A Dance in Moonlight

by Sherry Thomas

  At the village nearest the ferry landing, his tongue parched, his head light with hunger, he bought a sandwich and a canteen of water. He ate sitting by himself, staring at the table before him. When he was done, he resumed his walk, despite the protestation of his feet against shoes only meant for the drawing room.

  He was no longer famished, or thirsty, but he was tired. He welcomed the fatigue; he welcomed even more the weary quiet of his mind. No more thoughts, no more memories, just a blessed blankness as he pushed himself forward, while leaves rustled overhead and birds sang in the distance.

  Isabelle’s hands around his face, her eyes brimming with tears. So if Mrs. Fitzwilliam had any regrets, she told him, her voice urgent, it would be that the rest of her life was too short to spend with you—because that was her heart’s desire, not the Faroe Islands, and not anything else.

  The vividness of the recollection stunned him. He could almost believe himself in the midst of it, her fingers warm and strong upon his cheeks.

  Isabelle running her hand through his hair, her eyes full of sympathy and affection. Tell me about Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s comments. It will help you remember them better for the future.

  He’d barely stopped himself from taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the center of her palm.

  Careful, old widower, Isabelle mumbling, as he carried her back up to her room.

  And he had gloried in his strength, his ability to take care of her when she most needed it.

  These were not interactions she could have had while pretending he was Lord Fitzhugh. Of course not. Little of their entire history, beyond that first kiss, had been about her erstwhile sweetheart.

  And when they’d made love, what had they been discussing until the moment they gave in to their desire? The fact that his face was going to cause them much trouble, but that she wouldn’t change a thing, because if he didn’t resemble Fitz, they would not have become friends.

  Or lovers. Lovers who should still be together years from now, when her hair had turned white.

  He stopped altogether in his tracks, his heart pounding with dismay. What a fool he had been, rushing out like that. What a bigger fool he had been, to ever doubt her sincerity and honesty. And it made him the biggest fool of all to have put miles upon miles between them, so that even after he came to his senses, he was still far away from her.

  Too far away.

  He swore and began to run.

  AS IT TURNED OUT, HE DIDN’T need to run all the way back to Ambleside. At the next jetty he came across there was a small steamboat for hire. He leaped on board, waving all the currency he had on hand.

  He returned to his own hotel room first and ordered a bottle of the hotel’s best claret—his groveling would have a better chance of being heard if it was accompanied by a glass of good wine. He also asked for a bouquet of flowers—it would have been better had he gathered the flowers himself, but a man could not both run in panic and think of flowers at the same time.

  As he waited for everything to be delivered, he changed into clean clothes, opened his window, and froze. In the gardens behind the Governor, between a bed of white lilies and a sizable cluster of purple acanthus, stood none other than Lord Fitzhugh and his wife, thoroughly engrossed in each other.

  This time, Ralston did not feel as if he were looking at his own reflection. Of course Lord Fitzhugh was a different man. Ralston would never look so at Lady Fitzhugh. That kind of tenderness he saved only for his Isabelle.

  He ran out of the door, almost knocking over the porter who had come to deliver the wine and the flowers.

  As there was no way to soften the jolt, he didn’t try to, but simply came to a stop behind the Fitzhughs. “Lord Fitzhugh, Lady Fitzhugh.”

  The Fitzhughs turned around, gaped at him, looked at each other, then gaped at him some more. Lord Fitzhugh was the first to recover his composure. “May I—ah—be of help, sir?”

  “My name is Fitzwilliam, my lord. I live not far from Doyle’s Grange—I am Mrs. Englewood’s neighbor.”

  Lady Fitzhugh’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t be the gentleman we saw speaking to her yesterday afternoon, would you, behind the Lakehead?”

  “I was indeed. Mrs. Englewood and I met the last time she was at Doyle’s Grange.” Judging by the Fitzhughs’ expressions, they understood exactly the context of Mrs. Englewood’s prior visit to Doyle’s Grange. “The way I look, you will not be surprised that I caught her attention.”

