A Question for Harry

by Angeline Fortin

  “A position I am no longer in,” he said. “You’re older now and out in Society with the expectation of marriage. I’ll take on your brothers one after another if I have to. I’ll risk that friendship if needed as well because I want you for my own. I want to marry you.”

  Fiona stared at him, using the repeated jolting of the carriage as it stopped once again to take a moment to steady herself and her jumbled emotions. Her heart wanted to sing with joy at his words but Fiona held herself in check. They were just words. “You wanted to marry Moira, too, didn’t you? And by all accounts you wanted to marry Abby as well. How many others were there? How many others did you want to wed?”

  “My parents were very much in love,” Aylesbury said suddenly in what Fiona thought a very random subject change. Still it was such an unusual segue from the topic that she was curious to hear what might follow. “Unusual for a peer and certainly moreso for a marquis. My father was overwhelmed with sorrow when my mother died, drowning in grief and alcohol. Another, much younger, woman came along and played him for a fool with talk of taking care of his poor, poor son who needed a mother to replace the one he – I – had lost. It was a travesty.

  “It’s a long story in itself, but when Father died, I was compelled into society not six months later with the expectation that I find a wife and produce an heir. I was young – just twenty-two – wanting to do my duty but determined not to wed for anything less than love after Father’s debacle … or at least a strong affection, something to build on. I first met Abby that Season, liked her stubborn courage. The same spirit I see in you. Yes, I asked her to marry me. I liked her very much. I still do. But even by that point I knew she loved your brother,” Harry explained. “I offered for her out of my deep affection for her and to save her from ruin but even then I knew I did not love her as I should.”

  “But what of the others?” And the one who really mattered. The courtship she had witnessed. “Moira?”

  “I fell in and out of what I thought might be at least the stirrings of love many times – the potential for more, you understand? Something to start with – but could never bring myself to propose,” he told her. “As for Moira, in the end, I realized that I loved her but as nothing more than a sister.”

  Fiona raised a skeptical brow.

  “Or at least like a distant cousin.”

  A huff of disbelieving laughter escaped Fiona. “Ha, very distant, I should say.”

  Harry shrugged indifferently as if it did not signify either way. “I might have been content with her as my wife.”

  There was that word again.

  “But if I were honest with myself two years ago, I would have realized that I was never so relieved as when she married Vin. Otherwise I never would have had a chance with you.”

  The laughter that escaped Fiona then was even more disbelieving.

  “You may laugh, if you like. You had gone from a lass to a young woman in just a few months. Of course, I had known many beautiful women. Enough to know that beauty is nothing without character behind it. But you had that, didn’t you? All the qualities I had known in other ladies all combined in you. I was taken by you straightaway, though I refused to acknowledge it.” Aylesbury laughed. “To be honest, you scared the hell out of me.”

  Fiona thought back to Richard’s words at St. Andrew’s the previous month. “I’ve heard I do that.”

  “As for your … ah, declaration,” Harry winced apologetically at Fiona’s blush. “I hadn’t believed your feelings were deep and true, and well, to be frank, looking back the possibility that they were terrified me even more. I was a fool, Fiona. Short-sighted and full of denial. I’ve apologized for it and I shan’t do it again. All I can say is that the timing was against us.”

  Fiona stared silently through the window for a moment, absorbing all that Harry had told her. He wanted to marry but only for love or the potential for more and had made repeated declarations of his intention to marry her. It fell to reason then that Harry loved her. He loved her, her heart sang.

  Or, her more analytical mind argued, only that he might.

  “Fiona?”

  Fiona blinked and found him watching her expectantly. Clearly he was expecting a response, some reaction to his tale and his proposal … No, he hadn’t even really proposed, had he?

  “So the timing is good for you now?” she asked evasively. “How convenient that I arrived in London just in time.”

