Old dreams that had fallen apart.
And here he was, about to help create an illusion that Mrs. Englewood’s old dreams hadn’t fallen apart.
EVERY MINUTE CRAWLED—it had been ages since Isabelle had eaten the sandwiches she’d brought with her and changed into somewhat more appropriate attire for seduction. A wonder her restless pacing hadn’t worn the carpet threadbare down the center.
The front door of the house opened. Her hand went to her throat. Now she would hear his footsteps coming up the stairs and approaching in the passage.
But that did not happen. After the front door closed, all became quiet. Straining her ears, she heard him moving below quietly, as if he were looking into each one of the rooms below.
Her pulse sped. What if—what if it was not Mr. Fitzwilliam, but a thief, grinning from ear to ear at the bounty of this unlocked, undefended house? And what if this thief were to see her in only her nightgown and dressing robe?
Now the footsteps ascended the stairs. Now they came swift and resolute. Her chest tightened. A glance toward the fireplace showed no sign of a poker, so she gripped the silver hairbrush her mother had given her when she became a bride—it wasn’t much of a weapon but it would still give a man a nasty bump on the head.
As the man neared the door, she realized that he carried a handcandle: its light swayed upon the wall. He extinguished the light and knocked on her door.
Not a criminal then, only Mr. Fitzwilliam, who had remembered her requirement for dim light. She panted in relief, only to have her heartbeat race for a different reason altogether.
She set down the hairbrush and hoped her voice would hold. “Come in.”
She’d left a lamp in a far corner of the room, the wick trimmed so short it was practically drowning in lamp oil. In this gauzy, barely-there light, the man before her bore such an uncanny resemblance to her erstwhile sweetheart that she could not quite suppress a gasp.
Fitz, her heart cried.
Just this one night. This one bittersweet night, so that she could look back as an old woman, when she had forgotten everything else, and remember what it was like to have her beloved in her arms.
Her palm hurt. She realized that she was clutching Great-Gran Cumberland’s miniature portrait and the frame was digging into her skin. She let go of it and beckoned him to approach her.
He did, but he did not fall upon her, as she’d meant him too. Instead, he reached past her for the miniature portrait and studied it. Then he studied her face.
They did not look much alike, she and Great-Gran Cumberland, except for the pitch black hair they shared—and even that was hardly discernible, as Great-Gran Cumberland’s coiffure, done up in the style of Madame Pompadour, had been enthusiastically powdered.
“She is an ancestress from six, seven generations ago,” she offered, made uneasy by the silence. Silence, to her, manifested grief. Or unhappiness. Or the distance of two lovers drifting apart. “Each of her four husbands cherished her. Her eleven children all survived her. On her seventy-fifth birthday, she had what she declared to be the best meal of her life at the dinner her favorite granddaughter threw in her honor, then she retired to bed and, with truffles and a forty-year-old claret in her stomach, passed away in her sleep.”
He nodded.
It didn’t feel terribly odd to speak of Great-Gran Cumberland—she had yet to tell Fitz about the latter. In her younger days, when she’d believed herself invulnerable, tales of Great-Gran had been just that, stories about a woman who lived in a different century. Then she’d had no need for anyone else’s luck; now she put her faith in legends and relics, no longer quite trusting her own ability to navigate life’s bitter seas.
He returned the miniature portrait to its place. Belatedly she noticed that in his other hand, he held a bottle of wine by its neck, two wineglasses, and a corkscrew.
Several times since her return she’d suggested to Fitz that they could have something more potent than tea or coffee, but he’d always turned her down, leaving her to recall wistfully those occasions years and years ago when he’d come to visit, and all the young people in the house would sneak out at night. They’d always had a bottle of something and a handful of thimbles. Hidden behind a high hedge, they’d pass around thimbles of the night’s tipple, tittering all the while, drunk as much on youth and the first taste of freedom as on port, sack, or champagne.
