That her emotions toward Richard Fitzwilliam were real and profoundly deep was without doubt. Clearly his devotion was as strong. Two weeks ago while meeting at the British Museum's Roman wing, Lady Fotherby had slipped a folded parchment into his jacket pocket. She was so devious and sly in the transfer that he had not discovered the missive until late that night when preparing for bed!
My Dearest R,
I know this is incredibly forward of me and pray I will not earn your disrespect, but I find that my heart can no longer restrain its need to speak with you in a more intimate setting. Therefore, I beseech you to visit me this Tuesday hence. Come discreetly, I beg of you, at the midnight hour to the rear entrance of my house. My trusted servant will be waiting and escort you in undetected. My only wish is to converse openly and adequately express my feelings. No demands are placed upon you, I promise. I simply yearn for the joy in seeing your face. Yours, S
The agony of waiting through the intervening two days until Tuesday was nearly more than he could bear. He vacillated between unparalleled excitement and intense nervousness. The latter emotion was somewhat embarrassing to admit. The truth was he did not know precisely what she contemplated by "adequately express my feelings" and was unsure what his outlook was on the prospects! Richard was not an innocent and obviously neither was Lady Fotherby. The physical attraction they felt for each other was palpable and the thought of loving her as he wished to with every particle of his body was a joyous imagining that he lived each night in vivid detail.
Yet in every dream, she was his wife.
For the first time in his entire life, the mere notion of intimacy with someone other than the woman he hoped to be wed to before the year was out was an untenable concept. He was more than willing to wait and found the abstaining strangely sweet. Still, as thrilling as the vision of consummating their sacred vows in the proper manner and time, he was only human!
He need not have fretted over the matter, however. It is not that Lady Fotherby--Simone, as she would forever now be to him--was not involved in her own struggle over physical desires; but the simple delight in just sitting together holding hands, talking, and stealing kisses was exalting. They talked until the sun sent its first hazy rays over the horizon, Richard hastily escaping into the few remaining shadows. Embarrassment, hesitation, discomposure, unfamiliarity; it all faded in those hours spent communicating.
He shared his past as he had with few people. Honest tales of his wartime experiences, reminiscences from his youth, blunders and ridiculousness of adolescence, University incidents and education, and so on. She spoke of her arranged marriage to the kindly Lord Fotherby, a man she respected and cared for, but had never loved. Mostly she talked about her sons: Harry who was now seven, and four-year-old Hugh. They were the light of her life, Richard understanding and accepting that his love would never supplant the place they held in her heart, but merely come alongside.
They confessed their mutual infatuation all those years ago, admitting honestly that although real, it was of an immature nature. Perhaps it could have escalated into a deeper love, but no time was spent on worthless regrets. Besides, their current affair possessed all the traits of a silly, juvenile romance in how giddy and delirious they were. Now was all that mattered and by the time the first night waned into the blush of morning, their declarations of love were made and plans for a future together were set in motion. October ten was around the corner and Richard fully intended to make his intentions known and officially ask for permission to court Lady Fotherby no later than October eleventh!
Successfully, he traversed the distance between his house to the grand manor in secret. Miss Hale waited at the servant's door near the kitchen, guiding him through the dark passageways leading to the parlor. She took her seat situated near the doorway, prepared to attentively guard from any unwanted nighttime wanders, while he knocked softly and waited for his love's welcome.
It came quickly, the door opening to reveal her smiling face and seeking hand that grasped his and pulled him into the room. In a heartbeat, Richard yet fumbling to latch the door behind, she was in his arms.
"I missed you so much!" she breathed, raining kisses over his face.
"You just saw me today at the art exhibit," he said with a laugh.
"Yes, but we hardly spoke for all the others demanding my attention. What a bother! Why can they not leave me alone and allow me to gaze upon your face in abstracted contentment?"
"There is little to look at, my dear. You would be bored in minutes."
"Stop that! I weary of you speaking nonsense, Richard Fitzwilliam. Yours is a face I can drown in. Now, come and sit. I have hot tea and your favorite berry tarts. Tell me about your day. You left the exhibit early."
"I really should not have come at all as my duties were overwhelming me, but I could not resist. Speaking with you, however obliquely, stealing a touch of your fingers or perhaps a kiss, has become my intoxicant. I am addicted to you, dearest Simone."
She shook her head, blushing as she poured the tea. "The things you say! Ridiculous."
"Now it is you who are wearying me by not believing the truth of my words, poorly romantic as they are."
"They are beautifully romantic, Richard. Forgive me. I know you speak the truth in your love for me. I suppose I yet have difficulty grasping it fully. It has not been a topic I have allowed myself to dwell on in the past."
He gently clasped her chin in his fingers, lifting to gaze into her eyes. "Are your doubts assaulting you today, my love? Is that why your eyes look sad and tired?"
"Only partially. Actually it is Oliver. I returned from the exhibit to discover the physician here and Oliver suffering an episode. I was furious that he ordered not to send for me. He always thinks more of others than himself, sweet boy."
"Is he better now?"
"Yes, but it was a horrid afternoon. It frightens me so, Richard. The spells occur with increasing frequency and he responds less and less to the treatments. The physicians are confounded. This disease, whatever it is, has no cure or definitive course. All is an unknown while my poor boy suffers."
"You should be sleeping, Simone. Now that I step back from the sweetness of your lips I see your fatigue. I should leave you to your rest."
"No! Please! I... needed to see you. I did rest for a bit once his crisis was over." She cupped his cheek, smiling with the wealth of her love evident. "I, too, am addicted, dearest Richard."
"Well, I am more than pleased to fulfill your requirements, my Lady." And they lost themselves for a time in blissful, but controlled, kisses.
