Shock rendered him rigid. For a moment he couldn’t believe the girl was pressing her lips against his, not just in an exaggerated show of gratitude, but like a lover kissing her beau.
Then reality hit him, sending him scooting backward, red-faced, accompanied by the gasps of his cousins. Fortunately, at that moment, Heathcote’s groom, Gadling, arrived and hefted Alicia up. “Can I assist, my lord?” he queried, looking at Fitz.
“Um, yes,” he croaked, running a hand through his hair. “Take her indoors. To the chaise longue in the music room—it’s airier there. Tell the footman to alert the housekeeper. Thank you.” He watched in relief as the man carried Alicia off in the direction of the manor.
By this time, the Heathcotes had joined his two cousins, and everyone started talking and explaining at once. The accident was lamented, and Fitz's bravery proclaimed. Though no one said anything, he could tell they were as shocked as he was at the way in which Alicia had demonstrated her gratitude to her savior.
“I don’t deserve to be hailed a hero,” he told Heathcote and a pale Cesca. “I did nothing but chase her and check her over after she fell. Essentially, Alicia saved herself.”
His voice trailed off and he raked his fingers through his hair again. Had Cesca witnessed the hideous moment when Alicia crushed his hand to her breast? The kiss could be explained away as something given in the heat of the moment—Alicia had been frightened, disorientated, and in need of comfort. But the intimate caress she'd forced him to make was a very deliberate action.
He needed time to make sense of it, to explain it away without seeming churlish by blaming Alicia. And whatever he needed to say to the angry-looking Mr. Heathcote was best done without an audience of his interested relatives. Biting his lip, he offered Cesca an arm to escort her into the house. On the way, he could whisper what had happened and exonerate himself of blame, thus salving his conscience for the moment.
As for asking Heathcote for Cesca’s hand in marriage—well, under the circumstances, now was not a good time. He’d better wait until explanations had been given, everyone had calmed down, and Alicia had recovered from her fright.
He’d try again tomorrow. It was only one day’s delay. How much difference could that make, when he and Cesca were going to spend the rest of their lives together?
Chapter Seven
Cesca was in the kitchen, helping to preserve some of last year’s apples when she heard the sound of hoofbeats. A quick glance through the window revealed Fitz, leaping from his horse and handing the reins to the groom.
Thank heaven! They’d had so little time to talk through the events of yesterday, particularly Alicia’s perfidy. Now they could discuss it properly—in private—and decide on their next move. She knew Fitz had done nothing wrong. It shouldn’t take much to convince Papa that Alicia needed a peal rung over her.
But first, she and Fitz needed to come up with a plan. Fighting to quell the excited thundering of her heart, she hastened upstairs to greet him, only to learn from the footman that he’d gone straight in to see Papa.
He must be about to ask for her hand! Apart from the wedding itself, this promised to be the happiest day of her life. She drifted back to the kitchen, looking for employment to distract her while she waited for Fitz to find her and share his good news. However, after trying to bottle fruit in a cracked pot, burning her hand, and pouring hot syrup all over the table, she decided the best option was to go outside.
There, at least, she could breathe again. She started pacing up and down the lawn in a desperate attempt to contain her excitement, then realized she could be seen from the house and headed off to pace in the walled garden instead. After an anxious twenty minutes, she heard the gate open and looked up.
Fitz stood there, hat, whip and gloves in his hands, his face pale and his mouth unsmiling. Was he leaving already? Why did he look so grim? She hurried down the brick path toward him, her heart in her mouth. “What is it? Tell me.”
She reached out a hand, but he took a step back. “Don’t,” he commanded.
Elation changed to anxiety. Why couldn’t she touch him? “Have you asked Papa if we can marry?” she enquired, her voice quavering.
“I have. But it seems I’m not to have your hand after all.”
The world lurched off balance, and Cesca feared she was about to faint. She found just enough breath to exclaim, "What? He refused you?” Why ever would Papa do that? Unless he’d just cautioned Fitz to wait until the campaign against Napoleon was over.