  “No, indeed,” said Lady Fitzhugh, glancing from Ralston to her husband and back.

  “To make a long story short, her sister is not in favor of her spending too much time with someone who looks like a replacement. She thinks Isa—Mrs. Englewood is courting future heartache. So this morning Mrs. Englewood arranged for me to meet Mrs. Montrose in person, hoping that I might be able to better persuade the latter.”

  “Mrs. Montrose was shocked, I take it?” said Lord Fitzhugh.

  “She was, but that was nothing—I don’t mind Mrs. Montrose. But then I happened to see you and Lady Fitzhugh leaving the Lakehead.”

  Lady Fitzhugh’s hand came up over her heart. “My goodness. We thought it would be a good idea to change hotels, to not disturb Mrs. Englewood with our presence. We did not mean to cause any trouble.”

  “No, please don’t blame yourselves,” Ralston hastened to reassure her. “You are not in the least responsible for how I acted.”

  “I hope you did not suspect Mrs. Englewood of actually using you as a substitute,” said Lord Fitzhugh. “She is incapable of that kind of pretense. In fact, she is incapable of any kind of pretense.”

  “I am afraid I forgot that entirely when I left in a blaze of theatrics. And now—” He glanced in the direction of the Lakehead, his heart constricting with the disappointment he must have caused her.

  “Courage, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” said Lord Fitzhugh. “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

  Ralston exhaled. “Then may I ask a favor, sir? May I ask that you come with me, just for a few minutes, so that Mrs. Englewood can see that I have made peace with our resemblance? Your presence would make for a better testimony than my words alone.”

  Lord Fitzhugh studied him for a few seconds, then smiled. “It will be my great pleasure, sir.”

  ISABELLE STARED AT THE BOTTLE of claret as she trailed her fingers over the bouquet of white lilies and purple acanthus that had been delivered at the same time. They could have come from no one else. Did this mean—she didn’t dare let herself complete the thought.

  The sun had begun its descent to the horizon. A golden light suffused the sitting room. She lifted the bottle to the light, turning it this way and that, and watched it sparkle.

  A knock came at her door. Her heart raced. Ralston. What would he say to her? What would she say to him?

  In the end, she said something she could not have predicted. “Fitz!”

  He smiled. “Isabelle.”

  She smiled back at him. Dear, old Fitz. She hadn’t been entirely certain before, but now, face to face, she realized they would always remain friends. “Come in. Shall I ring for some—”

  Fitz had not come alone. Next to him stood—

  “Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she said stiffly.

  “Mrs. Englewood,” he returned a soft greeting.

  An apologetic one.

  Part of her was inwardly running about and screaming at his reappearance; another part of her saw red. She narrowed her eyes, but stepped back and let them in.

  “Is Lady Fitzhugh well?” she asked Fitz, ignoring Ralston, while at the same time being acutely aware of his windswept hair and sun-reddened cheeks—he had been outside all this time.

  “She is very well. She sends her regards.” Fitz watched them with restrained amusement.

  Ralston hadn’t taken his eyes off her since his return—her anger was beginning to be perforated by a rising giddiness. She continued to ignore him. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, Fitz, but my children demolished the ho
ney from Lady Fitzhugh’s lavender fields.”

  “She will be delighted to hear that—and you have just assured Hyacinth and Alexander each of a lifetime supply of lavender honey.”

  “They will be gorging themselves silly.” She touched her hand to his elbow. “Will you stay a while? Louise is at her bath. I’m sure she would like to see you too.”

  “And I her. Lady Fitzhugh and I will gladly call on her tomorrow, but for now—” He glanced at Ralston. “For now Mr. Fitzwilliam would probably like a few minutes of your time. He sought me out, hoping to show you that he is more than comfortable in my presence and most certainly does not see himself as a stand-in of any sort, for anyone.”

  “Well, it took him long enough,” she said testily.

  Fitz returned a pat on her elbow. “I will see myself out. Lady Fitz is waiting with bated breath to learn how Mr. Fitzwilliam’s apology turns out.”

