She looked at him, the face she knew so well in all his changing moods. And it came to her quietly, unexpected, the thing she had been so afraid to see revealed. Not dark and terrible, but shining with simplicity. Suddenly the thought of all the terrible things he might be were nothing to what she knew he was. Patient and kind and strong. And here, always here by her side in all her worst moments, always giving her the best moments. She saw it like a blinding light all around her, shimmering in the air and reflected in his down-turned eyes.
Caught in the dark woods forever, but he brought her out of it. Her fairy tale knight, her charming prince with the golden key, who shined like a beacon to guide her through the trees to where he waited – always waiting for her.
"You're the one – you taught me not to judge someone only by their worst deed." He was the one who sounded lost, as if she could save him. "Every road leads to you, and I cannot stop traveling it. But at the end you let me in and shut me out. Both, at the same time." He blinked, looking to her in appeal. "Will you never let me stay?"
She was tired of being afraid, tired of being tired. And she only wanted his arms around her. It seemed suddenly so easy.
She leaned forward and rested herself against his broad chest, the only place she felt safe and warm. A sob rose up in her – grief for what she still wanted to run from, and joy because she knew she would not. He gave her the strength to hold on to it, to him.
Her hand reached up and found the nape of his neck, the soft hairs there. "Will you give me an ordinary life?" she asked on a convulsive sob.
And then his arms were around her, holding her fast, anchoring her to him, catching her after the fall. She reveled in it, how he squeezed the breath from her.
"It can't be," he said fiercely against her ear. "It can only be extraordinary. It will be," he promised. "My wife… sweet, strong, beautiful wife. Come home. Laugh in my bed." It was like a prayer, a hymn, his voice pleading and exultant, his heart drumming against hers.
It's frightening, she had told Marie-Anne long ago. To look at love and happiness, to know it was all contained in one place – in his eyes when he looked at her.
That is because it is life, came the answer, and she knew it was true.
"Yes," she answered him. She threw herself into it, into the tears and laughter, into the pain and ecstasy of a life of loving him, a turbulent swirl that took her up and swept her into his arms. He made her brave. She could never be afraid with him. Not of life, not of specters in the dark, not of monsters she imagined breeding in his heart. Never, as long as he was with her.
"Yes?" His hopeful look pierced her. He shook his head in happy disbelief. "Can it be so simple?"
She nodded. "That simple."
A simple story that she would tell him over and over again: how she loved him; how he saved her; how she could never be lost in those woods again.
She smiled through her tears, a laugh of perfect joy that only he could bring. She put her mouth to his in the midst of it, awkward, her teeth bumping against his, as if she'd never kissed anyone before. Her tongue found his and probed deep, pressing against him as he answered her - strong enough to withstand her greedy nature and overcome it, demanding love in return.
He dragged his mouth away, holding her face tight in his hands. "You won't leave me again," he commanded, giving her a little shake.
"Never," she vowed. "We'll be all right? We'll be happy?"
He wiped her tears and doubts away. "We'll be wonderful." He said it with the certainty only he possessed, and she believed him. He was the Earl of Summerdale, after all, and he knew everything. "You'll always stay with me?"
She laughed again. It bubbled up inside her with a vengeance. "Where would I go?"
"Nowhere without me." His eyes crinkled, his grin warmer than the summer sun above them. "I'll take you to Italy, to Sicily where they modeled the night skies on your eyes. Or to America. To your benighted President Washington."
She laughed as his lips sought hers again. "He's not president anymore," she giggled, drunk with love and life. "Isn't he…dead?" she asked between kisses.
"Ask me if I give a damn," he muttered, returning to her lips, returning again and again to where he belonged.
Epilogue
My darling love, my only love–
Where the devil are you? I'm bored to tears without you. Will you disappear from me forever? It's been years already. I'll beg if I have to.