  Instead of being upset, Aylesbury had the gall to laugh then. “Don’t worry, I would have come about sooner rather than later. Perhaps it might have been later, I regret to say,” he sobered as he spoke. “I don’t think I’ll ever truly accept Piper’s disappearance as a permanent thing. I would have continued to look for her, sacrificing my future to save hers if you hadn’t come along again.”

  And she could forgive him that, Fiona realized. She could even forgive his reasoning for all the times he had cut her short in Edinburgh if avoiding an entanglement with her had been his noble purpose. If their flirtation truly had tempted him to act in a way he would consider dishonorable.

  As for the rest of it, she wasn’t certain whether to believe Harry or not. Perhaps because she had been so badly burned by him before but she had to wonder if it was all just flim-flam. A tall tale to gain forgiveness.

  Darting a quick glance back at Aylesbury, Fiona found him leaning back against the corner of the gondola, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched her. Turning away again, she stared sightlessly out over the city.

  “Have you forgiven me then?”

  Fiona looked back with a frown. While she might forgive him for acting on his honor, she hadn’t forgiven him completely for the devastating heartbreak he had served her. Perhaps she never would.

  “No, Harry. Not entirely.”

  Aylesbury lifted a brow. “Not entirely? Dash it, woman, you can’t still be angry with me?”

  Since anger was the only thing standing between her and the part of her that wanted nothing more than to throw herself in his arms, yes, she could. For her own well-being, Fiona was counting on that anger and the wee piece of her that hated him still – or wanted to hate him – to hold strong. “Yes, I can, Harry. There is a part of me that is still furious with you, Harry. And I want to be angry. I need to be and I’m not going to let you take that away from me.”

  “Bugger it all to hell, Fiona!” he ground out, running a hand through his hair. It was a wonder he hadn’t gone bald yet from the constant temptation she roused in him to pull it out by the roots. “Are you going to stay angry with me for the rest of our lives then?”

  “Most likely.”

  Aylesbury cursed soundly, his eyes blazing with frustration as he pinned her with a hot stare. In swift strides, he crossed the short distance he had put between them until Fiona was backed into the corner and he was just inches away. “I can live with that.”

  With a gasp, Fiona’s lips parted beneath his as Harry crushed her in his embrace and devoured her with a kiss filled with all the frustration Fiona knew she stoked in him.

  She savored it, surrendered to it as they reached new heights.

  At the apex of their wild ride, surrounded by nothing but blue skies, Harry lifted her off her feet and backed her against the glass wall hard enough to send their carriage rocking but it was nothing compared to the wild swing of her emotions. She wanted to hate, wanted anger to save herself but there was simply no defense tough enough to deflect the feelings he roused in her.

  Because they weren’t fragile, easily broken. They were years old, familiar. Taken out of the mothballs her hurt and anger had packed them in and then shaken off again, they were as good as new. Fiona gave herself over to his kiss, reveling in the stroke of his tongue across hers. Taking his bottom lips between her teeth, she nipped lightly, giggling as he swore and lifted his head.

  His blue eyes were dark and turbulent, brimming with desire as he stroked his knuckles across her cheek, though he smiled as well. This time Fiona succumb
ed to its power and let herself melt against him with a smile that deepened her dimples.

  The descending Ferris wheel jerked to a halt, the momentum set the car swinging again and Harry held her steady, secure in his arms. “Fiona, my darling girl,” he whispered, brushing his lips over hers. “Don’t you see how perfect we are for one another? Even when you are at your most irascible, I want you still.”

  “Oh, Harry.” She parted her lips, inviting him to kiss her again. “I want to …”

  Heart pounding, Fiona was tempted to tell him everything. Every thought, every feeling. To confess it all. But she was entirely too aware that Harry hadn’t said as much to her. He’d spoken of courting and marriage. Of lust and wanting and regrets. But he hadn’t said that he loved her, and Fiona would be damned if she’d be the one to say it … again.

  Harry frowned as she trailed off, his brow raised expectantly but she didn’t continue. “You want to what?” he prompted. “Forgive me? Marry me? What?”