The Fotherby tales of sadness and woe dated back many years prior to Lady Simone Halifax joining the family. Her now deceased husband had been married twice prior to taking his young bride to wife. His first wife, a woman he reportedly had loved deeply although he never spoke of it to Simone, had died along with their only child during the birthing process after a mere five years of marriage. Lord Fotherby had refused to remarry for nearly twenty years. His second wife was thrust upon him by frantic family members fretful about the line's continuation. She was the daughter of a Duke who, despite her impeccable breeding and pedigree, was hiding a chronic illness. None knew of her ailment, the secret hidden carefully behind a stunning dowry and pretty face. Lord Fotherby was furious when the deception was revealed on their wedding night when she was too ill to consummate their marriage.
For fifteen interminable years, they would be married before she finally succumbed to the puzzling disease that defied all medical expertise. In that time, they would rarely speak and even rarer still perform the marital duties necessary to produce an heir, the whole reason for the trumped up marriage in the first place. Nonetheless, three children would be born, two dying in their infancy and a third, Oliver, surviving but clearly stricken with the same malady as his mother.
Lord Fotherby adored his son, worshipped the ground he walked on. It was this overwhelming devotion that prompted him again to take a wife. Left to his own devices, he would not have done so. His heart still belonged to the love of his youth and his physical needs were met by the bevy of mistresses easily accessible to a man of his wealth and power. But Oliver needed a mother. And, as painful as the thought was, Lord Fotherby recognized that he needed another heir.
Well into his sixtieth decade, he was still a vigorous and handsome man, respected throughout the country and fabulously rich. His choices for a third wife were vast, not a father of his class unwilling to give a daughter to Lord Fotherby. In fact, the atmosphere was disgustingly similar to a cattle auction! He had his pick of every available female in all of England. Lady Simone Halifax, daughter to the Earl of Westgate, was not chosen arbitrarily. Physically she was beautiful, but many others were equally so. What drew Lord Fotherby was her innate kindness and empathy balanced with a wit and spunk that he found attractive. He wanted a partner who appealed to him in a sexual way, but who also could take on the various roles necessary for Lady Fotherby and as mother to his son.
Lady Simone was nineteen, over her infatuation with the now departed Second Lieutenant Richard Fitzwilliam, and, although not in love with Lord Fotherby, was in no way against the union. Like all females of her rank she had been raised to comprehend that marriage was rarely a matter of love, but rather a type of business arrangement. If one was so fortunate as to discover affection and admiration then all the better, but it was not anticipated. In this facet, Lady Fotherby would be highly favored. Lord Fotherby was a good man, the best as a matter of fact. Kind, considerate, generous, devoted, humorous, and a gentle lover, he was more than she had ever anticipated in a mate. She genuinely grew to love her stepson Oliver, who was quite like his father in temperament, and her own two sons were a fount of eternal joy.
For nearly twelve years, her life would move on with the typical soirees, Society functions, and duties as mistress of several vast estates. Lord Fotherby was extremely busy and weeks would often go by without her seeing her husband. She held no illusions that he was entirely faithful, this aspect of marriage not expected nor condemned. But he treated her well, made few demands, made his resources lavishly available, and was devoted to their children. Love would never bloom between them, but esteem and fondness were abundant. Heights of passion were never reached, but she knew no different and was satisfied in the tenderness found within the sexual act when he sporadically sought her favors. Life was content and she had no cause to grieve her situation.
Until Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam reentered her life.
Who can adequately describe the vagaries of love? The poets try and do an admirable job. Yet how is it logical to take one look at someone not seen or thought of for years and know instantly that your heart is lost? To Darcy, Richard described that first encounter with Lady Fotherby as taking his breath away. It would be another two years before he would learn that her internal reaction was as strong. Suddenly, she was as an absurd, love-struck teenager in how she would dream of him and look for him at every function attended. When he was spied, her heart would lurch, face flush, and body tingle. It was asinine and she was mortified. But she could no more halt the feelings than halt the sun from rising.
Her guilt during those years over the mental betrayal to her spouse was intense, but he was barely cold in his grave before she was blatantly flirting with the Colonel and pressing into his kiss! Her fingers had throbbed with the warmth of his lips and her spine shivered for hours, no amount of self-chastisement or shame adequate to overrule the sensations. It was pathetic.
She
was pathetic, counting the days until she could throw off the somber colors of mourning and hopefully see him again.
And now he was here, in her arms, returning her love with a checked desire genuine and profound. All traces of guilt were gone. If there was one thing she knew of her late husband, it was that he would have wanted her happiness. He had told her so on his deathbed. Clutching her hand weakly, voice faint, he had thanked her for the years of devotion, for their children, and for her faithfulness and perfection as Lady Fotherby. He assured her once again of the home and riches he had provided for her. Lastly, he had encouraged her to live life fully, find joy and peace. Her tears had been sincere when he passed, knowing that she would miss his smile and warmth and wit, but also knowing that she was young and deserved to move on. Thus, there was no remorse at the passion she now embraced in this man who had, to some degree, always lived in her soul. If it all seemed a bit dreamlike, she was gradually overcoming those doubts as well. It was impossible to cling to uncertainties when gazing into eyes brimming with purest love.
The kiss ended, both recognizing the escalating ardor and needing to withdraw before crossing permanent lines. Simone was nearly virginal in the surprising vibrations that raced through her body when he kissed her. Yet her innocence was not complete and she shivered and suppressed a moan of pure need. Richard smiled and pulled her close, nestling her head against his shoulder, and caressing lightly.
Silence fell for a time, broken by her dulcet tones from within the depths of his neck. "It was important that I see you tonight for another reason as well. I received a letter from my father today. He has invited me to our family estate in Hampshire. It really was more of a command, but he misses the grandchildren and we usually do spend some time there in the summer. I have evaded his requests thus far, but am running out of excuses."