He set down the wine on the nightstand and extended a glass toward her. Their fingers brushed as she took the glass from him. A harsh heat sizzled along her nerve endings, but he did not seize on the moment or even remark upon it. Instead, his attention turned back to the bottle and he removed the cork with an audible pop.
He poured. The wine landed with a beautiful sound, nectar on glass. She took a sip; the claret flowed over her tongue, cool, delicious, leaving a trail of reassuring warmth in its wake. “Good idea,” she said. “The wine.”
He poured for himself, casting her a glance as he did so. Now she began to feel odd, carrying on this monologue, even though it was by her request that he remained silent.
“Nice claret,” she went on, unable to stop herself.
He turned the bottle so she could read the label. “Château Haut-Brion. I see from your pride that it is probably the Mona Lisa of wines. But I can’t tell the difference between a French red and an Italian one, let alone distinguish the parcel of land that produced a wine by the taste of it. All I know is that I like the conviviality a little wine brings.”
He drank from his glass and waited for her to speak more. She stared a moment at his almost unbearably familiar face, mesmerized, before her mind seized on the length of his hair to remind her that no, he was but a stranger.
“My—my late husband was a conscientious officer, always stern before his men. But every evening at dinner, after half a glass of wine, he’d begin to smile. After an entire glass of wine, he’d tell me the jokes he’d heard from the other officers. And on rare days when he allowed himself a second glass, he might even imitate his horse, a gorgeous bay stallion who ran like the wind, but had the habit of breaking wind loudly at the most inopportune moments.”
She could not quite believe what she had said. But oh, how she’d loved those two-glasses-of-wine evenings. Lawrence had mastered a marvelous parody of himself, and when he would copy the noises that issued from his horse’s hindquarter, she almost invariably dropped her fork laughing.
After a moment of surprise, Mr. Fitzwilliam smiled. She had the sensation that he relaxed somewhat. Of course he must have been on guard: This had to be the most outlandish situation in which he’d ever found himself.
His increasing ease made her unclench a bit—she hadn’t quite grasped how tense she’d been, caught between her desire to make love to Fitz and her—thankfully—still quite sane awareness that no matter how much Mr. Fitzwilliam looked like Fitz, he remained another man entirely.
Mr. Fitzwilliam indicated a chair by the fireplace.
“Of course. How inconsiderate of me. Please have a seat.”
He settled himself in the chair and raised his glass to her.
She reciprocated the gesture. “How did you know I’d like some wine?”
He lifted a brow. He had a livelier face than Fitz. The small gesture conveyed a wealth of meaning, not the least of which was an even-tempered awareness of the ludicrous demands that had been placed on his person.
She reddened. “Please forgive me. Of course you may speak. I don’t know what came over me earlier.”
“I’d like to say I have that effect on women,” he answered, smiling slightly. “But I don’t—not these particular effects, in any case.”
There was no mockery in his voice, but something that was the audible equivalent of a friendly nod. It put her further at ease—he hadn’t taken her mad request too seriously. Or at least, he’d treated her moment of insanity for what it was and did not consider her permanently batty.
“And to answer your question, I had no idea whether
you would like wine, but I was fairly certain I would like some.”
“To gird yourself?”
He hesitated a moment. “In a way.”
It was unnerving to keep looking at his face, so she lowered her gaze a few inches. But it was almost as disconcerting to contemplate the width of his shoulders, the length of his arms, and the casual way he held his wineglass, the stem dangling between his fingers.
She noticed for the first time that his waistcoat was scarlet—Fitz never wore such flamboyant colors. And he slouched to a degree, whereas Fitz’s back would have been straighter than a yardstick.
The man who looked exactly like Fitz might not remotely resemble him in temperament or inclinations.
“I am curious, Mrs. Englewood,” he said, “how would your life have been different had Lord Fitzhugh not inherited his title?”
