Midnight Scandals (35 page)

“Tell me about Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s comments. It will help you remember them better for the future.”

“Ah…” He had never spoken to anyone about the map and particularly not the comments, holding them in the innermost sanctuary of his heart.

“I am so sorry. What was I thinking? I was a newlywed once myself. Dare I assume her comments were quite naughty?”

He felt his cheeks warming. “Quite.”

“I’ll tell you a secret: During my honeymoon I wrote a limerick. I did it on the train as Captain Englewood and I left Rome, that beautiful city we never ventured out of our hotel to see.”

Now he was warm everywhere. “I will not ask you what you were so busy doing in your hotel.”

“And you will be wise not to.” She tittered. “My goodness, I
am
drunk. I am not the most close-lipped of women but I assure you I do not go about on a regular basis disclosing how I allocated my time during my honeymoon.”

“Well, then, since you are already drunk, recite me that unforgettable masterpiece of yours.”

“Well, bear in mind that I
adored
making love.”

He sucked in a breath at a huge influx of lust.

“Not to mention I found it wonderfully calming afterwards,” she went on. “I always felt invulnerable in the aftermath of the pleasure. My bridegroom was quite happy with how much I welcomed, indeed, demanded his advances.”

He wished she would demand
his
advances.

She cleared her throat. “
There was once a young lady from Bembley, who learned to love married life quickly. Not again, her husband groaned; Yes again, our young lady moaned. So once more unto the breach, well and truly
.”

He burst out laughing. “My God! Did you share this with your husband?”

“I did—in the dining car, and he spat out his coffee. Years later he would still lean over to me and whisper,
Once more unto the breach,
especially when we were at some interminable ceremony.” She laid her hand in his; he wrapped his fingers around hers. “It was times like those that I felt happiest, knowing that I was the only person who could understand the joke.”

And now he, too, understood the secret joke. It had been so long since he felt such closeness, not only to another person, but to everything inside himself that had once made him relish the arrival of each new day.

“Do you still want to know what Mrs. Fitzwilliam wrote on the map?”

She sat up and gazed at him. “
Of course
.”

He still needed a few moments to overcome his residual shyness. “About the gingerbread house she said,
This is the house I earned by allowing my bridegroom to have his way with me on a desk.
”

She snorted with laughter. “Is that so? You would only draw part of the map if she agreed to a certain marital deed?”

“No, I would have drawn the map for nothing. But it was more fun that way.” He smiled back. “Much more fun.”

“What, may I ask, did she have to do for the dwarfs’ cottage?”

“Take a turn in our hotel room—after I had disrobed her.”

“Oh, my. Newlywed love games indeed.” She sighed. “Oh, to be a newlywed again.”

And then, after a moment of silence. “Or even better, to be an old married woman, thumping her cane on the floor of the parlor, because her husband is making them late for church again.”

“I am always late for church,” he said impulsively.

She brushed her hand through his hair again. “And how fortunate the lady who would be thumping her cane at you someday, my dear Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

“W
ILL YOU COME BACK
and bring your children here?”

Isabelle opened her eyes, surprised that she’d almost fallen asleep. “I haven’t thought about it yet.”

When Fitz had decided that his future lay elsewhere, she’d been sure she never wanted to set foot in Doyle’s Grange again. But now the place held good memories. Wonderful memories.

“What is next for you then?”

“Back to my sister’s place in Aberdeen. My children are still with her and I miss them.”

“Bring them here. Winters are harsh in Scotland.”

“Aberdeen’s is milder than one would expect for a city so far north, or so my sister assures me.”

“Still, it will be cold and dreary. Bring them here. They will thank you.”

But if she were to set up household at Doyle’s Grange, soon her entire family would come by to visit. There would be calls on the neighbors, afternoon tea parties, and dinners to make sure that she was surrounded by kind people. And when they saw Mr. Fitzwilliam, after picking their jaws up from the floor, they would immediately assume that she’d decided to come back to Doyle’s Grange because she wanted to be close to Fitz’s lookalike.

It would be impossible to make them see otherwise. And should word get back to Fitz, she would die of mortification, to have him believe that she wanted to hold on to him so badly anyone who looked like him would do.

And it would be a tremendous insult to Mr. Fitzwilliam too, to have everyone assume he was but a replica of Fitz, when nothing could be further from the truth.