“Not exactly. He offered me an alternative.” Fitz’s voice shook with barely controlled emotion. “He’d like me to marry your stepsister instead.”
Cesca went cold as the blood flowed away from her limbs. Her bones felt like putty. She staggered, and would have fallen, had he not dropped his whip and caught her.
“Sit,” he ordered, helping her toward the garden bench. “Take a few deep breaths. That’s it.”
He sat beside her, still not touching her—a stranger, distant and polite. How could he be so restrained, when she was falling to pieces?
“Tell me,” she whispered, twisting her fingers together until they hurt.
“It’s because of yesterday. Well, mostly.” His voice was hard, and she felt each word as a knife-blow to the heart. “Apparently so many people witnessed Alicia kissing me, it would be a scandal for me not to marry her. And there was… the other thing.”
“But it was only your two cousins, and our groom, and us. Surely the others could see she was overwrought? My stepsister gets over-excited and gives not a fig for the consequences of her actions. I know what happened wasn't your fault."
“I fear in this case she wasn’t being careless at all. Making me appear to grasp her breast was perfectly calculated. I can’t believe she cares for me—she’s just jealous of you, the ungrateful chit. Doesn’t she appreciate how much you’ve done to make her happy?”
Cesca’s body went numb. “I believe she might have developed an infatuation for you.” Each word felt like a stone in her mouth. “That would explain why she had a tantrum in her room after you came into mine that night. You heard her too, remember? And while she’s been ill, she’s been writing love poetry—we both saw it. Fancy and reality are melded in her mind now, so she puts the common proprieties aside and will do anything to achieve her ends. But how could she do this, though, when she knows how much I care for you?”
“Maybe she doesn’t know. You’re very good at concealing your feelings. When you need to, I mean. But I refuse to make excuses for her—I’m appalled at what she’s done.”
“You can’t marry her, then,” Cesca decided. “Papa will just have to accept that.”
Fitz’s voice was very soft as he said, “It’s not just your father. It’s mine, too. He said yesterday it would be churlish of me not to offer for Alicia after so public a display of affection. Damn those cousins of mine! Why couldn’t they have kept their mouths shut? Then I’d only have your father to deal with.”
“Surely the earl wouldn’t wish you to marry someone you dislike?”
“He says Mama didn’t love him before they married, though he was besotted with her. But despite that one-sidedness, their marriage worked well.”
“That’s ridiculous. He can’t judge everyone else by his own experience.” She felt the numbness percolate away, to be replaced by growing anger. "If there's love on one side and not the other, that love will turn to resentment, then bitterness, and finally, hate. Not even Alicia deserves such a ghastly future."
“Oh, my darling.” Fitz finally reached for her hand and pressed it tightly between his own. “In all of this, you think only of others, not of yourself. I love you because of it. I want to marry you, Cesca. If I cannot, I’d rather never marry at all.”
It warmed her to hear his words, but even as they left his lips, she was building a wall around her heart. Just in case.
“You can’t stay a bachelor forever,” she pointed out. “You’re expected to produce an he
ir to the earldom.”
“That’s true,” he said, entangling his fingers with hers. “Since his seizure, Papa has frequently hinted that I ought to set up my nursery soon. But I never thought he'd pressure me into marrying the wrong woman. I have to find a way to fight this. But it's been such a shock—I can barely think straight."
An idea struck. “Could we not elope? Once married, there’d be nothing either of our fathers could do.”
"I have the special license, don’t I?” he said. “So, we wouldn’t need to elope. But tell me—are we brave enough, are we selfish enough, to go against the wishes of both our families and cobble together a hasty marriage under such unpropitious circumstances? What if I were to be killed? Would anyone be willing to support you when we’ve both gone against the wishes of our parents?”
She bit her lip. Papa would be furious and she didn’t want to upset him. Fitz could be disinherited—and though she was more than happy to live with him in impoverished obscurity, she had no desire to besmirch his good name. This was truly dreadful. The sick feeling returned, and with it the threat of tears.