“Other than the fact that today I might still believe myself fortune’s darling? Probably not very much. Fitz had wanted to be a cavalry officer. The man I married was also a cavalry officer.”
“Does this mean I am not your first replacement for Lord Fitzhugh?”
Her nerves pulled taut. But he did not sound peevish, only genuinely curious.
“It might look that way, but I never set out to marry a different cavalry officer. When Fitz married his heiress, I was cast adrift. My mother and my sister convinced me to not let life go by, to at least go to London and see what other choices I might have. That London Season led me to Captain Englewood.”
She smiled a little the memory of meeting her Lawrence for the first time, of the way his eyes had followed her the entire night. “It wasn’t until I’d accepted his suit that my sister asked me whether I was trying to duplicate the life I would have led with Fitz. I broke down and cried myself to sleep. The next day I woke up and vowed to never think of Fitz again for as long as Captain Englewood and I both lived.”
“Not an easy promise to keep.”
“No. At the beginning of our marriage, whenever Captain Englewood did something that I didn’t like, I would instantly wonder how different things would have been with Fitz—how I would have never experienced a single moment of annoyance or dissatisfaction. But I’m proud to say I pushed those thoughts away quite diligently and did my best to love Captain Englewood for himself, rather than as a second choice when my first was no longer available.
“It became easier after a while. He was a good, devoted husband. We had two lovely children. I enjoyed life in the cantonment and made friends with the other officers’ wives. It wasn’t the life I’d planned for, but it wasn’t bad at all. In fact, I was feeling quite fortunate and grateful, when Captain Englewood and I both caught a tropical fever.”
She stopped for a moment, unable to help the tremor in her voice. Mr. Fitzwilliam gazed at her steadily, as if in encouragement. She took a deep breath and went on.
“He was the hardiest man alive, never a cold, never a toothache, never even an upset stomach. Soon he seemed to be on the mend, while I took a turn for the worse. In what I thought would be my last moment of clarity, before I descended into delirium, I told him how thankful I was that he came into my life when he did, how much I adored him and our children, and how I wished I could grow old with him and together welcome our grandchildren into the world.”
Mr. Fitzwilliam sat straighter. She clutched her wineglass with both hands. “I woke up two days later, weak as a newborn, and so confused I barely knew where I was or even who I was. When I did remember, I said a long prayer of thanksgiving—I was alive, I was well, the life that I had painstakingly rebuilt had remained intact. Only to then be told—”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. He was instantly before her, holding out a snow-white handkerchief. “Thank you,” she murmured, accepting the handkerchief and hastily dabbing her tears away. “I’m sorry.”
“Be glad you can cry. There are those can only sit dry-eyed with pain burning in their hearts.”
Was he speaking of himself? She wanted to ask but didn’t know how. “I’m sorry,” she repeated herself. “I have been going on and on about myself. Please understand I am only belatedly trying to appear halfway sane.”
“I never doubted your sanity—what we do in moments of heartbreak isn’t always rational or explicable,” he answered, his voice as gentle as it was authoritative.
She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so grateful. Impulsively she reached out and touched his hand. “Thank you, sir.”
He rested their combined hands against his chest. The lapel of his jacket was warm and soft upon her skin. Then he let go and returned to his seat. “So you grieve for Captain Englewood, you wonder what would happen to yourself, and you remember your old sweetheart. Except he is no longer your sweetheart.”
“Then you appeared out of nowhere, and I thought my prayers had been heard.” Memories of their kiss tumbled back. The firmness of his hand at the small of her back, the scratch of the beginning of stubbles upon her cheeks, the sounds of enjoyment that he made as she pressed wantonly into him. She cleared her throat. “Well, you know the rest.”
“Not everything.” Mr. Fitzwilliam tilted his head. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Englewood, did you really intend to take me to bed?”
Her face warmed, but his tone was not the least bit judgmental, as if he were inquiring into nothing more controversial than whether she had intended to offer him a box of chocolates.