“Let me think about it,” she murmured, the wine and the lateness of the hour making her drowsy again.

“Yes, think about it,” he said softly.

W
HEN
M
RS.
E
NGLEWOOD’S BREATHS
had become soft and even, he lifted her into his arms.

“Careful, old widower,” she mumbled, her words slow and sleepy.

“Ha,” he countered. “This grandpa still has a spring in his step.”

He carried her into the house, up the stairs, and back into her bedroom. She thanked him indistinctly as he set her down on the bed. He took off her slippers, straightened the hem of her nightgown, and covered her with a blanket.

She sighed softly and slept on.

Light from the oil lamp still flickered. Her hair had tumbled loose in the course of the evening. Now midnight black strands of it streaked across the pillow.

But as he looked closer, he realized that not every strand of her hair was the same vibrant raven hue. His dear Mrs. Englewood had a few white hairs that gleamed silver in the lamplight.

He wondered if premature graying ran in her family. If by the time she was forty, she would have a head of snow-white hair.

He wanted to see it. He wanted to be the one to brush her hair and jokingly count her last few remaining black strands. And then to kiss her upon her silver head.

“Come back,” he murmured. “And soon.”

Chapter Five

I
N THE MORNING, IT TOOK ISABELLE
a minute to realize where she was.

She yawned, sat up, and walked about. The house was empty, Mr. Fitzwilliam nowhere to be seen. And he was thorough in removing the evidence of his presence: The wine bottle, wine glasses and corkscrew had all been removed, as well as his hand candle. Even that consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would be hard pressed to conclude that anyone other than Isabelle had been in the house the previous night.

What of their rapport? Had it too wilted in the harsh light of the day? The next time she saw Mr. Fitzwilliam, if she ever did, would she be obliged to pretend that theirs was the most incidental of acquaintances, rather than the sublime friendship it had been, however briefly?

She sat on the swing seat for a few minutes, gazing at the rowan. Its season of flowering had passed; now hundreds of clusters of berries hung from the branches, some still pale gold, others already turning a riotous red.

Slowly she returned to the house. Just as slowly, she made her way upstairs. But as she reentered the bedroom to gather her belongings, she saw an envelope addressed to her on the nightstand. She snatched it up and tore the seal.

My Dear Mrs. Englewood,

I hope you have slept well. And I hope now that you have awakened, you still think upon last night with as much wonder and fondness as I do. If not, allow me to assure you that I will have exited Doyle’s Grange with the utmost care and will not speak a word of our friendship to anyone.

But if you do not regret our hours together, I shall be delighted to hear from you, as frequently as you’d care to write, and follow your progress through the sometimes treacherous shoals of life.

Your devoted servant,

Ralston Fitzwilliam

P.S. You may post your letters to Stanton House, Up Aubry, and they will reach me anywhere.

P.P.S. As an inducement, I dangle before you the late Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s comment on Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s cottage.

She touched his letter to her cheek and smiled. So it
was
reciprocal, this camaraderie of theirs, and not a figment of her imagination.

She hummed those most famous bars of
The Blue Danube,
twirled about the room, and began packing.

T
WENTY MILES AWAY
, at the manor in Henley Park, Lord Fitzhugh, Fitz to his friends, gazed down on his sleeping wife, who, presently, without opening her eyes, reached up and rubbed the palm of her hand against his stubbles.

“You haven’t gone for your ride?” she murmured.

He loved the sight of her unbound hair. For so long he’d only seen her hair properly coiffed. The sensuality of her hair—of her person—was still a revelation. “I can’t tear myself away from you.”

She was trying not to smile too widely, holding on to her bottom lip with her teeth. “Exactly what an old married lady wants to hear from her husband when she wakes up in the morning.”

She was only twenty-four years of age. And although they’d been married since she was sixteen, they had not consummated their marriage until recently. The consummation had made a difference, naturally. But the real difference had been made through almost eight years of affection, friendship, and common purpose.

He had loved her long before he realized he had also fallen in love in with her.

Now she opened her eyes and regarded him teasingly. “Get up, sir. You are the master of this house, sir. Duties await.”

He was a most dutiful man, but on the first day of the rest of their lives, he was not about to let drainage, roofing, or factory reports get in the way. “And duties can wait a little longer.”