  “If you leave now, then you will not know how the apology turns out.”

  “It is a rare and superior man who not only admits his mistakes but seeks actively to make amends. I have every confidence that Mr. Fitzwilliam’s apology will go over very well.”

  “Hmm,” said Isabelle.

  Fitz laughed softly, kissed her on the cheek, and shook Ralston’s hand. “I shall come bearing jars of honey, next time I call on Doyle’s Grange.”

  “CAPITAL FELLOW,” SAID RALSTON.

  Before Isabelle could glare at him, the door opened and in came Louise. Her glare was far more awe-inspiring: If Isabelle could throw daggers with a look, then Louise launched broad swords with hers.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Fitzwilliam?” she demanded.

  “I’ve come to apologize for my conduct earlier today. And I hope for your forgiveness, Mrs. Montrose—and Mrs. Englewood’s,” he said, not sheepishly, but gracefully, with both humility and dignity.

  Louise, however, seemed to take no notice of his remarkable demeanor. “And why should I forgive you? You led my sister to believe that you cared for her. Then, at the least appearance of an obstacle, you ran away, not only injuring her, but humiliating her before her family.”

  Isabelle opened her mouth to protest. Surely, there was no need to go so far in castigating him.

  “I agree that my actions were deplorable. There is no excuse. But if you would allow me to give a reason, then it is this: I love Mrs. Englewood. I love her to the depth and breadth of my soul.”

  Isabelle sucked in a breath.

  “But whereas earlier I’d thought my affection returned in full,” he went on, “the sight of Lord Fitzhugh filled me with doubts.”

  “You insult my sister with your doubts.”

  “Louise—” Isabelle protested.

  Louise held up a hand. “My sister, who is not only beautiful, but candid and loyal. And you treated her as if she were a liar and manipulator.”

  “That is not true, Mrs. Montrose. I never thought for a moment that she exploited me. What I did wonder was whether she had deceived herself. But of course she hadn’t. She had been honest both with me and with herself.”

  He was still speaking to Louise, but he looked directly at Isabelle. “I know I have made a hash of things. I know I deserve any punishment she deigns to mete out. But I also know that I love her more than ever, that my doubts, when vanquished, only strengthened my faith in her.”

  The beauty and utter conviction of his words made her dizzy.

  Even Louise’s voice softened, though her next question was no less pointed. “Pretty words. But every Tom, Dick and Harry will still think that you are a replacement for Fitz—and some of them will tell you so to your face. What will you do then?”

  “Take my own advice and chortle. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, as long as Mrs. Englewood and I know the truth of our hearts.”

  “I don’t know about—”

  “That’s enough, Louise,” Isabelle said quietly. “Mr. Fitzwilliam made a mistake. He has apologized. I am more than pleased to accept his apology—let us not harp on him anymore.”

  Her sister not only did not object, she smiled. “Good. I was beginning to run out of shrewish things to say. No, no, don’t look so surprised, Isabelle. Mr. Fitzwilliam deserved a good dressing down, but he also deserves credit for an apology properly done. I gave him the dressing down, you come to his defense, and now all is well.”

  Isabelle was still agog as Louise hugged her. “I will expect Mr. Fitzwilliam to join us for dinner tonight.” Louise lowered her voice. “But afterwards, I will once again pretend not to notice that you have slipped out.

  “IS IT TRUE YOU HAVE ACCEPTED my apology?” asked Ralston when they were alone, scarcely able to believe it.

  “Didn’t I already say I did?” She gave him a look that was exasperated, but also half smiling.

  He closed the distance between them and took hold of her hands. “I love you, Isabelle. And my heart’s desire is to spend the rest of my life with you. Tell me what I need to do to achieve that good fortune.”

  “Well, hmm. I will need a cube of ice from the glaciers at the heart of Antarctica, a mountain of sand from the Great Victoria Desert, teeth of a piranha from the center of the Amazon, and the braided tail of a unicorn.”