  Fiona wavered uncertainly between the faith he inspired and the mistrust that had plagued her for so long. “I want to get off this bloody Ferris wheel,” Fiona said finally.

  As if the powers that be had heard the quiet desperation in her heart, the Great Wheel ground into motion one last time and finished their descent. The final jolt rocked the carriage hard, nearly setting her off her feet. This time, Harry didn’t come to steady her but retained his position in the corner, watching her moodily as she righted herself.

  “Your wish is granted.”

  Fiona sighed. If only they all could be granted so easily.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  From the diary of Lady Fiona MacKintosh – May 1895

  Harry says he wants me now. Wants to marry me. What I want is to trust him again. To believe him. I want to be able to throw myself in his arms and know that I will be safe there forever.

  He asks for my forgiveness and I can forgive him many things but I cannot forgive him for one thing. The thing that prevents me from accepting him, from trusting him.

  Of course, he hasn’t exactly apologized for that yet, has he? I wonder if I will feel differently if he ever does.

  “How was it?” Ilona asked excitedly as they rendezvoused at a nearby pavilion just outside the Indian bazaar. Everywhere Fiona looked there were booths and small shops overflowing with Indian clothes, scarves, and décor in vibrant colors.

  However, Fiona saw none of it with her thoughts consumed by the man at her side. “It was … enlightening.”

  Aylesbury snorted. “With a view. You would have enjoyed it, Mrs. MacKintosh. Things can become very clear at such an altitude. Shall we have a drink? Colin? Sean?”

  Hooking her arm around Fiona’s, Ilona gave her a squeeze as they trailed behind the men. “Whatever is going on between you and Aylesbury? Did something happen?”

  “Nothing,” Fiona answered. “Why would you ask?”

  “No reason. You just seemed happier before you got on the ride.”

  “We talked. It was a long talk,”Fiona admitted, watching Aylesbury’s back as he walked away from her, just as he had once before. “I know I’m being a fool, Ilona. But I feel that I will be an even greater fool if I trust him again.”

  “Trust that is lost is always the hardest to earn again,” Ilona said quietly. “But if you want a future with him …”

  Fiona shook her head. “I abandoned those hopes long ago, and I have no desire to be his consolation prize after all this time. No, my plans have not changed one whit. I will marry – if not Lord Ramsay, someone else – and move on from there.”

  “Consolation prize?”

  “He loved Moira,” Fiona reminded.

  Ilona flicked the words away with a wave of her hand. “Pish posh! If he ever truly did, I’ll eat my hat. That new one with the purple flowers, I love so much. In fact, I would wager I love that hat more than Aylesbury loved Moira.”

  “Nonsense, he stills cares for her,” Fiona protested. “You can’t deny that.”

  Tilting her head to the side, Ilona considered the matter for a moment. “No, I don’t suppose I can. But he’s not in love with her. Any fool can see that. Why he treats her like a sister.”

  That prompted a reluctant laugh from Fiona. “He claims she’s more like a distant cousin.”

  “So you’ve discussed this then?”

  “Yes,” Fiona sighed, “Oh Ilona! He says he wants to marry me. Now! After all this time. What should I do?”

  “Do you love him?”

  Fiona shook her head stubbornly. She couldn’t admit it. Not to Ilona. Not even to herself. To do so would be opening her heart to a world of hurt if Harry ever changed his mind.

  Ilona frowned. “What happened, Fiona? I remember a lot of speculation about something happening between you and Lord Aylesbury years ago – was it the night of Vin and Moira’s wedding? No, Montgomery’s christening, wasn’t it? I don’t believe any of us every knew what really happened between you that night and since then the incident was all but forgotten with all the babies … and well, life going on. I can’t wonder why I would think of it again after all this time.”

  It was an invitation to speak that Fiona could ignore easily enough but she was inwardly begging her sister-in-law not to ask directly. It was so very difficult to deny Ilona anything. It would be even harder to remain silent when her feelings were so jumbled and confused when Fiona truly needed – whether she was mentally prepared for it or not – to talk through her feelings and get another woman’s advice.