“I had convinced myself of it at one point.”
He smiled. “Until I appeared in person, you mean.”
She couldn’t help reciprocating some of his amusement. In hindsight it was funny, what had transpired this night. “I couldn’t delude myself as much as I thought I would.”
“You have done very well tonight: Instead of a lover you’d be ashamed of in the morning, you now have a friend.”
Did she? Her stomach fluttered at the bond friendship suggested, that he would not be a transient figure in her life, here tonight, gone tomorrow. But she did not dare let herself hope too much. “Isn’t it premature to pronounce yourself one of my intimates, sir? I know nothing of you.”
He shook his head. “That is patently incorrect, Mrs. Englewood. You know I am one, eminently good natured, and two, gentlemanly enough to not take advantage of a damsel in distress.”
She was amazed now that he had come at all. He didn’t want you to be all alone, tonight of all nights, the thought dropped into her head. It was like being given a thick blanket and a hot cup of mulled wine, when she’d expected to shiver by herself in a corner for a long, long time.
Not quite knowing what to say, she turned to making fun of herself. “I doubt you were ever thinking of taking advantage of me. Quite the opposite, I dare say. You probably brought the wine so you could use the bottle to smack me on the head, should you need to get away from my frenzied grasp.”
The corner of his lips lifted. “Believe me, if I were that worried I wouldn’t have come.”
There was nothing blatant to his expression, just that of a strapping young man being confidently unafraid. Yet she felt a shock of warmth in her abdomen, an understanding that had she propositioned him under less questionable circumstances, now she would be beneath him.
Naked.
She poured the rest of her wine down her throat.
Chapter Four
MRS. ENGLEWOOD SET THE GLASS ASIDE, and exhaled from parted lips. Those lips were quite red, her breath just noticeably uneven. The sight and the barely audible sound of it made Ralston’s body tighten rather pleasurably. He shifted in his chair.
She, on the edge of the bed, sat straighter, as if better posture would cut the sudden tension in the room. But it only drew his attention to her beautiful neck, above the collar of her nightgown and the lapels of her dressing robe—then down to her bare feet on the carpet, the most substantial evidence that she had indeed meant to take him to bed, for a lady’s feet were never bared except in the most intimate of circumstances.
She arched one foot, her i
nstep high and shapely. He had a vision of himself holding that foot, holding both her feet, in fact, one in each hand, drawing them apart—
He rose before his thoughts could get away from him and replenished her glass. She murmured a “Thank you,” as her toes delved rather deeply into the fibers of the carpet. The strain in the tendons of her foot made him tighten further. He pulled in a deep breath as he sat down again, trying not to dwell on unprofitable notions.
She needed a friend, not a lover.
“Do you remember what you said to me when we first met—that you are interested in my story?” she asked, returning his attention to the conversation.
“Yes?”
“Why are you interested in a story that you could already tell was full of torment, as writ large on my face?”
Because I recognized your grief, he wanted to answer, as if it were my old friend, too.
But he could not quite bring himself to say it, so he shrugged.
“I see,” she said, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Do you know now, Captain Englewood sometimes came home aching from a day in the saddle—and wanting to be fussed over. But he could never tolerate the sound of himself complaining, so his devoted wife had to deduce where and how much he hurt and then pamper him accordingly.”
She was more perceptive than he had given her credit for. “Are you suggesting, Mrs. Englewood, that I have the appearance of a man staggering across the threshold, groaning?”
“No, I am suggesting that you have the appearance of an otherwise stoic man who is perhaps ill-served by his stoicism. And now allow me to be like that fictional detective—what is his name?”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Indeed, I will be Mr. Holmes and divine the story of your life. And if I am right, you have but to take a sip of your wine.”
“And you, will you drink when you are wrong?”
“I shall take the liberty to imbibe either way—it is an excellent night to be tipsy, perhaps even outright intoxicated.”