Ravishing the Heiress (29 page)

He’d bet good money they were discussing nothing more significant than the evening’s entertainment for their guests, but it felt far more intimate. Their heads were bent toward each other, their expressions intent. And the way he’d positioned himself, with his hand on the back of the chaise, from the angle of the camera it looked almost as if he had his arm around her waist.

She loved him. She’d loved him all along.

What a fool he’d been, to not have realized it sooner.

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?

D
oyle’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.”

W
hen 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.

H
enley 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.

M
illie 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.

A
s 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.

O
ww,” 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.”