  “So I must ask …”

  “Ilona. Fiona,” Coline called over her shoulder. “What a charming little stall over there. Shall we take a peek?”

  Casting a look at Fiona that clearly said that the topic hadn’t been completely dropped, Ilona nodded to her sister and tugged Fiona along with her to the textiles stall that was displaying lengths of sheer, beaded Indian scarves and woven baskets.

  While Ilona and Coline had their heads together exclaiming over the brightly colored silks and gauzes, Fiona absently stroked the cloth as she meandered through the shop.

  “The blue for you, my sweet,” a thickly accented voice spoke and Fiona turned with a start to find a dark Indian woman dressed in a deep red sarong watching her closely with fathomless black eyes. “Not the red, the blue.”

  “The red is quite lovely.”

  “The blue is your lover’s eyes,” she argued, blocking Fiona when she tried to bypass her.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Fiona stared in amazement. “I have no lover.”

  The woman shook her head, not believing her denial. “There are many kinds of lovers. Those of the body, those of the heart. He is one. I could show you the way.” The woman swept her arms in an invitation for Fiona to follow her to a small tent farther down the row with a colorful banner hanging across the front. “Riya Singh, world-famous seer,” it proclaimed.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t believe in seeing the future.”

  “You’re having trouble with love, are you not? Trouble with a dark-haired man?”

  Fiona looked about but Aylesbury was nowhere in sight. “How can you know that?”

  “There are many ways to see what is to come. Come with me,” the old medium urged. “Come and I show you your destiny, help you settle your troubled heart.” Fiona stilled involuntarily and the old woman chuckled. “Yes, I can see it all. Two men chasing after you and you running away from both.”

  “How can you …?” Fiona clamped her lips together but the old woman’s shrewd eyes were narrowed with amusement.

  “Come and I will tell you more.”

  It was tempting, so tempting. Not that Fiona believed in the occult, psychics or gypsies seeing the future but anything might be helpful. Fiona licked her lips. “How much?”

  “Come inside and we’ll talk,” she urged again, her voice a soothing sing-song. She slid her hand into Fiona’s and gave her a gentle tug. “Come, child. Come with me.”

  A shiver of darkness chil
led her. Instead of seeing the benevolence in the woman, she sensed evil intentions. “I’m sorry. I must go.”

  Fiona turned away, searching the stall for Ilona and Coline but the fortuneteller refused to release her hand and tugged more forcefully. “But your fortune. Your future.”

  “Let me go!” she cried as the woman pulled her toward the opening of the tent with unimaginable strength.

  The old woman’s hands were like talons around her wrist, refusing to release her prey. “I said come with me,” her high singsong voice ground to a gravelly snarl.

  Panicked, Fiona pried the woman’s claws from her wrist one by one and pulled away, fleeing like a startled rabbit. Afraid that the woman might chase her down.

  “Fiona!” She spun about to find Ilona waving at her from across the promenade. “There you are! Come on, Aylesbury is treating us all at the teahouse.”

  Her heart pounding in a sudden rush of fear, Fiona all but ran to her then caught sight of Aylesbury emerging from one of the pavilions and veered toward him. It might happen again, he had said. And he was right.

  Another time it might have incensed her to admit it but Fiona was too rattled to care.

  The smile on his face slipped away as he saw her racing toward him and he hurried to meet her in swift strides. “What is it? Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Fiona swallowed back her anxiety as his arm slipped comfortingly around her waist. She didn’t want to worry him if the danger had been but a figment of her imagination, nor did she want to mention her recent confrontations to anyone else. “I’m fine. I just got worried when I couldn’t see you anyone.”

  “God, I’m sorry, Fiona. It was thoughtless of me to let my frustrations leave you open to any kind of danger. Real or otherwise. Are you sure you’re all right?” Aylesbury asked with a frown of concern, hugging her close to his side. “You look flushed.”