It was a respectful relationship, until Julius died and sharp words and days of arid silence hammered it apart. Georgiana took herself off to her sister’s, leaving him to rage and call her a coward. Of course it was no one’s fault but God’s, but without Georgiana to glare at . . . .

  Fanny was shy and timid, no match for his desperate cunning. He put himself in her way, and naturally she felt sorry for him. She invited him, with twisting fingers and blushing cheeks, to play with his children, to row them on the lake.