  He loved the light that had returned to her eyes. The entire room glowed with the afternoon sun, but she glowed most of all. “When it comes to the unicorn tail, do you have a preference as to the color?”

  The corners of her lips quivered. “White would be good enough.”

  “But that’s so common. Are you sure that for your hand, I don’t need to bag a rainbow-colored unicorn tail instead?”

  This time she couldn’t quite suppress her smile. “I love you too,” she said softly. “And yes, I will marry you.”

  No one would ever convince him that he didn’t levitate an inch or so off the floor at that moment. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her with all the joy in his soul.

  “Mama, will you come and have tea with us?” came Hyacinth’s voice from the other side of the door.

  They pulled apart, breathless, and giggled at each other.

  “There are egg mayonnaise sandwiches, Mama,” added Alexander. “You like egg mayonnaise sandwiches.”

  “Will you be all right until after dinner?” Isabelle asked softly, smoothing a finger over Ralston’s brow. “You are most welcome to join us for tea, if you’d like.”

  “I will be delighted to join you for tea, darling,” he answered in all honesty. Every moment with her was a thrill.

  “Well, then.” She gave him a quick kiss, then walked to the door, opening it wide. “Look, children, look who is back.”

  Epilogue

  HYACINTH AND ALEXANDER’S LAUGHTER, as they chased each other in the gardens, rose up to the open windows. They adored Doyle’s Grange and could not wait to make the acquaintance of Lord Northword’s grandchildren and some of the younger children from Beauregard’s Farm.

  Upstairs there were boxes and more boxes. As Ralston helped put up Isabelle’s photographs on the mantel of the sitting room, he suddenly remembered her ancestress. “Where is that miniature portrait of yours, darling?”

  “I sent it to a cousin of mine—she just gave birth to a sickly baby and needs the luck more than I do.”

  “So the portrait is supposed to bring good luck?”

  “Of course.” She kissed him on his lips as she passed him, headed for yet another box. “That was the belonging I had come back to Doyle’s Grange to retrieve. And it led me directly to you.”

  He knelt down next to her at the new box, which contained framed photographs of Hyacinth and Alexander at various points in their young lives. Together they cooed over the pictures, which were adorable indeed.

  She was on her way to the mantel with a handful of the photographs when she stopped and looked back at him. “By the way, you never did let me know what Mrs. Fitzwilliam said about the Three Bears’ house.”

  “Ah, that.” He smiled a little at the
memory. “She wrote, ‘Once in a while Goldilocks finds something just right. So have I, by the way.’”

  “How interesting.” Isabelle beamed at him. “I would say that also describes exactly how I feel about you.”

  With a framed photograph in each hand, he rose and stole a kiss from her. “And I shall only love you more when you are a silver-haired lady, stomping your cane about how I will make you late for church again.”

  More about Sherry’s other books, and an excerpt from Fitz and Millie’s story, Ravishing the Heiress, can be found at the back of this book. Click here for a shortcut.

  About Sherry Thomas

  SHERRY THOMAS IS ONE OF the most acclaimed romance authors working today. Her books regularly receive starred reviews from trade publications and are frequently found on best-of-the-year lists. She is also a two-time winner of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award for Best Historical Romance.

  Sherry’s next book, The Burning Sky, volume one of her young adult fantasy trilogy, will be available September 2013. Click here to read the first two chapters.

  And by the way, English is Sherry’s second language.

  To keep in the loop about Sherry’s upcoming books, sign up for her new release e-mail list at http://www.sherrythomas.com. You can also find her on twitter at @sherrythomas, or like her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/authorsherrythomas.

  Ravishing the Heiress by Sherry Thomas: Excerpt

  1888

  IT WAS LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.

  Not that there was anything wrong with love at first sight, but Millicent Graves had not been raised to fall in love at all, let alone hard and fast.

  She was the only surviving child of a very prosperous man who manufactured tinned goods and other preserved edibles. It had been decided, long before she could comprehend such things, that she was going to Marry Well—that via her person, the family’s fortune would be united with an ancient and illustrious title.