"I mean to fight this,” he assured her. “But it'll take time. There's another issue to resolve, and that's the matter of your sister's reputation. The rumor mill grinds fast, and it won't be long before the entire ton hears that Viscount Lonsdale groped a lady publicly and refused to do the decent thing by her. I’ll be snubbed for a while, but I’ll come through it. Alicia’s reputation, however, will not be so quickly restored. This situation will reflect both on your father and, alas, on you. Pragmatically speaking, it looks as if an engagement may be my only option. For now.”
“Oh, Fitz, you have such a good heart,” she said, her voice breaking. If only Papa hadn’t got into such a pet over yesterday’s public spectacle! Maybe he just needed time to calm down and think rationally. Surely, with a little gentle persuasion, he’d relent.
“The idea of being engaged to Alicia—even temporarily—is abhorrent but I’ll still get to see you. If I don’t agree, your father forbids me the house.” Fitz ran a hand through his hair, his chest heaving with emotion. “Lord, I feel like an actor in a Greek tragedy, or a character in a romantic poem, at the end of which everyone dies.”
"Then we must both be actors and pretend our ardor has cooled while we try to work out what to do. And who knows, Alicia may change her mind, and petition Papa to free her from the betrothal." She heaved a deep sigh. It was easy enough to say it, but would she be able to conceal her feelings for Fitz? Could she pretend to be happy for Alicia?
“Kiss me,” she pleaded. “It may be a long time before we can be together like this again.”
“I can’t.” Turning slowly, he rested his forehead against hers until his lips were a mere whisper away. “I daren’t. I wouldn’t be able to stop. Don’t make it harder for me, I beg you.” He stood, turned his back on her, and walked away.
Was he really going through with it? She stared after him in disbelief, praying for the gods to intercede, or to strike her dead on the spot. Anything to diffuse the pain that attacked her body like a million steel knives. Then she remembered the love poems. Could she use them to convince Papa that Alicia had engineered yesterday’s accident, with the specific aim of ensnaring Fitz? It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try.
Alicia would never marry Fitz.
Not while she, Francesca Heathcote, still had breath in her body.
Chapter Eight
Cesca sat on her bed, the door locked, a handful of papers spread out across the counterpane. She’d left some of the writings behind, in hopes Alicia wouldn’t realize that some were missing. If her stepsister had any idea what she was up to, the papers would end up as ash. Assuming there was something incriminating in them.
She unfolded a page and sucked in a breath. Not a poem, a letter. Not written in Alicia’s hand, although there were some similarities.
My Darling Alicia,
My heart burns for you with an undying love. Never have I seen a creature more beautiful, more splendid than you. Tell me, has one of the goddesses stepped down from Olympus and arrived on Earth in mortal form? Say not so, for then I will be in fear you may be taken away from me, at the whim of Juno, jealous of all lovers. I can’t sleep for wanting you, and all my daylight hours are torture. Say we may be together soon, I beg you. Please rescue me from my nightmare by saying the words I long to hear drop from your sweet lips. Fitz, I love you. I love you, Fitz.
Cesca sat back, nausea roiling in her stomach. Fitz? How could the letter be from Fitz? Dark wings beat about her head, threatening oblivion, and it was as much as she could do not to faint. But she forced herself to look again.
The handwriting. It looked similar to his, but it wasn’t the same—unless he’d been drunk when he wrote it. And Fitz was never drunk. Nor would he express himself in such florid terms. Alicia had written the letters to herself. All Cesca need do was take her stepsister’s writings to their father. They were the perfect proof of her infatuation with Fitz, of an unhealthy delusion masquerading as love.
Papa surely wouldn't expect Fitz to marry Alicia after that. Especially if it turned out she'd orchestrated the whole ghastly spectacle of the runaway horse and Fitz's so-called rescue.