-S
For Heaven's sake, Stephen, I'm only in the library. And it's only been an hour, is it so boring as that? Get rid of your blustering businessmen and come here. You will delight in Marie-Anne's letter: she has agreed to come to London at the Shipleys' astonishing invitation. It has caused her to write the most eloquent description of this "great pile of cretins" – I think she accepts the invitation only for the comedic possibilities it offers.
I have finished my letter to Katie, taking the liberty to share your wishes for her continued excellent health. (How long will it take to reach her in America?) So you will find me unoccupied.
-H
A month or more to reach her, but her latest communication must assure you that she is so much improved as to be fit to swim the distance herself. Fret instead over the poor Shipley family, who can have no notion what glorious mischief they have invited into their midst.
And fret for me, who perishes of boredom without you.
-S
I am engrossed in the political essays. And waiting for you. So hurry.
-H
I rather like it when you're demanding. I can honestly tell these stuffy old men that I am distracted by important matters, hence Collins coming and going with notes. Thirty minutes, my love. Then come in here and ravish me.
-S
Collins has more to do than carry notes, wasteful man.
Thirty minutes! I am disgruntled in the library. Your invitation to ravish you, though full of charm, is startling from one of your reputation, sir. And they call me the scandalous one.
-H
Disgruntled in the library and waiting to ravish me. I find myself enjoying the scandalous life. I did promise we'd be wonderful, didn't I?
-S
You did. Extraordinary, you said - and you were right. You are always right, my love.
THE END
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Acknowledgements
Here is where I will say what you might not expect from a romance novelist: romantic love is not so important. To get through life intact (to say nothing of being made whole again after devastation) requires rather more than one flavor of love. So in many ways, this book is a hymn in praise of friendship, especially female friendship. I could write fiction for a thousand years and never manage to invent any girlfriends better than the ones that actually exist in my life. These are the women who have cheered me up and cheered me on, who are always on my side, who never fail to tell me the hardest truths with the kindest compassion, who listen to me even when I'm being insane or boring or childish. Their love sustains me.
Snezana Pavlic makes all my writing possible, not only because she is my perfect audience and has a flawless editorial eye, but because she has held my hand all through every stumbling, soaring, monotonous minute of this writer-life. (And there's no room to go into how she vastly enriches the non-writing part of my life.) Also, she is capable of making me laugh so hard that I'm in perpetual danger of wetting myself like a gleeful toddler. Whenever the world and life seem impossibly cruel, I remember that I have such a friend, and know that I am the wealthiest person on earth.
Megan Odett is my fellow texting fiend, my fellow morbid humorist, my Hospital Buddy. She is always there for me, and always has comfort to give - or perspective, or invective, or just really great manicure tips and cockt
ail suggestions. She is also, as all good girlfriends are, ever-willing to ogle footwear at all appropriate and inappropriate moments.
Rita Milandri has possibly listened to me bitch and moan more than any other person in my life, and has never failed in her duty to tell me to get a grip already. With her willingness to discuss any topic to within an inch of its life, her generosity, curiosity, and hospitality, she could teach master classes in How To Be A Great Friend.
Laura Kinsale is Laura Freakin' Kinsale, first of all, so there's that. But in addition, she is smart and kind and wise and fun and has a heart so expansive it makes Texas look tiny. Plus also, she introduced me to the glories of Taylor's Scottish Breakfast Tea, which is pretty major.
Agnes L, my misiu, kept me sane in The Miserable Office Years and beyond, and is my chief supplier of sunny smiles. Lyssa M and Beq B, who are so much more than just my writing buddies. Heather D, who is totally allowed to forever forget the members of the G8. Amanda D, who sends long and caring emails that always bring a smile to my face. Randi H, who pops up at random moments to remind me of how to be joyful. And Dawn Z, more like family than friend at this point, who has cheered me on without hesitation or reservation for 36 years. Good GOD, 36 years. We are old. It is awesome.
I would be remiss if I did not also acknowledge the contributions of my inanimate, edible friends who made this book possible: my thanks to the humble donut, the fine scotch, the buckets of sugary tea, and carbohydrates in general. May their sacrifice be ne'er forgot.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
A Fallen Lady Page 29