She unfolded more of the pages. Some of the letters, she discovered, were in Alicia’s usual hand, supposedly her replies to her lover. All were dated, so they could be read in order, each letter more passionate than the last. Those purporting to be from Fitz were all signed with an unreadable squiggle, quite unlike his genuine signature. It shouldn’t be hard to convince Papa of their lack of authenticity.
Folding them up, she slipped them into her reticule, threw on a shawl, and went in search of her father. She eventually discovered him in the kitchen garden, balancing on his good foot and pruning an espaliered pear tree.
“Papa, may I speak with you?”
“Of course, though I know what you’re going to say,” he answered, dropping his shears on the grass. “You think me wrong to force Fitz to marry Alicia.”
“I do,” she said. Was this a hint of hope? Did he know he was mistaken? “But you don’t yet know my reason.”
“I’m not blind, child,” he said, patting her hand. “I know you and Fitz care for one another. But I’m trying to prevent a scandal which would affect us all, including the earl. An engagement between Alicia and Fitz would mollify Society. Let’s give it six months or so until everyone has forgotten yesterday’s embarrassing incident.”
No. It would better if there were no engagement at all. Was she to be forced to watch Fitz and Alicia parading about as a happy couple? It would crush her. Was she genuinely expected to hide her head and pretend she didn’t care?
Alicia had no right to do this to her. No right at all. “Please sit down, Papa,” she said. “I have something to show you.” Without explanation, she handed him the letters and watched his face change as he examined them. When he finally looked up, his expression was stony. "This isn't Fitz's handwriting."
“I know. There are more of these letters under her mattress. I don’t know how long she’s been doing this, but I’m sure she must have planned that so-called accident at Beaulieu.”
"I have spoiled that child." He rested his head in his hands, then massaged his temples. "When her mama died, we were united in our grief, and I couldn't see beyond the fact that she understood my suffering. I apologize, Cesca, for being too lenient with her, and confess to being a foolish old man who should take all the blame for her behavior yesterday.”
“Then change your mind, Papa!” She took his hand between her own. “Let Fitz offer for me and accept him, please!”
"People see what they choose to see. If Society discovers Alicia trapped Fitz, after writing him foolish letters and poems, she’ll become a laughing stock. That, as I said, will reflect poorly on our family and tarnish your reputation too. For now—unless some other solution presents itself, which I very much doubt—they must be engaged. I know the earl wi
ll be in agreement—he won’t want a shadow to fall over his son’s good name."
“I don’t care about my reputation, and I’d rather die an embittered spinster than marry anyone but Fitz. You know he hates the idea of doing anything dishonorable.” Cesca swallowed hard, distress stinging her throat. “He’ll be so miserable, entering into an engagement he may never get out of.”
“The final decision must rest with the earl.” Her father plucked off a yellowed leaf and rolled it between his fingers. “To him, the opinions of the ton matter even more than they do to us. I think Fitz may improve Alicia if he squires her about when he’s home and keeps her out of trouble. And if he can quell her waywardness, that will surely be a good thing.”
"So, I can't make you change your mind?" Cesca’s lungs had constricted, and she had to force out every word. “Won’t it reflect badly on Fitz when he breaks the engagement?” It could mean half a year’s delay. More, even, because Fitz’s name would be severely tarnished if he dropped Alicia and immediately started courting herself. It could be a year, maybe even longer, before Cesca was in his arms again. How was she to bear the wait? So many things could go awry in that time. Badly awry. She shuddered.
Papa shook his head. "I regret the letters only strengthen my conviction. Alicia's clearly obsessed with the man, and I dread to think what she might do if we don't let her have her way. We already balance on the edge of scandal. She wouldn't think twice about leaping in and taking us all with her. You're a sensible girl, my dear Cesca—you must understand my reasoning. Alicia could ruin your prospect of a respectable marriage."
“She still could. How do you think she’ll react when Fitz breaks their engagement, especially if she thinks it genuine? She won’t let him go that easily. Best not to take the chance at all.”
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